Free Stories 2015

by Baen Books

  Arnost took a peasant as his own foe, a gangling and strangely tall young man with a scraggly beard grown long despite its thinness. He held with both hands a long threshing flail, well used sticks of yew joined with a chain.

  "Please don't kill me!" the peasant said in a ragged whisper. "I'm only here to prove my bravery to my sweet Belinda. Once she sees me on the field of battle, she'll—"

  Arnost interrupted. "When the trumpets blow, take a swing at me."

  "What?"

  "Fight me."

  The peasant still stared.

  "Fight me for your Belinda."

  Finally the peasant nodded. He began to smile.

  Arnost growled. "Take your love seriously. She's watching, isn't she?"

  The peasant stopped smiling and raised his flail.

  Heralds sounded their trumpets, and the combat began. All around them, weapons began clattering against one another. A few men gave hurried cries of surrender that stood out shrill against the bestial grunts of attackers.

  The peasant didn't strike as quickly as Arnost hoped. He pulled his sword back and made a slow, easy jab toward his foe's right.

  The peasant dodged away. His face was pale, yet a fire started in his eyes.

  Arnost smiled under his helmet.

  The peasant charged with a wide swing of his flail. Arnost caught it easily against his shield. The force almost brought him to one knee, but Arnost pushed himself backward and wedged his boots into the dusty ground to keep his footing. He made another relaxed jab at the peasant, who again dodged.

  They traded blow after blow like that. The peasant did well enough; Arnost would ask for him if he ever commanded a march of infantry.

  The barks of battle began to wane around them. While taking cover under his shield for their rhythmic game, he looked around the field. Most of the peasants were on the ground, knights standing over them. A few knights, too, had tumbled. Baub had knocked down Glowen. Apparently they had moved too slowly to get one of the easy matches against a peasant.

  Arnost looked back over his shield. The peasant was standing light on his feet. He had his flail twisted back, expecting a jab over which he could attack.

  "Time to end this," Arnost said, although he doubted the peasant could have heard over the battle-clatter.

  Arnost made a quick jab to the far right. The peasant dodged to the left and leaned farther over to give weight to his flail as he swung. Instead of readying to block the blow as he had before, Arnost leaped with his shield in front of him. He hit the peasant squarely in the chest and followed him to the hard ground. They landed with a thud, and Arnost heard the peasant give a moan of air rushing out of his lungs.

  The peasant lay still while Arnost got back to his feet.

  "You're all right," Arnost assured him.

  The only response was a dull groan.

  Trumpets blew a fanfare. Families of the foolhardy peasants raced onto the field to collect their fallen. The knights unable to stand were carried off the field by pages and bearers in bright courtly costumes. Arnost could already hear the teasing jabs forming about them. At least none of Odrick's sing-songs would be heard.

  Arnost walked around his former enemy, still pinned to the ground as if held by an invisible giant's hand. A peasant girl brushed past the knights. She fell to her knees next to the peasant and smothered his face with kisses.

  "Your bravery is unmatched!" she told him.

  He groaned in reply and took her in his arms.

  Arnost felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. He shuddered to chase away the feeling and continued toward the tents. As he left the field, servants rushed to set up the posts and rails for the joust.

  Roger appeared at his side with a bowl of water. "So, halfway there!"

  Arnost slipped his helmet off and shook his head. "Most of that half was never my opponent."

  He poured the water over his sweat-lined hair.

  They sat quietly until another fanfare of trumpets sounded the joust. Arnost stood without a word and went to his warhorse. Roger trotted behind him.

  The horse stood proud in his stall. As Arnost came close, he whinnied and stamped his newly shod hoof.

  Arnost touched his nose. "Carry me true, my boy."

  The horse blew air over his lips. Arnost patted his neck. He handed Roger the reins, and they walked together toward the crane that would lift him into the saddle.

  One or two peasants had made it this far, but knights quickly unseated them from their huge, borrowed warhorses. It had taken Arnost years to catch up with the horsemanship of men who had grown up on horseback. Now he faced Sir Baub, who rode under his green flag with three ravens.

