“I feel like a walking ironworks,” Devon announced glumly. The blonde, young man had arrived the night before from Anders, just in time to compete in the tournament. That had to be his intention since he brought the armor with him. Devon’s father probably insisted on that as well.
“You sound like one,” Coran smiled at his friend.
“Go ahead and laugh,” Devon said and he was not smiling. “You are not the one who is going to embarrass himself out there.”
“Why do you say that? I am not very good at this either.”
“Better than me! Remember the tournament at Tyelin last summer?” Coran did remember. Devon was unhorsed on his first pass. The man who did it was a year younger and competing in his first tournament. Unfortunately for the youth, he bragged about it a little too much afterwards. It was his own fault since he did it within range of Devon’s hearing. The young Knight ended up with a broken nose.
“That was just bad luck,” Coran told his friend. A bad strap had broken at the worst possible time, shifting Devon in the saddle and making him an easy target. “I know you are better than that.” He ducked his head through the tent flaps.
Devon grunted something noncommittal before following Coran from the tent. They stepped out to a scene of confusion. Armored men stood in groups talking as young men led large horses to their respective competitor. Coran weaved his way between the colorful tents toward the field that was revealed before them. On two sides, many tiered rows of benches were filled to overflowing with colorfully dressed spectators. A wall about four feet in height separated the lowest tier from the ground. Unlike other stadiums that were made of wood these people sat on solid stone, except those who had not brought their own cushions. This stadium was also half again as high as the one at Summerhall. The people looked out over a dirt field. Down the center ran a wooden list about shoulder high on a horse. The list prevented rival horses from running into each other during the charge.
He watched as two mounted men in full armor faced each other across the field. Another man stood near one wall in a formal green coat with one arm raised high. A hush came over most of the watchers. The arm came down and both of the mounted warriors charged forward. There was a tremendous crash as they met in the middle of the field and one of the riders flew from his saddle to land with a second crash on the ground. The crowd cheered wildly either for the winner or in appreciation of the carnage. Most likely it was both. As the victor turned his mount, Coran saw a white stag outlined in gold on the shield and realized the man was Torvilin. The Prince of Voltia raised his broken lance in acknowledgment of the ovation as he rode from the field.
Prince Robert came up to stand next to them as they watched. “Good luck,” he said.
“You too,” Coran replied sincerely.
A young man approached them leading a black charger. “Sir Coran?”
“I am Coran.”
“It is almost time,” the youth reported and indicated the mount.
Coran went and gripped the pommel of the saddle but a shout stopped him.
“Coran!” a running Katelyn called to him. Seeing that he was indeed waiting for her, she slowed and walked with a bit more dignity. Coming closer, she produced a blue silk scarf in one hand. It was the same scarf he had given her. “I wanted to wish you luck, and ask if you would wear this.”
He noticed her dress and the way her hair was in disarray from her run. She really was beautiful he decided. “You have been reading too many stories,” he told her. It was not uncommon for a competitor to wear the colors of a Lady, but from listening to women talk he knew that all the stories written around jousts mentioned it.
She blushed and he thought he had hit the mark. She would never admit to reading books about sobby romance and heroes and women in distress. “Please? For me?” she begged him while her lower lip protruded out in a mock pout.
He laughed out of enjoyment and held out an arm so she could tie the scarf around the armor. “Whatever you wish, my Lady.”
“I want to get back so I do not miss anything,” she said quickly when she was done. Then she stood there, hesitant, before standing up on her toes and kissing him quickly on the cheek. Then she darted back into the crowd without looking back.
Coran could only stand there, stunned. Shaking himself he realized the other two were watching him. Rob looked entirely too innocent and Devon was trying hard not to laugh. He gave both of them a stern look before turning his back on them and mounting.
The youth led his horse by the reins through an open gate and out onto the field. Then he handed the reins to Coran and another man held out a lance for him to take. The lance was about twelve feet in length and the tip was wrapped in many layers of wool until it resembled a round ball. Before taking it he lowered the visor of his helmet.
The noises from the crowd were much louder here on the field. He scanned the crowd until he found what he was looking for. It took a few moments because of the limited visibility through the slits of his helmet. There was one area of the stands boxed off from the rest and with a tent-like covering to protect the occupants from the sun or rain. It was located in the middle and in the very front of the stands to his left. The King, Queen, and Princess of Westland were seated there along with a few of the more important nobles, and of course Katelyn and Alys were there. She must have run again to return to her seat so quickly. She caught him looking and raised a hand to wave. If it wasn’t for the shield and lance filling his hands he would have waved back.
“Coran of Tyelin!” Hearing himself announced he spurred his horse forward until he was in position.
“Karl of South Allard!” A rider appeared at the other end of the lists. Coran’s horse snorted and tossed its head as he waited for the signal to start. The man in the green coat raised his arm. The buzz of the crowd lessened. The arm came down and Coran dug his heels into the horse’s flanks. The animal surged ahead and Coran lowered his lance. The distance between the two of them disappeared rapidly. Coran took aim with the ball at the end of his lance, his target was the center of his opponent’s shield.
