by James Dale
“I’ve heard of you, Cassaban,” Kirk nodded.
“No doubt it wasn’t very flattering if the look on your face is any indication,” Cassy grinned. “I know you Erlwin val’Durn. I competed as The Fury of Blue Lake last Haelfest.”
"That was you?" Erlwin said, the first to stand and extend a hand of welcome. "I remember your match with Tarc Macuna. A fine piece of swordsmanship."
"It is an honor to meet the Gray Tiger as well." Cassaban grinned. "Macuna should count himself lucky you've chosen not to compete this year. With a little luck you could have bested him yourself."
"Since we are among friends Cassy," Jack said, "It's safe for me to properly introduce myself. John Michael Braedan at your service," he bowed. "Formerly Second Mate of the Seawolf. Sentenced to death on the cross by Kiathan Ellgaer. Like you, I am a beneficiary of the Dragonslayer's mercy. Unworthy though I may be."
"So your unresolved quarrel with Kiathan," Cassaban nodded, "is he tried to crucify you?"
"I think m'Lord could forgive Kiathan such a small matter," Kirk Vanar laughed. "If he was not also engaged to Annawyn Ellgereth."
"Then it was not Kiathan who held your attention so at the palace," Cassaban grinned, "but the Princess of Doridan?"
"Guilty as charged," Jack admitted with a sigh. “Since we are all properly acquainted, whose roll is it?"
"It is the horse-thief's turn m'Lord," Cyran laughed. "The number to beat is eight if I remember correctly."
"I am not a horse-thief!" Erlwin replied indignantly. "And the number is seven!"
"Quit whining a toss the dice," Jack grinned, unbuckling his sword and tossing it on his bed. "A gold crown says you'll roll less than five."
"I'll take that bet m'Lord," Erlwin laughed, vigorously shaking the dice. "If I roll seven or higher you sleep on the floor again tonight. Damn!"
He rolled a four.
"You know?" Cassaban laughed, picking up the dice. "Getting drafted back into the legion might not be so bad after all. Place your bets gentlemen. The number to beat is four."
An hour later, with his winnings now pilled before Cassaban, the captain of the Golden Lions decided it was time to call it a night. "That's it for me," Kirk sighed, brushing the dust from his trouser legs as he stood to leave. "It seems my luck has taken an unfortunate turn."
"Thanks for the game Kirk," Cassy smiled. "It was most enjoyable."
"Take my advice and spend your money quickly captain," Kirk replied. "You are Jack Braedan's man now. You never know where you're going to be from one day to the next. You may be in Immer tonight, but tomorrow? You might be on your way to the Straight's of Argarath? Or The March of Peril? Or camped before the gates of Gorthiel itself. Then again," he smiled, "you might also be sleeping in a suite at the Inn of Two Fountains and eating breakfast in bed."
"I knew it!" Cyran cried. "Breakfast in bed! Didn't I tell you Erlwin? Blood and Fire!"
"Good night my lord," Captain Vanar laughed. "I'll see you at the coliseum in the morning. Good night you lugs," he bowed to the other Lions. "Sleep tight, and don't let the bed bugs bite."
"Breakfast in bed indeed," Cyran muttered. "We'll see how smug he is tomorrow after I tell Gweneveare he lost ten crowns dicing on his knees like a green recruit."
“I must be off as well,” Cassy added. “It’s been an…eventful day. I will meet you downstairs for breakfast?”
“Meet us, but we will likely breakfast at the coliseum,” Jack suggested. “The Arrow’s fare is a little below any decent health code.”
“Oh, I’ve spoken with the cook,” Cyran informed Jack. “The kitchen will be offering certain of its residence a much-improved menu from now on. After I paid for him to go buy some things at the market, of course.”
“Breakfast it is,” Cassy nodded. “Until the morrow,” he bowed, and made his exit.
“Borg Cassaban will make a fine addition to the Lions, my Lord.” Erlwin said, when they were alone once more. “If was most fortuitous you ran into him yesterday.”
“I agree,” Jack nodded.
