Broken Stone 02 - Warlock's Sun Rising

by Damien Black

  ‘Good job we’ve got Marionites about,’ commented Vaskrian as he tightened the crupper on his master’s charger. ‘Chances are he’d lose that arm otherwise.’

  ‘Why on earth do they do it?’ asked Adelko. ‘Fight when there isn’t a war on?’

  ‘For the glory!’ said Vaskrian. ‘Haven’t I taught you anything? Also, it keeps a knight fresh – for when a real war comes along. How do you think Torgun and that lot got so good at fighting in peacetime? Arresting poachers?’

  ‘That’s why you do it? So you can practise being in a war?’ Adelko shook his head in astonishment and looked from Vaskrian to his mentor.

  ‘Though it pains me to admit it, there is some method to the madness,’ allowed Horskram.

  ‘Well now I’ve heard it all,’ said Adelko, shaking his head again and heading over to the wine stall. He’d need a cup himself before the second round got under way. Knights were quite mad, he’d decided.

  ‘Touch! And Sir Braxus of Gaellen advances to the third round! And poor Sir Gunther of Vorstbrau will just have to wait till next year for glory at the Graufluss Bridge Tourney!’

  This time the cheers were a lot louder. Foreigners weren’t always popular at tournaments, but Braxus felt he was winning the crowd over. Bowing with a flourish in the saddle, he dismounted in one easy motion and helped Gunther up off the ground. The experienced vassal of the Eorl had been a top seed and a clear favourite to win their bout. This victory would make an impression on the rest of the knights in the draw.

  That was good: send out a message.

  Pulling off his great helm, Braxus smiled and waved and blew kisses at the damsels. He made sure he caught Adhelina’s eye. If his heart hadn’t already been pounding it would have beaten even faster. A smile played on her lips as she applauded her champion, though few of the nobles sat near her were smiling.

  ‘And next up, we have another errant championing the Lady Adhelina! Put your hands together for Sir Torgun of Vandheim, knight of Northalde!’

  Cheers and hoots went up in equal measure. Torgun had already made an impression in his first round – not least of all on his hapless opponent, whom he had sent to the infirmary for an extended spell.

  ‘Unbeaten in his own country,’ the herald went on. ‘Can anyone unhorse him here today? Sir Ruttgur, bachelor of Graukolos, will certainly be hoping he can!’

  Braxus felt his mood cloud as he strode out of the lists, Vaskrian carrying his spear and leading his charger. He certainly didn’t envy Ruttgur: as one of the Eorl’s better knights he was seeded, but as an unranked outsider Torgun was a dangerous floater.

  So was Braxus come to think of it. He wondered when they would clash. He needed to focus on this next bout, Torgun was a legend in the lists but everyone had a weakness, no matter how good they were…

  Whatever weakness Torgun might have, Ruttgur failed to find it. The Northlending sent him toppling from his horse at the first pass.

  ‘Sir Torgun for the third round! And the outlanders are certainly making an impression here today!’

  Cheers mingled with some gasps – Sir Ruttgur had been a local favourite to progress deep into the event.

  Vaskrian came up and yelled excitedly in his ear. ‘That’s two sets of armour and two chargers you’ve netted, Sir Braxus – you’ll be able to sell those back to the knights you bested for a pretty penny!’

  ‘Aye,’ said Braxus, only half listening. He wasn’t really concerned with spoil – as a lord’s heir he hardly lacked for money. In fact there was only one thing here he really wanted… and she was currently smiling at Sir Torgun, just the way she had smiled at him. The Northlending saluted with his lance before urging his Farovian destrier from the lists.

  ‘Next up, Hengist III, 16th Herzog of Stornelund, lord of Hockburg Keep!’

  This time the cheers sounded forced. By some miracle (or was it down to baser means?) the future lord of Dulsinor had managed to overcome his first-round opponent, at the third tilt. His next opponent looked to be made of sterner stuff though: a stocky, barrel-chested knight spurred his dun-coloured charger into the lists.

  ‘And we have ourselves a black knight!’ cried the herald. ‘Whence he comes, no one but himself knows… Only once he is vanquished will he reveal his true identity!’

