by Chuck Black
Rowan’s anger soon turned to shock, for he was now holding nothing back. The empty arena clanged with the ferocious volley of a full tournament duel. When Rowan’s advance had expired and the squire was still standing solidly before him, he hesitated and lowered his sword.
“Who are you?” Rowan asked, winded by his attack.
The man whipped his sword in a circular motion and assumed a powerful swordsman’s stance. He paused for just a moment, giving Rowan only enough time to recover from his stupor, then attacked.
For the first time in many months, Rowan found himself retreating without a counterattack plan. The sword of this man flew faster and stronger than that of any tournament knight he had ever faced. Rowan’s fear rose as he slowly realized his life was in jeopardy. He focused completely on simply keeping the man’s blade from penetrating his defense.
Then it happened. Cut, slice, thrust, deflect—one fraction of a moment too slow, and Rowan could not recover. The man’s sword arced upward across Rowan’s chest, tearing into his victory cloak and severing the tie that held it about his shoulders. The blade continued upward. Rowan winced and turned, just missing the cutting tip of the man’s blade. The move put him off balance, and he knew it was over. There was nothing he could do to stop the final cut of this master’s blade.
Rowan stumbled backward as his cloak fell to the ground where he had stood. The moment came and went, but Rowan did not die. He recovered to see that the man had ended his attack. Rowan’s victory cloak lay on the ground between them, revealing a long gash across the royal cloth where the medals were pinned.
Rowan was too stunned to speak. What had just happened?
The man lifted his gaze from the cloak to Rowan, and Rowan felt the chill of fear race up and down his spine. No one had ever beaten him so soundly. Was this the next tournament champion of Cameria?
“Who are you?” Rowan asked again.
The man stared back in silence, then turned and walked toward another gate that led out of the arena. Rowan knelt down to his victory cloak and lifted it from the dirt and straw field of the arena. Slowly the shock and humiliation of the fight washed away, and a tide of anger began to burn. The Camerian Tournament Council did not give a second victory cloak to any fighter, not even the grand champion. Rowan ran his finger across the jagged cut in the fine cloth and let the anger settle deep into his bosom.
“Whoever you are,” he said quietly, “I will face you again one day when I am prepared. You will pay.” Rowan tightly clenched the cloak, making a fist. “I swear it!”
THE GRAND TROPHY QUEST
Rowan continued to win tournament after tournament. Not only did he become one of the most decorated knights in Cameria, but he also won unprecedented favor with the crowds, for his charisma, handsome looks, and humble beginning were the stuff of legends. From Elttaes to Kroywen to Berwick, Rowan won the hearts of the people everywhere.
On the eve of his journey to Kroywen to participate in the annual Camerian Games, Rowan received a visitor at his manor, Eastgate.
“You’ve lost your way, Rowan.”
Sir Aldwyn stood on the terrace of Rowan’s beautiful estate looking at the majestic Boundary Mountains. After a moment of silence, he turned to face the man he’d trained from childhood.
“How can you say such a thing, Sir Aldwyn?” Rowan stood with arms crossed, trying to hide his frustration at hearing such a remark. His massive arms bulged with muscle as he motioned around his beautiful home and pointed toward his display of medals and awards. “Look at what I have achieved!” he said. “I’m champion of Laos, and after the tournament I may be champion of Cameria. I should think you would be happy for me. After all, it was your training that got me here.”
Aldwyn slowly walked to stand before Rowan.
“This is not where my training was intended to take you, Rowan. What of the Prince? Do you still serve Him?”
“Of course I do,” Rowan rebutted.
“Really?” Aldwyn gazed deeply into Rowan’s eyes. “When is the last time you told someone about Him?”
Rowan turned away from Aldwyn’s hard stare.
“When is the last time you thought about the Code and desired to live by it?” Aldwyn asked as Rowan walked away in silence. “Cameria is changing, and there are troubling times ahead. Now is the time to live with purpose!”
Rowan stood still with his back to Aldwyn.
