Kensaburé Orbes wanted to save his friend's face, and intervened: "But your Sunray is no snail of a vessel either, eh, Dohan?"
Dohan suppressed a grin and said, as if to himself: "Well... it may not reach the speed of sound, but it navigates well and has a range of -" - he stood up, pointing south - "- from here to North Awrica and back.
"With a light load and spare fuel," he added self-effacingly.
A rich, ponderous voice sounded in the silence: "Word has it that Lord Damon has invited a special guest today..." The others turned to Azuch Fache, who stood up - it was he who had asked the question. Azuch continued: "A guest from the past, or possibly the future. A white-haired man who is said to be immortal. Is this to be held as truth?"
Dohan hesitated. He yet knew next to nothing about Darc, and what little he had seen of him was hardly impressive. Clearly, his father's guest was an odd stranger - he could barely speak their language properly. But Dohan sensed that Darc was part of some sly scheme to make his rivals nervous. It smelled of foul play, and Dohan did not want any part of it. He was going to prove himself like last year, without his father backing him up more than necessary.
"Do not believe everything you hear," he told them. "That stranger is no one in particular - perhaps a fool or jester, who is here to entertain us with jokes and music."
Sir Tharlos Pasko glanced at Dohan and Azuch with a contemptuous face, saying nothing - his nostrils widened, while not sniffing at his company, since he was too well trained at controlling his breath. But his mind was aflame with hateful thoughts: Just as I thought - a trick to undermine my confidence. Did you think I would fall for such children's stories, you red-haired scum! Koban-Jem spits upon your mother's face.
The senior champion gave Dohan an inscrutable, grave look.
"You may think I am but an old man full of old wives' tales," Azuch said in his dark, slow baritone. "But tonight my wife dreamed of the return of the King." Everyone stopped breathing, even Kamo - even Tharlos, who went pale white. It was widely known that Azuch's wife was something of an oracle. Mean tongues called her a witch in disguise... but all Castilians took her rare moments of vision deeply seriously. "I should not say more," Azuch excused himself when he saw their faces. "Forgive me."
The Orbes brothers both eagerly asked him to continue; like their father, they were superstitious to a fault.
Azuch held up his hands to call for silence, and granted them a full story.
"This is what my wife told me. 'In my dream,' she said, 'I saw two dueling knights, fully armored. One wore yellow stripes, the other wore blue. The blue knight fought bravely, but the yellow knight was stronger. The yellow knight pressed on, and the blue knight lost his foothold.
"'Then, as it seemed that the blue knight would die, a tall man with white hair and clothes stepped forward. He struck with his silver sceptre and stopped the yellow knight's deathblow. The blue fighter rose to his feet and struck down the yellow fiend with all his might. The man in white raised his sceptre, opened his mouth, and sang - but I could not hear the sound of his voice. Then my dream ended.' Those were her words."
The young men looked at Azuch - the Orbes brothers were staring. Most of them, including Dohan, did not know what to think. But Azuch suddenly grinned, laughing at them.
"Calm yourselves, you hotheads! We do not know the ways of the Goddess... so live and see. Now stop trembling like toothless old folk, and prepare for manly combat!"
Laughing with released tension, the party split up and went to their respective tents. Their servants were already polishing their armor, charging the battery cells and testing the mechanisms. From the armory tents, the sounds of metal against metal mixed with the snaps of lasers and the whining of miniature jet engines.
Darc sneaked up into the back of the main spectator lodge.
He looked across the jousting area, which was located in the south wing of the castle gardens. He could smell sweat, smoked meat and hot metal. The din of musical instruments and voices filled the air.
A food vendor ambled by, calling through a large paper horn: "Sweeeet wine, ice-cold cakes! Get'em before the game!"
A few meters in front of the roofed spectator platform, a rectangular dirt pit had been dug out and smoothed out; it was almost eighty meters long, twenty meters wide, and four meters deep. This was the jousting ground. But... No horses? No lances? Darc sensed that he had missed some important detail. He stepped down the way he came, and walked over to a nearby cluster of armory tents. The Damons' tent, checkered red-blue-black, was being guarded by Surabot and Vhustank. As Darc approached the tent, the polished brass figure of Lachtfot turned a corner and caught sight of him.