  Whoops and cheers went up at that. Black knights were popular at tourneys; they added an air of mystery, not least because more often than not they turned out to be people of high status.

  ‘He could be a lord in his own right,’ Vaskrian was explaining to Adelko.

  ‘Why would he choose to hide that?’ asked the novice.

  ‘Not everyone wants to be recognised as a man of privilege,’ put in Braxus, nodding pointedly towards Hengist. ‘Some lords believe it more chivalrous to pose as an ordinary knight, so as not to discourage fair competition.’

  ‘Couch!’ cried the herald. Both knights lowered their lances. Hengist was clearly distinguishable by his coat of arms, a coiled serpent in argent on an escutcheon purpure, but the other knight had only a black cloth over his kite. His face was invisible beneath his helm.

  The herald looked to Wilhelm, who nodded curtly.

  ‘Tilt!’

  The knights thundered towards each other. The black knight was about the same height as Hengist but considerably bigger. His war saddle was set a little higher, making it harder to balance but giving him more leverage from which to strike.

  Always a sign of an experienced jouster, thought Braxus.

  It was experience that paid off. The two crashed together but the black knight caught Hengist square in the chest as his own spear glanced harmlessly off his shield. The jousting lance shivered to pieces but the impact sent the Herzog hurtling from the saddle. His humiliation was completed as his leg remained caught in the stirrup, resulting in his being dragged from the lists by his stampeding horse. A couple of commoners were ridden down before his squires got the perturbed stallion under control.

  ‘How do you survive that kind of fall?’ gawped Adelko as the crowd erupted into undisguised raptures. The pampered Herzog was clearly no match for the black knight in terms of popularity either.

  ‘Every knight wears a gambeson under his mail,’ Vaskrian explained. ‘It provides padding, you see. They also wear a linen hood under the coif – together with a good head of hair that stops head injuries if you’re lucky.’

  ‘Though as I recall the Lord Storne lacks the latter defence,’ quipped Braxus.

  In the event, Hengist had suffered little more than wounded pride. Disentangling himself from the stirrup he got up and pushed past his squires, stomping off towards the wine booth reserved for the nobility. His conqueror was making a meal of his victory, wheeling his steed around to face the bleachers and the crowd in turn and nodding his helm in cumbersome acknowledgement.

  ‘Well he’s not the most graceful of jousters, but he’s effective enough,’ said Braxus, accepting a cup of watered wine from Vaskrian. It was approaching late afternoon and the intense summer heat was starting to cool pleasantly. For the first time since the Warlock’s Crown, he felt his spirits rise.

  The second round matches came to a close with a crashing of armour as another knight was brought low to the soil. Vaskrian let out a satisfied sigh. It had been a good day. His guvnor was safely through to the next day of jousting. He’d helped Sir Braxus out of his armour; all that remained was to give his harness a quick check, then he could relax and get drunk.

  ‘Ladies, noblemen and commoners!’ cried the herald, his voice hoarse with shouting. ‘It’s taken nigh on two hundred bouts, but we’ve separated the hedge knights from the true challengers! Tomorrow at noon I’ll see you again for the third round… and that’s where it gets really interesting!’

  ‘Well how did you find it, Adelko?’ said Vaskrian as he checked his guvnor’s hauberk and gambeson for dints and scratches. He’d had them repaired before the tourney and it had cost another handful of marks. Not that money was an issue now Braxus was winning f
orfeits, but getting them fixed again would be a pain.

  ‘Um, it was all right,’ ventured the novice.

  ‘It was more than all right,’ insisted the squire. ‘This is the best I’ve felt since… well, you know.’ His guvnor’s hauberk was fine, as he’d hoped it would be – but then last time he’d checked, knights didn’t use magicked blades that cleaved through mail like a knife through butter.

  ‘I suppose it was, um, quite entertaining,’ said Adelko. ‘And you’re right, it felt good to do something normal at least… if you can really call this normal.’

  ‘Well compared to what you lot do in a day’s work, I’d say it is, Adelko.’

  ‘Yes, you’ve probably got a point there,’ Adelko had to allow. ‘Though I’m not sure it’s any less dangerous.’