The following morning found the three men up before the sun. After Erlwin came back from The Broken Arrow's kitchen with breakfast, which thankfully was fried bacon and biscuits and not left-over roast, they began the tedious task of strapping Jack into his armor. It was surprisingly light, being forged of Ithlemere, and not some metal, clanking bucket. More like a close-fitting armored skin. When everything was fitted in place, breastplate and thigh pieces and grieves, it still weighed close to twenty pounds.
"Are you sure I can't just wear my scale-mail?" Jack asked, running through a few forms with Grimrorr.
"No self-respecting knight worth the name would fight a tournament like Ljmarn Haelfest in only mail," Cyran grinned. "Not even a disinherited one. You'll be happy for its weight soon enough when Tamaran Skuar starts chopping at you like you're a young oak."
"Excuse me, but you've never fought in armor before?" Cassaban asked disbelievingly.
"First time," Jack admitted.
"Then you should definitely press him early. You will tire quickly until you become accustomed to the extra weight."
"What will you be wearing Cassy?"
"Why, just my chain-mail of course," Cassaban grinned. "But then I am not a noble of Brydium like your grace."
"And Tamaran Skuar?"
"Most likely boiled leather studded with iron rings."
"Lots of rivers in Donian my Lord," Erlwin informed Braedan. "They don't like to be weighted down while running away from grim'Hiru."
"Is it too late to change my name?" Jack asked. "How does Penniless Percy sound?"
"You should have thought of that yesterday," the guardsman grinned.
"Stop worrying my lord," Cyran laughed. "You'll do fine."
"Besides," Cassaban added. "It's time to go. The officials will be lining up the contestants for the ceremonial march around the coliseum within the hour. If you're late they will disqualify you."
"Okay. Okay." Jack sighed, tying his silk mask in place.
"Don't forget your helm," Cyran said, handing him the blue, lacquered head piece.
"The armor is light enough," he muttered, once he settled the helm in place. “But this thing? I feel like the Tin Man in the flaming Wizard of Oz.”
"Who?" all three men asked at once.
"Never-mind," Jack replied. Truthfully, the helm was nothing like the modified water pales worn by medieval knights of old. It was as light and formfitting as the armor, with sweeping cheek guards and very little else to protect his face. But Jack had always detested the necessity of combat helmets, even the light weight polymer and Kevlar hybrids he’d worn in the Special Forces. He complained more out of habit than from any real discomfort or decreased ability to see.
"Do you think I could get one of you gentlemen to help me down the stairs?" Braedan asked. "I don't want to fall and break my neck."
"This way my lord," Cyran laughed, taking him by the arm.
"Is he always like this?" Cassaban asked Erlwin quietly as they made their way from the room.
"Unfortunately," the guardsman sighed, "this is one of his better mornings."
"I may be blind Erlwin," Jack muttered, "but I can still hear."
"Of course, you can my lord." Erlwin grinned. "Sorry m’Lord."
"Horse-brother?" Eaudreuil nickered when the four men arrived at the stables. "Is that you?"
"Yes, it's me," Jack sighed.
"Forgive me. I did not recognize you under in your new skin."
"It's armor Eaudreuil. You've seen it before."
"Not on you. You must be getting old and slow." the Val'anna said playfully.
"Just be glad we are not competing in the lance," Jack replied, "or you'd be wearing it to."
"Who are you talking to your grace?" Cassaban asked.
"Eaudreuil," Cyran informed him casually. "His grace is half Ailfar if you haven't noticed. He can converse with all higher animals. Watch what you say around the horses. They te
ll him every-thing."
"Truly my Lord?" Cassy asked incredulously.
"I'm not half Ailfar," Jack replied. “More like oh…I don’t know? I sixteenth at best.”
"No. I mean can you...can you actually..."
"Talk to Eaudreuil?" Jack asked, swinging up onto stallion's back without difficulty, despite the added weight. "Yes, but don't worry. He never tells me when someone has been talking about me behind my back."
"Seriously?"
"Seriously," Jack nodded.
"Have you...do you frequent the horse races my lord?" Cassaban asked hesitantly. "Because I if you can talk to them, well... maybe you might..."