  Baub's horse tossed its head. His hand with the reins pulled far back to hold it in place. The horse took a step sideways.

  Arnost shook his head and patted his own horse's calm mane.

  At the judge's call, Arnost goaded his horse on with his heels. He charged as close to the rails as he could. Baub's horse leaned away, instinctively out of the path. Baub leaned far toward the rail, forcing his horse back into line by his armor's weight.

  Arnost struck wide on Baub's far side, sending him tumbling off the saddle and gut-first onto the rail. When he came to the end of the field, Arnost turned his horse around to see if Baub survived the fall. He did, and the tournament went on.

  He next unseated Usford under his standard of deer at the river crossing, then Hilliac, who roared as piercingly as the gryphon on his flag when he fell on the third pass. Sir Bonna stayed in the saddle, but he held up his broken spear between charges in surrender. Arnost saluted him.

  When Sir Mellam fell, he climbed to his feet and dusted off his shield until the white branches of his family oak shined. He wasn't going to give up without combat. The crowd of peasants roared. The court clapped their hands politely.

  Arnost nodded inside his helmet. He dismounted while Roger held his horse, then the page handed him his sword. Arnost did his best to approach Mellam without looking back at the royal box.

  Mellam raised his own sword to Arnost. "Didn't think I'd let you off that easy, did you?"

  "I hear your words, but they might best be directed at yourself," Arnost told him. He took the hilt of his sword in both hands. "I hope you enjoy this, but I must be victorious."

  "Shall we try, then?" Mellam called.

  Arnost took a breath. "Go."

  Mellam moved forward; Arnost moved back. The two danced, trading blows and moving their feet to gain the upper hand. It was the same as practicing in the yard, though their swords were sharper and the shouts from the crowd were louder.

  Arnost kept his breath and thought. Something was off with Mellam's usual rhythm. He fell back only in one direction, leading Arnost toward the crowd, toward the royal box where the queen sat. Her face caught his eye. Was she smiling?

  Mellam's sword slammed into his helmet. Arnost retreated three steps across the dusty ground. His ears rang, but he had fallen out of the spell.

  "You're clever," Arnost yelled at him.

  Mellam replied only with narrowed eyes behind the slits in his helmet. He sidestepped, again placing himself in front of the royal stand. To see him, Arnost would have to look toward the queen.

  Without raising his head, Arnost charged. His armored shoulder met Mellam's breastplate, and he flung the knight off his feet. Even before he landed, Mellam, dropped his sword and raised his hands. He was done. Pages dashed onto the field to collect him.

  Arnost was panting as he left the field. He wanted to drag his sword on the ground, let it carry some of the burden, but he would not. Roger took it from him as soon as he got back to his horse. The next knights came on the field, and the tournament went on.

  There were still more than a half-dozen knights to beat, but Arnost was close. He let himself steal glances at the royal box, where the queen sat watching. Her eyes were dull as the other knights battled. If she had been smiling before, it was for him.

  Arnost felt his heart
become light. His whole body eased. His armor seemed not to press him at all. He still could not catch his breath. His lips felt dry under his gasping, but soon they would meet the warmth of the queen's own—

  His dream broke under Roger's trembling voice. "Sir Arnost, they're calling you."

  Arnost made one final gasp. He looked around himself. Without a word, he hurried to the crane and mounted his horse. Roger's hands were clumsy and shaking as he worked the crank. Arnost landed atop his horse with a thud.

  "What's the matter with you, boy?" Arnost called.

  "It's Sir Lansfrick."

  "Lansfrick? What of him?"

  "You're fighting him next."

  Arnost felt his face go cold. He was glad to have his helmet to hide behind.

  Sir Lansfrick was the king's champion, the greatest knight in all of the realm, perhaps the kingdom's three neighbors, too. Arnost would of course have to defeat him for the prize, but he wasn't ready yet. He still had so many others to fight. He should work up to the greatest foe.

  Arnost bit his tongue. This was the penalty for his arrogance to think a queen would smile at a dairyman's son.

  "So be it," Arnost said.

  Roger led the warhorse to the field. Sir Arnost held his spear in a loose hand. His muscles seemed turned to stone. His back ached.

