Knights Without Kings

by J. M. Topp

  ‘Queen Gwendylyyn LaFoyelle, daughter of the mighty King Elmeric LaFoyelle!’ he shouted and bowed even lower. ‘You grace us with your return from that barbaric country!’

  Gwendylyyn stared at the speaker for a moment. Silence reigned over the arena awkwardly. All that could be heard was the rippling of the tourney flags in the wind. The speaker remained bowing. The crowds held their tongues as they waited for their returned queen to speak. She merely stared at them all.

  Finally, the queen closed her eyes and nodded. This signaled the beginning of the fight.

  The crowds went wild—clapping their hands, shouting and shaking each other. The speaker rose from his bow and ran to the edge of the arena. The gladiators stepped around each other, looking for an opponent. Twenty-four armoured men circled one another, gripping their weapons and preparing their spirits. Each of them knew there could only be one winner. Some held cudgels and short swords. A few foreign gladiators wielded spears, and one even brandished a rather oversized warhammer. A few were Aivaterran, but the majority of the gladiators were foreign. One even had a Weserithian bloodshield. Elymiah studied their weapons and armour with keen interest. She felt someone come close behind her and touch her on the shoulder. She winced at the pain in her shoulder and turned to see the grinning face of Robyn. He was in his off-duty clothing, yet his sword was still at his side.

  ‘Sorry, I forgot about that. Did I miss anything?’ asked Robyn.

  ‘The queen’s first public appearance.’

  ‘She didn’t see the Taming?’

  ‘No.’ Elymiah tried not to be bothered by the queen’s absence. The Holy Silver Angels Platoon was the highest-ranking platoon in Aivaterra and by default would be called to the queen’s personal guard as well as the front lines in battle. Elymiah would have plenty of time to prove her bravery to the queen, if it was Oredmere’s will. He had everything planned out already; it was only a matter of being patient. Elymiah knew that Oredmere would reveal himself in time. Elymiah closed her eyes and prayed silently. Suddenly, the trumpets roared again, and steel began to clash against steel. The fight had begun. Elymiah opened her eyes to identify the gladiator who had asked for her blessing.

  She was able to recognize him by the blue steel shield with the Aivaterran sparrow etched on the metal. He fought like a dancer amidst the dust. His first opponent was a spear-wielding Yorvethan. Most of the people from the Yorveth were fishermen, experienced in navigating the seas and hunting of all creatures dwelling within. A flash of worry crossed Elymiah’s mind. Though the man who had asked for her blessing was a slave, Elymiah’s spirit prayed for him.

  The Yorvethan twirled his spear and struck at the tattooed man’s shield. But the tattooed man riposted the spear away, allowing for the strike of his cavalry sword on the Yorvethan. His sword cut through the top part of the Yorvethan’s chestplate, exposing blood and bone. But the Yorvethan wasn’t down. He screamed and used the butt of his spear to hit the gladiator in the face, knocking the steel helm from the gladiator’s head. The man’s rough but strong jaw clenched as he brought his sword down once more in the same place, this time driving the point of the sword down. With a crunch, he plunged his sword into the Yorvethan’s neck. Blood spewed over him and the dirt beneath them. The tattooed man twisted his sword and pulled it out of the Yorvethan, cutting him from his chest to his cheek. The Yorvethan fell into the dirt, lifeless. The first death on this bright tourney day.

  The crowds frothed at the mouth, screaming.

  ‘Bjohten! Bjohten!’ they shouted over and over.

  ‘By Oredmere, that was fast. That Bjohten man fights with style.’ Robyn stared in awe at the man’s ability. ‘If it were allowed, I would recruit him for our platoon, don’t you think?’

  Elymiah nodded but didn’t say a word. The fight was far from over. The gladiator, Bjohten, turned to face his next opponent. His next challenger stepped over another fallen man gurgling in his own blood. He was covered in much more blood than Bjohten was. He wielded two cudgels with barbed wire and nails stuck deep into the wood. His frame wasn’t thick, but it was strewn with muscle. This man was also an Aivaterran, but it didn’t matter; freedom was on the line for them.

  That, and a large sum of money.

