Under his ses, Wolf grinned at Dragon, an expression visible only in the eyes.
“Nice one, ya’! Though for a moment there I thought ya’re going to fall off the saddle.”
“When was the last time you saw me fall off a horse?” Dragon unsuccessfully tried to look pained.
“I’m pretty sure I must have seen it sometime or other.”
Under his ses, Dragon made a face. Though out of breath, his eyes were shining, giving away a broad, happy grin.
“Was it absolutely necessary to show off like that?” Wolf was trying to make a point.
“Isn’t that what Arkas is about?”
“Ya’ll drive me berserk.”
“Yeah, never trust a Wolf.”
“How well do ya’ think he’ll ride?” asked Wolf nodding towards Hart, who was preparing for his ride.
“He’s always been a great rider. Nevertheless, the track is badly torn and very slippery,” Dragon explained.
“Your ride was flawless,” Wolf argued.
“His horse is faster.”
“And he’s under pressure.”
“Hm.”
Hart shot forward onto the course, taking the first hurdle with mastery precision, showing everyone who was the master here. Not only did his horse jump lightly and confidently, but also with elegance, he went over all the hurdles, jumping them with comfortable gaps between hooves and top beams. Neither archery nor swordsmanship were a slightest problem, either. And then, came the triple jump. Everyone in the audience held their breath as one.
“He’s riding too fast,” noted Dragon and Wolf had time only to raise his eyebrows. Pushing off the ground very well, Hart’s horse went over the first hurdle smoothly, but his hooves touched the ground too far behind the obstacle, thus leaving only one step between landing and second jump. Brushed by the steed’s front hooves, the top beam shook. It held in place, but unsettled the rider’s nerves and the horse’s balance. In the second landing, the steed slipped slightly, losing rhythm, jumping the third barrier of the triple jump too low and knock off the top beam. Arkas audience hummed with disappointment.
It was a magnificent sight to see the Berber astride their war horses, as they assembled at the starting line of the Chase, men and steeds all camouflaged in customary black. Some of the horses were nervous, as well as their riders. Some were calm, occasionally swishing their tails or cocking their ears. All were lining up into their designated spots, creating organized chaos. As always, the stands were packed, everyone awaiting the most attractive Arkas discipline.
Though it was difficult to recognize anyone in the mêlée, one pair of a rider and horse drew attention to themselves. Not only did they display unusual calm or even lack of interest, but mostly … well, not to put a fine point on it, their size was weird. While the stallion was considerably larger than every other horse in the group, his rider was on the contrary safely the shortest and skinniest. They were almost impossible to overlook. Both bore a Dragon marking. Many people in the stands debated vigorously because of these two. Despite all camouflage this particular animal shoved splendid qualities. And Dragon? He must be absolutely crazy to saddle the same horse for Warrior’s Path and Chase. Nobody ever does that! You need a fresh horse for Chase. No one in their right mind would attempt to ride both disciplines with the same animal. Or maybe it was not the same animal. Oh, sure it was, look at the angle of his neck, and the ears, and it’s the same jelly-fish as yesterday. And the size of him!
While his steed stood calmly in his place, occasionally cocking his ears, munching on something, Dragon in his saddle absentmindedly caressed his nape. Head slightly declined, he was watching his opponents. Wolf glanced at him and saw his friend wink. It wasn’t hard to guess that Dragon’s ses was hiding an ear to ear grin.
Ashka raised her hand with a scarf. It seemed like eternity before she brought it down. All riders hunched in their saddles, gripping rains more tightly. The Queen dropped her scarf. All horses shot forward as one. It took only a few short minutes for Dragon to ease himself to the front. Wolf made a point of staying just a few paces behind him. The Chase course was a little over six kilometers long, following a terrain with natural obstacles and hurdles. Both horses and riders had to deal with slopes, jumps, narrow paths, every difficult surface thinkable, and most of all, other riders and their steeds. To make the race interesting for the audience, the race track consisted of three laps. The auditorium stood in their center.