  Across the dusty ground, Sir Lansfrick rode atop his ghostly white horse, waving to the crowd. His blue banner with its golden eagle flew out behind him. His armor shone like the sun.

  Everyone cheered, from the screaming peasant girls to the ladies of the court, who waved their kerchiefs at him in hopes he would pick one of them. Lansfrick refused to chose; he bowed to them all in turn. At last, he stopped his horse in front of the royal stand to blow the queen a kiss. She smiled and nodded.

  Arnost tightened his grip on his spear until he heard the sound of his knuckles cracking. He spurred his warhorse and left Roger behind him.

  Lansfrick collected his own spear from his velvet-dressed pages and lined up at the end of the rail opposite from Arnost. Lansfrick's horse stood statuesque; Arnost's stirred and stamped. Arnost placed a hand on the horse's mane. The sun seemed to go dim as he waited. He heard only silence until the judge gave his call.

  When the cry came, Arnost slapped his horse's side. He watched Lansfrick spur his own steed. The two charged at one another, leaning heavily on their spears.

  Still yards away from Lansfrick, Arnost's horse fell out from under him. He tumbled forward, over the horse's head and to the ground. The horse gave a horrid scream. Arnost just let out his breath.

  A wave of dust flew up, and then came a rush of pain along his shoulders and arm. Brown clouds flew against his eyes. Arnost imagined he must have made noise as he rolled, but he didn't hear anything above the yelling crowd.

  Finally it ended. Arnost coughed at the dust and turned over onto his shoulder. His horse was on its side, kicking its legs. One stuck out, twisted. The horse had thrown its shoe, tripping as it did its duty to charge. The farrier's fearful hands had done poor work. Now it took the skillful work of a man with a knife to end the horse's pain. Arnost closed his eyes out of respect; his last sight was Roger leading a band of pages to drag the horse away.

  Out of the darkness behind his closed eyes, the queen came to him again. She raised her hands from the gentle curve of her hip and reached out to Arnost. He wanted to raise his own hands, but his arms were so tired. Still she beckoned him. Her eyes pleaded with him, wet with worry.

  Arnost opened his own eyes. If he lay much longer, the judge would name Lansfrick the winner. He had to get up.

  Arnost gritted his teeth and shoved himself more fully onto his side. He pushed against the ground with his shield. His arm ached, and he bit his tongue to let the sharp pain he controlled drown out the grinding pain he didn't. Once he could move his legs, he was on his knees, then to his feet.

  The crowd gasped and screamed. Arnost dusted off his shield. He had to fight on.

  Sir Lansfrick hopped down from his pale horse and waved his sword to the crowd. They roared again for him.

  "Good show, Arnie," Lansfrick said through his helmet as he approached.

  Arnost grunted.

  "I heard what you did to Odrick yesterday," Lansfrick went on. "About time somebody taught that pig a lesson. I'm only sorry it wasn't me."

  "Are we talking or fighting?"

  Sir Lansfrick let out a merry laugh and raised his sword. "Whatever you like."

  Arnost said nothing. He took a breath, changed his stance, and took a stab at Lansfrick.

  His helmet rang with a bitter noise. A wild force threw him to the ground. The world went dark for a moment, and then he looked up again. There was only blue sky, and then a shadow.

  Lansfrick stood over him, sword raised triumphantly. He had knocked Arnost down in one blow.

  "No!" Arnost screamed. He threw himself up to sit on the ground.

  Lansfrick turned. "What are you doing, Arnie?"

  Arnost forced his legs under him and stood.

  "I bested you fairly," Lansfrick told him.

  Arnost raised his sword. "I am still on my feet."

  He took a swing. Lansfrick deflected the blow with his shield and stabbed. Arnost took the scratch to the hip in exchange for a better swing at Lansfrick's arm. The other knight dodged back, and then the world spun around Arnost again. His body hit the ground hard again. Squeals rang in his ears. His neck ached.

  Gradually, the sharp ringing gave way to dull thuds of blood in his hears. Arnost moaned. The crowd roared.

  "No," Arnost mumbled to himself. It was all he could say.

