Trials of the Twiceborn
Book Six of the Songreaver’s Tale
By Andrew Hunter
Copyright 2016 Andrew Hunter
Kindle Edition
Discover other works by Andrew Hunter at Freemancer.com
Chapter One
“How am I supposed to see anything through this?” Garrett asked, his voice echoing inside the visor of his helmet. He couldn’t keep from tilting his head up and down, trying to glimpse as much of the field as he could through the narrow slit of the jousting helmet. He saw the distant line of Astorran knights across the waving field of lush grass, their bright pennons snapping in the morning breeze. There were a lot of them.
“You only need to see what lies directly in front of you during the tourney,” Cenick said. The tattooed necromancer sat astride his pony, a few steps to the right of Ghausse, Garrett’s enormous riding wolf.
“Can’t I just leave the visor up and fight like that?” Garrett sighed.
“Not unless you’d care to taste the pointy end of an Astorran lance,” Lady Ymowyn laughed to Garrett’s left. He was able to catch the flash of her smile in the corner of his eye before the fox woman resumed her dignified appraisal of her former countrymen across the field.
“Do I have to use the lance?” Garrett groaned. His few practice charges with the unwieldy ten-foot long pole the day before had been an exercise in embarrassment, and had proven nearly disastrous when he had let the tip of the oversized spear dip too low. It had taken nearly half an hour for the stinging sensation in his right arm to subside after shattering his first lance against a tree stump.
“We could always just throw zombies at them until they die,” Haven mumbled from where she stood beside Ghausse at Garrett’s hip. He didn’t even try to look at her. Even if he could somehow manage to turn and tilt his head that far down inside the rust-scented jousting armor that the ghouls had dug up for him, he already knew exactly what sort of look she would be giving him. Haven did not approve of Garrett’s plan.
“You’ll be using your blade soon enough,” Cenick said, “Once one of you is unhorsed, the custom is to continue the fight on foot until one of you either yields or is unable to carry on.”
“And how many do I have to beat before they give up and let us pass?” Garrett asked.
Cenick answered only with an uncertain grunt.
“How many?” Garrett asked again, turning toward Lady Ymowyn with a creak of leather straps.
“You killed their king, Garrett,” the fox woman said, “I imagine they’ll all want a turn at you.”
“I didn’t kill their king!” Garrett sighed in frustration.
“And yet your plan hinges entirely upon their belief that you did,” she answered, “I suggest that you begin warming to the part, Kingslayer.”
“Fine,” Garrett groaned, “I just don’t see how I’m supposed to take on every knight in the kingdom when I just want to fight the one guy in charge.”
“Three,” spoke a rasping voice from behind Garrett.
Garrett twisted around to look back toward Sir Baelan.
The captive Astorran sat astride his horse, wearing his freshly cleaned armor, though he bore no weapon. The sandy-haired knight looked a bit less haggard and hollow-eyed than he had when they had taken him prisoner six weeks before, yet he still seemed aged beyond his years by whatever horrors he had witnessed in the service of the Chadiri Inquisitor.
“You need fight no more than three champions each day,” Baelan said, his eyes on the grass between his horse and Garrett’s wolf, “You may choose to continue after that, if you still have the strength and desire, but honor holds no man to ride against more than three opponents in any given day of the tourney.”
“And they’ll let me go past, if I beat the three?” Garrett asked.
“The tourney may resume the following day, if there are still knights who wish to issue challenge,” Sir Baelan said, still not meeting Garrett’s gaze.
“Well, how long do I have to do that?” Garrett asked.
“A tourney may not exceed six days in length without the blessing and attendance of the King or his appointed champion,” Baelan answered.
“Six days?” Garrett exclaimed.
“Send in the zombies now?” Haven asked hopefully.
Garrett sighed as he began to reconsider his plan. He lifted his visor and looked back over his shoulder at the rows of undead troops arrayed behind him. The zombified Kriesslegion stood beside the banks of the stream while the headless skeletal horde of the reanimated Raven Legion awaited his command in the shadow of the gray forest that marked the northwestern border of Gloar.