  ‘Come on,’ Vaskrian clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Look lively and fetch us a couple more stoops of wine. I should be done in a bit – then we can get busy drinking!’

  The novice grinned. ‘I can agree with you there,’ he said, and bounded off towards the stall.

  Adelko groaned into consciousness about an hour after dawn. His head was thumping. He and Vaskrian had got royally drunk after supper; he had somehow persuaded Horskram that he needed to remain in the camp to help the injured squire with his duties.

  ‘Look lively, Adelko,’ said Vaskrian, poking his head around the tent flap. He was three summers older and had a better head for the stuff. ‘I’ll need you to help me cook up the guvnor’s breakfast for him.’

  Grinning, Vaskrian waved a piece of raw meat in his face. Lurching to his feet, Adelko pushed past him as he stumbled from the tent to be sick.

  About an hour before noon Adhelina took her seat in the bleachers next to her father. Hengist sat on the other side of her. Perhaps it was a pity he hadn’t made it to the next round after all: now she had to sit next to him. Down the end of her row of seats she could make out Hettie. She had insisted that her friend be released from Lothag for a few days to see the event. It might do some good for the Melancholy Sickness. Her father had finally relented as she pestered him over the feasting boards relentlessly, though relations between the two of them were at breaking point.

  As the sixty-four remaining knights began crowding into the competitors’ stalls with their horses and squires she felt herself tensing. At last she could bear it no longer.

  ‘I shall sit with Hettie,’ she blurted. ‘She shouldn’t be alone.’

  She half expected her father to put his broad foot down, but he didn’t.

  What happened next was even more surprising.

  ‘Pray have her take my seat,’ said Lord Storne, rising and moving away. ‘I would not see my betrothed parted from her dear companion.’

  His scratchy voice sounded oddly neutral. The Herzog did not make eye contact as he shuffled down the aisle away from her, giving her no chance to read his expression. She caught Albercelsus’ gaze as she watched Hengist move away. The seneschal stared back at her but said nothing.

  Torgun rechecked his equipment as the third round got under way. He made sure the flanchards and crupper were secure on his destrier and tightened the stirrup leathers. Taking his great helm from where he had slung it across the cantle of his saddle, he put it on and waited to be called. Normally he disliked restricting his vision, but he felt the occasion warranted the extra protection. Jousting lances, being hollow, broke more easily but good knights had been known to die from a splinter through the eye. He didn’t relish an ignominious death.

  But more than that, he realised as he mounted, it enabled him to block out the others. He knew he shouldn’t resent Braxus – it was unchivalrous. But he could not help his feelings. And every time he looked at Adhelina he felt his heart clench sickeningly. He had never felt like this before. Not even with Princess Hjala.

  To win the day he must be fully focused – just as he had been at all the other tournaments he’d won. Taking his shield and spear from the rack provided for errants, he kicked his horse gently towards the lists in anticipation of his next clash.

  His next couple of bouts seemed to fly by. Both knights jousted well, and it was an honour to vanquish them. The last one had a broken collarbone by the looks of things. He was a vassal of the Herzog, a seeded jouster and well respected. Torgun made a mental note to visit him in the infirmary later. He’d give him back his armour and horse too; he wasn’t interested in booty.

  ‘Sir Torgun for the fifth round!’ cried the herald. ‘And who will he meet in the last sixteen? Grab a bite, and buy an ale – but don’t go too far! Because we’re going to find out who he’s facing after this next bout!’

  Yanking off his helm, Torgun pulled Hilmir up at the edge of the lists. Forcing himself not to look at Adhelina, he concentrated on sizing up his two possible next opponents.

  ‘Sir Hangrit Foolhardy and Sir Aethelwald of Gothia!’

  Studying them as they urged their stallions into the lists, he had the measure of them almost immediately. Hangrit was obviously a court favourite, one of Lord Storne’s hangers-on. That gave him the kind of swaggering confidence that could win the day against lesser knights, but would see him come up short against more experienced fighters.

