But he was not wearing tournament plate for mail. His chain mail, no matter how well made, would be punctured by a lance as easily as a needle pierces cloth.
This would be no ordinary match. Among powerful Runelords who rode force horses, any blow with a lance could shatter bones or turn a man’s innards to jelly. Plate mail could not be made thick enough to protect a man and still let him ride a horse. So among powerful lords the art of the joust had evolved into a new kind of contest. Such lords could not trade blows, nor could armor do much to protect them.
Instead, Runelords had to use grace and wit and speed to avoid or deflect blows. A man’s defensive prowess became his surest armor—in effect, his only real armor. Hence, few Runelords ever wore plate that would inhibit their full range of motion, and instead wore ring mail or scale mail over thick layers of leather and cloth that would help deflect blows. When Runelords fought in tournaments, the spectacle was thrilling, with lords charging on fast force horses and clashing at a hundred miles per hour. Men would leap from their horses to avoid blows, or cling to their horses from the belly, or perform other phenomenal stunts. It was high entertainment.
It was also a deadly contest, not to be undertaken lightly.
The lord in the arena was not wearing tournament plate. This monster had not come to fight for wealth or glory; he had come to take a life—or lose his own.
“Here now, what is this?” Sister Connal said. “This looks interesting.”
“Who is it?” Myrrima asked. “Who’s fighting?”
“The High Marshal, Skalbairn.”
“The High Marshal is here, in Heredon?” she asked numbly. She’d never seen the man before, had never heard that he’d even crossed the border. He normally wintered in Beldinook, three kingdoms to the east.
But of course he’d come, she realized, as soon as he heard that an Earth King had arisen. The whole world is coming to Heredon. And he rode so swiftly that no messenger could ride ahead to announce him.
Now he was here, the leader of the Knights Equitable. Myrrima felt astonished. Among the Knights Equitable, there were no lords. A common boy who joined their ranks might climb in station as quickly as a prince might. They were sworn to one thing only: destroying Wolf Lords and bandits, fighting for justice.
No man held the title of “lord” among the Knights Equitable, but there were ranks—squires, knights, and marshals. High Marshal Skalbairn was the leader of them all. In his own way, he held nearly as much power as did any king in Rofehavan.
And one did not gain the rank of High Marshal without shedding blood. Myrrima had never seen the man. Skalbairn was said to be a madman, a berserker who fought like one who wished himself dead.
But she recognized the herald who came out on the near side of the field. The stout Duke Mardon strode round from the back of the main pavilion, dressed in his best finery. He held his hands high, to silence the crowd.
“Duke Mardon,” Myrrima whispered in awe. If a duke was acting as herald for the warriors, then this was no petty bout. It meant that some great nobleman was about to fight, perhaps even a king, and Myrrima had a flight of fancy in which she imagined briefly that young Gaborn would do battle.
Yet if a nobleman were to fight, Myrrima wondered, why would he fight here? The high lords had another arena up on the castle green, and this bout should have been fought there. Unless the high lords wanted to keep this match a secret from someone at court until it was over.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Duke Mardon bellowed in a voice that carried across the fields. Then his voice was lost to the surge of cheers and premature applause, and Myrrima could not hear anything until he bellowed louder. “… slew a reaver mage in the Dunnwood only yesterday … Sir Borenson the Kingslayer!”
Myrrima’s heart beat so loudly, she was sure Sister Connal could hear it.
The cheers and screams that arose from the crowd below were deafening. Some cheered for her husband, others called for his death. Angry peasants shouted, “Fool!” “Bastard!” “Whoreson!” “Kingslayer!”
In the pandemonium that broke out, people came rushing from nearby tents, swelling the audience alarmingly.
Now Myrrima thought she understood why this battle would be fought here. Her husband had slain King Sylvarresta, slain him upon the orders of King Orden after the battle of Longmot. And though King Sylvarresta had given an endowment of wit to Raj Ahten, and was therefore nothing more than a pawn in the hands of an enemy, he had been a good king in his time, and was beloved by his people. As a punishment for his crimes, Iome Sylvarresta had sentenced Myrrima’s husband to commit an Act Penitent. But apparently that wasn’t enough for the High Marshal. He would want blood to atone for blood, and so he had challenged Sir Borenson. Young King Gaborn Val Orden would never have sanctioned such a combat. He’d not have allowed it to be fought in the high arena. So they battled here among the petty lords and the cockfighters and bear baiters.