Their tattered banners hung above row after row of dead Chadiri soldiers, now risen again in service of Garrett, the necromancer who had cost them their lives. He envisioned for a moment their ranks swelled with hundreds of Astorran dead, but the thought filled him with revulsion. He had enough guilt dogging his steps already.
“No,” Garrett said quietly, “Let’s stick to the plan.”
“It may be a good idea to issue your challenge now,” Lady Ymowyn said, “It looks as though our hosts are working up the nerve to attack.”
Garrett straightened himself astride Ghausse’s back again and looked across the field toward the line of Astorran knights. Their horses stamped restlessly as their riders tightened ranks for a potential charge.
“Are you ready, Shortgrass?” Garrett asked as he urged his wolf forward at a slow pace and the others moved with him at his side.
“Aye, I’m ready,” the fairy spoke from his hiding spot in the sheltered gap between the flared shoulder pauldron of Garrett’s oversized armor and the cheek of his helm.
Are you ready? Garrett posed the question to the brooding presence in the back of his mind.
We could sweep this rabble from the field and be at the enemy’s gates within the week, the voice of the Spellbreaker rumbled in Garrett’s thoughts.
I don’t want to kill them, Garrett sighed inwardly, I just want to get to Cabre.
And take his crown, the voice whispered.
Something like that, Garrett thought.
The voice in his mind chuckled, and Garrett felt his right hand stray unconsciously to the hilt of the sword at his side. He snatched it back with an annoyed grunt. He wasn’t quite ready to surrender his will to the soul of the ancient warrior king that shared his body. That time would come soon enough.
“Sons of Astorra!” Lady Ymowyn called out across the field as they slowly approached the line of knights, “My lord, Garre’Thul, Deathlord of the Gloaran wastes, Songreaver and Kingslayer, would challenge your bravest knights to single combat upon the field of honor!”
Garrett looked toward the fox woman to see her holding a fluttering white scarf high above her head. The morning breeze caught at the skirt of her pale blue dress and ruffled her short red fur as she grinned broadly. Her large green eyes blazed with delight as she issued the challenge.
Several of the Astorran knights broke ranks to gather together before their lines, convening an impromptu council as they considered the challenge. At last, a trio of knights turned and rode across the field toward the Gloaran lines, the hooves of their warhorses thundering in the swaying grass.
Garrett could see the scowling faces of the Astorran men as they approached, and he quickly snapped his visor closed, hoping to appear as imposing as possible inside his tomb-looted armor, now freshly coated with black paint.
“Withdraw your hell-spawned army from this field at once, you craven wretch!” a large, bearded man in red armor shouted as his roan horse snorted and nickered
at the scent of Garrett’s wolf.
“The Kingslayer’s army may withdraw, but he leaves his head with me,” sneered a knight in gray livery, mounted atop a glossy black stallion. He carried his silvery helm tucked under one arm, and his long, golden hair framed his lean face and cold eyes as he regarded Garrett with open contempt.
“Sir Baelan! We thought you lost!” the third knight spoke, an older gentleman, astride a dappled gray horse. He wore dun-colored armor and a shield bearing the blazon of a mighty oak. He looked past Garrett toward the captive knight behind him.
“Sir Baelan is our prisoner, good knight,” Lady Ymowyn said, tucking the white scarf into her sleeve.
“Whatever ransom you ask, I will pay it for his safe return,” the dun-armored knight said, “It grieves my heart to see him so.”
“Yes, Baely does look a bit down, doesn’t he?” Ymowyn sighed, “and yet, I assure you that it was not by Gloaran witchery that he was robbed of his vital spark. You need look no further than your red-fisted friends to lay proper blame for your countryman’s diminished state.”
“I seek not to lay blame, my lady,” the older knight answered, “Only to deliver my friend again to service and family, and, by so doing, perhaps balm a noble, yet wounded heart.”
“Well, said, my lord,” Ymowyn laughed, “Unfortunately, Sir Baelan isn’t up for bidding quite yet. We still have the matter of the tournament to sort out.”