“You have won money and fame,” Aldwyn said quietly, “yet all this is vanity.”
Rowan snapped about, his mended victory cloak swirling around him.
“I have a good chance of becoming the champion of Cameria and winning the grand trophy at the Camerian Games in Kroywen. I was born to fight, Aldwyn. You of all people should know that.”
“Then fight for something of worth,” Aldwyn shot back, “not the superficial applause of bread seekers and pretty maidens.”
“They don’t come just for the bread anymore.” Rowan grinned. “They come to see me. I am loved not just in Laos but across all of Cameria.”
“They don’t love you!” Aldwyn scoffed. “They love the entertainment you bring them. Lose a couple of fights, and you’ll see just what they really think of you.”
Rowan felt his cheeks begin to burn, and he clenched his fists to control his anger. “I will not be humiliated by you in my own manor. This conversation is over. Good day, Sir Aldwyn.” Rowan whisked his cloak between them as he turned and walked to the banister of the terrace.
After a moment of silence, Rowan heard Aldwyn walk to the doorway, then stop.
“When I began to train you, I knew you were destined to do something great. This is not it!”
Aldwyn’s footsteps echoed down the hallway that led to the front parlor. When Rowan heard the servant open and close the door behind Aldwyn, he turned back to the terrace view.
Rowan stared into the evening sky until the dark blue turned black. The sting of Aldwyn’s words lingered, and he found it difficult to dismiss them. Not until he began to focus on the upcoming Camerian Games at Kroywen did he begin to feel better.
The next morning, Rowan, Balenteen, Hatfield, three supporting squires, and four guards left Laos before the first golden rays of sun peeked over the eastern edge of the Boundary Mountains. The morning mist rose from the standing waters in the nearby forest like curtains of the day opening for the world to see. As they passed through a low-lying area, the wake of their steeds caused the mist to swirl about them.
It was the mist that kept them from seeing the man at first.
As they approached the arched stone bridge that spanned the river, however, they began to make out a lone figure standing in the middle of it. There was nothing majestic or ominous about the man, but Rowan shuddered anyway. The ten men slowed, not because they could not pass on either side, but because it was obvious the man was challenging their passage. Besides this, their horses seemed to find it impossible to press on. Something about the man frightened them.
The man was fully armored, with his visor down. His hands rested on the hilt of his sword, its tip on the ground before him. Rowan’s horse danced in agitation, matching Rowan’s uneasiness. He knew what this meant.
“Move aside or be run over,” the captain of the guards commanded.
“Captain,” Rowan said without taking his eyes from the figure on the bridge, “I’ll handle this.” He dismounted.
“Don’t be a fool,” Balenteen said. “We don’t have time to squander on some petty squire hoping for a shot at you.”
“For once, I agree with Balenteen, Rowan,” Hatfield said.
Rowan handed the reins of his steed to Hatfield. He hesitated as he looked up at his trainer.
“Is there a knight better than I with the sword?” he asked.
Hatfield looked perplexed but didn’t hesitate. “You are the best I’ve ever seen.”
Rowan took a deep breath. “Then this is something I must do.”
He walked toward the lone figure on the bridge as th
e other nine men held back, spectators in a strange arena.
His boots clicked on the stones as he traversed the bridge and approached the stranger. The man didn’t really look threatening, and Rowan wondered if this was indeed the one who had bested him at training months before … and cost him so many hours of sleep since then. With each step he took, anger grew within him. His victory cloak swirled with the receding mist, the corners snapping with each punctuated step.
When he was within three paces, he stopped. The challenging knight didn’t move, and Rowan just stared at him for a long while.
“Are you here to stop me?” Rowan finally asked.
The knight slowly nodded.
“Why?” Rowan asked. “Who sent you?”
“Turn back,” the mysterious knight said calmly, “or you will be destroyed.”
Rowan nearly laughed. Destroyed? he thought. “Tell whoever sent you that I will compete in the games and I will be the champion of Cameria.” With that, Rowan drew his sword. “And I will be rid of you!”