"I like the way you think Cassy," Erlwin laughed, mounting his gelding. "You're going to make a fine addition to the Golden Lions."
"I am surrounded by scoundrels," Jack sighed.
"It was just a thought my lord." Cassaban grinned.
The streets were thick with people as they began to make their way towards the center of the city and the coliseum, but fortunately the flow of traffic was headed in the same direction. It also helped outfitted in his blue lacquered armor, Jack was readily identified as a contestant in the coming tournament, and the crowds moved respectfully aside to let him pass, even offering shouts of encouragement as he rode through their midst.
With the people parting before them like waves before the keel of a ship, the four horsemen arrived quickly at the coliseum. Erlwin and Cassaban, having participated in previous Haelfests, knew exactly were the contestants would be gathering in preparation for the march of honor, and led Jack to the north end of the stadium. There they found nearly four hundred men and women gathered around a raised platform supporting a harried group of tournament officials.
"I can take it from here," Cassaban informed the two guardsmen as he dismounted. "You'd better hurry if you want to find good seats. By the looks of the crowd, they'll be disappearing quickly."
"Very well," Erlwin nodded, "Cyran and I will see the horses are stabled."
"We shall try and find seats near where we were yesterday my lord." Cyran said, taking Eaudreuil's reigns from Jack as he slid from the saddle. "If you should need us, look for us there."
"Go," Jack said, waving them off.
"Come, your grace." Cassaban said. "They are about to start positioning the contestants for the march."
Even as he spoke, one of the officials on the platform stepped forward. "If I may have your attention please!" he shouted above the murmur of the milling crowd. "Please! Thank you. We do not have time to assign individual positions so listen closely. If the three reigning champions will take their mounts to the north entrance to the stadium, we will begin. Those registered for the Competition of the Sword will follow after them. Four columns abreast, ten paces behind. Quickly if you please! Next will follow those competing in the joust, who will of course remain mounted. Same as before. Four columns and ten paces. Archers next! On foot! Four and ten! Step lively!"
That was the extent of instructions the contestants received. To say the least, Jack was a bit surprised. He'd participated in parades before at Ft. Bragg and other posts, from battalion and brigade, up to the full blown fourteen-thousand-man division review. Without fail, those parades were never attempted unless practiced three or four times at a minimum, to the accompaniment of shouting First Sergeants and scowling Sergeants Major. That something as important as opening ceremonies of Ljmarn Haelfest could be pulled off with a few simple instructions and a command to 'step lively' was almost beyond belief.
Nevertheless, all four hundred contestants seemed to know exactly what was expected of them and fell into orderly columns of four ranks, behind the three champions, as if they'd spent all morning practicing. Even so it took nearly twenty minutes for all the contestants to settle into formation. But once in their proper places, there was none of the expected murmuring and shuffling Jack expected to occur with such a large, eclectic crowd.
"Impressive," he remarked quietly as he and Cassaban fell into ranks with the other swords-men.
"This is an important moment Jack," Cassy shrugged. "To some here it is the crowing event of their lives. Why does it surprise you everyone wants to look their best as they are presented to the crowds? Here we go."
After a few hesitant, shuffling steps the formation began to move forward with almost eerie precision, entering a cavernous, arched tunnel leading into the coliseum. A few seconds later, Jack heard the shrill trumpet of horns, followed almost immediately by a roaring cheer that sent a shiver down his spine. The formation emerged from the shadow of the tunnel and the deafening roar began to take coherent shape. A single name soon issued simultaneously from nearly forty-five thousand throats.
"Kiathan!" the crowds shouted. "Ki-a-than! Ki-a-THAN! Ki-ATHAN! KI-A-THAN!"
As if under the control of some powerful, arcane chant, the entire formation began to unconsciously march in step to the repeated cheers. In the back of his mind, barely audible over the thunderous shouts of adulation, Jack suddenly heard a mocking voice in his head. "You aren't seriously considering naming Kiathan a traitor, are you? The minute you open your mouth to denounce him, the crowds will rush down onto the field and tear you to pieces."
"Go away," Jack muttered. He wasn’t sure if it was some trick of his subconscious or if some-how the sleeping dark-King was actually intruding his thoughts.