“Tournament!” the red-armored knight spat as his horse wheeled beneath him, “I do not parlay with dogs and murderers! Let us have their heads and be done with it!”
“Remember your oath, Sir Bartlend!” shouted Sir Baelan, stunning them all with the force of his voice.
Garrett turned to look back toward the weary-looking Astorran prisoner. Sir Baelan’s sunken eyes blazed with rage, and his jaw trembled as he faced his fellow knights.
“The challenge has been issued and will be answered by men of honor!” Sir Baelan shouted hoarsely, “If none of you will abide by the King’s law, then I shall stand alone for Astorra, in your stead, though I have surrendered my arms to the foe that bested me in the field.”
Garrett watched in stunned silence as Sir Baelan lifted his empty hands before him.
“The Kingslayer will have no trouble finding contest in any field of our blessed land, old friend,” the dun-armored knight answered quietly, “Boys with wooden swords and pot-lids would answer challenge against so hated a foe.”
“I’m afraid that I left my pot-lid at home, Sir Anders,” the blonde knight said, shrugging his hawk-blazoned shield into position as he slipped his silvery helm down over his face, “but I shall take the Kingslayer’s head nevertheless.”
Garrett’s skin tingled with anger as he regarded the Astorran knights through the slit of his visor. He bore their hatred because of Prince Cabre’s lie. If they only knew that their precious little prince had been the one to murder the king... but then he needed them to hate him now. He needed them to be afraid. It was the only way to save their lives.
“I claim the honor of first combat,” the red-armored Sir Bartlend growled, snapping his visor down as he glared at Garrett.
“My challenge preceded yours,” the gray-armored knight protested.
“A threat is not a proper challenge, Sir Jons,” Sir Bartlend grumbled.
“It is the very soul of challenge, by implication, if nothing more,” Sir Jons said.
“The body outweighs the soul, Sir Jons,” the red knight laughed, “The honor is mine!” So saying, the big knight swung his horse around and thundered back toward the Astorran lines, shouting for his squire to fetch his lance in preparation for the tourney.
“I pray you live long enough to feel my blade, Kingslayer!” Sir Jons hissed angrily as he turned back toward the lines as well. A moment later, only the dun-armored knight known as Sir Anders remained.
Garrett looked toward the Astorran knight, his vision slightly clouded by the little wisps of cold mist rising from his armor.
“If there yet beats any human heart inside that black shell you wear,” Sir Anders said, looking at Garrett, “I beg of you to release Sir Baelan. If it is a hostage you want, I would gladly trade my life for his.”
Garrett blinked in astonishment as the dun-armored knight drew the sword from his belt and offered it, hilt-first, toward him.
“Sir Anders...” Baelan began to speak, his voice tired and thin.
“Sir Baelan belongs to us now,” Lady Ymowyn interjected, “So I suggest we get on with the festivities before the sun rises high enough to boil you poor lads inside your kettles.”
“My offer stands,” Sir Anders insisted, his sword still raised toward Garrett.
Garrett wanted to simply hand Sir Baelan over at once and be done with it, but that wasn’t what Garre’Thul, the Kingslayer would do.
“Go!” Garrett growled, pleased at the way the helmet made his voice sound deeper and more intimidating, “I wish to fight now!”
Sir Ander’s face hardened, and he returned his sword to its scabbard. He nodded once toward Sir Baelan and then withdrew, riding back toward the lines where Sir Bartlend was already pacing out a level stretch of ground for the tourney.
“I wish to fight now?” Haven scoffed.
Garrett raised his visor and looked down at her as she walked beside him back toward the Gloaran lines. “I couldn’t think of anything else to say,” he mumbled.
The brown-haired girl looked up at him with worry in her flawless brown eyes. “I still don’t think this is a good idea,” she said.
“Ye aren’t alone in that regard,” Shortgrass quipped beside Garrett’s ear.
“It’s the best chance we have of getting to Cabre without having to kill everybody in Astorra to do it,” Garrett said.
