‘Not at all,’ replied Falco, pushing a bench out of the way to make room for the bulky chair. It could not be said that he felt comfortable in Tobias’s presence, but neither did he share the repugnance and condemnation that so many others expressed.
‘Ooh, those look good!’ exclaimed Merryweather helping himself to a handful of the pastries on Falco’s tray before settling himself down on the bench beside his son.
Falco and Malaki exchanged an amused look before turning their attention back to the tournament field.
Flanked by their army escorts the cadets were now lined up before the pavilion. A captain from each discipline approached the pavilion and presented a scroll that was passed to the emissary and Sir William’s searching eyes passed down the line as he read the names on the list. When he had finished he saluted the cadets by clapping his right fist to his chest and extending it towards them. The cadets returned the salute and the emissary took his seat beside Bellius Snidesson and Darius Voltario.
The trials were ready to begin.
Malaki and Falco watched as the cadets moved off the field. Falco’s eyes flitted from one to the next but Malaki’s attention was firmly fixed on the red-headed young woman in the black archer’s garb.
‘Why do you think she’s done it?’ he asked.
‘Because she wants to train in Wrath I would guess,’ replied Falco.
‘Not to annoy her father?’ suggested Malaki and Falco pursed his lips.
‘It’s possible,’ he said. ‘You know what she’s like. She’s always had a wayward streak.’
‘But she can’t compete with the other men,’ said Malaki.
‘She’s as good as any on the shorter range,’ argued Falco. ‘Better than most,’ he added.
‘I know. But it’s the timed shoot at battle range that decides the places,’ persisted Malaki. ‘Her bow’s too light. She’ll never hold a group.’
Falco had to agree. He looked at the bow that Bryna carried. It was relatively short with a pronounced recurve to the limbs. The design gave her arrows greater speed and made the most of Bryna’s lighter draw-weight, but Malaki was right, it could not compete with the men’s heavier bows. She could certainly reach the greater distances but her arrows would follow a far steeper arc and as a result her accuracy would suffer. She might impress the crowd with her smooth release and grouping at close and medium range but, when it came to firing under pressure at full battle range, Bryna Godwyn was quite simply outmatched.
‘Still,’ said Malaki wistfully. ‘You’ve got to admire her spirit.’
Falco laughed as Malaki repeated the words that he himself had just spoken. It was a hopeless case of misplaced affection. Malaki had been in love with Bryna since the first time she had entered his father’s forge as a young girl.
‘I’m told you make the finest arrow points in town,’ she had said in a tone that was far too lofty for her tender years.
Malaki’s father had inclined his head modestly.
‘I’ll take two dozen,’ she had continued, ‘by tomorrow morning.’
Malaki’s father had wiped his hands on his apron as he fought to hide the smile on his face.
‘You can have your two dozen,’ he told her. ‘But they’ll not be ready till the end of the week.’
It was clear that the ten-year old Bryna had not expected to be challenged, but she held her ground and gave a stiff little nod.
‘Done,’ said Malaki’s father and spitting in his palm he had extended his hand.
Bryna had stared with revulsion at the smith’s large grimy hand but not wanting to appear shaken she had spat in her own palm and sealed the deal with a handshake. Then, with a flick of auburn curls, she had left.
Malaki’s father had turned to his son. He had raised his eyebrows in amusement then laughed at his son’s enraptured expression as Malaki watched her walk out of the forge.
‘She’s not even that pretty,’ teased Falco.
Malaki blushed and punched Falco in the side of the knee.
‘And she’s a noble,’ Falco went on, being careful to move out of range. ‘And she barely knows that you exist.’
Falco had to dodge as Malaki reached for him again, and in doing so he lost half the remaining pastries on his tray.
‘Danté!’
The harsh cry preceded a tall skinny servant with a pudding bowl haircut and a small severe mouth. It was Ambrose, Bellius Snidesson’s personal manservant. He had been appointed the day’s Master of Service and until now Falco had managed to keep out of his way.
