by Matt Heppe
To Nidon’s left stood the queen’s reviewing stand. Twenty fully armored Queen’s Guardsmen stood in front of the stand, with more on either side. Ilana herself sat gracefully sanguine, as beautiful as always. She wore a blue dress emblazoned with gold crowns, and on her arm she wore Forsvar. Tendrils of blue flame licked the rim of the shield.
She is channeling its power. Nidon knew the feeling. He remembered it from the battle at King’s Crossing. The shield was just a shield until you poured yourself into it. The more you put yourself into it, the greater its power became. Nidon had thrown all of himself into the shield on that fateful day.
Or she is just making the flames dance to show us who really rules? No real power, just show.
Beside the queen stood Prince Handrin. He wore the red of the Knights of the House. The crossed silver lightning bolts on his chest mirrored those on Forsvar. The prince beamed at Nidon.
A fanfare blew and Sir Fenre marched into the center of the lists. He wore full harness under a tabard in the queen’s blue. Nidon frowned at the sight of the older knight in full armor. There was no reason for the Royal Steward to be attired for battle at the Champion’s Tournament. Was it the queen’s fear, or some other plot? The old Fenre would never have broken protocol in such a way.
“Your Majesty, my Prince, lords and ladies, good people of Mor-Oras,” Fenre called out in his strong voice, “today we hold the Champion’s Tournament, a tournament rich in history and noble traditions. Today two men fight to determine who shall wear the gold belt and red tabard of the King’s Champion.”
He paused for effect, awaiting applause that never came. Momentarily put off, Fenre regained his composure and carried on.
“I present to you Sir Nidon, five-time champion of this event and current Champion of Salador.”
Nidon limped onto the lists and made his way to the reviewing stand. His sword swept up before his face and then down in a crisp, graceful salute.
The queen wasn’t even looking, forcing Nidon to hold his salute until she saw fit to acknowledge him. He ignored the insult and kept his face neutral as he waited for her attention to turn back from her lover’s tent. He would never have made the accusation public, but it was plain to see.
“Our challenger,” Fenre called out, “Sir Ragos of the Queen’s Guard.”
Gravel crunched underfoot as the varcolac approached, but Nidon, still trapped in his salute, could not turn to face his opponent. He could see the queen however, and her face beamed.
Ragos stopped just strides away from Nidon and turned toward the queen. From the corner of his eye Nidon saw the varcolac give the queen an insultingly casual half-bow, but she didn’t seem to mind.
The queen nodded to Nidon and he was free to complete his salute and stand tall. Ilana looked past them, her eyes sweeping the crowd.
“It has been too long since we last selected a Champion,” she said, her voice carrying across the arena. “The Wasting has ended, but the Orb of Creation is still lost to us. We are still at war.” She glanced at Nidon. “Times change. Leaders change. What once worked, has failed us. Let this tournament be the start of a new tomorrow.”
The spectators seemed unsure of themselves. The well-dressed nobles on the reviewing stand with the queen, after a brief pause, started to applaud. Like a ripple, the rest of the crowd mimicked them; however, the further the applause moved down the line, the less enthusiastic it became.
Ilana motioned to a nearby servant who brought forth a golden chalice. At the same moment two pages brought silver cups on silver trays to Nidon and Ragos. She peered intently at Nidon. Does she look for some sign of a drugged stupor?
“A toast to Sir Nidon and his challenger, Sir Ragos,” Ilana said, raising her cup. Nidon took his cup and raised it to the queen. He turned and faced his opponent and raised his cup to him as well.
The varcolac was dressed as a knight in full harness. He was a big man, as big as Nidon, and his armor was finely crafted. He wore a coat-of-plates and plate arm and leg guards. Over his armor Ragos wore a tabard of the queen’s colors of blue and gold.
But true to varcolac style, he had no shield. He held a sword in his right hand, broader and shorter than Nidon's, but still a longsword. In his belt he carried a short, heavy hammer-axe. How many knights had Nidon seen felled by a hammer-axe? While the knight was focused on the sword, the axe would suddenly crush a knee or dislocate a shoulder. Or spill a man’s brains from a shattered helm.