“By the Powers,” Sister Connal swore lightly. “The only man in this kingdom I’d want between my legs, and here he’s fighting a death match!”
Myrrima glanced up into the horsewoman’s face, astonished by the insult, until she realized that Sister Connal could not know that Sir Borenson was her husband.
Then Borenson rode out onto the west end of the field. He sat upon a gray charger, wearing his own splint-mail armor, carrying a simple round shield that had been blanked. His long red hair flowed down his back, his blue eyes smiled. He studied his opponent, gauging the thickness of the man’s arms, his size.
A knight wearing the colors of King Sylvarresta rushed forward with a heavy war helm, and Borenson donned it.
Myrrima was appalled. She was astonished that her husband was in the arena preparing to fight without having spoken a word about it to her.
Knights came rushing out, bearing lances. These were no brightly painted parti-colored pieces of hollow wood. They were sturdy war lances of polished ash, bound with iron rings and tipped with steel. The steel tips were blackened with pitch, so that they would not slide across a man’s shield or armor on impact but instead bore straight through. Each lance had to weigh in excess of a hundred and fifty pounds, and was tapered at the base to a diameter of eight inches. Once a man was skewered, the lance would wedge apart his flesh and bones, creating a huge gaping wound from which no man, even with endowments of stamina, could ever recover. These lances were weapons of murder. The High Marshal bore a black lance, a color that symbolized vengeance. Boreson bore a red one, the color of innocent blood. Tied to its haft was Myrrima’s red silk scarf.
The minstrels began playing a clamorous melody before the charge.
“I must go,” Myrrima said, feeling ill to her stomach. She looked around desperately, searching for a way down from the knoll. The steep ground was covered with big rocks, and small oaks thrust up between them.
“Where?” Sister Connal asked.
Myrrima groaned and pointed. “Down there. That’s my husband!”
The look of astonishment on Sister Connal’s face was a relief to behold. Myrrima had begun to think the woman a stoic, and Myrrima’s own emotions—the shock and horror of all that she’d been through today—made her feel weak and volatile in comparison.
Myrrima turned away and began racing down the steep hill as fast as she was able. By the time she made it to the bottom and crossed the Durkin Hills Road, the mob was thick around the tournament field.
She tried to force her way through the throng, and couldn’t, until Sister Connal began shouting, “Out of our way!” and shoving people aside.
Myrrima looked up to thank her. Sister Connal apologized for her earlier remark, saying simply, “I didn’t know he was your husband.”
By the time they fought their way through the crowds close enough to see well, the horses were already charging.
This would not be a boys’ tournament battle, twenty-five passes with the lance, with the loser suffering nothing more than bruised ribs.
The wil
d shouting of the crowd was deafening. Myrrima glanced at the taut, giddy faces of those nearby. They were hoping for blood.
Both warriors had chosen odd stances. Sir Borenson rose in his stirrups and leaned far to his right, as only a warrior with many endowments of brawn could do. Furthermore, he did not hold his lance in the couched position, but instead held it overhead as lightly as if it were a javelin.
The High Marshal on the other hand leaned far forward on his black charger, trying to make his enormous bulk into a smaller target. On seeing Borenson’s stance, he muscled his lance out and held it side-armed, in a position that Myrrima had never seen a warrior use. Furthermore, he chose not to carry a shield in his other hand. Instead, he bore a short sword.
It appeared that Borenson meant to jab down into the High Marshal’s visor from above, while perhaps the High Marshal hoped to pierce Borenson’s armpit, where the lack of armor left the flesh exposed.
Yet as they met in midfield, both men swirled into furious motion.
The two horses streaked toward one another. The men atop them blurred as each sought the advantage, taking various defensive stances. Myrrima watched Borenson rise up, then crouch, then sweep his shield down in an effort to drive Skalbairn’s lance tip aside.