‘You’re a disgrace, Danté!’ snapped Ambrose in a fierce whisper. He cast a venomous glance in Malaki’s direction, but today the pavilion was his domain and he was not about to be intimidated by the blacksmith’s son. ‘Clear up this mess!’
Here he actually yanked Falco down to the floor by the arm of his tunic. He might have done more, but Malaki pulled back the flap of the pavilion and made it clear that, Bellius’s man or not, he was well prepared to give him a good hiding. Ambrose took note of the threat and stepped back from Falco.
‘Go through to the back when you’re done,’ he said. ‘Wine, cold meats and cheese. If you have to be here you might as well try and make yourself useful.’
And with that Ambrose melted back into the crowds, smiling and talking in a sickeningly obsequious tone.
‘Ugh!’ said Malaki, disgusted. ‘Now that’s enough to make me throw up.’
Falco laughed as he gathered the scattered food back onto his tray. But as he got back to his feet he felt the weight of someone watching him. He turned to see Simeon leaning back in his chair. His master’s face was not happy, his scarred brow creased in a disapproving frown.
‘I should go,’ said Falco, feeling suddenly guilty that he might have let Simeon down.
Malaki nodded. ‘See you after the melee,’ he said.
For a moment Falco just held his eye. ‘Good luck,’ he said. ‘And when you get the chance, be sure to fight with all your heart.’
Malaki frowned at his friend’s earnestness. Then he smiled.
‘I always fight with all my heart,’ he said. ‘It’s what makes me so damn good.’
Falco flicked a crust of pastry at him and the flap in the side of the pavilion closed.
4
Ballymudge
Falco was kept so busy over the next couple of hours that he saw little of the trials. However, by early afternoon most of the guests had finished eating and were settled in their seats, enjoying a fine display of martial skill. It had been a good day for Caer Dour, with four of the spearmen being invited to train at the Academy of War. With them would go three of those who fought with sword and shield and not one, but two of the cavalry cadets who had just completed a thrilling bout of mounted combat.
Falco’s back ached as he stood to one side of the pavilion trying not to spill the drinks on his tray. His chest had started to tighten and he was desperate for a rest but Ambrose seemed determined that he should not get one. Falco’s lip curled in dislike as he watched the manservant fill his master’s cup with wine for the fifth time. If Bellius had been annoying before then he was fast becoming insufferable. His son was one of the two cavalrymen chosen to return with the emissary to Wrath.
It had come down to a head-to-head clash between Jarek and Owen. Despite ten minutes of intense fighting, neither youth had been able to land a clear blow. Then Jarek’s horse had lost its footing and the contest appeared to be over. Any other rider would have been thrown, but Jarek held his seat and launched a counter attack as his horse surged back to its feet. The fight resumed and was only brought to an end when the emissary rose from his chair and raised a hand to stop it. He called the exhausted cadets forward and asked them the question that they longed to hear.
‘The Queen of Wrath has need of such as you,’ he began. ‘Will you give up your wealth and privilege and return with me to Wrath?’
The youths’ faces had glowed.
‘I will,’ they answered together
.
The crowd was still muttering excitedly and the field was being cleared in preparation for the archers when Falco felt the presence of someone standing behind him.
‘Jarek fought well.’
Falco did not turn round at the sound of his master’s voice. Simeon spoke as if he had seen every exchange of the contest and, for all that he detested Bellius’s son, Falco had to agree that Jarek deserved his success.
‘He did,’ was all he said.
‘And what about you?’ Simeon asked. ‘Are you still determined to go through with this?’
Falco’s heart skipped a beat. He had two secret plans for the day. Simeon knew of the first, but no one knew of the second.
‘I am,’ he said quietly.
‘Then you need to rest,’ said his master. ‘You look like you’re about to collapse.’
Simeon called another servant over but Falco was reluctant to give up his tray.
‘Ambrose will have my guts.’
‘Ambrose is not your master,’ said Simeon. ‘Now sit.’