Ragos’s visor was raised and his full, unbraided beard flowed out over his coif. It would have looked comical if not for the silver eyes staring death.
Ragos drank down his wine in one gulp and tossed his cup aside. It clattered along the pebbles. Nidon smiled and, arm still raised, turned his cup over and dumped his wine onto the ground. Gasps and hisses emanated from the crowd as Nidon carefully replaced the cup on the tray.
It was poorly done, he knew, but he had already been poisoned once. Let the crowd think it an insult; the queen would know the truth. The page retreated from the ring as Ragos’s page scrambled for the discarded cup.
Fenre stepped forward. “This is a match of honor,” he announced. “It will end when one man yields or is incapacitated. If I call for you to desist, you must cease combat.” He eyes went from one man to the other. “It is not a match to the death.” The varcolac chuckled and Fenre’s gaze went back to him. “There will be no effort at a killing blow.” He paused. “Am I understood?”
Nidon saluted him. The varcolac grunted, which was apparently good enough for Fenre. “The contest will begin on the queen’s word.”
Nidon rolled his neck on his shoulders. The varcolac pulled his axe from his belt and roared a battle-cry. The varcolac at his arming pavilion echoed his call with a blood-chilling howl Nidon had heard many times before.
With his sword-hand, Nidon released his visor’s catch and snapped it down over his face. Ragos did the same. His visor wore a wolf’s grimace, but with his shaggy beard protruding beneath it now looked like a ridiculous, bearded wolf. Nidon forced his grin into a snarl.
Ragos bobbed up and down on his toes while Nidon settled into a defensive stance. He’d fought enough varcolac to know that the initial rush would be furious.
“Begin!” Ilana shouted.
The varcolac circled to Nidon’s right. Not running, not crouching, but walking. Nidon pivoted to his right, keeping his eyes on his opponent. He didn’t let up on his defensive stance for a moment, though.
Sweat dripped down Nidon’s face even though a single blow had yet to be swung. It had been hot enough before, but the closed visor made things far worse. He could feel the warmth of his own breath.
Ragos lunged at Nidon, striking overhand twice with his sword and once with the axe. Nidon held his ground and parried all three blows with his shield. He countered with a weak slash Ragos easily stepped back from.
The varcolac continue to circle. It was not what Nidon had expected. He is patient for a varcolac.
Ragos stomped his foot and threw his head toward Nidon. Nidon raised his shield, but no attack came. There were gasps and even a few titters from the crowd, all muffled by his helm.
Then, as Nidon adjusted his stance, his right foot slipped. It was just a moment, but the varcolac was on him. Ragos swung a heavy overhand sword blow that cut into the rim of Nidon’s raised shield. Nidon sprang to his left as the hammer head of Ragos’s axe glanced off his hip.
Nidon stumbled away; the crowd’s gasps audible through his helm. The blow had been closer than Nidon had wished, although he had expected the varcolac would go for his hip. Had in fact, invited it.
Off balance at the weight of his own blow, it took Ragos a moment to recover. He clanged his sword against his hammer-axe and gave Nidon a sharp nod. He waved his axe in invitation for Nidon to attack, but Nidon just sank back into his defensive stance.
Ragos gave a muffled laugh and circled again. After a few heartbeats he dashed in, threw a few strikes, and then backed out again
before Nidon mounted an effective response.
Nidon took a deep breath. The varcolac was fast, but Nidon had fought varcolac before. They were all fast. What was worse was their strength and their endurance. This one seemed intent on wearing Nidon down. It was not a furious varcolac battlefield charge. This was predator and prey.
Again Ragos attacked with an overhand sword strike and a low hammer attack towards Nidon’s hip. Nidon parried the sword and evaded the hammer, but stumbled as he dodged away.
As Ragos recovered from his missed blow, Nidon charged. Their swords clashed for a moment, but then the varcolac danced back. Nidon limped after the varcolac but was too slow to catch up.
Ragos laughed and clashed his sword and axe together.
“Too slow! Fight! Fight! Varcolac are fast!”
