Garrett frowned, feeling a bit stung by their taunts. He forced himself to breathe deeply, trying to get control of his emotions as he felt his black armor beginning to frost over with the chill of his icy rage.
Ignore them, spoke the voice in his mind.
“I wish I could,” Garrett whispered back.
“You cowardly little worm!” someone shouted.
“Son of a beggar!” another cried.
“Hey!” Garrett shouted back, though he knew they couldn’t hear him over the roar of the crowd. Ghausse snarled. The big wolf turned beneath Garrett, padding back and forth as if he were anxious to spring at the Astorrans and feast upon their flesh.
“I’ll dance on your grave, you poxy louse!” someone spat.
“I don’t even know what that means!” Garrett said in exasperation.
It wasn’t a compliment, the voice in his mind said, are you certain that you wouldn’t rather just kill them all?
Garrett shook his head, sighing as he guided his wolf to the far end of the long, roped off section of field, opposite his opponent, Sir Bartlend.
The crowd fell to stunned silence a moment later as the zombies of the reanimated Kriesslegion raised their voices in a chilling moan, and the skeletal soldiers of the Raven Legion beat their rusty swords against shield and pauldron in perfect time to the mournful chant of the war-dirge that Cenick now sang with his deep and droning voice.
“Hail the Kingslayer!” Lady Ymowyn shouted, loud enough to be heard over the war hymn of the Keepers of the Dead.
“Kick their butts, Garrett!” Haven shouted at Ymowyn’s side.
Then, someone in the Astorran ranks began to sing with a tone clear and sweet, a sorrowful ballad in a lilting voice, and others began to join in as well.
The lion lays upon the field
His lady at his side
His strength is fled away from him
His prowess and his pride
And ne’er the lord shall raise his head
‘Till death his vigil spurns
but all around the fields of red
The lion’s honor burns
“For Good King Haerad!” shouted Sir Bartlend as he spurred his horse into a charge toward Garrett.
“I think we’re goin’ now!” Shortgrass cried.
“Now, Ghausse!” Garrett shouted, leaning forward as the huge black wolf lunged toward the oncoming horse and rider.
Garrett leveled the point of his lance at the red-armored knight’s chest, as Cenick had taught him, noting as well that Sir Bartlend’s lance looked to be aimed directly at the slit of Garrett’s visor.
“Shortgrass?” Garrett hissed.
“Don’ distract me!” Shortgrass cried, and then he began to whisper fervently in Fae as he wove his protective magics around Garrett.
A muffled whoosh sounded in Garrett’s ear as Sir Bartlend’s lance veered slightly to the left of Garrett’s head at the last second. Garrett’s lance struck a glancing blow off of the red knight’s pauldron, and the wooden shaft vibrated violently in Garrett’s gloved hand.
Garrett’s breath exploded in a gasp of relief to find himself unskewered as he wheeled the wolf around at the far end of the jousting list.
Cenick was waiting for him there with a spare lance, but Garrett waved him off as the first one still seemed to be intact.
The disappointed murmur of the crowd did little to cover the hot stream of curses that came from Sir Bartlend’s end of the list.
“Sorcery!” the red knight shouted as he prepared to charge again.
“Can you do something to help me knock him down?” Garrett whispered to Shortgrass.
“Gimme a minute ta sort it out,” Shortgrass grumbled, “I’m new at this too, ya know.”
“Here we go,” Garrett said, taking a deep breath as he guided the wolf down the other side of the list, lowering his lance again at his opponent’s heart.
Sir Bartlend’s lance skipped across the face of Garrett’s shield, nearly unseating him from Ghausse’s back, but the thunderous detonation of Garrett’s lance against the red knight’s breastplate stunned them all.
Sir Bartlend landed hard on his back in the grass as splinters of broken lance rattled against Garrett’s armor.
“Oops!” Shortgrass giggled as the thunderstorm scent of fairy magic faded from the air.
“Aah,” Garrett groaned as he tried to shake the feeling back into his fingers again.
Garrett twisted around to look back at Sir Bartlend, but the big man did not rise from the spot where he lay in the trampled grass. A knot of fear formed in Garrett’s stomach that he might have killed the man. He wheeled Ghausse around to go and see about him.