Coran was not familiar with his first opponent, but silently thanked whoever made such decisions, because Karl was not very skilled. Coran’s lance struck true, knocking Karl from his saddle as the crowd cheered. He glanced at Katelyn who was applauding him. Her face was lit with his victory.
The morning went by in a blur of opponents with long waits in between where the warmth of the day was made hotter by the burden of his armor. His next two opponents fared no better than the first and it took just two passes to defeat a fourth. By noon the ranks of the defeated grew as did the groans of the injured being treated by healers in a nearby tent. He noted that Rob and Devon had also survived the first few rounds, as did Torvilin, though the latter did not surprise him.
His next opponent was a more serious one. Onatel, from Videntur, in southern Westland, had a good reputation as a skilled and solid fighter. Coran focused his thoughts on the target like his father had taught him. They met once, twice, and on the third time both lances shattered, again with no winner. The crowd roared with approval as the two opponents set themselves for another run. The starter lowered his arm and Coran dug in his heals for a fourth time. The end of his lance struck Onatel’s shield, the older lord was knocked from his saddle to a thunderous applause. Coran saw Katelyn waving to him again as he left the field to await his next turn.
He watched as Devon faced Donerey. Coran had heard what the people called Donerey; The Mountain, and he did look big. The Mountain was favored to be champion once again. Unfortunately for Devon that hope was continued. Coran winced as his friend fell and was grateful that his landing appeared a clean one. Devon was able to pick himself up with only a little assistance and walked off the field under his own power.
After the round was over only four competitors remained.
Katelyn cheered for Devon, relieved that he appeared unhurt. She would have to remember to congratulate him on an impressive p
erformance. There was no shame in falling to the Mountain.
Watching the competition her nerves were wound tight. Each time Coran charged down the lists she held her breath, envisioning the worst if he should be knocked off his horse. She had seen one man fall onto the list itself, sending bits of armor in every direction, before reaching the ground. He had to be carried off on a litter. Another had his foot caught and was dragged half the field before the horse finally stopped. Still another couldn’t get clear of his saddle as his mount reared and fell backwards, rolling right over him. Even wearing all that armor could not protect him from injury. She could only hope for the best each time he took the field, and when he rode off in triumph she wanted to shout for relief and joy. She also could not help but feel pride for the man who wore her colors. It was almost like one of those stories Coran accused her of reading. Well, maybe she had, but they were Margery’s books, not hers. It was her sister’s one vice.
The next pair of competitors was announced. After a full morning and part of the afternoon, there were only four left. As their names were called, Donerey and Rob rode out to face each other from across the length of the field. Hopefully, Sir Donerey would take care not to injure his own Prince if he could.
“That is one very big man,” Alys commented from where she sat to Katelyn’s right.
“That is why he is called the Mountain,” Willa told her.
Katelyn noticed how Willa gripped her dress tightly when Rob or Coran was riding. She wondered a bit at that. Ever since learning that Willa had met him once before, Katelyn had been watching Willa closely. If her suspicions were correct she would have to have a discussion with the Princess of Westland.
The two men came together on the field and the crash of that meeting was deafening. Rob stayed in his saddle, but was swaying a bit.
“He cannot last another pass,” Katelyn said half to herself.
Willa heard her even over the shouts for the Prince and the many more who called for the Mountain. “I hope he does not get hurt.”
On the second pass Katelyn's prediction came true. Prince Robert landed hard on the packed dirt of the field. Attendants ran out quickly to check on him. There was not the usual outburst after a decisive meeting as everyone waited to see if their Prince was unhurt. When he stood and was helped off the field the silence was broken. Willa let out the breath she had been holding and clapped her hands along with the spectators.
While everyone else was relieved, Katelyn felt her heart begin to beat faster. The next match was already being announced.
“Torvilin, Prince of Voltia!” the announcer called. Torvilin rode forward and took up his lance. There was a slight applause. Voltians were not much loved in the other kingdoms of Midia. It was something to do with the Voltians’ feelings of superiority. Not all of them were like that of course, but enough so that the reputation was deserved.
“Lord Coran of Tyelin!” There was far more cheering for him. It was not just the normal ‘anyone over a Voltian’, but there were genuine fans of the man bearing the silver hawk. He was little known in the competition and was being labeled the young newcomer by some. There probably wasn’t anyone watching who didn’t know his father.
“Coran can take him,” Willa said strongly. “He has been doing extremely well today.”
“He can,” Katelyn agreed. She spoke quickly as all her attention became centered on the man in black armor.
However good the Voltian was with the sword, he was found a bit lacking with the lance. It took three passes before Torvilin was unhorsed. Katelyn was disappointed to see him get to his feet relatively unhurt. A broken bone or something might have been nice just to see his ego suffer.