Six something kilometers was not a distance that could be successfully completed at full speed from start to finish. Though his horse clearly wanted to run, Dragon held him down a bit, making sure they stayed in one of the leading positions without tiring his animal. The horse wasn’t happy about a placid tempo. Wolf stayed close behind them. During their first lap, most riders held to the same tactics, holding their horses back, trying to file away and estimate all the gimmicks of the route, and most of all, they were trying to judge their opponents and the speed of their animals. Which made the first lap almost boring, especially for the audience.
Going over the first jump, Dragon turned in the saddle to look back. Without exception, all horses cleared it easily, which could have been expected at such a leisurely speed. However, low branches followed shortly after the jump. One of the riders overestimated their height, and got himself smacked off his saddle. Wolf saw the collision from the corner of his eye. He might have been wrong, but he thought he’d glimpsed the unfortunate rider being pushed into the obstacle by another horse.
At the beginning of the second lap, the so far compact group began to break up, as horses gradually gathered speed. Hoofs beat, cheering of the crowd, saddles creaking, horses and riders breathing hard; chaos, exhilaration, and thrill. Dragon’s horse felt his rider’s excitement and wanted to run, but Dragon still held him. A trail narrowing into a sharp turn forced riders to group up again, some of the steeds bumping into one another, creating a mêlée in which they went over another jump. Two huge animals crashed into one another, lost their balance and tumbled down in a scrum of hooves, legs and bodies, throwing their riders out of their saddles. Franticly, the rest of the racers tried to avoid them, some in the back choosing the slower, but safer route around the hurdle, ironically creating further chaos before the jump. In the hubbub, one rider forgot to urge his steed to jump. Without a moments’ hesitation, the beast charged straight through the obstacle. Low branches shortly after the barrier took care of another fall.
The crowd roared in excitement, as the Chase accelerated, as chaos and din grew. Not to be slapped off the saddle by low branches, Wolf ducked, and the short riding whip aimed at his head, missed. He glanced back just in time to notice a severe attempt to push him off the trail, into the bushes. By a hair he managed to avoid collision, but pushed off late for the next obstacle. Wolf heard and felt his steed’s hooves brush the branches. Surprisingly, no further incidents happened in an extremely narrow defile as the group spread for the passage to huddle up again when the track widened again. The deep sand that followed, slowed most of the horses down considerably. Except for Dragon. So far he’d occupied fifth or sixth position, now, using deep sand to his advantage, he began to edge forward. Getting out of the sand pit was complicated by trees growing at its edge. There was no real trail here, creating another scrum.
Bolting into the last lap at a full gallop, riders were encouraged by the yelling crowd. Almost flying through first half of the third lap, animals crowded again before the hollow. They rushed into sand that, once again, slowed them down, thus forcing most of them to go around a fallen tree at its edge instead of jumping over it. Polecat, however, deliberately pressed onto Dragon’s horse. Having no other choice, Dragon urged his horse into a jump. With elegant ease, the stallion pushed off the ground, passing above the tree trunk with no obvious exertion. People in the audience held their breath, awaiting another collision, which failed to occur, so they applauded.
Dragon bent all the way to his horse’s neck as the sta
llion accelerated, shooting forward like an arrow, knocking his shoulder against Polecat’s steed, making him stumble and almost fall. Only almost. Moving as one, Dragon and beast passed Polecat in neck-breaking speed, the stallion stretching his neck and most of all his legs. They dashed pass another rider with the marking of a Horse, and practically skidded through the last turn into home straight. At their heals, Wolf dashed past Polecat, who tried to hit him in the face with a riding whip. Expecting something of the kind, Wolf snatched the whip out of Polecat’s hand and threw it away.