Sir Bartlend’s squire rushed to the fallen knight’s side and knelt to lift the man’s visor. Garrett lifted his own visor enough to see the stunned knight gasp for breath and blink rapidly as he tried to recover from the blow that Garrett and his concealed fairy had struck him.
Sir Bartlend tried to push himself up on one elbow, but then swooned and collapsed into the grass once more. The knight’s squire, a redheaded youth no older than Garrett, glared up at the necromancer with a look of undisguised hatred.
“You devil!” the boy shouted, dragging the knight’s longsword from its scabbard as he leapt to his feet with the obvious intent of attacking Garrett outright.
Ghausse snarled as Garrett drew back in confusion, not quite ready to lay an unarmored boy low for defending his fallen master.
Suddenly, a galloping black horse interposed itself between Garrett and the enraged squire. Sir Jons, the blonde knight in gray armor turned the boy’s sword with his shield and pushed him away with the flank of his horse.
“Calm yourself, young master!” Sir Jons shouted as the red-haired boy stumbled back, still gripping the fallen knight’s sword in both hands.
“He’s killed my da’!” the squire shouted, his voice cracking with emotion.
Garrett snapped his visor down again, hoping that no one could see him cringing inside his black armor.
“Your father lives!” Sir Jons said.
Ghausse backstepped far enough that Garrett could see the red armored knight through his visor. The man struggled to rise again, but could not yet manage it in his injured state.
“Will he be all right?” Garrett whispered to Shortgrass.
“He’ll be fine,” Shortgrass chuckled nervously before adding, “...probably.”
“My da’ never misses!” the squire shouted as he fell to his knees beside his father again. The boy jabbed an accusing finger at Garrett. “He cast a spell on my da’! He’s some kinda warlock!”
“See to your father, young master,” Sir Jons said, turning in his saddle to look at Garrett, “I’ll see to it that justice is done to this vile trickster!”
Garrett felt terrible. He wanted to see about the fallen man... to apologize to the boy... to...
Play the part, boy, the voice in his mind reminded him, play the part.
Garrett swallowed back his shame and sucked in a breath to steady himself.
How would Max handle this?
Garrett forced an evil laugh as he rode his wolf back toward Cenick who was already approaching with another lance. “Is that the best you can do?” he shouted before laughing again as wickedly as he could manage.
“Don’t overdo it,” Shortgrass whispered.
“Sorry,” Garrett whispered back.
The angry jeers of the crowd drowned out whatever the fairy said after that.
“Are you all right, Garrett?” Cenick asked as he handed Garrett a fresh lance.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” Garrett said quietly as he leaned down to accept the weapon, “I’m just glad that guy’s all right.”
“Be careful,” Cenick whispered, “Try to draw the fight out to avoid suspicions.”
“Yeah,” Garrett said, starting to worry now about more than just surviving the day’s contest.
Garrett turned Ghausse around to see Sir Jons already
waiting at the far end of the list. Sunlight glinted on the metal point of the gray knight’s black lance. Garrett glanced up at his own, rough-hewn wooden pole and frowned.
“Oh well,” Garrett sighed as he kneed the direwolf into a charge once again.
Ghausse snarled in anticipation as he loped forward, and Garrett hunched low, trying to keep his balance as the big wolf tensed and stretched beneath him. He almost forgot to lower his spear until Sir Jons was almost upon him.
Shortgrass muttered fervently in the hollow of Garrett’s pauldron as the two combatants closed, then his voice pitched upward into a shrill squeal as the air filled with an angry, throbbing hum. Only at the last instant did Garrett realize the source of the strange noise. It came from the shining, silver-plated tip of Sir Jons’s lance. The shaft of the lance vibrated visibly as the silvered tip drove directly through the fairy’s wards and slammed hard into Garrett’s chest.
Garrett saw a flash of sunlight through the visor of his helm as the world grew suddenly silent around him. He had a strange sensation of weightlessness, and then he smelled grass and freshly broken earth a moment before the pain of impact caught up with his senses.
