Path of Kings

by James Dale

  "Ladies and gentlemen!" he cried. "Citizen of the Whesguard high and low! I present to you this year's contestants of Ljmarn Haelfest!"

  Once again, the crowd erupted in thunderous cheers, this time seemingly rocking the foundation of the enormous stadium. They lasted for nearly five minutes until Daenel raised his arms for quiet. Slowly the cheers subsided and he continued.

  "In keeping with tradition!" he shouted. "The Haelfest will open with a test of swordsman ship between the reigning Swordmaster of Aralon, Kiathan Ellgaer Prince of Doridan, and his first challenger, Derhorn Redmane, the Earl of Glennfel!"

  Cheers again, deafening, which Kiathan acknowledged with a brief bow. When the crowds finally grew quiet, the steward cried, "Clear the field! The Haelfest will begin in ten minutes!"

  "Come," Cassaban said, taking Jack by the arm and breaking formation. Benches had been placed along the edges of the stands for the contestants, and Cassy guided him to a seat to the right of the royal box. A good vantage point to observe Kiathan's match.

  "You must watch him closely," Cassaban said as they took their seats. "This will be your first chance to study the Swordmaster's style. Initial impressions are always truest."

  "You know Cassy," Jack said, removing his helmet for a better view, "I've never thought to ask anyone what sort of rules they observe at the Haelfest."

  "There are not that many actually," Cassaban replied. "Firstly, you must remain within the area of combat. See? They are laying it out now."

  Even as he pointed, three of the tournament officials were in the process of marking off the prescribed circle with a band of white cloth in the center of the field.

  "Step outside the circle," Cassaban continued, "for whatever reason, and your opponent is awarded one point. In the first two rounds of competition, two points are needed for victory. In the third round, three points. Beyond the third round, matches will continue until one contestant yields or is judged by the officials no longer able to defend himself. Basically, the only other rule is all swords will be covered by standard practice sheaths. We are here to honor skill, not to draw blood."

  "Simple enough," Jack nodded. "What about striking your opponent with fists or feet?"

  "This is not boxing your grace," Cassaban grinned, "No points are awarded for knock-downs. But if you find yourself with your swords locked?" he shrugged. "A good left cross will work wonders if you're not concerned about breaking your hand on your adversary's helm."

  "That goes without saying," Jack smiled. "What about the differences in armor? I see Redmane has chosen to wear only chain-mail, while Kiathan is dressed in his pretty gold and scarlet plate."

  "Fighters preference," Cassaban shrugged. "Mail is certainly lighter and will allow you greater mobility, but if you get your ribs broken by a heavy stroke, what good has quickness and comfort gained you?"

  "You are only wearing mail." Jack pointed out.

  "Because no one is going to break any of my ribs," Cassaban grinned. "I am too fast with the blade."

  "Is that so?" Jack laughed. "If I may say..."

  "They are ready," Cassaban interrupted, inclining his head toward the center of the field where Kiathan and Redmane had taken their places in the competitor's circle. "I hope you are a quick study your grace. This won't last long."

  d'Lachaeland moved to stand between the two swordsmen, then turned to address the royal box. "Kiathan Ellgaer of Raashan will now open defense of his title of Swordmaster of Aralon against Derhorn Redmane of Glennfel!" the steward cried. "Fighters! You may begin when ready!"

  Kiathan and the Earl of Glennfel bowed to the royal box, then turned and bowed to each other. As d'Lachaeland stepped from the circle thunderous cheers rocked the stadium. The two men assumed guard positions, Kiathan drawing a finely crafted broadsword from its jewel encrusted sheath and Redmane a sturdy cavalry saber. There was a brief pause as the cheers washed over them then the Duke of Raashan struck like lightening.

  "Point to Kiathan Ellgaer!" the Steward of Immer cried.

  "Jesus!" Jack whispered. "He's...quick."

  Redmane was clutching his side in pain as Kiathan turned to accept the adulation of the crowd.

  "Did you see?" Cassaban shouted, making himself heard above the roar. "He leads with his right foot and struck under Redmane's guard with a simple straight-arm thrust. He always opens with the same move! Redmane knew it was coming! Damned if he could stop it! He may not have any broken ribs, but Redmane is as good as finished."