  The man threw the weight of his cudgel into the blow, hitting Bjohten’s shield. Sparks flew as nails and metal made contact with the steel shield. Bjohten swung diagonally at the man’s torso, but the man was too fast. He twisted and danced forward and down, delivering a blow to Bjohten’s leg that connected, tearing flesh and muscle. Bjohten grunted but didn’t miss a beat. He charged into his opponent, smashing him with his shield. The man went down, but before Bjohten could deliver a fatal blow, with incredible speed the man rolled behind Bjohten and struck him in the back, sinking the edge of his cudgel into flesh. Bjohten twisted as the man pulled his weapon from his back. Bjohten was bleeding profusely from his wounds, but then he did something that Elymiah could have never seen coming.

  Bjohten, with clenched jaw, dropped his sword and shield into the dirt. His opponent stared in surprise for a moment but then smiled evilly. He attacked with both cudgels raised. Instead of moving out of the way, Bjohten held his ground and grabbed both cudgels with his hands. The cudgels’ nails pierced his hands, but Bjohten still held onto them. His opponent’s face turned to horror as he tried to wrench his weapons away from his grasp. But it was fruitless. Bjohten screamed and crushed his enemy with his forehead, caving his face in with one hit. The man dropped to the ground as Bjohten stomped his face in with his boot, completely crushing his opponent’s head. Bjohten grabbed the end of the cudgel stuck in his palms and tore them off. He dropped them on the ground and reached for his sword and shield.

  If the crowds could get any louder, Elymiah could not have imagined how. Yet their screams echoed throughout the arena, making the wooden supports tremble. Men and women, even some children, grabbed at the rails shaking them in excitement. Such a display had not been seen in a tourney before. This man, Bjohten, was not a usual fighter.

  ‘I learned some of the slaves’ stories before the tourney began!’ shouted Robyn over the screams of the crowds. ‘Bjohten is from Troseaway Canyon. He was caught stealing from the military supplies heading to the Blade Fortress. He has had ten years of penance, and now it seems that freedom is within his grasp.”

  ‘He does not fight like an Aivaterran, Robyn!’ Elymiah shouted back. ‘Where did he learn to fight like that?’

  Robyn simply shook his head and shrugged in amazement as his eyes were glued to the fighter. Bjohten turned to face his next opponent. The arena was beginning to thin out as the defeated either fell dead or absconded in shame. A handful of gladiators remained standing. A man with no armour flexed his bulging muscles and slammed the butt of his gigantic warhammer on the ground. His hindquarter-length black hair waved lightly in the wind. His face and upper body had scars all over it. He laughed deeply and cruelly, motioning to Bjohten. He unlaced his breeches and pulled his manhood from a hole. He grasped at it and gestured to Bjohten, sticking his tongue out.

  The crowds laughed and jeered.

  Elymiah grimaced. She wasn’t used to seeing people behave that way. She frowned at the shameful act. Bjohten murmured something under his breath and walked before his new challenger. Blood seeped from his hands and ran down the sides of his body. Bjohten didn’t seem to notice, however, as his eyes were steeled on the massive warhammer.

  The man raised the warhammer above his head and leaped at Bjohten. He slammed the warhammer on the ground with incredible speed and force, barely missing Bjohten, who moved out of the way at the last second. The earth beneath Elymiah’s feet shook from the impact. The crowd gasped at the amazing show of strength.

  ‘Do you recognize this mark, Bjohten?’ the man shouted, relaxing the grip on his warhammer and pointing to a tattoo on his left shoulder. He didn’t wait for a response. ‘It is a mark of the Red Vale Bandits. That’s right, Bjohten. The Red Vale Bandits. This is the
end for you, Bjohten.’

  The bandit raised his warhammer again and swung it in a wide arc. With a deafening clang, Bjohten blocked the hammer strike with his shield, absorbing the entire attack of the blunt weapon. Bjohten’s shield bent as the blow sent him careening back. The man mocked him loudly.

  From behind the bandit, a spearman shouted and attacked with weapon held above his head to kill, but all the bandit did was turn around and hold the head of the warhammer out before him. The spearman slammed into the warhammer, crushing his own face into it. The spearman fell onto the ground in a heap, lifeless. This made the bandit laugh even harder than before. Tears began to collect near his eyes. He doubled over and roared at the man who had fallen so foolishly.