  Again he forced his chest to rise and his legs to push him up.

  Lansfrick was again waving to the crowd. Again, he turned. He did not laugh this time. "Arnie, stop this."

  Arnost shook his head. He could feel dents in his helmet. "I cannot."

  Lansfrick came close, his sword lowered. "I know about your shoulder, Arnost. That old cat-wound keeps you from raising your sword-hand much above your ear. All I have to do is stay ahead of your sword and knock you down. I can defeat you a hundred times."

  "But not a thousand times," Arnost muttered. He held up his sword. "Again."

  Lansfrick stepped back to a decent range and readied. They fought. Arnost made several jabs, but again he fell. Warm, sticky blood began to trickle down inside of his helmet.

  Arnost pushed back to his feet.

  Lansfrick kicked the dust. "Please, stay down. Let's stop this."

  Arnost said nothing. He only stood. "I will not fall before you."

  "You're tired and wounded. Yield."

  "Not before you do."

  Arnost attacked. Lansfrick defended. Again, Arnost hit the ground. Again, he stood.

  "I admire you," Lansfrick said. "Your fortitude, unimaginable!"

  Arnost blinked blood out of his eyes. Was Lansfrick short of breath?

  "If it were not a matter of honor," Lansfrick went on, "I would step aside, but as the king's champion . . ."

  Arnost attacked. Lansfrick defended. Arnost struck him three times before he fell again. His legs did not hurt as they did before. Now they were tingling as if he had sat on them too long. He stamped them as he stood up.

  Lansfrick's voice was frantic. "I can't lose to you! I'm the king's champion!"

  Arnost attacked. Lansfrick defended. Arnost fell. He stood again, now using his sword like an old man's stick. He couldn't tell the roaring of the crowd from the roaring inside his head. His shield-arm hung loose, but he raised his sword.

  Lansfrick stood coddling his. "If you will not stop, I might kill you."

  "I will not stop."

  Lansfrick took in a rasping breath, but he said no more.

  They fought. Arnost fell. It seemed like midnight as he forced himself to stand again: dark, cool, quiet. Something heavy fell from his shoulders. His breastplate's leather strap must have broken. He would fight on.

  The crowd had stopped roaring.
Even the well-bred courtiers in their boxes were staring with their mouths open. Arnost could hear only warbling words trickle from the stands. Many were swears to the Lord; some were mumbles of pity. A boy was crying.

  Arnost raised his sword.

  "This . . . this isn't honorable," the deep voice of King Walter muttered.

  Lansfrick stood before him as a shadow. His sword trembled.

  Arnost took in a deep breath. His mouth tasted of sharp copper. He lifted his sword.

  Lansfrick stood still. Was he holding a defensive position? Was he considering a yield? It was hard to see, and the darkness was getting deeper.

  The deep breath slipped out of Arnost's mouth. His chest caved in under him, and his sword gained a thousand tons. He fell forward, forcing his left leg to drop so he landed on his side instead of his blade.

  Everything became black. Then there was noise. Unseen hands moved him onto his back.

  Light came into Arnost's eyes. The queen was above him. She must have rushed down from the stands with the others.

  Arnost winced at her shining face, but he could not bear to look away.

  It was not her body he saw. Only her face, surrounded in its clean white cap, crowned with her twist of gold. Her jewel-eyes sparkled with tears.

  There was no lust in his heart. Arnost loved her truly.

  "Sir Knight," Adela said softly, her voice so much more timid than the shrieks he had first heard from her, "I should kiss you."

  Arnost bit his tongue, but he felt no pain there. "No, I did not prove my worth."

  Her white hand pulled back Arnost's battered visor. It squeaked and stuck midway. She did not recoil. "This I give freely."

  She kissed him. Arnost felt her warmth against his own cold lips.

  The tournament went on. Its winner was not recorded in annals.

  Yet, in the chronicles of Sir Roger the Pious, amid his adventures in the Hellsmouth Cave and pursuit of the Drake of Fienlein, he tells those he meets time and again of his tutor, Sir Arnost, the peasant-knight who died with a smile on his face.