Nidon limped a few steps backwards and raised his visor. Sweat poured down his face and he breathed in ragged gasps.
It was only mostly show.
Ragos raised his visor as well. “No Champion!” he said, pointing his sword at Nidon. “Cannot fight the varcolac!” He howled towards his companions. They howled and jeered Nidon in response.
Nidon saw Rayne at the entrance to their own pavilion. The boy’s arms were clutched around his chest, his face forlorn.
“I am Nidon!” Nidon shouted. “I am the Champion of Salador!”
Ragos skipped a circle around Nidon, forcing him to pivot over and over to face the varcolac. “No Champion!” Ragos laughed. “I am Champion!”
It was time for the fight to end. But it would not end the way any of them expected. Because Nidon knew something none of them knew.
The night before, when Morin had placed his hands on Nidon, he had done more than cure him of the poison coursing through his veins. Morin had cured Nidon of all his injuries: his hip, a jammed finger, a shoulder that had long ago lost some of its motion. Every old ache or wound was swept away by the power of the Orb. Nidon had never felt as strong as he did on the tournament ground that day.
“What are you waiting for, dog?” Nidon asked.
The varcolac stopped. “Dog!” Spit flew from his lips as he shouted. “You call me dog? You filthy pig coward. You filthy cripple man!” Ragos beat his arms against his chest.
“I’ll dance on your face, dog,” Nidon said, sinking lower into his stance, although he held his sword low to his side, the point dragging in the gravel.
“You never walk again!” Ragos leaped at Nidon and again, the monstrous overhand blow struck Nidon’s shield. And again the hammer head whistled at Nidon’s hip.
But Nidon had leapt aside. His own sword flashed in a rising strike that caught a crushing blow against Ragos's exposed abdomen. The sword cut Ragos’s tabard in half and slashed deep into the leather of his coat-of-plates. The plates held, but the damage had been done. Ragos’s breath was driven from his lungs and he struggled to straighten himself.
Ragos waved his sword in an effort to parry Nidon’s next strike, but it was just a sword feint. Instead Nidon stepped close and punched Ragos in the head with the edge of his shield.
Ragos staggered backwards, but Nidon stayed on him, striking him in the head with his sword. The blow snapped the visor hinge and it half fell across his face. Ragos was blind to the sword stroke that sheared the rest of the visor free and sent him toppling to the ground.
“Stop!” Ilana shrieked. “He yields! He yields!”
Nidon ignored her. Ragos was down, but struggling to get up. Nidon yanked his arm free from his shield’s straps and threw himself on the varcolac, knocking Ragos flat on his back. Grasping his sword by the blade with his left hand and by the grip with his right, Nidon thrust the tip at the varcolac’s eye, stopping just a finger’s breadth from impaling him.
“Stop! Stop!” Ilana shouted.
“Do you yield?” Nidon demanded. He straddled the varcolac, his left knee pinning Ragos’s arm to the ground. Ragos grabbed Nidon’s sword blade with his gauntlet, but he didn’t have the leverage to budge it. The point hovered over his eye.
“No!” Ragos snarled.
“The match is forfeit,” Fenre declared. “Sir Nidon is the victor.”
“No! I do not give up. He must kill me!” Ragos’s silver eyes were shot with black streaks.
“Surrender! I command it!” Ilana shouted. “I am your queen and I command it.”
“Watch out, Sir Nidon!” Rayne’s voice echoed across the grounds.
From the corner of his eye Nidon saw the other varcolac approaching. Not at a run, but fast enough. “Tell them to stop or he dies!”
“All of you stop!” Ilana commanded, her voice more stern now. “This is over. Sir Ragos, you will yield. I command it.”
Ragos grunted.
“Say the words,” Nidon said. He held his sword a finger’s breadth from Ragos’s eye.
“Yield. I yield.”
Chapter Twenty-two
“It is over now,” Grax said. He waved his hand to take in the fallow fields of the South Teren. “You are home again. A new life.”
Maret glanced over her shoulder and caught one last glimpse of the Great Forest as it disappeared from view behind a windbreak lining a weed-infested field. She held Orlos closer to her as her horse gently swayed as it walked deeper into Salador.