The stands shook as their occupants cheered a group bolting into the home straight. Jackrabbit was in the lead, followed by Horse, Dragon, Wolf and Polecat. Almost immediately Horse found himself in third place, Dragon’s steed drawing close to Jackrabbit, Wolf at his heals. Jackrabbit risked looking over his shoulder, and saw Dragon trying to pass him on the outside. There was no way Dragon would risk being pushed onto the barrier. Unbelievably so, Dragon’s stallion was gathering even more speed, urged forward only by his rider’s movements and quiet, yet almost breathless words. Suddenly, Jackrabbit and Dragon rode side by side, so close to each other their stirrups banged against one another. With only several tens of meters left to the finish line, the two seemed to have decided to make the race even more interesting. For a moment, Dragon took a minimal lead, then the Jackrabbit did, switching positions several times, but never more then by half a horse’s neck. Behind them, Wolf was trying to make the best of his run.
Dragon leaned even lower to his horse’s neck, rasping a word at him. Jackrabbit heard it, but didn’t understand. As if someone ignited a fuse in his tail, the stallion shot forward, managing a lead of two lengths in just a few of his strides. With his ears clamped to his head, neck stretched forward, his rider almost laying at his nape, the horse flew through the finish line.
Arkas was nearly over. All its participants stood in lines before the main tribune, standards with their marking held in their left hands. Standing to attention Berber style on straddled legs, right fist at their heart, warriors waited as the audience applauded. Unveiling was about to begin. Silence fell over the arena.
Referees started singling out each man by their marking. When called, each warrior stepped forward to walk towards the main stands occupied by the royal couple. Before he reached his destination, referees informed what events he participated in and with what results.
Reaching their destination the men rammed their standard into the ground, and still unknown to the crowd, bowed to the King and Queen. Taking their ses off warriors shouted their name into awaiting silence. Regardless of their results, each name was honored with a huge applause. When the racket subsided, contestants would bow again and move to stand aside with their already unveiled companions.
Unveiling proceeded from worst to best results, therefore men with the highest scores were introduced last. Now, only five masked warriors stood before the audience waiting to be announced. Anticipation grew. Everyone craved to know the best of those who had entertained them for the past two days. People made bets, guessing which marking belong to whom. So far, none of the King’s sons have been announced.
“People of the Berber, we introduce to you Polecat placing fifth in the Chase, third in wrestling, and third in trak combat,” a referee announced, while Polecat marched towards the main stands. Angrily, he rammed his standard into the ground and tore the ses off his head, shouting: “I am Dars de Leon.”
The crowd applauded. Grossly disappointed with his results, Dars stood sour faced, almost offended, while the audience cheered. The King nodded to him ever so slightly, the Queen smiled. It was now obvious all three of her sons had placed among the best of the best. At least for now, the fact that Dars had disgraced himself by not abiding by the rules, had been forgotten.
“People of the Berber, we introduce to you Wolf, placing third in the Chase, second in trak combat and winner of wrestling!” came another announcement. Wolf stepped out of the line to walk towards the stands. Ramming his standard into the ground, he bowed to the royal couple.
Drawing a deep breath, he reached for his ses, pulling it off in a smooth sequence of several, well-practiced motions. His bald head gleamed in the sun, making the crowd gasp in surprise.
“I am Michael, son of Magnus!” shouted Michael proudly, watching the King and Queen, eager for their reaction. Surprised, John leaned forward in his seat to see better. There was no doubt.
“What’s he doing here?” John asked Ashka, while the crowd applauded wildly, appreciating Michael’s performance.
When Michael finally turned to join his fellow warriors, he could feel Ashka’s eyes boring into his back. Suddenly, the Queen was on edge. He smiled to himself, even though common sense prompted that nothing but a huge scrape could come out of this. If they didn’t like him showing up, they’re definitely not going to like what’s bound to come next. It was, however, hard to say, what the rest of the Berber nation would think.
