The Royal Tournament Page 3

  The crowd shouted, “Huzzah,” and turned their collective heads to the southern pavilion.

  A pair of grooms pulled aside the tent flap, making way for their master.

  The knight, clad in gleaming, golden armour, pranced his ivory stallion onto the pitch. Both rider and mount were draped in aquamarine surcoats, emblazoned with a waterfall cascading between two mountains: the crest of Songsbirth, Millsford's neighbour to the southeast. The Songsbirthian brought his mount to a halt abreast Javen and attempted to stare him down.

  Javen met the leer, his innocent appearance contrasting sharply with his older opponent’s grizzled mien.

  With the preliminaries underway, Javen felt his nervousness ease as he focused on the task at hand. This was his best event.

  The Songsbirthian knight realized his intimidation tactic wasn't working. “I say, ware thee own self well, my farming friend. Let it not be unbeknownst that without the lifeblood of the Madrigail, its parturition in Songsbirth, your chaff would wither and die. Know thee also well, the flood I shall deliver unto you.”

  The Songsbirthian donned the conical helm resting upon his saddle horn.

  Before slipping into his own helmet, Javen proclaimed, “Ware thee well, good challenger, for ye are to know the heart of the chaff, for neither drought nor flood can deny it.”

  Javen donned his helm, wincing at his last statement. He flipped up his faceplate with a metallic squeal, and said to the entire gathering, “Let the joust commence.”

  Both riders customarily turned their mounts to face the king, and bowed, offering their lances.

  The king stood and nodded for them to assume their respective starting places.

  Both riders bowed once again before leading their horses in opposite directions.

  Once ready, the participants watched the royal box.

  King Peter held a white glove in his outstretched hand. He released it without further ado, signaling the commencement of the joust.

  As the glove left the king's hand, the combatants bent low over their mount's neck. They waited until the glove hit the field before spurring to a gallop.

  The crowd erupted.

  Sunseeker's nostrils flared with the sudden exertion, its flanks rippling with pounding muscles.

  Javen gripped his lance tightly, keeping its tip parallel to the ground, perfectly still. Sunseeker ran the rail tight, needing little control from its rider.

  With a sudden, resounding collision, the riders met.

  The Songsbirthian’s lance impacted with Javen’s dented shield, the force splintering the shaft.

  Javen drove his own lance home, the Songsbirthian catching it with the edge of his shield. The metal coronal protecting the pole’s tip deflected up, catching the knight beneath the chin, its flanged edge lodging itself between the man’s gorget and helm.

  The Songsbirthian cried out as he flew from his mount, taking Javen's lance with him, his hands clutching at his neck.

  Javen struggled to remain in his saddle, his lance pulled from his grasp. He heard the excitement of the crowd at his victory, but he wasn't happy. He'd been lucky. The Songsbirthian had deflected his thrust. Fortunately, the lance tip had snagged itself within his challenger's armour.

  Reining in Sunseeker, he trotted back to the king's box to receive his official proclamation of victory.

  On his way, he noted the Songsbirthian writhing in pain, surrounded by grooms, and a healer who tended a nasty gash in the knight’s neck. Javen steeled himself. It was undoubtedly the most dangerous event in the tournament.

  Reaching the royal box, helmet in hand, Javen bowed low over Sunseeker’s neck.

  The crowd fell silent.

  King Peter's booming voice took in the entire gathering. “Well done, young Milford, a noble joust indeed. I declare you victor and offer you a royal ribbon of conquest.”

  Javen humbly nodded, turning in his saddle to accept his fallen lance from a beaming Captain Korn.

  Once rid of the lance, the captain bowed to the king.

  Javen offered his lance tip to King Peter, who took it in hand and knotted a short, vermillion ribbon near the coronal.

  Javen bowed again. With the king’s leave, he turned Sunseeker toward the northern pavilion.

  Emerging from underneath the great canopy sheltering the royal box, Javen hefted his lance high to the home crowd’s unbridled delight.

  Back at the baron's manor, Javen was invited to join both baron and king for the noonday feast, along with forty other notables from Zephyr and beyond.

