Authors: R.A. Salvatore
Their protégé had made quite an impression that morning, particularly on Kalas and the other knights. What pleased De’Unnero most of all was the reaction he was now hearing from the common folk. The name of Tai’maqwilloq was being spoken in every corner and always in excited tones. Before Aydrian’s appearance, the jousts, while entertaining, had seemed to the eyes of the peasants and many of the competitors to be more of a show than a true competition. For Duke Kalas had never been beaten, though he had battled nearly every competitor there more than one time previously. It had seemed a foregone conclusion that Duke Kalas would be named the King’s champion, which was why there had been so much excitement when the Talon had arrived. He was a nobleman from the Mantis Arm and by all accounts a formidable jouster, one who had never before battled against Kalas.
The common folk had hoped this man would rise to make an honest challenge.
And then Tai’maqwilloq had arrived, in armor as splendid as any of them had ever seen, with a magnificent horse and a wondrous sword, dispatching the Talon with such seeming ease, dispatching three others with brilliance and sheer power.
Suddenly the tournament seemed worth watching for more reasons than the spectacle of battle.
De’Unnero listened to it all, and he added his own feelings on the matter wherever he could to heighten the excitement.
“Five wins will get him to Kalas,” De’Unnero replied.
“Four, if the lottery of the three group winners and Duke Kalas pairs them,” Sadye said.
“It will not happen,” De’Unnero explained. “The excitement, after Aydrian moves on to the final rounds, will be to see him paired against Kalas. They will not hold that joust until the very end.”
Sadye grinned as he offered his assessment, for it became clear then that Aydrian’s choreographed appearance that morning had been for a good reason indeed. “Five jousts will tire him and his mount,” she said. “Duke Kalas has been given a strong advantage.”
De’Unnero seemed unconcerned. “Our young friend wants to be king,” he reminded her. “This challenge seems minimal beside that.”
Early that afternoon, Aydrian took his place in the lists for his first official joust. A rack of wooden lances, their tips blunt, stood at either end, with an attending squire standing ready to supply another lance to whatever rider happened to be at his end.
These early rounds were often the most brutal in the joust, for many of the competitors simply didn’t have the proper armor. So it was for the unfortunate peasant who lined up first against Aydrian. The man had on a hauberk, with layers of leather padding beneath. All competitors were offered a great shield of high quality, and this alone would afford the peasant any defense against Aydrian.
Aydrian took up his lance, feeling its weight and balance. Rationally, he knew that this fool would present no challenge to him, but he couldn’t deny the way his stomach was twisting. He had never fought like this before, and had only rarely battled at all from horseback!
It occurred to him that Brynn Dharielle would be virtually unbeatable at this type of combat.
A trumpet blare signaled the beginning; Aydrian tightened his legs on Symphony’s flanks and spurred the horse on a thunderous charge down the course.
On came his opponent, the man ducking behind his large shield, his lance unsteady in his hand.
Aydrian purposely angled himself so that his lance would hit the other man’s shield and the man’s lance would similarly slam his. He wanted to feel that unknown and obviously mighty impact, right now, early on, in preparation for the more formidable opponents he knew he would soon enough face.
The impact was indeed stunning. Both lances shattered, as jousting lances were designed to do, and it was only after Symphony had taken several more running strides that Aydrian realized that he had won, that the tremendous crash had sent his opponent spinning backward over his horse’s rump.
By the time he had pulled up at the far end of the course, the people were cheering, “Tai’maqwilloq! Tai’maqwilloq!” with abandon.
Aydrian looked back at his fallen opponent, the man flat on the ground, squires running to him.
So that was the truth of it, he realized. The initial passes of the joust, the three runs where replacement lances would be allowed, was a contest more of sheer strength and solidity in the saddle than any measure of battle maneuverability, though aim would become more important, he figured, when he started riding against the more-seasoned and better-armored opponents. Take that brutal hit and hold your seat, and victory would be there to claim.
The young warrior smiled, not only because of the rousing cheers for him but also because in that one pass he had learned much about the joust. In that one hit, he had learned that it would take much more than that to push him from his horse.