Rowan followed his last words with a powerful slice that the man seemed late in responding to. Halfway through the slice, he had not even moved from his standing guard position. At the last moment, however, the man snapped his sword from rest to a defensive position, and Rowan’s blade struck immovable steel.
In that instant, all of Rowan’s confidence fled from him. Something in him recognized that he was facing the ultimate warrior—impenetrable defense, frightening offense, unmovable and superior purpose.
He fought against the truth of his realization just the same and began a series of cuts and slices, holding absolutely nothing back. Every blow and cut was met perfectly. Rowan exhausted himself in an unending successions of cuts, slices, and thrusts, refusing to accept the fact that he could not best his silent opponent.
Finally, in desperation, he threw a descending diagonal cut, followed by a horizontal slice and a thrust to the man’s chest. The knight deflected each one, then put a bind on Rowan’s sword that locked their blades together. Rowan looked at the swords and realized that, with one quick move, the knight could leave the bind and plunge his sword into Rowan’s unprotected abdomen. Hoping to equalize the threat, Rowan drew his long knife. But the knight grabbed Rowan’s wrist and twisted his hand in such a way that Rowan’s forearm and hand exploded in pain.
The knight forced the knife’s blade down and close to Rowan’s chin until he could feel the cold steel against his own neck. The harder he pushed back, the sharper the pain that shot down his wrist and arm. How can this man control me so? he wondered.
Just when Rowan thought his life was over, he felt the tie around his neck slice in two and his victory cloak fall away from his shoulders. At the same time, he heard horses galloping toward him and knew that Hatfield and the guards were coming.
Once again Rowan found himself face to helmet with this mysterious knight, his victory cloak at his feet. Perplexed and beaten, he didn’t know whether to be angry, humbled, or fearful.
“You have lost your way.” The knight spoke calmly, with no sign of effort. “Turn back.”
The knight released his bind and his painful hold on Rowan’s wrist. He stepped back, sheathed his sword, and turned to walk away. Just a few paces behind them, Rowan heard Hatfield and the guards draw their swords and dismount. He held up a hand to stop them.
“Who are you?” Rowan yelled. The knight walked away in silence until he was clear of the bridge, then turned toward the woods.
“Who are you?” Rowan yelled louder, but the man just disappeared into the mist of the forest.
ONE HUNDRED TO ONE
The fight with the mystery knight left Rowan rattled, even more so than before. Was this a tactic by one of the champion knights he would face at the tournaments? If any of them were this good, he didn’t have a chance. Yet something told him the mysterious knight was not a tournament contender.
Their party journeyed on, and Rowan rode in silence. Balenteen tried in his annoying way to lighten his spirits by talking about the grand tournament ahead, but the agent’s efforts did not help.
“Shut your mouth, Balenteen,” Hatfield finally said, much to Rowan’s relief.
By late morning, they reached the Rock Forest, known for trees growing thickly among scattered boulders. The road twisted and turned to navigate through the rugged landscape.
“Once we get through the forest, we should make good time to Kroywen.” Balenteen smiled, venturing one more attempt at lightening Rowan’s mood. “We ought to be there before sundown this evening. I’ve made arrangements at the finest inn of the city.”
Rowan just nodded. He didn’t want to encourage the man too much, or he would never stop talking again.
They rounded a bend in the road to find two men working on a wagon that had toppled its heavy load of wood. One wheel was off the wagon, and the cut timber was strewn from one side of the road to the other.
“You imbeciles,” Balenteen blurted out. “You’re blocking the road!”
“Sorry, sir,” one of the men said. “Wheel jus’ fell off.”
“You can get round over there.” The other man pointed to the right side of the road, where there was just enough room to pass by single file, skirting the trees and boulders to the right.
Balenteen cursed and ordered the two leading guards to guide their entourage in that direction. Rowan followed Balenteen off the road, but as he passed the wagon, one of the men looked up at him and slapped his partner.
“Aye,” he said, “that’s Sir Rowan of Laos!”