  ‘This fool thought he could pull a fast one.’ He began to cough as dust collected in his lungs. He shook as he laughed uncontrollably. Finally, he grabbed his warhammer with both hands to face Bjohten, but Bjohten was no longer on the ground. His bent shield lay in the dirt, but Bjohten was nowhere to be seen.

  The bandit turned and caught a blade in his neck. His eyes widened in stark surprise, and his laugh froze in his chest. Blood began to pour from his wound, slowly at first. Silence reigned in the crowds as they stared in awe. A few people began to scowl as they realized they had lost their bets.

  Without a word, Bjohten drew the blade slowly from the bandit’s neck. The bandit fell to his knees, wheezing and clutching at his neck. He fell with a loud thud. A few members of the crowd began to clap slowly. One by one, clapping began to erupt from the crowds. Bjohten looked around and realized that he was the last man standing. He shot his hands into the air, dropping his sword. He jumped up and shouted to the skies. The crowds echoed his excitement with screams and words of joyous encouragement. Elymiah joined the crowds in cheer as her eyes caught Bjohten’s. He smiled and bowed at her. Elymiah’s smile froze on her face. From behind Bjohten, another gladiator stood up from the dirt. He raised his bloodshield and slammed its point into the back of Bjohten’s neck, breaking the vertebrae within. Bjohten fell to the ground without a sound, a smile etched on his face as his eyes rolled into the back of his head. The Weserithian slammed the point of the shield again and again, making sure that Bjohten was truly dead, crushing bone and spilling brain matter. Elymiah looked on in horror. The Weserithian, once he was convinced that Bjohten was dead, threw his shield and raised his arms, symbolizing victory. The crowds began to boo him and throw small rocks. The Weserithian raised both his middle fingers at them all whilst sticking his tongue out. He stepped over the mound of fallen gladiators haughtily.

  ‘The bastard. I don’t even think he killed a single person. He waited till the last minute to snatch victory from the true victor.’ Robyn spat in the direction of the Weserithian. ‘What a disgrace.’

  The Weserithian walked to the royal quarters and stared directly at the queen. He bowed mockingly and jeered at her, pointing at his bloodshield. Elymiah shook her head in disgust.

  Gwendylyyn merely stared at the victor. The arena speaker ran beside the Weserithian and grabbed his arm, raising it beside him. The crowds began to disperse. It was a shameful display that had been witnessed here. The Weserithian smiled again and walked to exit the arena.

  Fwoop!

  Elymiah turned to the sound of an arrow piercing flesh. The Weserithian stood with eyes wide open. A long and white arrow was lodged in his neck. Blood began to trickle from the wound. The Weserithian touched the arrow with his finger and fell to the ground, gurgling, struggling for breath. The crowds, including Elymiah, turned almost unanimously at the archer. The queen stood tall in the arena beside the royal quarters. She held a long whitewood bow with intricate gold carvings. She had another arrow notched, but it was obvious she didn’t need it. She un-notched the arrow from the bow and walked to the dying Weserithian. She stood before the dying man and picked up his bloodshield and studied the iron designs on the shield. The queen turned the shield so that the dying man could see the Weserithian Black Bull and tapped it. The Weserithian coughed his last, eyes nailed to the queen.

  Suddenly, a roar emerged from the crowds as they clapped and cheered for the queen. She dropped the shield over the dead victor and walked to the edge of the arena without acknowledging the crowds. She stepped into her carriage and closed the door behind her.

  Elymiah turned to Robyn, in shock over what had taken place. Robyn looked at her and smiled.

  ‘What a first tourney day, don’t you think?’ He smiled and shook his head. ‘I am sorry about your friend, Bjohten. That was a dirty trick that Weserithian bastard pulled.’

  The crowds, having had their fill of blood and surprises for the time being, began to disperse back into the city. Elymiah remembered the little girl and the message of her halberd having been repaired.

  ‘I have an appointment at the Iron Aegis,’ she told Robyn. ‘We must rest up, for tomorrow the queen will address her armies.’

  Robyn nodded and held his arm out to Elymiah.

  ‘Shall we?’