He had his second run about an hour later; and again, a single pass had the crowd cheering for Tai’maqwilloq and had his opponent lying in the dirt. His third opponent, an armored nobleman, took him two passes to unseat, the first to dull the man’s shield arm with a stunning blow, the second to put his lance above the man’s shield, catching him just below the shoulder. His second lance didn’t break, to Aydrian’s delight and to his opponent’s agony, for he lifted the man right out of his saddle, and he seemed to hang in midair for a long time before crashing down to the dirt.
Stubbornly, the nobleman climbed to his feet and drew out his huge sword, and the crowd cheered for Tai’maqwilloq to finish the job.
Aydrian looked to the squire handing him the third lance. “Ye get one more,” the toothless squire remarked with a huge grin.
“So does he,” Aydrian reminded.
“Aye, but he’s got no horse now, does he?”
Aydrian laughed and took the lance. “Need I stay on my side of the rail?” he asked.
The squire looked at him incredulously, and Aydrian certainly understood the man’s puzzlement. How could one as strong as Aydrian not even know the rules of the joust?
“The field’s open to ye,” the squire responded. “Just run that one down and move along. Take care, though, for he’s on the ground now, and that makes yer horse an open target.”
Aydrian turned back to the field and the waiting nobleman. The man stood shakily, one shoulder drooping. The young warrior thought that he should dismount and fight him on foot, but he quickly changed his mind, not wanting to show all his skills to his future opponents just yet.
“He will never get near my horse,” Aydrian replied to the squire and he drove his heels into Symphony, the great stallion leaping away.
The nobleman tried to dodge, but Aydrian was too quick for that. A shift of angle brought the lance squarely into the man’s chest and launched him through the air and onto his back.
Aydrian turned at the end of the run, watching as the stubborn man tried to rise again. The stubborn fool almost managed it, but then simply fell over sideways into the dust, where he lay coughing blood.
The attendants dragged him from the field; the crowd roared for Tai’maqwilloq.
Aydrian moved to the side of the field then, to his personal squires, a disguised Sadye among them.
“Your next opponent will be an Allheart knight,” she explained, “the leader of your group.”
Aydrian smiled.
The Allheart knight went down and stayed down on the first pass, as Aydrian angled his shield perfectly at the very last second to send the knight’s lance skipping high and wide and retracted his own lance, allowing his opponent to overbalance,
then thrusting his lance hard, above the lurching man’s dipping shield. It was the greatest impact Aydrian had felt that day, as his lance smashed into the knight’s armored breast, and it nearly unseated Aydrian as well.
In truth, the young warrior thought he might fall, and might lose the pass, for when he glanced back, he saw the Allheart still astride his running horse.
But the fight was surely over, for the man was nearly unconscious. His well-trained horse kept running, but the man slid off the side, crashed against the rail, and fell under it to the ground.
The crowd roared to new heights, and there was a change in timbre to that cheering, Aydrian recognized and understood. Before, they were cheering for the impossible, for an unknown warrior. Now they were cheering for a man who had just clobbered an Allheart knight, a man who seemed destined to challenge Duke Targon Bree Kalas.
They held the lottery for the final four competitors soon after; and, as De’Unnero had predicted, Aydrian would be pitted not against Duke Kalas but against another Allheart knight, the largest of the competitors by far and a man who had won his group with ease.
By draw, Duke Kalas and his opponent went onto the field first.
Aydrian took Symphony to the side of the field, to Sadye and his attendants.
“Watch the Duke’s style,” Sadye remarked.
Aydrian laughed and walked away, hardly caring. When he was out of sight, he flexed his right wrist repeatedly, for the violence of that last hit had wounded the joint more than he had realized. Aydrian reached his thoughts to the hematite set into his armor and emerged back onto the field with hardly an ache soon after Kalas’ easy victory.
“Two passes,” Sadye remarked as an attendant helped Aydrian back into the saddle. “Though the first should have unseated the Duke’s opponent. He was good.”
“And glad I am to hear that,” Aydrian replied. “It would be a pity to go through such a day of triumph without a single challenge!”