Falco surrendered as Simeon pressed him into a chair. Then the old battle mage placed his hand in the centre of his back and Falco felt a familiar tingling sensation as something of Simeon’s power flooded his body with warmth.
‘Thank you,’ he said as the tightness in his chest eased.
‘Just be sure to choose your moment carefully,’ said Simeon. ‘When the melee is over you will only have a minute in which to act. You must announce your challenge before the trials are called to an end.’
Falco nodded his understanding and Simeon moved away to retake his seat.
Taking a few deep breaths, Falco looked out onto the field. The archery targets had been set in place and the shooting lines drawn with powdered chalk. Then, as he watched, the archers were invited to take up their positions. People in the pavilion were going back to their seats and Falco found himself looking across at Merryweather’s son.
The two of them were of similar age. Tobias’s disability made people feel uncomfortable but Falco had always liked him. Despite being trapped in a body that robbed him of dignity he always appeared cheerful and happy. Even now, as the archers took their places he rocked back and forth excitedly, waving his dolls and bashing them together in mock combat. But then one of the dolls came loose from his wrist and dropped under the table.
Falco looked up to see if Tobias’s father had noticed, but Merryweather was engaged in a lively conversation with a group of nobles, so Falco left his seat and ducked under the table to retrieve the wooden knight himself. When he got back to his feet Tobias was looking at him, a dribble of saliva running down his chin. He smiled and laughed as Falco struggled to tie the knight back around his wrist.
‘Ankh oo, Ballymudge,’ mumbled Tobias and Falco could not help but smile.
Ballymudge was the pet name that Merryweather’s son had given Falco when they had first met as children. Everyone had tried to correct him, but Tobias was insistent and it was a small indulgence to grant the crippled child.
‘Ah, Falco. That’s uncommonly kind of you.’ Merryweather’s deep voice was full of warmth as he took over the task of securing the knight to his son’s twitching wrist.
‘Ballymudge,’ said Tobias, holding up the restored knight.
‘Yes,’ said his father, wiping his son’s face once more. ‘You and your Ballymudge.’ Merryweather looked at Falco. ‘Talks about you all the time,’ he said. ‘Even does a good impression of your wheezing.’
Falco smiled tightly.
‘He means no offence of course,’ laughed Merryweather. ‘He’s fond of you, that’s all.’
Falco smiled and backed away to his seat.
‘Now,’ said Merryweather, settling himself down beside his son. ‘Let’s see what Mistress Godwyn has to offer the Court of Wrath.’
It was quite obvious that Merryweather was relishing Bryna’s decision to enter the trials, but Falco could empathise with her father’s embarrassment. As much as he admired her courage, Falco had no wish to see her make a fool of herself. He looked out onto the field as the archers lined up on the shooting line, examining their equipment to hide the nervous tension.
Favourite to win was Allyster Mollé, a young nobleman of at least six foot two. Challenging Allyster were several others, chief among which was Brachus de Goyne, a black haired youth with an unpleasant set to his bearded jaw. There were nods of acknowledgement from the archers to either side of Bryna but no one expected her to be a contender so it was easy to be polite.
Finally the range was set at fifty yards and the marshals cleared the field. The archers would fire sixty arrows each before their scores were compared. The arrows would be shot in rounds of six, so each of them selected six arrows that were as closely matched as possible. Then they stepped up to the firing line and straddled the slender line of chalk.
There was a sheen of sweat on Bryna’s face but she looked composed and determined as she nocked her first arrow to the string. At the end of the firing line, his black flag raised in the air, the marshal waited for their attention. When all the archers were ready he called out for all to hear.
‘Archers. In your own time. Loose!’
The black flag came down and the archers turned their attention to the small gold circles at the centre of each target.
Like everyone else in Caer Dour, Falco knew what the discipline of archery required: good technique, concentration and consistency. Bryna Godwin possessed all three qualities and, as her arrows began to thud into the target, it was clear that she was not here on a whim. Shaft after shaft leapt from her bow to find the gold. Not every arrow found its mark, but of the twenty archers standing on the line, not one of them was holding a group as tight as Bryna’s.