As for Skalbairn, she could not really watch him and her husband at the same time, but she saw him roll to the left, perhaps even dropping to the ground for half a second in an effort to avoid Borenson’s lance and then leaping back on his horse.
The men met, a vicious, seething blur.
Myrrima heard the clash of arms and armor. Someone cried out in pain while the audience cheered and horns blared. Borenson’s shield swiped up brutally while Skalbairn hacked with his short sword.
Metal flashed, and a helm went flying. Sir Borenson tumbled backward on his horse.
For one eternal moment, Myrrima thought that her husband had been decapitated. A scream of terror escaped her lips as the silver helm arced up, then tumbled to the earth. The musicians blared their trumpets at the sign of a kill, and the crowd cheered wildly.
Myrrima felt faint, grabbed for Horsesister Connal’s shoulder.
In the next instant she realized that both men had fallen—and both still lived!
They struggled with supernatural swiftness in the muddy field, roaring and beating at one another with mailed fists as they sought to disentangle.
Borenson leapt up first, jumping back a pace. Even with his armor on, he moved lightly, for he had seven endowments of brawn, and thus had the strength of eight men. Blood flowed down the side of his face. The audience jeered.
Borenson reached to his belt, pulled a morningstar, and whipped the thing about expertly, the heavy balls becoming a blur at the ends of their chains. He crabbed sideways to regain his shield.
The air smelled of mud and blood.
But the giant Skalbairn gained his feet just as easily, raced across the field to his horse. He pulled a huge axe from a horseman’s scabbard. He whirled it and advanced easily standing a foot and a half taller than Sir Borenson.
Only then did the crowd fall silent long enough for Myrrima to hear if the warriors spoke. Her husband was laughing, uttering the mad battle chuckle for which he was noted.
Borenson swung his morningstar, aiming for the High Marshal’s head, a warning blow meant to drive the monster back.
The High Marshal pivoted to his right and dodged. A moment later they exchanged a flurry of blows so fast that Myrrima could not see, with no man the clear victor. Yet when Borenson stepped back a pace to catch his breath, she glimpsed the blood still streaming from his brow.
Again they lunged at one another. The High Marshal aimed a vicious swing with the axe. Borenson tried to parry, but the axe cleaved through his shield’s steel exterior and shattered the wooden braces underneath. The shield came apart on Borenson’s arm while he swung his morningstar, aiming a blow at the High Marshal’s face. The spikes on the steel balls grazed the High Marshal’s chin, but the main force of the blow was deflected by his sturdy helm.
With his defenses crumbling, Borenson leapt in the air and swung down full force, seeking a quick strike.
Once again the men’s actions became a blur. Myrrima sensed more than saw the High Marshal duck away from the attack and bring his axe up, entangling the weighted balls of the morningstar.
Then fists flew, men groaned. A kick from Skalbairn swept Borenson’s legs from beneath him.
Borenson went down, tried to climb back up, and Skalbairn drove a mailed fist into Borenson’s face.
Stunned, Borenson slumped to his back, momentarily unconscious.
Skalbairn drew his long dagger and leapt to the ground, pressing its blade under Borenson’s chin. Myrrima tried to climb over the railing, for she feared that the High Marshal would shove the dagger into her husband’s throat, but Sister Connal caught her by the shoulder and shouted in Myrrima’s ear, “Stay out of it!”
“Do you yield? Do you yield?” the big man Skalbairn began roaring.
From the crowd came scattered applause for the High Marshal, along with curses. “Kill him!” “Kill the whoreson blackguard!” “Kingslayer!”
Such curses were normally only reserved for the worst cowards or oafs. Myrrima was dismayed by the vehemence of the insults. Her husband had killed a reaver mage and brought its head to the gates of the city. He should have been hailed as a hero.
But the people here would not forget that her husband had slain King Sylvarresta. Myrrima began to realize that they would never forget her husband’s deed, nor forgive it.
“Mystarrian whore,” Sir Hoswell had called her. “Kingslayer,” the crowd shouted at her husband. She glanced at those nearby, saw their faces flushed with excitement. Nothing would give them more joy than to see her husband killed.