"Please do not stray from my sight again, master Darc," the thin-legged robot stated as it joined his rapid walk.
Darc gave Lachtfot a sly grin and paced onward.
"Too fast for you, eh?"
"Just a moment - what is too fast for me, master Darc?"
"Nothing," Darc sighed. "Only my spinning head."
Lachtfot's electronic brain interpreted Darc's last remark as meaningless.
Wasting no more time outdoors, Darc entered the Damons' armory tent - Bor had ordered his robots to allow Darc inside - and hardly found any room to squeeze in.
Technicians and pages were swarming around the large suit of battle armor, which was hanging from a set of chains in a wooden frame. In a corner, three pages were helping Dohan into a white padded suit that covered everything except his face. As Darc watched, he thought of men in spacesuits, walking on the moon. Was this all that was left of those lofty aspirations - medieval fighting?
Dohan's white suit was rapidly inflated with air from a hose. He was then outfitted with an intricate set of girdles and metal railings. He lumbered heavily over to the waiting metal suit, and stepped into its huge stubby legs. The upper armor pieces were slid into the railings on his limbs, and screwed together. Finally, the huge backpack was lifted up by three men and fastened to Dohan's armor. To Darc, the backpack resembled a miniaturized jetfighter-plane - complete with tiny exhausts and swing-wings. Could that heap of metal really fly?
As Dohan stood in the frame, only his head free now, he seemed unable even to walk - if the chains were untied, thought Darc, he and his armor would surely collapse.
"We begin testing," Dohan said formally. "First, the arms."
A technician detached a humming power-cable from the backpack, and turned a switch on its side with a monkey wrench. The whole armor jolted with a burst of power, and the young knight lifted one huge, gleaming metal arm. The arm moved smoothly up, whirring deeply from its joints, and stopped with a click and a short hiss. Dohan nodded at the technicians. He tried the next arm.
It worked similarly, but he was not satisfied: "Open it. I feel a cable that needs tightening."
The craftsmen obeyed, and adjusted the arm's insides until it was just right. Dohan opened and closed his metal-clad hands, then gestured for his weapons. The armorer rolled over a tray, containing an impressive arsenal: A tall, rectangular mirror-blank shield; an oversized broadsword with a rapier-hilt that covered the hand's outside - and a huge laser-gun with an unconnected power-cable dangling from its butt. Dohan took the shield, and weighed it in both his armored hands without visible effort.
He held the shield in his left hand, then grabbed the laser-gun and said: "Fasten it."
The craftsmen slid the weapon onto his right arm rack, until Dohan uttered a "Stop" - he hit a switch with his shield, and the laser-gun locked into place. A technician screwed the gun's power-cable to a port on the backpack's side, and stepped back. All except Darc closed their eyes and covered their ears. Dohan looked curiously to the cart standing on the far side of the tent; on it rested a block of concrete with a polished steel plate bolted onto the front. Dohan aimed the gun at the plate, at his own mirror image, and squeezed the trigger.
The loud, sharp crack of the pulse surprised Darc. A brightly red laser-beam blinked for about half a second - and pierced a tiny
hole through the test plate. The plate buckled with a metallic "POP!" The concrete block cracked - a deafening bang, followed by a spurt of gray dust. Darc eyelids flickered, and he saw bright dots dance before his eyes. He stepped forward, staring at the blackened hole in the test plate.
"Say! Are you going to kill your opponent with that thing?"
Dohan turned his head to smile at the white-haired intruder who stood at the entrance - in his concentration, the young knight had not noticed Darc until now.
"Hello, Darc! Kill? Why, that hasn't happened in years! Knights' armor is much sturdier than that piece of tin."
"But the spectators? They might get hit."
"Part of the game. We use only a few such rounds in a duel." Dohan's attention immediately focused back on the test. "Now, the legs," he said.
The servants loosened the chains that held his armored frame in place. He took a careful step forward - the oversized, clawed foot stomped into the rough carpet, letting out little motor noise. Then he tried the other foot - another stomp followed, but surprisingly fluid in its movement. Dohan walked a few large steps, then paused for further adjustments. In his suit, he was well over two meters tall. He reached for the broadsword; everyone backed off.