  Kiathan turned to his grimacing opponent and saluted as the cheers continued. Redmane lifted his sword with obvious difficulty, returning the honor and the match resumed. The Earl of Glennfel parried the next blow. Barely. And the next. And the next, as Kiathan attacked with a flurry of strokes, pushing the over-matched swordsman closer and closer to the white boundary. Redmane fought desperately, his boot heels mere inches from touching the marker. Rather than end the contest this way however, Kiathan redoubled his attack and soon his sword slipped through the other man's guard for the winning point.

  The second engagement had lasted less than a minute.

  "Point and match to Kiathan Ellgaer! Swordmaster of Aralon!" d'Lachaeland bellowed, though only those few spectators seated near the edge of the tournament field could hear his cry.

  The Duke of Raashan once again turned to accept the cheers of the crowd, as shouts of "Kia-than! Kia-than!" rose to the heavens. Removing his helm, the Swordmaster bowed with a flourish, then turned to offer Redmane his hand, which the earl dutifully accepted.

  "Now do you see why Kiathan has won the last two Haelfests?" Cassaban asked as the two swordsmen walked to the edge of the grandstands and bowed to the royal box. "He's fast, there are no wasted movements, and he goes right for the kill. No giving his opponent the opportunity to score a lucky blow. He's been touched but once in the last eight years. By Jurdan Salazar in the last Haelfest's finals."

  "He's good," Jack admitted, "but I think I saw a couple of things I can use to my advantage."

  "Fine," Cassaban nodded. "You have seen Kiathan fight, now forget about him. Tamaran Skuar is your only concern. Do you remember what I told you about him?"

  "Press him early," Jack nodded. "I remember."

  "You must be like Kiathan," Cassaban said. "Give him no chance to attack. Your best hope until you are accustomed to fighting in your armor is to end the match quickly."

  "What happens next?" Jack asked, watching the officials remove the white circle from the field.

  "Now the Lancemaster will open defense of his title," Cassaban replied, even as several grounds-keepers rushed onto the field and began to hastily construct a jousting list with colored stakes and long, slender boundary poles. "After that the Bowmaster will open the Competition of the Bow. Then there will be a break while the field is prepared for the tournament to begin in earnest."

  Jack had seen a joust only once before as a child. In the early nineties, Renaissance Festivals were just beginning to become popular in the Northeastern states and one such festival had come to the fairgrounds outside of Hannisburg, Massachusetts where Jack had lived as a boy. He and a few other friends from his church had gone one sunny Sunday afternoon after Mass to pass a few hours. The joust had been the highlight of the festival. Though it had certainly been entertaining, it was orchestrated and somewhat boring, nothing compared to the violent collision of forces he would soon witness.

  When the list was completed, Daenel d'Lachaeland introduced Lancemaster Julian Brin and his opponent. The two knights, out-fitted in full armor and riding barrel-chested war horses nearly as large as Val'anna, took up positions at opposite ends of the list. Attending squires supplied them with stout poles of ash wood, ten or twelve feet in length. At a signal from the steward, the two knights lowered their lances and kneed the mounts forward. The thunder of hooves as they charged each other could be heard even above the answering roar of the crowd.

  On the first pass, both lances shattered like match-sticks as they met in the
center of the field. How either man remained in the saddle after the tremendous collision was nothing short of a miracle. Wheeling their mounts as they came to the end of the lists, both men received a fresh lance and without pause charged again. This pass, the lance of the challenger slid harmlessly off the shield of Julian Brin, while his own lifted the other man from his saddle and hurled him to the turf with a clatter of steel.

  The challenger lay motionless on the field as his mount continued on to the end of the list, where it was corralled by a handful of squires. The Lancemaster turned and raised the visor of his helmet as he came to a halt at the opposite end, then rode at a leisurely canter back to where a half dozen officials had rushed to the side of the fallen knight. Sliding from his saddle, Julian Brin joined them in helping the groggy knight to his feet. When the man slowly removed his helmet and nodded to his victorious opponent, the crowd erupted in cheers nearly equal in volume to those lavished upon Kiathan.