The crowd roared with applause as Garrett’s visor sprang open to reveal a single white cloud against a sky of purest blue. The pain in Garrett’s back overwhelmed his reason, and he blinked in astonishment as he tried to pull his shield free from beneath him.
Move boy! the voice in his mind shouted.
“Today you pay for your crimes, Kingslayer!” Sir Jons cried as he eclipsed the sun above Garrett, “Your head is forfeit!”
Garrett felt a sharp pain in his shoulder as the Spellbreaker’s ghost took control of his limbs, yanking his shield arm up an instant before Sir Jon’s sword edge could claim Garrett’s head. Garrett’s ears rang with the impact as the knight’s sword battered down upon his black shield again and again.
Garrett rolled left and then right again, ripping his own sword from its sheath and whipping a sharp blow across the knight’s leg greaves, leaving a gouge of bare metal in the gray enamel of the man’s armor.
Sir Jons retreated a few steps, giving Garrett barely enough time to get to his feet before the knight was upon him, bashing his falcon-crested shield against Garrett’s chest with such force that Garrett found himself on his backside in the grass once again.
Damned heavy armor! the voice in Garrett’s mind spat as Garrett rolled clear of another killing blow.
Suddenly, it was Jons’s turn to roll clear, of Ghausse’s snapping jaws. The big wolf sprang to Garrett’s side, protecting his master.
“Ghausse no!” Garrett shouted as Sir Jons retreated a few paces, laying his sword edge across the top of his shield as he fell into a defensive stance, facing the growling direwolf.
Ghausse snapped again, but Garrett shouldered into the massive wolf, trying to push him away.
“Get back Ghausse!” Garrett shouted, his voice filled with concern for the big wolf’s safety. Then Garrett remembered that he was supposed to be a cruel, soulless slayer of kings, and he quickly added, “He’s mine!”
Ghausse whined, only relenting when Cenick put an arm around his neck and began pulling him away.
Garrett sighed with relief as he steadied himself, facing the gray knight alone once again.
“Shortgrass?” Garrett whispered, but no answer came from his shoulder.
Sir Jons pushed his own visor up now to reveal his sneer of contempt as he cautiously approached Garrett once again.
“I gather by your startled expression, Kingslayer, that you weren’t expecting to face a foe armed with a blessed relic,” Sir Jons laughed.
“What?” Garrett asked, trying to look as un-startled as possible as he crouched, awaiting the knight’s next move. Failing that, he quickly snapped his visor down into place again.
“My lance, Kingslayer,” Sir Jons chuckled, “Its saint-forged head once slew dragons in days of legend... passed down from father to son for all these long generations, awaiting its chance to rid the world of evil once again.”
The crowd cheered as Sir Jons lunged forward, almost catching Garrett off guard with a lightning-quick strike. The tip of Jons’s sword pinged against blackened steel as Garrett raised his shield just in time.
“Hey!” Garrett shouted, catching the knight’s follow-up attack with the crossguard of his Chadirian sword.
“Out of tricks now, aren’t you, warlock?” Sir Jons hissed as he landed a stinging blow across Garrett’s right vambrace.
Oh, I’ve got a few tricks left to show this fool, the voice in Garrett’s mind chuckled.
Garrett’s sword arm blurred into motion as he lunged forward, driving his blade up beneath the knight’s guard. The crunching sound set Garrett’s teeth on edge as his sword tip drove through the mail links that covered the narrow gap between the knight’s breastplate and shoulder pauldron.
Jons grunted in pain as the Spellbreaker’s will twisted the sword in Garrett’s hand with deliberate cruelty. Garrett thought he might throw up when he heard the popping sound as the knight’s shoulder dislocated. The Astorran crowd gasped in dismay.
Sir Jons staggered back. The tip of his sword dragged the ground as his right arm hung limply at his side.
Ask him how he likes that little trick! the Spellbreaker’s voice laughed in Garrett’s thoughts.
“Do you yield?” Garrett shouted hoarsely, sick with revulsion.
Sir Jons stared at Garrett with bulging eyes, his face pale with shock.
“Do you yield?” Garrett repeated, advancing slowly with his sword leveled at the knight’s throat.
“Never!” Sir Jons shouted in defiance, and the crowd roared their approval.