"If I were you," the voice continued, "I would just slip away now. Take the first ship you can find and sail as far as the wind will carry you. Do that, and I might let you live."
"Get out of my head you bastard!" Jack growled defiantly and threw up a wall around his mind. Real or imagined, the mocking voice was silenced, but the shouting of the crowds only increased in volume.
The front of the formation reached the south end of the coliseum and began to make a slow turn to the left, and Jack saw the reason why the cheers had risen to a fevered pitch. Kiathan had pulled ahead of the two other champions and was waving regally at the frenzied crowds. Dressed in gold and scarlet armor and riding on a mid-night black charger, the Duke of Raashan looked every inch the prince the deluded King Ellgenn had recently proclaimed him. Even through the red haze that leapt before his eyes at the sight of the traitor, Braedan was grudgingly forced to admit his enemy cut quiet the dashing figure.
A young woman, probably no older than sixteen or seventeen, suddenly rushed onto the field as Kiathan rode by, thrusting a bouquet of roses at the Swordmaster. Blue and silver liveried guards quickly moved to restraint the girl, but Kiathan reigned his charger to a halt and motioned for the guards to let her approach. She hesitated for an instant, then demurely presented him the flowers. With graceful ease, the duke bowed in the saddle, accepting the gift, then leaned forward and pressed the maiden's outstretched hand to his lips. Overcome by his attention, the girl swooned, falling back into the arms of the guards as the delighted cheers of the crowd soared to an earsplitting crescendo.
"Give me a break," Jack muttered.
Though he couldn't have possibly heard Jack over the roar of the crowd, Cassaban somehow sensed Braedan's disgust. "He's a charmer!" he shouted, leaning close so he could hear. "You have to give him that."
"He probably staged the whole bloody thing," Jack snorted derisively.
"Does it matter?" Cassaban shrugged. "Look at them. They would proclaim Kiathan High-King of Aralon if he but asked for the crown."
Judging by the duke's satisfied smile as he flicked his charger's reigns and started the formation moving again, Jack imagined the same thought was even now flashing through Kiathan's mind.
The procession soon began to make its way along the western side of the coliseum. Along this side, near the center of and about ten rows up into the stands, a silk awning had been erected and separated from the rest of the crowd by velvet ropes. Jack saw why as they drew closer. Here the monarchs of the Whesguard were seated. Befitting their stations, they had not joined the crowds in their frenzied applause, but were clapping with reserved d
ignity as the contestants neared. Kiathan drew his sword with a flourish as he rode even with the royal box and saluted. Each row of following swordsmen did likewise as they passed, Jack included.
Looking up into the box, he saw Theros first, then Prince Thonicil. Both men acknowledged his presence with brief nods of recognition. Annawyn was also there, seated between Thessa and Princess Ailicia. Though she studied each contestant's face as they passed, her green eyes once more swept over Jack without pause. She had no way of knowing the pirate she had saved from crucifixion, the man whose heart she held in the palm of hand, the man who had crushed her tightly in his embrace and covered her face and neck with kisses, if only in a dream, was hidden behind a silk mask beneath blue lacquered armor.
After moving beyond sight of the royal box, the swordsmen followed Kiathan's lead and lowered their salutes, continuing their circuit of the stadium. Reaching the northern end of the stadium, Kiathan turned his black charger and rode down the center of the grass field, turning again towards the royal box when he came to the center of the stadium. Stopping a few yards from the stands, he dismounted as the four columns of swordsmen halted behind him. The mounted lancers broke off and formed up again on their right. Likewise did the archers participating in the Competition of the Bow, taking up positions to their left.
At this point Daenel d'Lachaeland, the Steward of Immer, appeared on the field. He bowed to the royal box, then turned and walked to the center of the stadium as an expectant hush fell over the crowd. After the raucous cheers for Kiathan, the silence seemed so deep as to be unnatural. Outside the stadium, the sound of a dog barking be could heard clearly, echoing endlessly down the empty streets of the city. The steward cleared his throat, then raised his voice in a shout that carried easily throughout the enclosed coliseum.