  He sat clear across the banquet hall from the king, Prince Malcolm, Prince Graham, King’s Champion Jarr-nash Sylvan Jordic, and the baron; elated to be afforded such an auspicious opportunity.

  On Javen's right sat a knight from Serpens, a neighbouring kingdom to the north. The man’s azure surcoat was trimmed in vermillion. Studying the large man, he realized the riders Javen and his father had witnessed crossing the foothills were the Serpensian delegation.

  The Serpensian was a huge man. Seated, he was taller than Javen was standing. The giant’s long, brown hair and thick beard did nothing to distract from his prominent forehead. His pudgy cheeks displayed deep dimples when he laughed, and being a jovial type, this happened often. His small nose seemed out of place upon his face, flat and obviously broken more than once. He introduced himself as Helvius Pyxis.

  A wiry, dark skinned man with tightly curled, black hair sat on Javen’s left. He wore only a tanned leather chest protector and a similarly coloured loincloth. A well-used scorpion flail covered with metal barbs hung precariously from the thong cinching his loincloth about his waist. Although the man couldn't speak the language of Zephyr to save his life, he managed to convey the fact he hailed from a distant kingdom south of Zephyr, and his name was Alcyonne.

  As near as Javen could tell, the kingdom was called Aldebaran, or something to that effect. Javen had never heard of the place, but he wasn't exactly a man of the world. He took note of the name, however, and made a mental note to find out where this Aldebaran was.

  Alcyonne had won his first two matches earlier in the morning with apparent ease, though a purple welt upon his right shoulder suggested otherwise.

  During a hearty meal of pheasant and vegetables, quaffing mead by the urn, Javen and Helvius shared a good rapport. Alcyonne studied them with great interest, laughing every time Javen or Helvius laughed, even though he obviously hadn't a clue what was being said. From time to time Alcyonne tried to enter the conversation, but his efforts to make the other two understand him proved fruitless. Still, he laughed hysterically at many of the things he said.

  With the meal eaten, minstrels took over the centre of the hall, relating hero’s tales of yore, while bards spun yarns of bygone tournaments. All the while, jesters frolicked and tumbled throughout the room, delighting one and all.

  Javen laughed at the antics of a specific jester. The little man had just recited a short poem of ill repute to the three of them, finishing his act with a back flip off their table and onto the floor.

  As the jester moved on, Javen’s attention was drawn to Alcyonne, bent over double and slapping his thighs, laughing so hard tears fell from his cheeks.

  Javen looked at Helvius, raising his eyebrows in question.

  Helvius leaned forward to get a better look at Alcyonne. Shaking his head, he sat back in his chair and shrugged.

  They both sniggered tentatively, trying to restrain themselves, but couldn’t. They erupted simultaneously with laughter of their own at the innocence of their newfound friend. Their laughter, in turn, set Alcyonne off even harder than before.

  Their ruckus drew the attention of nearby tables. Conscious of the spectacle they were making of themselves only caused them to laugh harder.

  By and by, they stifled their unbridled mirth, nursing sore ribs and drying wet cheeks.

  Helvius stood, his towering heig
ht and thick torso attracting attention of those around him. Ignoring the scrutiny, something he had done his entire life, he offered a huge hand to Javen, who stood to accept the meaty handshake.

  “Well, Master Javen Milford,” Helvius’ deep voice resonated. “I have heard many tales of your people from those of other kingdoms, and I am afraid to say, most of what I heard was not nice.”

  Javen’s eyes widened at the man’s candour. He searched for something to say, but Helvius stayed him, by holding up his free hand.

  “Fear not. During my travels, I have learned not to hold much sway with another man’s words. I will say, I have been in Zephyr but a short while, and though I have had little interaction with your people, if they are anything akin to yourself, those rumours couldn’t be further from the truth. You strike me as a man of integrity and good manner. Thank you for allowing the likes of myself, and indeed, our laughing friend here, to share your company.”

  Helvius’ friendly, but firm, handshake threatened to crush Javen’s strong hand.

  Trying not to wince, Javen was visibly relieved when Helvius let go. Humble to the core, he merely smiled and nodded his thanks.