There was a short break while they awaited the final match of the day. She heard plenty of opinions from the crowd about Coran’s chances against the Mountain. “Coran can beat him.” She said it more to reassure herself than to make any sort of proclamation, but it was said loud enough for those around her to hear. Willa looked at her as if she was daft. Alys appeared to consider her announcement, but still looked doubtful.
The King also heard and looked at her with total disbelief. “In eight years no one has lasted more than three passes against Donerey. He remains undefeated in this tournament for nine, and undefeated in any tournament for the last two.”
“And who was the last person to defeat him here?” she countered, knowing very well that it was Lord Oran.
Robert studied her for a moment with a thumb and fore finger rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Do you really think your young companion can win?” he asked her seriously.
To be honest, she wasn’t really sure. She thought his chances slim, but she couldn’t back down now. “Yes.”
“How about a wager?” he asked shrewdly.
“What did you have in mind?” she answered carefully, not about to be drawn into putting up too much for a wager.
“I will wager my best horse, it is from Leanesse stock.”
“What do you want from me?”
“Let us say, a case of Sunderly wine.”
She thought about it for a moment. The horses of Leanesse were considered the best anywhere in the West. Likewise, Taragosan wine was preferred throughout the West as well, but the Sunderly brand was favored above all, and expensive. “Agreed, but two horses against two cases.”
“Done,” the King smiled as if he had already won.
Down on the field a man in a green shirt with gold tassels attached to the bottom joined the announcer in front of the stands. He raised a long, golden horn to his lips and blew three long blasts to announce the beginning of the final competition. Everyone quieted down so they would not miss hearing the last pair announced.
“This will be the final match!” he called out in a clear voice, then waited for a few people’s excited cheers to subside. He raised an arm and pointed to one end of the field where the giant of a man, Donerey rode slowly forward. “Sir Donerey of Westhaven!” He waited again for more, louder cheers to quiet before raising the other arm towards Coran. “Lord Coran of Tyelin!” He received almost as many cheers as the King’s champion.
Katelyn watched expectantly as Coran took up the offered lance and guided his mount into position at one end of the list. He readied his lance by lowering the point and resting the butt in the crook of his arm. The horses pawed at the ground and snorted with an impatience of their own. The announcer lowered his arm and as one, the two opposing steeds galloped towards each other, their hooves churning up thick clods of dirt. Lance points were aimed at opposing shields and those shields were held steady against the coming impact. The two warriors met in a shower of splinters, both kept their saddles under them as they galloped past. They gathered fresh lances and charged again. And again, neither fell nor showed any signs of weakening. After the third charge Katelyn nearly cried out as Coran fought desperately to stay on his horse. He discarded the broken lance and grabbed the reins with both hands, hauling himself back into a safer position. She sighed in relief.
King Robert gave her a smile in anticipation of victory, but it was Willa who spoke to her. “He lasted three passes. That will be talked about for a very long time. If he can last any longer they just might write a song.” She laughed at the thought, but sounded serious as well.
A fourth time their horses carried them and for a fourth time their lances shattered to no avail. The excitement in the arena was multiplying with each pass. They waited for a final blow to announce the winner and at the same time hoped it would last a little longer. After each pass a few more of the spectators could be heard to call out in favor of Tyelin.
Katelyn held her hands together tightly in her lap. She did not think she could take much more excitement. A fifth pass took place with no result and after the sixth it was Donerey who swayed slightly before righting himself. It had been barely noticeable but right now no one was missing anything.
There were many disparaging cries at the Champion’s show of weakening, at least those who wer
e not too stunned to make a sound. After the seventh pass it was clear that the Mountain was swaying dangerously. The air in the stadium tingled with the ever growing excitement. Seven passes was almost unheard of in any competition and the match was not yet done.
The eighth and final meeting of lances and shields saw the Mountain fall. The roar that came from thousands of throats at once was staggering. Peopled jumped up and down and waved their hands in the air. It was a good thing that the tiers were built of stone. They might not have remained if they had been built of wood.
Katelyn was on her feet and clapping her hands as well. The only one who was not was the King. He gave her a truly miserable look, one which she returned with a wicked little smile.
Coran’s mount trotted in a great circle around the field with him in the saddle holding up one arm to acknowledge the applause. The crowd started to chant. “Tye-lin! Tye-lin!”
Coran did not think he could keep his arm raised much longer. After a day of exchanging blows with twelve foot poles he felt sore all over, and the day was not yet over. He was as surprised as anyone that he had won. His goal had been to try his best on every pass and then see what happened. That was how his father told him to approach the lists every time. It worked.
He almost lost it on that third pass. The recoil from striking Donerey’s shield nearly unhorsed him. With great relief he lowered his arm and guided his mount over to the announcer who was beckoning him. Coran stopped his horse next to the man and before the boxed off section of seats. He removed his helmet and tossed it to a boy who ran over to take it from him. The steel gauntlets went next. The slight breeze felt good on his exposed face. Sweat soaked hair was matted to his forehead and he wiped at it with the back of one hand.
Fire And Ice (Book 1) Page 11