"Sword test. Watch this, Darc!"
Dohan took the sword in one hand, lifted it high above his head and hacked downward, just slightly bending his torso. Half of the blade sliced through the carpet and was stuck deep into the dirt. Dohan released his grip.
"Now try to pull the sword up," he asked Darc.
Darc grabbed the sword-hilt with both hands, and pulled with all his strength. He turned red in the face - his strength was now as good as normal, but he was no athlete, Darc groaned and strained; the blade moved an inch, but no more.
"It's too heavy, and too deeply stuck," he gasped.
Dohan raised a metal-clad finger and gave Darc a proud look. Darc stepped back, and Dohan reached for the sword. With his arm fully outstretched, he grabbed the hilt - and pulled the sword free in one single movement. The motors and hydraulic mechanisms of his suit made a considerable noise, but Dohan did not even break into a sweat - nor did he bend his knees more than a fraction of an inch. His heavy metal feet gave him a rock-solid foothold. Dohan made a few swipes in the air with the blade, and slid it into the tin sheath on his metal hip.
"I would like to try on that kind of armor one day," Darc told him. He was envious, and he knew it showed.
Dohan shook his head: "Only the born noblemen can wear mechanized armor. And the suit must be fitted to the owner's body. Since I am still growing, the suit is often changed. And you must begin training early, at eleven or twelve years."
In that moment, Bor Damon marched into the tent. He was dressed in his finest outdoor clothes, and wore a purple cloak wrapped around his shoulder and chest. He nodded at Darc, then grinned heartily at his son; he had to bend his neck back to look him in the eye.
"Are you ready to show them what a Damon is made of, my son?"
Dohan responded in a serious, confident mood: "I spent all winter preparing for this, father. I will not disappoint you."
"Good." Bor turned to face Darc. "Now let us not disturb Dohan's concentration, Darc. The guests await us!"
The two men walked briskly to the main spectator lodge. Darc asked: "Lord Damon... why would you not let me say hello to your guests and the other knights?"
Bor seemed irritated at Darc's inquiry into his motives. "Just stay calm and do as I advise," he grumbled. "At the banquet tonight, you will have all the time in the world for courting the ladies. Do not think word of you and that maid missed my ears - I know everything that goes on at the castle." He blinked both eyes at Darc, then added with a more concerned expression: "Remember that you are not a nobleman. Not yet. We must proceed with delicacy, so as not to offend my guests with your presence. Have you understood what your presence here means to the people? No, I think not."
Darc smelled a rat. As they took their seats with the rest of the Damon family, he in a half-obscured corner, it dawned on him what function he was serving. By just being there, Darc would arouse the guests' suspicions and superstitions. What did they think he was? A mystery man? An advisor? A bad omen for the knights? Darc felt the furtive stares he was receiving - from the other families, from passing vendors, from the commoners standing on the other side of the wide pit.
Suddenly it struck him. Now I wish I'd dyed my hair, he thought glumly. He looked for something to cover his white scalp - a cap left by the guests, anything. Nothing was to be found. He sank down on his chair and folded his arms. Relax, Darc told himself. What could happen? Probably anything I won't expect.
There was no time for Darc to further consider his position; the proceedings of the day cut off his thoughts. Bor stood up, and raised his arms. The people standing on the far side of the pit cheered long and loud for their ruler and protector. The musicians blew a fanfare in their horns, ended by a short, sharp drum roll. The crowd fell silent.
Lord Damon pressed a button on his electronic collar, and the built-in bullhorn carried his ritual speech echoing across the pit: "I, Bor Wyan The Third Damon, chief City Lord of Damon City, greet my loyal and loving subjects, allies, and friends. I welcome the invited families of Orbes, Yota, Fache, and Pasko.
"I hereby declare the three-hundred and sixteenth Summer Joust open. May the best man win!"
The crowd roared with enthusiasm, waving little red-blue-black flags in the air. Hot-air paper balloons were launched. The musicians joined in with another fanfare. Darc could feel the temperature in the air go up one or two degrees...