  The Serpensian stepped around Javen to regard Alcyonne with an affectionate grin. Alcyonne’s wide smile parted to reveal a big set of perfectly aligned, ivory teeth.

  In his haste to stand, the jovial man from Aldebaran managed to upturn his heavy chair.

  Helvius laughed and extended his hand, only to be taken by surprise when Alcyonne suddenly jumped and wrapped his gangly arms tightly about him; unsuccessfully trying to lift him from the floor. Helvius looked over his shoulder at Javen, raising his eyebrows helplessly.

  Javen smiled back. He and Helvius had certainly found a gem of a friend in Alcyonne.

  Alcyonne released his hold on Helvius, and the larger man said, “I wish you both well this afternoon. I truly hope we need not face each other. At least not ‘til the end.”

  “Luck to you, Helvius.”

  Alcyonne had no idea what had been said by either party, but he knew they were parting company. He gripped Javen in a bear hug, this time successfully lifting his victim’s feet from the wooden floorboards with some effort, stumbling back under the sudden weight. He released Javen and stood back, his infectious smile replaced by a look of sincerity.

  “Yaw bre,” he uttered in a gravelly voice, as he looked sadly at the ground between them.

  Javen and Helvius looked at each other, touched. In unison, having no idea what they were saying, they replied, “Yaw bre.”

  Chapter 4-Simply Noble

  “Hear ye, hear ye. His Majesty, King Peter Svelte would like me to introduce to you, Sir Graham Fishon, hailing from the troubled region of Ember Breath, and his challenger, Alcyonne, hailing from Aldebaran, an oceanic realm south of Zephyr,” the town crier announced before scurrying back to his seat upon a crate against the wall separating the field from the eastern stand.

  The smile splitting Captain Korn’s usual blank expression threatened to expose his teeth. The spectacle unfolding before him similar to that which took place earlier in the day.

  A knot of squires and pages grunted and groaned, working feverishly to outfit their ever-fidgeting charge.

  Javen, for his part, bore their irksome ministrations like a horse did flies. He peeked through the northern pavilion tent flaps at the backside of the knight and his horse who had just vacated the marshalling tent Javen occupied. Fishon had seemed such an ungrateful bore, going on about how his armour wasn’t polished enough and berating his retainers for taking too long to outfit him.

  “Come forth if thou darest, dark horseman, and know thee well, this day shall match thy colour. Surrender now and perchance I shall find in me a mercy absent my usual want. What sayest thou?” the knight’s booming voice sounded mockingly from outside the northern pavilion.

  Slitting the tent flaps farther apart to afford himself a better look, Javen watched as the southern pavilion tent flaps pushed outward, revealing the ebony rider. Alcyonne rode bareback atop a mottled palfrey; off-white with rusty splotches.

  To Javen’s astonishment, Alcyonne was clad only in the same crude leather chest protector and loose-fitting loincloth he wore at the noonday feast, a battered wooden shield his only real means of protection. He bore no other clothing or markings, save the nasty purple welt upon his right shoulder, and the well-used scorpion flail tucked into the thong cinched at his waist.

  His horse bore no attire whatsoever. In fact, only Alcyonne’s wide, toothy smile and intense, white and light brown eyes broke the drabness of his overall appearance.

  Alcyonne rode his mount to the beginning of the tilting rail. The horse pranced uncertainly, shying from the boisterous crowd on either side of the pitch. The spectators, familiar with the dark horseman from the morning tilts, cheered louder for the foreigner than they did for the knight from Zephyr’s southernmost port.

  Alcyonne’s eyes radiated excitement; his response to his opponent’s taunting hail, a bellowing laugh. The crowd echoed his sentiments, no one realizing Alcyonne hadn’t understood a single word spoken to him.

  Covering his mouth, Javen stifled a laugh of his own, much to the displeasure of his retainers.

  Fishon sat astride a large, black stallion. Both rider and mount were adorned in brilliant cherry-red surcoats of glistening satin that refracted the sunlight in shimmering waves, a rich green volcano, erupting violently in yellows, oranges and reds embroidered upon their surcoats. He was clearly rattled by his adversary’s response, his flushed mien sporting a full, black beard. So, too, were his burly retainers, their offended faces redder than their coat-of-arms.