“People of the Berber, we introduce to you Jackrabbit, placing third in archery, second in the Chase and second in wrestling!” came the call, as Jackrabbit stepped forth, ramming his standard into the ground. Just as the others before him, he bowed and unveiled his face. Part of the crowd applauded even before he shouted out his name: Philip de Leon. The King smiled broadly, his wife nodding appreciatively to their son. Philip stood motionless for quite some time, waiting for the roaring praise to quiet down. When it did, he bowed deeply and turned to line up with all the others. Nodding to Michael, he was determined to grab him immediately after the ceremony to get some information out of him. With the knowledge of what was to come, Michael nodded back.
“People of the Berber, we introduce to you Dragon, placing second in archery, the winner of Warriors path and the Chase!” a referee yelled and everybody craned their necks to see the skinny warrior step forward. Michael clenched both fists behind his back, hoping for the best. Slowly, Dragon moved to face the royal stands, jabbed his standard into the ground and bowed. In one smooth motion, he took his ses off, tying it around the waist like a sash. Suddenly, all the spectators gasped in shock. Long red locks fell onto the shoulders of the figure standing before them. Raising her head proudly, the girl looked at her parents.
“I am Elena de Leon,” she stated into almost complete silence thick with amazement over the insolence of a girl entering Arkas. King John stood up from his improvised throne, but before he managed to say a word, someone in the crowd whistled. Suddenly, the world around Elena erupted with jubilation, yelling, stomping, cheering and whistling of all who were present. The Berber celebrated Elena’s performance. Girl or not, she had far more than proved her skills. And their little princess was back.
Slowly, the uproar subsided down to reasonable level. Elena bowed to her parents. With a matter of fact composure, she joined the line of her fellow warriors. She was home. Michael grinned at her. Passing Phillip, she winked at him. Despite it being against the ceremony protocol, he couldn’t resist and hugged her affectionately.
“People of the Berber, we introduce to you Hart, placing second in Warrior’s Path, and the winner of trak combat and archery!” a referee finally dared to announce.
“I am Peter de Leon!” the last fighter introduced himself, receiving honors from the applauding crowd. John waited for his son to join the others, then rose again.
“You fought well and fair. Eternal glory be yours! The war games may be over, but you are all invited to join the feasts. Drink, eat, sing, dance and celebrate to heart’s content.” It wasn’t the best of his speeches, but nobody really noticed.
As is generally the case, the idea of food, drink and overall merriment received far bigger applause than all the Arkas performances put together.
◆◆◆
Everyone swooped down on her. For a moment, Elena felt imprisoned within a cage of hands ruffling her hair as they used to do, when she was little. People were hugging her, suddenly the world consisted of happy faces and comments like:
>
“You’re so grown up!”
“You haven’t changed a bit, you’re naughty as ever!”
“It’s so good to see you!”
“Where have you been all these years?” Peter and Philip were hollering at her, both at once. For a few minutes, Dars stood aside, frowning. Then he decided his behavior was improper and moved to welcome his sister. Although his greetings were rather cool, Elena didn’t mind. She was happy to see even him, anyway. For that short moment, she felt like the small child she had been before leaving for the unknown. And then Ashka and Father entered the circle formed about her. Looking at them, her gleeful smile froze slightly on her lips. Michael, who inconspicuously moved to stand behind her, was, once again, right. A huge pack of trouble was gliding towards her with the unshakable dignity of her royal parents. Until she saw them walking towards her, she’d been sure her Arkas adventure was a good idea, and just a lot of fun. Now, fun was over and amusement was about to begin.
Elena bowed to salute her parents.
“You could’ve hardly thought of a more blatant entrée,” commented Ashka sourly.
“Oh, come on! She was spectacular! People will be talking about this forever!” Philip grinned at his mother, enjoying himself immensely. He’d lost to a girl in Arkas, but he couldn’t have been happier. Besides, his little sister deserved her triumph.
The Witch (Dragon Eyes Book 1) Page 35