Let us be done with this, the voice in Garrett’s mind whispered.
We don’t have to kill him! Garrett insisted as he slapped the gray knight’s sword from the fingers of his injured arm.
Sir Jons roared with rage as he spun, trying to bash Garrett with his shield again, but Garrett neatly sidestepped the clumsy attack.
Garrett’s sword arm, guided by the spirit of the dead conqueror within, sent a crashing, backhanded blow into the side of Sir Jons’s helm.
The sound of crumpling steel filled the silence as Sir Jons fell, stretched upon the green grass of Astorra with bright blood flowing from his nose and mouth.
Garrett stared down in silent horror as the gray knight lay, unmoving in the blood-speckled grass. The Chadiri steel in Garrett’s hand still rang from the blow.
Pathetic, the voice in Garrett’s mind scoffed.
Garrett gasped for breath as the Spellbreaker released his control of Garrett’s weary limbs, and a sharp pain now throbbed like fire in Garrett’s shoulder.
Garrett stumbled backward as Sir Jons’s squire, a lean, dark-haired young woman in gray livery rushed forward to kneel at her lord’s side. Sir Jons was not moving.
Garrett groaned as the pain in his shoulder became almost unbearable. Garrett’s hand fumbled to return his sword to its scabbard as he stood, watching the young woman attempt to revive the fallen knight in gray armor.
Garrett’s knees wobbled beneath him as a ringing sound filled his ears.
“Garrett!” Cenick shouted as he rushed to catch Garrett before he could fall. The big necromancer bore him up in his arms as Garrett finally managed to sheath his sword. Garrett reached up with a shaking right hand and pushed his visor up to try to get a better look at his injury.
The silver-plated head of Sir Jons’s lance protruded from the breastplate of Garrett’s armor, its tip pierced through into the flesh of Garrett’s chest beneath. Garrett pawed weakly at the misty crust of frozen blood that had formed around the puncture in the dented plate.
“Leave it!” Cenick said, pulling Garrett’s hand away.
“Garrett!” Haven cried as she rushed forward, but Lady Ymowyn pulled her back.
“Not yet!” Ymowyn hissed, “We mustn’t interfere. Only their squires may aid them now!”
Garrett tore his eyes from the wound in his chest and looked to the dark-haired girl on the ground beside Sir Jons.
She lifted her tear-streaked face and sobbed, “The Hawk has fallen!”
A murmur of dismay passed through the crowd, and soon people began to shout fresh curses toward the villain who had robbed them of their beloved knight.
Yet nothing they said could make Garrett feel any worse than he already did as Cenick dragged him away, and a throng of grieving Astorrans swept forward to bear up the body of the fallen gray knight to carry him from the field with honor.
Chapter Two
“Silver!” Shortgrass spat as he kicked the tip of Sir Jons’s lance that lay on the table beside Garrett’s cot. The ancient spearhead rolled a little to one side before rolling back again to its original position. Its shining surface gleamed in the flickering green light of the witchfire torch affixed to the center pole of the red tent that had once belonged to the Chadiri commander Felix. The tent, like Felix’s legion, belonged to Garrett now. A cool breeze drifted in through the open tent flap as the blue light of the Astorran twilight spilled across the grass floor within.
The low moans of several hundred zombies drifted in through the open door as well, along with the distant, rhythmic concussions of sword on shield. Apparently, Cenick hoped to keep their unsettling chorus going well into the night. The undead never needed to rest.
“Weren’t expectin’ the beggars ta be pokin’ at us with chanted silver, now was I?” Shortgrass sighed as he turned to face Garrett. He stood on the table beside the spearhead that had nearly ended them both, with one of his diaphanous little wings bound tightly between two glossy green leaves, tied with a bit of vine. Another leaf served as a sling to support his injured left arm.
“It’s not your fault,” Garrett said, still flexing the fingers of his left hand beneath the blanket, hoping that the tingling sensation would go away soon. The mass of bandages weighing down his left shoulder burned with the heat of whatever slimy poultice Lady Ymowyn had plastered his chest with beneath.
Trials of the Twiceborn (The Songreaver's Tale Book 6) Page 2