Falco watched as she nocked another arrow and raised her bow. There was no stiffness in her back or shoulders and her right elbow was raised high as she drew back the string until one finger nestled in the corner of her mouth. She held the draw for just a second and then, at the very point of release, she actually closed her eyes, as if for that last crucial moment she wanted to shut out every possible distraction.
It was clear from the whispers in the pavilion that Falco was not the only one to spot this peculiar trait and, as the first shoot came to an end, the audience showed their appreciation as Bryna was awarded the gold ribbon for the highest final score. Falco leaned back to see if he could catch a glimpse of Sir Gerallt’s reaction to his daughter’s success. He caught sight of the stern-faced knight and despite his continuing embarrassment there was an unmistakable glow of pride in his eyes.
Falco smiled and turned to watch as the targets were being moved back to one hundred yards. Once again the marshal’s black flag came down and the archers let their arrows fly but now, when the five dozen had all been fired, the shortcomings of Bryna’s lighter bow were beginning to show. She had dropped from first to fourth place. That would not be enough to secure a place at the academy and the greatest challenge was yet to come.
There was something like disappointment in the murmuring of the crowd as the shooting lines were swept away and the targets moved even further back. Still standing in a vaguely straight line, the archers milled about as they waited for the marshals to set the targets down. No one knew what the final range would be. They would have to use their judgement to gauge the distance as best they could. This was one of the elements that made the final shoot so challenging. The other was the imperative of time.
The rules were simple... Fire twenty arrows as quickly as you could. The first to finish would end the shoot and the highest score would win. Yes, the rules were simple but the reality was not. Fire too quickly and your aim would suffer, fire too slowly and you might lose the chance to score with all your arrows.
Among the archers the mounting tension was clearly visible. They filled their quivers with twenty arrows then watched as the marshals finally set the targets down.
‘What do you think, Master Danté?’ said Merryweather le
aning across to speak to Falco. ‘Must be close on two hundred yards?’
Falco nodded in agreement.
The archers waited while the field was cleared. Some of them took a few steps forward, some a few steps back as they tried to estimate the distance to the targets. Bryna however, did not move. She stood staring intently at the target, her bow held firmly in her left hand. Then she turned to watch as the marshal raised his flag,
Falco felt a flutter of nervous excitement as the marshal’s flag hung in the air. ‘Just do your best,’ he thought. ‘The people will understand.’
‘This shoot is at unmarked battle range,’ the marshal called out. ‘The first to fire twenty arrows will end the shoot. Arrows loosed after the white flags have been raised will not count.’
He waited for all the archers to give their acknowledgement and Falco held his breath as the marshal paused. The archers were ready, hands poised above their arrows.
‘Archers, in your own time.’
The marshal waited another second.
‘Loose!’
The flag came down and a great gasp of astonishment exploded from the crowd. Of all the twenty archers nineteen quickly snatched an arrow from their quivers, but there was one among them who did not reach for an arrow.
When the marshal’s flag came down Bryna dropped her hand from her quiver and started to run, sprinting down the range towards the targets. Her actions obviously confused the other archers and she was thirty yards ahead of them before the first arrow arched over her head. The crowd was in uproar.
Was that allowed?
Was she allowed to do that?
There had been no reaction from the marshals. There was no marked shooting line so there was nothing to say exactly where the archers had to stand. The rules had not been broken and Bryna ran on.
A second volley of arrows arched over her head as Bryna closed on the targets. She had to get close enough to negate the advantage of the men’s more powerful bows. Only then would it come down to the two things in which she excelled... speed and skill. Most of the archers had fired three arrows by the time Bryna skidded to a halt. She dropped to one knee and stole another moment to gain her composure. Then she reached back over her shoulder, grabbed an arrow and began to fire. And now the crowd began to cheer.
Battle Mage Page 4