  Javen realized Alcyonne didn’t have a single retainer.

  “Mock me now, black man, but let it be known, any mercy I usually afford a worthy opponent will not be accorded thee!”

  Alcyonne laughed aloud.

  The crowd responded in turn.

  The knight looked toward the king’s box, only to be affronted by King Peter’s poor attempt at masking his smile.

  The knight’s obvious outrage only served to stir the crowd up even more.

  Disgusted, the knight snatched the conical helm from his saddle horn and slammed it home upon his head, not bothering to lift the faceplate. He cantered his mount to the king’s box to offer his lance; the small vermillion ribbon from his morning victory flapping in the breeze.

  Alcyonne steered his horse toward the centre of the grandstand. His huge smile elicited cheers from both sides of the field as he turned his head this way and that, pointing and winking affectionately at many different people within the crowd; not one did he know.

  The knight from Ember Breath positioned his mount to obstruct his challenger, forcing Alcyonne to approach the royal box further to the right than was politically correct, causing the man-at-arms on that side to step closer to the king.

  The dark warrior’s eyes narrowed at the slight, but he never lost his smile. His eyes opened wide again as he looked directly into the king’s, reflecting the warmth he received.

  The Ember Breath man pulled off his helm long enough to nod to the king.

  Both contestants offered their lances out of respect for the monarch. Alcyonne had to stretch his left arm uncomfortably to accommodate his position, his arm shaking visibly with the pull of the extended weight.

  To the Ember Breath knight’s chagrin, the king’s gaze never strayed from Alcyonne. King Peter regarded the Aldebaranite warmly for some moments before giving him a gentle wave of his hand. The king then turned to the man on his right and began an animated conversation, obviously ignoring the knight.

  With a nasty sneer directed at the black man’s back, the knight snorted derisively, and cantered his horse back toward the northern pavilion.

  Jarr-nash, the king’s champion, looked around the king, pretending to listen, and studied the withdrawal of the rider from Aldebaran with int
erest.

  The Ember Breath knight wheeled his mount around the northern end of the tilting rail and reined to a stop. Raising his faceplate, he bellowed, “Heed thee well, burnt man from some minor fiefdom. I will answer your mocking impertinence.”

  The knight slammed his faceplate shut with a loud chink, awaiting the king’s signal. The jeers heard coming from the stands did nothing to alleviate his seething.

  Alcyonne cantered his mount into position. He had no idea what his opponent had said to him, but he knew by the tone, it was less than complimentary.

  Alcyonne lost his smile, his heavy brow lowering over intense eyes. With a growl, he muttered between clenched teeth, “Yaw bre.”

  Javen’s breath caught in his throat, gripping the tent flap tighter.

  His retainers turned and walked away in disgust. There would be no prospect of dressing him until the present joust ran its course.

  All eyes turned to watch the king’s dangling white glove. After nodding to each competitor, he released it.

  The crowd erupted as the horses set into motion, churning clods of earth in their wake; the horse from Ember Breath charging well before the glove hit the ground.

  Alcyonne’s lithe frame tensed in anticipation, his usually happy eyes narrowed, almost hidden below an uninterrupted brow, the tumultuous crowd a distant hum in his ears. His mind focused upon the oncoming rider, who still hadn’t lowered his lance.

  Alcyonne had jousted many times in his life. Every move came to him without thought. Approaching the impact zone, his lance tip leveled itself of its own accord. With impact imminent, his mind screamed at him. Something was wrong. His opponent’s style wasn’t right.

  Everything happened in quick succession. From the white glove signaling the start of the joust to the impending collision, there was little time to rationalize what was happening. Instinctively, at the moment he should have been ramming his lance home, Alcyonne attempted to block his opponent’s lance tip from taking his head off, but missed. He drew his left shoulder up and out, arching his back and craning his neck sideways, practically unhorsing himself in a desperate attempt to avoid the sharpened lance tip whizzing by his cheek by less than a whisper.