“She almost got you,” Maret said. “It is a shame you were facing the wrong direction.” She glanced at his helm, hanging from his saddle’s pommel. The deep dent was clear to see.
Grax grimaced. “Enough of that. It is done. You need to accept your new life.”
“She won’t give up,” Maret said. She nodded to where Kael rode just ahead of them. “She will never give up until she has Enna again. I think it bold of you to ride without a helm.”
Grax’s eyes narrowed. “She can do nothing here. I will put a bounty on her so high she won’t dare to leave the forest.”
“You think that will stop her?”
“You think I’ll turn around now? I’ve won. I’ve won at great cost. My valet-at-arms was killed. I lost my horse and a fortune in gold. But you and the children are worth much more than those things.”
“And there you do it again. I don’t care that your horse was killed. I don’t care that your men have died. I don’t care what this has cost you. I want to go home.” Orlos tugged at her sleeve and she lifted him up to her shoulder. He watched the world pass by, seemingly unaware of all that had happened to him – and because of him.
“Think of your son,” Grax said. “In Landomere he would grow up to be… what? A hunter? A woodsman? He is the heir to House Valens. He will be a duke and you can have your life back again. You were born a noblewoman, Lady Maret. You deserve a life of respect and privilege as is your due.”
“House Valens? Do you know what those words mean to me?” she asked. “Look at my face. Pain, terror, knives in the dark. Is that what you want my son to be a part of?”
“That is not House Valens.” He paused, looking down the narrow track they followed before meeting her eyes again. “Waltas might have been the Earl of House Valens, its titular head, but he did not represent us.”
“And you… you are so much better. Not a rapist or a murderer, but a raider and a kidnapper.”
“I have done what needed to be done. It had to be done for Salador.”
“Of course, for Salador.” She didn’t try to hide her smirk. “And who will rule as ducal steward?”
“I am Earl Waltas’s uncle. I am your son’s grand-uncle. It would be my duty.”
“Of course it would. And you would do this out of the goodness of your soul?”
“I do this for the honor of House Valens. I will not have a common child, a pretender raised by my idiot brother, come to lead the greatest house in the South Teren.”
“That common child is my son’s only hope. If he were to die—”
“I would never—”
Maret’s laughter cut him off. Orlos would only live as long as the other child remained alive. If the pretender were to
die, Orlos would be the only person between Grax and the Ducal Seat. And there was no doubt who would win that contest.
“If I wanted you and your son dead, you would be dead. I am an honorable man. Lady Maret, there is some gain for me, I will admit this. I will be your son’s steward. I will raise him to power and I will be his favorite uncle. This strengthens my position and that of my sons. But I swear to you, your son is rightful heir and I will see him lead our house.”
“And Enna?”
“I will raise her as well. Perhaps the two will marry. She carries the blood of House Handrin in her veins.” He nodded, his eyes distant. “The past is done. Landomere is behind us. It is time for you to accept your new life.”
“You think me a simpleton, Baron Grax. Little Enna’s life is in as much danger as my son’s. They are both toy soldiers you will play with until you have no more use of them.”
***
Maret’s hopes fell further as Baron Tomar’s keep came into view. How would Hadde ever rescue them from behind stone walls? What could the Landomeri hope to do against a castle? A squat, ugly thing, it overlooked a village of mud and timber homes. A small inn, a store, and two houses finer than the rest bordered the single cobblestone street. The rest of the village’s roads consisted of narrow dirt tracks bordered by simple cottages.
An old earthwork surrounded the town, and some ages ago a wooden palisade had stood atop it. But while the palisade stood tall in some places, it was just a ruined memory in others. At the furthest point from the keep stood a windmill of stone that looked more like a fortified tower to Maret. It even boasted arrow slits.
The column rode faster as they approached the keep, realizing that safety and the end of their mission was upon them. Safety depending on one’s view. Maret stared over her shoulder back to where she knew Landomere to be, but the forest had disappeared from view a quarter day ago. Once she entered the keep, there would be little hope of ever seeing Long Meadow again.