  Jack found himself on his feet, his own cheer joining with the other forty-five thousand spectators in the coliseum. "That was magnificent!" he shouted at Cassaban. "Tell me, has anyone ever been killed?"

  "Precautions are certainly taken to prevent the death of contestants," Cassaban replied. "Unfortunately, accidents do happen. Last Haelfest, three jousters paid the ultimate price for competing in these games."

  The next phase of the opening ceremony featured the Bowmaster, an Ailfar name Lukas a'Maeridon. Young for an elf at less than two-hundred years, so it was rumored, it was Lukas's first defense of his title. He had won the previous Haelfest over the former champion, Gustaf Mendelson of Sornshea Woodrhine. It had been the most closely contested battle for Bowmaster in the history of the tournament. Mendelson would attempt to regain his lost crown this year and the Competition of the Bow promised to be a tightly fought battle once again.

  Dressed in the familiar green and brown of the Ailfar, the golden-haired Lukas took up a position in the center of the field. At the south end of the coliseum, tournament officials set up a round, wooden target painted with black and white concentric circles of differing scores. The elven archer acknowledged the cheers of the crowds with a brief nod, then raised his long-bow with easy grace, hardly seeming to take aim before sending his arrow hurtling towards the distant target. The cloth-yard shaft struck dead center of the smallest black circle as the coliseum rang with cheers. Seemingly oblivious to the applause, the elf quickly loosed nine more arrows in rapid succession. Each struck within an area easily covered by the palm of his hand. Allowing himself the briefest of smiles, Lukas bowed to the royal box, then to each section of the coliseum before returning to his seat, where he graciously accepted congratulations from his peers.

  "That was even more impressive than Kiathan's swordsmanship," Jack observed critically. He was fast becoming a good shot with the bow, self-taught as he was. The bones of a dead Ghomari on the March of Peril stood as his witness. But he held no illusion he could ever hope to match the display of archery he had just witnessed.

  "Ailfar," Cassaban muttered. "It's not natural they should shoot so well. There might not be another human Bowmaster for five hundred years."

  "Just be glad they are on our side," Jack replied.

  "Oh, I am." Cassy nodded with a grin, "Ailfar archers saved the Eighth once in the Garhon Mountains. But still, they sure do put a damper on the competitive balance in these games."

  "What happens now Cassy?"

  "Now we wait for our matches to be announced," he answered with a shrug, "They will set up three circles for the Competition of the Sword and ten targets for the archers. At mid-day they'll clear the field and set up lists for the jousters. After the first round of knights has been knocked senseless, they'll switch again and resume with the competition of sword and bow until the sun disappears. Then it will all resume again tomorrow."

  "What do we do until we are called?" Braedan asked. "Do we have to sit out in this sun all morning?" He asked because it had now risen above the top of the stadium and his armor was beginning to warm under its bright rays.

  "No," Cassaban replied. "If you start to cook in the tin bucket you're wearing, you may take advantage of the shade in the tunnel. With five minutes between each match, there will be plenty of time to send a runner to fetch you back."

  "And what if I want to...say, place a small wager on one of the matches?" Jack inquired.

  "You want to place a bet? On who?"

  "Lukas for one," Jack smiled.

  "You'll not get good odds on him your grace. Better you should pick some unknown," Cassy advised him.

  "And there's you and me of course."

  "Tell you what," Cassaban laughed, "if neither of us are called for the first three matches, we'll find Erlwin and have him locate a reputable oddsmaker who will give us decent odds."

  When the announcements of the first three pairings were made soon after the field was ready, neither Jack nor Cassaban's name was called. But even as they stood to look for the Lion, a tournament official appeared and began to walk back and forth before the Swordmaster contestants, calling out the next three matches. Borg Cassaban and Oric Banella of Gath were the first two names to pass his lips.

  "Oh well," Cassaban sighed, loosening his sword in its sheath. "There's always tomorrow."

  "Which one is Banella?" Jack asked, looking over the other five swordsmen who had also stood to begin preparing for their match.

  "There," Cassaban replied, nodding towards a large, mail shrouded warrior with blonde hair that fell braided to his waist. "That is Oric."