She had hardly noticed the minstrels playing all during the charge, but now the drum rolled and a single horn blared the high, curdling call for the death stroke.
It sickened Myrrima, sickened her to the core. He’s better than any one of you, she wanted to shout. He’s better than the whole lot of you put together!
The crowd hushed to hear Borenson’s response above the drum roll.
And there, lying in the muddy field while an angry giant held a dagger to his jugular vein, Borenson responded by laughing uproariously, laughing so heartily that Myrrima wondered if the fight had been staged for the benefit of the petty lords.
Perhaps this was not a death match after all, Myrrima hoped. Two skilled warriors, feigning a deadly grudge just to thrill a crowd. It had been done before.
“Do you yield?” High Marshal Skalbairn roared again, and the tone of his voice made it clear that this was no jest.
“I yield,” Sir Borenson laughed, and he made as if to get up. “By the Powers, I’ve never met a man who could handle me like that.”
But the High Marshal snarled viciously and shoved Sir Borenson’s head down, poking the long knife harder against his throat.
Under the rules of formal combat, Sir Borenson put his life into the High Marshal’s hands by yielding. His life belonged to Skalbairn now, and he could be slain or allowed to live, according to Skalbairn’s whim.
But the formal code of chivalry observed on the battlefield was seldom taken seriously here in the arena. A defeated knight might be asked to pay a ransom of arms or armor, sometimes even money or land. But he was never slain outright.
“You’ll not get off so handily!” the High Marshal bellowed like a bull. “Your life is mine, you scurvy bastard, and I intend to take it!”
Sir Borenson lay back, astonished by the High Marshal’s battle fury.
Another man might have fought on, hoping to save himself. But true to his word, Borenson lay back and taunted his opponent. “I said ‘I yield.’ If it’s my life you want, take it!”
The High Marshal smiled savagely, and the giant hunched over him, as if eager to dig the knife blade into Borenson’s throat.
“First, a question,” the Hi
gh Marshal demanded, “and you must answer honestly, or it’s your life.”
Sir Borenson nodded, his pale blue eyes going hard as stone.
“Tell me,” the High Marshal bellowed, “is Gaborn Val Orden truly the Earth King?”
Now Myrrima understood that the High Marshal did not want her husband’s life, only information. And he’d wanted that information so badly, he’d been willing to risk his own life for it.
A knight who yielded on the battlefield was bound by honor to speak truly. Borenson would answer truly now, so long as his answer did not betray his lord.
The High Marshal had shouted so that the entire field hushed to hear the answer. Speaking in a voice that brooked no argument, Borenson said, “He is truly the Earth King.”
“I wonder …” the High Marshal said. “In South Crowthen I heard strange rumors. It’s said that in the House of Understanding, your king studied in the Room of Faces and in the Room of the Heart—he studied mimicry and motives in a place where a dishonest man might better learn to deceive. And then when he announced himself to be Earth King, on that very day, his first act was to perform an elaborate ruse to drive Raj Ahten from his lands! Some think it an odd coincidence that Young Orden ‘happens’ to become the Earth King just when Heredon needs him most. It seems a too convenient tale, one to rouse a peasant’s hopes. So I ask you once again, is he truly the Earth King—or is he a fakir?”
“On my honor and my life, he is the Earth King.”
“Some call him a cur, without natural affection,” the High Marshal growled. “Some wonder why he fled Longmot, leaving his men and his father to die at the hand of Raj Ahten. Surely if he is the Earth King, he could have withstood even Raj Ahten. But you’ve known the boy for ages—raised him from a pup. What say you?”
Borenson’s voice shook with rage. “Kill me now, you lousy knave, for I’ll not listen to poisonous lies spread by that fool King Anders!”
There was a whispered hush, and many in the crowd glanced to the far end of the field from whence Sir Skalbairn had ridden. There at the gate stood a tall man in a fine robe. He had wispy blond hair, a hatchet face, and a grim demeanor. He looked to be thirty, but if he had endowments of metabolism, he might have been far younger than that. Myrrima had not seen him before, would not have noticed him in a crowd, but now people whispered, “Prince Celinor.” “Anders’s son.”
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