“Yeah, so long as nobody kills you,” Haven sighed.
“There’ll be nary a scratch on his dainty wee bottom,” Shortgrass chuckled, “Not with me lookin’ after ‘im.”
“It’s not his bottom that I’m worried about,” Haven grumbled.
“I’ll be fine,” Garrett said as they arrived again at the stack of lances the ghouls had cut for him the night before.
“If he comes back with one of those sticks through his liver, I’m holding you responsible, Shorty!” Haven said, giving Shortgrass a narrow look.
“The name’s Shortgrass,” the fairy said, “I know it kin be a bit dauntin’ ta learn the whole name, all in one go, but, if ye take yer time, and practice a bit, I’m sure ye’ll have it down in no time a’tall.”
Haven snorted and shook her head as she turned to walk away. Cenick swung down from his pony nearby and began to sort through the stack of lances in the grass at Ghausse’s feet.
“Garrett?” Lady Ymowyn called out as she approached.
“Yeah?” Garrett said, taking the lance that Cenick had selected for him.
The fox woman glanced toward Sir Baelan as the captured knight rode a short distance away. She smiled at Garrett then with a relieved expression on her face. “Thank you,” she said.
“For what?” Garrett asked, hefting the heavy spear skyward as Cenick went off to fetch Garrett’s shield.
Ymowyn lifted her furry snout slightly and breathed deeply, her eyes closed as she enjoyed the scent of the Astorran countryside. “Thank you for not destroying my home,” she sighed.
“We’re not bad guys,” Garrett said.
Ymowyn glanced toward the packed ranks of headless skeletons standing in the shadow of the forest. She snorted with stifled laughter and shook her head. “Well,” she said, “let us hope that that little secret doesn’t become common knowledge.”
“You really think this will work?” Garrett asked quietly.
Ymowyn’s eyes fell. “I don’t know,” she admitted, “but the alternative is far too horrifying to consider.”
“Yeah,” Garrett said, looking toward the lines of Astorran knights and the crowds of squires, armorers, and camp followers gathered to watch the coming tour
ney. If Max were in charge, they would all be zombies by dawn of the following day.
“You think they’ve made it over the cliffs by now?” he asked.
“Almost certainly,” Cenick answered as he returned, carrying a heavy shield with a red dragon emblazoned across its black surface. He had spent two nights painting it to match Garrett’s armor. “Max and Serepheni should have established a camp in Chadiri territory by now, and with reserves being brought up from the south, the Chadiri will have a hard time pushing us back down again if they don’t move quickly.”
“I hope they’re all right,” Garrett sighed, starting to get a little twingey feeling in the pit of his stomach as he turned his wolf back toward the enemy lines.
“We’ll talk to them tonight,” Cenick said, smiling at Garrett as he hoisted a bundle of spare lances over his broad shoulder, “Max will be expecting the proxylich contact at sundown. We can tell him about your victories on the field today.”
“Yeah,” Garrett said, watching the big red-armored knight known as Sir Bartlend ride his horse up and down the field in practice for the coming contest. Garrett nearly lost his grip on his own lance as it swayed too far to the side, almost unbalancing him from the wolf’s back.
“You will be at a disadvantage without a saddle and stirrups,” Cenick said, frowning as he watched Garrett regain his balance astride the wolf’s furry back, “If you are struck with a lance, you’ll almost certainly fall.”
“That’s not goin’ ta happen,” Shortgrass scoffed.
“I hope you’re right,” Cenick said, “but you must be careful that they do not see you aid Garrett during the fight.”
Shortgrass made a rude noise. “They’ll see what I want ‘em ta see,” he laughed, “an’ that’ll be the noonday sun, smilin’ down as they lay on their arses in the mud!”
“I hope so,” Garrett sighed, snapping his visor down as he rode forward across the field toward the cleared area where the Astorrans were gathering for the tourney.
A great jeering hiss arose from the Astorran knights and their followers as Garrett approached.
Trials of the Twiceborn (The Songreaver's Tale Book 6) Page 1