  Sir Aethelwald was an experienced fighter. A grizzled and scarred veteran, he hailed from the southern provinces of Vorstlund and probably did the tournament circuit regularly for a living. He was in it for prize money, forfeits and ransoms: not a chivalrous knight by any means, but a foe to be respected nonetheless.

  Watching Sir Hangrit prance into the lists, waving overconfidently to the crowd as though the bout were already won, Sir Torgun saw spectators in the bleachers placing bets behind him. He never presumed anything in matters martial, but he had a strong feeling which would turn out to be the winning wager.

  Another knight nearby shouted loudly as Sir Hangrit couched. Reghar his name was. Just as boorish as his friend, the pair of them had spent most of last few nights quaffing wine. That hadn’t done Reghar much good and he had gone down in the second round.

  ‘Go on Hangrit, send the southerner packing!’ yelled Reghar, pausing only to slurp more wine.

  Torgun shook his head. Such boorish behaviour! Men like that gave knighthood a bad name. He silently prayed for Ezekiel to favour Sir Aethelwald. Give him a worthy opponent for his next round.

  As it turned out, his prayers weren’t needed. Aethelwald toppled Hangrit at the first pass, catching him square on the fess point of his shield and sending him clean over the cantle and into the churned mud. Reghar cursed loudly, dashing his cup to the ground. As Hangrit picked himself up and limped off the lists, his friend yelled for more wine.

  Torgun forced himself to remain calm. If the drunken oaf kept this behaviour up, he’d find himself busy in the duelling event. He didn’t like to sit in judgement, but the man’s behaviour was scarcely tolerable.

  As the herald called a ten-minute pause before the next round, he glanced at Adhelina. His heart skipped a beat as he locked eyes with her.

  Adhelina felt a confused roil of emotions as Sir Torgun looked at her. She truly had not expected anything like this. Their horrible adventures in the forest had happened so quickly; she’d barely had time even to register the two knights, except to be grateful to them for helping to save her.

  Could they really both be in love with her?

  Another dream of her youth coming true, she reflected bitterly: chivalrous knights competing for her favour. But despite what Agravine had said, she wasn’t so sure she would get much joy of her paramours. Not if her father could help it, she wouldn’t. And then there was Albercelsus… Adhelina didn’t trust him.

  She would have to fight for every inch of freedom she could get, of that she felt sure.

  At least Hengist wasn’t anywhere near her now: he was down in the stalls getting drunk as usual. Perhaps that was why he had offered his seat to Hettie, to give him the excuse he needed. But since when had the Herzog needed excuses to indulge himself?

 
Pulling her eyes away from Torgun’s hot-eyed stare she focused her attention on Hettie.

  ‘It is quite the contest, is it not Hettie?’ she asked, forcing herself to sound cheerful.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Hettie, staring off into the middle distance. ‘They joust well.’ Her voice sounded disembodied. Perhaps she needed the ministrations of an Argolian not a Marionite – she might as well have been possessed.

  ‘Hettie, do try to cheer up!’ Adhelina pleaded. ‘Now more than ever I need you here, present!’

  ‘What do you expect?’ growled her father. ‘You embroil her in a madcap misadventure and wonder why your best friend has lost her wits? Perhaps now you understand the value of duty! This would never have happened if you’d stayed put and done as you were told.’

  Adhelina felt her rage rising and forced herself to take a step back from her anger. Perhaps her father was right, she thought, her bitterness deepening. She had risked their lives and sanity, and in the end nothing had changed. Less than a week from now, after the tourney was done, she would marry Hengist.

  She felt her father tense as Sir Agravine nudged his charger into the lists. All three knights who sought her favour were still in the tournament; the man who would wed her was long gone. Didn’t that just say it all?

  Perhaps Hengist wouldn’t care who she dallied with as long she bore him an heir. But to do that she’d have to… She shuddered and closed her legs involuntarily. The thought of it still sickened her.

  She tore her mind from her bleak future as the herald remounted the podium.

  ‘Ladies, noblemen and commoners!’ he yelled. ‘I hope you’ve all refreshed yourselves! And now Sir Agravine, bachelor of Graukolos, and Sir Otto, bachelor of Hockburg, will compete for a place in the quarter finals!’