Chapter 8
Then, from both sides of the jousting pit, the knights marched out of their tents and stood ready. Their armor sparkled like polished silver in the clear, high midday sun. They made about as much combined noise as a stable of five-ton trucks, Darc thought.
On the pit's left side from Darc's point of view stood Dohan, flanked by Azuch Fache and the Orbes brothers. On the right side was Kamo Yota, standing visibly apart from Tharlos Pasko... who was accompanied by some unknown knight. Both Tharlos' and his companion's eyes were hidden by their helmet visors.
The rules, as Awonso and Librian had explained them to Darc, seemed flexible yet simple:
"Rule One: The Joust is a succession of a one-on-one, or two-on-two duels between able-bodied men of noble birth.
"Rule Two: To increase the odds for new contenders, a current champion may choose a rookie to join him in a two-on-two duel.
"Rule Three: If a winner is unhurt, he has to beat another winner until one knight remains standing.
"Rule Four: If the joust injures a spectator, or one knight threatens to kill another, the hosting City Lord may command the fighting to stop.
"Rule Five: The competitors are allowed to use new improvements of their weapons, as long as these do not risk the lives of spectators nor knights.
"Rule Six: The hosting City Lord may disqualify a winner at any time after the joust, if said winner is found to have broken the rules."
Awonso had mentioned that the forming of dueling teams served as a political barometer, showing which families were on good terms with each other. The jousts were obviously not "fixed" - their purpose was to show and improve combat readiness, and demonstrate the knights' prowess to the people they were sworn to protect. A cheater would quickly lose all stature.
By this time, Darc's initial skepticism had shifted into awed admiration of the combatants. They weren't mercenaries, draftees or plain celebrities, but honest-to-God knights in shining armor - even more so than their medieval ancestors. The helmeted knights turned toward Bor, who was still standing up in the lodge.
"This year's competitors are," boomed his loudspeaker-enhanced voice, "Sir Dohan Damon, first-time champion of last year!" The crowd cheered loudly; so did Darc. Dohan waved and grinned at his home audience.
Bor resumed: "And - the second-ranking winner of last year and three previous years, champion of
eight consecutive jousts - the hero from the battle of 930, Lord Azuch Fache!"
The people cheered again. Azuch bowed toward the noble's lodge, then raised his sword and shield and shook them triumphantly. It took a full three minutes for the crowd to stop cheering.
"And - Sir Kamo Yota, upcoming contender since three jousts, third-ranking winner of last year, son of seven-time champion Lord Ue Yota!" The crowd gave him a hearty applause, though not as big as Dohan's. Kamo bowed courteously at the lodge audience; Ue Yota clapped his hands enthusiastically, his family joining in. Bor nodded approvingly to Ue Yota, then continued.
"And - third-ranking winner of two years ago, son of two-time champion Lord Bes Orbes - Sir Saburé Orbes!" The crowd greeted him with a long, loud applaud - perhaps not commending his skill as much as his spirit. The young fighter made a little premature jump up in the air, supported by his whining backpack jet, and thumped back down. He ended the show-off by rotating his sword above his head, the family flag tied to the blade. Everybody, except the Paskos, cheered heartily.
"And we welcome this year's new contender, also son of Lord Bes Orbes - Sir Kensaburé Orbes!"
Bor urged his family to stand up and applaud the newcomer, which they did without hesitation. Darc and the other guests joined in. Kensaburé made a turn on the spot, threw his sword up in the air, let it spin around, and caught it perfectly with one hand. The crowd responded by waving flags in the Orbes colors - checkered blue and black. Finally, Bor came to the last pair of competitors. Was there a hint of reservation in his voice? Darc could not tell.
"And - also second-ranking winner of last year, one-time champion and outstanding fighter in four consecutive jousts, the son of Lord Migam Pasko - Sir Tharlos Pasko!"
The crowd applauded, but ceased a little too quickly to sound truly enthusiastic. Bwynn Damon's spouse Sir Andon Pasko, who sat next to Darc, frowned and threw a brief glance at Lord Migam Pasko. The city lord did not even look in his younger son's direction. The relations between the Paskos and the Damons remained frosty, despite the arranged marriage between Andon and Bwynn. Andon was caught between two sides, and not really belonging in either family.
Yngve, AR - Darc Ages Page 5