His confidence brought a chuckle to Sadye. True to his own prediction, Aydrian trotted out to the field and defeated his second Allheart of the day, unseating him in the first pass and running him down with ease.
That left only two.
“Present yourself to the King,” the squire near one of the lance racks explained to Aydrian. When he turned, he saw that Duke Kalas had come back onto the field, trotting his powerful To-gai pony toward the King’s pavilion.
Aydrian joined him there, but as he had done with the Talon, he did not look at Kalas at all, just at the King and Queen.
Danube rose then and launched into a great speech about the glories of the day, of the hard-won victories and bitter defeats. He congratulated all who had competed but then pronounced that these two among the rest had proven themselves the strongest.
King Danube looked down at Duke Kalas first. “For whom do you ride, champion Duke Kalas?” he asked.
“I am Allheart!” Kalas pronounced in a loud and resonant voice. “I ride for King Danube! My King, my country, my life!”
The crowd roared.
“And for whom do you ride, champion Tai’maqwilloq?” Danube asked, and the crowd went wild at the mention of his name.
When they quieted, Danube unexpectedly continued. “You said that you came to prove yourself worthy. I expect that you have done just that!”
The crowd erupted again, this time into a combination of cheering and laughter.
Aydrian waited for it to subside. “When I find one a worthy challenge, I will name myself as worthy,” Aydrian remarked, and the crowd howled at such a brash statement. “That has not happened yet.”
Aydrian felt Kalas’ eyes boring into him and heard the Duke issue a low growl.
“I ride not for you, King Danube!” Aydrian announced suddenly in a tremendous voice. Danube’s eyes popped open wide, the crowd gasped, and Duke Kalas growled again. Not only was such a declaration amazing on this, the King’s birthday celebration but Aydrian’s referral to “King Danube” instead of to “my King” was no small matter of improper etiquette.
“I ride for Queen Jilseponie alone!” Aydrian pronounced, and again came the gasps and the growl from Kalas; and several of the nobles seated in the royal pavilion crinkled their faces in disgust.
But King Danube did not seem so upset. Indeed, he howled a great bellow of laughter. “But a fine night I’ll find with my wife if my champion fells hers!” he roared, and the crowd exploded into laughter again. “And a worse night of gloating, I fear, should her young upstart defeat my Duke!”
And then they were all laughing, except Duke Kalas, his lips thin with rage; except Queen Jilseponie, who sat there in blank amazement; except the other nobles, whose eyes shot daggers Aydrian’s way; and except Marcalo De’Unnero, who stood in the crowd nodding admiringly at the way his young friend had played out the drama, pushing hard but not too far.
A
subtle nod as he was placing his great plumed helm atop his head was all that Duke Kalas needed to do to get his point across to the squire attending his weapon rack and to the one across the way, who would be handing a lance to Tai’maqwilloq.
To this point, Kalas had battled fairly—except for the inescapable reality in the general melee that afforded him the honor of rank and reputation—and had he been fighting anyone else in this final match, he would have gladly continued doing so, confident that he would emerge victorious.
He remained confident now, even before he had thought to give the telling nod, but, in light of Bruce of Oredale’s previous words and the declaration of the young upstart warrior, Duke Kalas also understood the dire implications here should
Tai’maqwilloq somehow defeat him.
For the sake of his friend the King, he could take no chances.
That’s what he told himself, anyway, the self-justification he needed to take the lance from his attendant. It was heavier than any of the others on the rack, and with the exception of its somewhat dulled point, was, in fact, an actual weapon of war and not a lance for jousting. Kalas settled it easily beside his magnificent shield, emblazoned with his family crest: the pine tree of St. Abelle with a dragon rampant on either side, their flaming breaths joining above the tree.
The mere sight of the Duke attired so magnificently, a seemingly unbeatable foe, the epitome of knighthood, often stole the strength from his opponents, and Kalas’ chest swelled when he heard the appreciative cheers of the peasants.
I
n the royal pavilion, sitting very straight backed and outwardly composed, Jilseponie watched the young champion, this greatly skilled warrior, deeply intrigued and with more than a little trepidation. His name was elven, clearly, as was that sword he had presented. And she could see in his graceful movements that he was a ranger.