The other man’s eyes opened wide, and the two men ran to Rowan’s horse. The animal spooked a bit, and Rowan halted his steed.
“Are y’ truly Sir Rowan?” the second man asked with excitement in his voice. “The champion of Laos?”
“Yes, it is I.” Rowan smiled down on the men. Their enthusiasm helped awaken him from his muddled self-pity and reminded him how good it felt to be on this side of the conversation. Without the fame of the tournaments, he could very well be one of these common laborers.
The men came closer. “We hope t’ be at the games next week to cheer for ye.”
Both men were standing just beside him, staring up in great admiration.
“We must keep moving, Sir Rowan,” Balenteen turned on his horse to see what the extra delay was. “We must make the inn before—”
Balenteen’s words were cut short by a deadly arrow that struck the nearest guard square in the chest. A look of terror filled his eyes as he doubled over and fell to the ground. Balenteen’s eyes widened as another arrow pierced the second guard. Balenteen turned back to the road, kicking his steed into a full gallop.
Before Rowan could respond, he felt himself being dragged to the ground by the two men as chaos erupted around him. Rowan heard more arrows splitting the air, followed by screams and the neighs of frightened horses. Rowan hit the ground with a thud that nearly knocked the wind out of him. He glanced toward Hatfield and saw him draw his sword. Rowan reached for his own sword, but one of the laborers had pinned his right arm to the ground while the other scrambled to grab his left. Dozens of marauders emerged from the forest trees, and a group of them ran at Rowan with swords drawn.
Rowan screamed in anger and blasted a full-force fist into the temple of the man clutching his right hand. The man fell to the ground, unconscious. Rowan rolled away from the other man and set one knee solidly on the ground. The man dived for him, but Rowan smashed his fist into the man’s chest. He heard bones crack, and the man collapsed in a heap. Rowan drew his sword and gained his feet just in time to engage the marauders.
Rowan was a tournament knight who had never fought in real battle, but the anger and frustration of the morning still seethed in his blood, and he was eager to release it on someone. The first marauder charged, and Rowan reacted instinctively. He parried and thrust, downing the man, then prepared for the next. He wasted no time with the superfluous actions of tournament play. Two attacked at once, and R
owan easily handled them both.
More men came at him until it seemed there were a hundred marauders, all trying to kill him. His sword flew not only with the speed and strength of a well-toned fighting machine but also with the fury of battle anger, something Rowan had never fully felt before. Fifteen men went down and ten more encircled him, hesitant to advance. Rowan knew he could beat them all and more, but suddenly the attack stopped.
“Drop your sword!” one of the marauders screamed.
Rowan jerked his head in the direction of the voice. The men surrounding Rowan parted to reveal three men holding a wounded Hatfield in their grip. One held a knife to his neck. Two squires lay dead at his feet, but the third was held by two more marauders. The look of fear in the lad’s face shook Rowan. Besides this, three marauders with crossbows were aiming their arrows at Rowan’s chest.
“Drop your sword now, or they will die!” the man holding the knife commanded. “And so will you!” A jagged scar ran from his left eyebrow down beneath a black eye patch and then halfway down his cheek.
Rowan looked about for the other two guards and spotted their lifeless bodies nearby. He was breathing hard from the fight but was far from spent. He wanted to tear these thugs apart, but Hatfield and his squire would pay with their lives if he did. It was obvious the attackers wanted to capture Rowan alive … probably for a ransom.
“Take our money and be gone.” Rowan gripped his sword tightly. Every fiber in his body refused to let go of it.
The man holding the knife sneered at Rowan. “You’re not listening.”
He pressed the knife against Hatfield’s throat until blood trickled down.
“Stop!” Rowan screamed.
The man just smiled and continued until Rowan could take it no more. He dropped his sword, and six brutes collapsed upon him in an instant. They bound his hands behind his back with thick ropes and looped another rope around his neck and down his back, tightly securing the end to the rope binding his hands. This made it difficult for him to move his arms much more than to allow a little slack in the rope around his neck.