  "He looks dangerous," Jack remarked, watching the man run through forms to loosen his sword-arm.

  "And I do not?" Cassy inquired in a wounded tone.

  "Yours is a face mothers describe to scare children," Jack replied.

  "That's not what I had in mind," Cassaban muttered.

  The first ten archers filed before the royal box and bowed to the monarchs seated beneath the shade of the awning, then moved off to take their places before their targets. Following them came the six swordsmen who did likewise, then paired off in the three white circles. When all the contestants were ready, arrows notched and swords drawn, a fanfare of trumpets sounded, and the tournament was under-way.

  Five minutes after the initial victor was declared in the first match of the Competition of the Sword, Borg Cassaban and Oric Banella bowed to the royal box and assumed their place in the vacant circle. As their swords touched, Braedan knew immediately Cassy was by far the better swordsman of the two. Banella had the advantage of reach, but Cassaban was twice as quick, dancing about the circle with the deadly grace of a natural born fighter. The match lasted less than ten minutes, with Borg declared the winner. Banella's sword never touched the small, wiry swords-man. Nevertheless, a thin sheen of sweat glistened on his scared face as he rejoined Braedan on the bench.

  "Awe-Inspiring," Jack nodded, congratulating him with a hearty clap on the back. "However, I am afraid I must point out you boasted yesterday you would not even break a sweat."

  "Oric has improved since the last Haelfest," Cassaban grinned. "Give the man a few more years and he might become a decent swordsman."

  An hour passed and Jack's name was still not called. The next hour he saw Jurdan Salazar fight. The left hander was perhaps as quick as Kiathan, and surely one of the better swordsmen Jack had ever seen. A total of eighteen matches were fought before mid-day, then the tournament was halted and the field cleared for the constructions of the lists. Jack and Cassaban took the opportunity afforded by the momentary pause to go search for a food vendor.

  "Eat lightly your grace," Cassaban advised him when the located a concessionaire in a nearby walk-way. "You don't want to be slowed down by a full belly."

  Hearing the wisdom of his words, Jack bought only a pair of small, red apples and a cup of mulled wine and returned to his seat.

  For the next three hours, Jack sat with his back against the low wall of the grandstand, mesmerized by the thunderous disp
lay of chivalrous combat. Despite the brutal savagery of the competition, no contestant lost his life. Although the proceedings were delayed for nearly half an hour at one point when an unfortunate knight had to be carried from the field on a litter. From the awkward way the man landed after being unhorsed, several of the nearby spectators, Cassaban included, speculated the jouster had likely broken his back. The victor, a young Doridanian nobleman named Arrgenn Dunnahel who was competing in his first Haelfest, wept unashamedly as he rode behind the solemn litter bearers.

  "A hard price to pay for a chance at fame," Cassaban sighed, as they watched the unconscious man gently carried from the field. "But they all know the risk involved."

  After a brief moment of silence to honor the injured knight, the games continued. An hour or so later, the list was taken down, the sod displaced by the hooves of the charging horses was replaced by groundskeepers, and the competitions of sword and bow resumed.

  An hour passed, seeing eight more bouts fought in the competition of the sword and the completion of the first round of the competition of the bow. Still Jack's name was not called. Tark Macuna advanced with a surprisingly close match against a young fighter from Brydium, who although not victorious, won the heart of the crowd and high marks from Cassaban.

  "That man deserves watching your grace," Cassy nodded. "He's the potential to become a fine swordsman. If I were you, I'd inquire if he's signed on with another unit. The Lions would be well served with someone of such skill in their ranks."

  "See to it captain," Jack replied. "You have just been appointed Chief Recruiting Officer for the Golden Lions of Thonbor."

  "Me?"

  "I told you men can rise quickly in the Lions," Jack smiled. "Now step lively before someone else snatches him up."

  "As my lord commands," Cassaban bowed, "Excuse me lad!" he called after the young fighter. "Yes you! A moment of your time son!"

  As Cassaban chased after the promising young swordsman, a tournament official stepped before the few remaining contestants and announced the final five matches in the Competition of the Sword. Tamaran Skuar and the Disinherited Knight were last two names called.