  Elymiah nodded, took his arm, and began to walk back to the castle, careful to move out of the way of a traveling band of circus performers. Their act would be the next spectacle of the tourney. Before they had gone too far from the arena, however, she glanced back. The royal carriage had already departed, as had most everyone else. Slaves were in the arena taking the bodies and putting them in a cart. She spotted a bent blue shield stuck in the sand. The Aivaterran Sparrow had a broken wing. Sorrow tugged at her heart in memory of Bjohten, but it would not do to think of such things. She turned her gaze on the road back to the castle.

  THE CLANGING OF a hammer against an anvil resounded from within the Iron Aegis. As Elymiah walked down the Street of Thorns towards the shop, the sounds smithing were indistinguishable. This was the first time Elymiah would visit this particular blacksmith shop. It was known throughout Aivaterra that the Iron Aegis was the blacksmith shop that provided weapons and armour for the royal personal guard and Holy Platoons exclusively. The man who owned the shop, only known as Andre, had operated the blacksmith shop for years. No one knew exactly how long he had worked it, but he was respected and known for making the highest-quality weapons and armour in the entirety of the Khahadran.

  Elymiah knocked on the door but then shook her head. The blacksmith wouldn’t hear her knocking over the sounds of the anvil. She opened the door slowly and paused as a cloud of smoke escaped the open door. Elymiah took a deep breath and entered, squinting through the smoke.The smell of burnt metal and the heat from the bellows completely enveloped her. She tried to make Andre out. He was bent over a massive anvil as sparks accentuated the outline of his frame. His tanned body was accentuated by his long, marble-white hair and chest-long beard. He raised his hammer and slammed it against a superheated metal sword. What struck Elymiah as odd was the green and purple hue that emanated from the weapon. She stared at the blacksmith as he hammered the sword.

  The blacksmith turned his head slightly and picked up tongs. He grabbed the sword blade and set it in a large water basin next to the bellows. The curvature of the sword intrigued Elymiah. Swords like that weren’t typical to the Khahadran or Eldervale. The long and thin slightly curved weapon sizzled as the cool waters chilled the glowing metal. Andre lifted the sword onto a wooden table and turned to Elymiah, wiping sweat from his brow.

  ‘Well, a new customer,’ he said, nodding politely. ‘I am Andre, and welcome to the Iron Aegis. How may I serve you?’

  Elymiah cleared her throat before she spoke.

  ‘I was told that my halberd was being repaired at this shop?’

  ‘Ah, you must be the new knight-captain of the Holy Silver Angels Platoon, Elymiah Artus Farnesse.’ Andre smiled jovially as he spoke, rubbing his bulbous nose with his finger. His accent was thick and guttural. Elymiah couldn’t place where it came from. Andre was missing a few teeth as well, but the large blacksmith didn’t seem to mind. In fact, it seemed that very little would prevent him from smiling. The smile
he wore was almost as an adornment. It gave Elymiah a refreshing sense of comfort.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve removed your simple steel head and handle and reforged them with titanite from the Titanite Mines in the north. The pole was expertly crafted, however. It was a pleasure to work with it, Knight-Captain,’ he said as he lifted the halberd from among other weapons lying next to the table. ‘It will hold its sharp edge better, methinks.’

  Elymiah reached for the halberd. The leather rag she had tied as a place to hold it had been replaced by wrapped boiled leather. It was lighter than before, but somehow it seemed sturdier and sharper. The metal edge of the winged blades had been infused with titanite just as the blacksmith said. Titanite was a rare and precious metal from the far north. The mines had been abandoned long ago, but somehow people were able to find the ore dispersed throughout the land. What was even rarer than the stone was the blacksmith who could smelt them. Elymiah realized that Andre must be one of the few men left in the world with the skills to know how. She touched the flat edge of the blade in awe.

  ‘How much do I owe you, Andre?’ she said, admiring the hammerwork done on the weapon. The blacksmith had even etched his insignia, AIA, to make sure everyone knew the weapon was either forged or repaired by Andre of the Iron Aegis.

  ‘For the Holy Knight-Captain Farnesse?’ He stroked his beard and flashed his smile once more. ‘The crown has already paid your debt, but remember this: weapons, when overused, break. If, perchance, yours does again, bring it to me. I’ll hammer it back into proper order. They take no pleasure in breaking, I assure you.’