"—What's that?" the shield-bearer said.
Durand heard nothing. Then realized: The lines were silent. Seven score warhorses stood shoulder to shoulder on Durand's side of the lists. The lances were poised like a line of flagpoles.
Guthred started to move, getting a better position, and Durand followed. "Coensar's wearing azure with terns in silver," he said. He jabbed splayed fingers into Durand's chest "Blue with three white birds on. He'll be at the head of our lot when they charge out."
"Who're we fighting for?"
"His Lordship's lined up against the Duke of Mornaway's boy, Lord Moryn, His Lordship's brother-in-law."
"His man fixed that saddle. Lamoric's pitted
against
his brother-in-law?"
Guthred grunted. "Moryn's heir to Mornaway. His bodyguard are hard men fresh from Hallow Down—but our lads will fight harder for a chance at his ransom. Trust greed."
Durand shook his head—but there was money in
Mornaway
.
Guthred pointed. "That's him, so watch. A greyhound-lean man coolly stalked the line of his knights on the far side of the lists. His shield bore a maze of diamonds in blue and yellow, the dizzying design repeating on his surcoat and the trappe
r of a blood-bay warhorse. "He f
ights these things to keep sharp for the king's next call."
"I see him," Durand said.
"Clever boy," Guthred said. His attention had turned to the reviewing stand where the Herald of Errest would be watching.
"Hold there," Guthred said, raising his hand. 'That's the heralds."
Someone was speaking. All Durand could see were the backsides of horses.
'That's it," Guthred concluded.
Durand turned—about to say, "That's what?"—when he heard the first note of a trumpet, and Creation exploded. Seven-score warhorses launched their weight of iron and muscle into motion.
The line thundered away, a hundred-forty haunches, fast as falling. You couldn't get so many men on the field at Acconel. He had seen nothing like it.
As Durand staggered, the line of horses' backsides struck; the impact stamped across a hundred paces. Tournament lance-heads—three-knuckled crowns—bit, their shafts detonating. Men roared. Horses collided. Strong men flew like rag dolls. And the remains of the enemy line burst through. Horses dragged riders.
"Bad one," Guthred grunted. 'The bastards always take the first charge at a gallop." He shook his head a twitch. "Daft buggers."
With a grunt, he turned to the shield-bearers. "Watch for our boys!" Blinded by leaping mobs, Guthred turned to Durand. "You see the captain?"
Durand searched the chaos of three hundred knights careering in three hundred directions as the charge splintered, then some lodestone's pull imposed itself upon the confusion and the lines took shape again. The last few slashed back and forth between the lines roaring curses. "Nothing," Durand said.
"Lines met badly. Some bastard must have taken his opponent on the right, or sheered off, or some cursed thing. Bad pass. It'll make a short day for some. I don't see any of our lads."
Durand swept the churning throng but saw no one. They could all be sprawled in the muck or disarmed or surrounded. "No. There's—"
"Hells. Stick by me, mooncalf. We've got to work round the side. There might be time." Guthred turned to the others. 'Take as much as you can carry and follow me!" The shield-bearers and a thicket of lances
bolted around the field, head
ing for the sideline under the crowded stands. As they ran, though, the ranks of horsemen drew themselves together. "Hells, they're going straight back at it!" Guthred shouted.
Despite the struggling men in the field between them, the two lines charged. The heaving formation of iron and muscle rumbled past Durand and Guthred's clattering mob.
They struck while Durand and his fellow shield-bearers were shoving their way through gawkers. The crowd jumped to life, but when the ranks thundered apart once more, the field's slaughterhouse madness was laid bare only a few yards from Durand. Stallions floundered like hooked fish. Bloody men dragged themselves toward safety. Some lay still.
Guthred pointed.
"Coensar!"
Durand looked for a body, but then spotted a blue and silver figure riding through no-man's-land. Sir Coensar circled one of the crawlers, Keening leveled.
"He's got that one," said Guthred. "The fellow's lamed himself somehow."
The downed knight rolled onto his back.
Meanwhile, the lines swept together at either end of the field. Horses still churned, knights were roaring.
"Right boy," said Guthred. "We're getting Coen's fish. If he dies out there there's no ransom!"
Durand blinked as Guthred broke from the crowd and charged out between the lines. Two or three hundred lances jostled, ready to charge. The man had to be mad.
Durand gritted his teeth and ran.
Seeing Guthred take the field, Coensar gave a nod and broke for Lamoric's ranks. The wounded man moaned behind the mask of a battle helm, "To the Hells with you!" Pitiless, Guthred took hold and began to drag. "Grab an arm, boy!"
Durand took a fistful of surcoat.
Suddenly, the turf shuddered to life.
"Son of Morning,"
Guthred croaked. He let go.
In a sick instant, Durand realized that Guthred had misjudged. They were too far from the fence. A glance took in the leveled points of a hundred lances bearing down. A double tide of iron and muscle surged toward them. In a twist of panic, Durand flipped the prisoner over his shoulders and ran, the lines slamming shut at his heels. He dove.
The lines flew apart. Durand and his cargo hit the turf by Guthred's side. The crowd roared.
Guthred spat dirt from his mouth. "How many times do the buggers mean to do that before they get to business?"
Gawkers hauled Durand to his feet. A beaker of something was dumped over his thigh. He had torn his knuckles when he locked his fist in the prisoner's hauberk. Despite the press, Guthred managed a word in Durand's ear. "Clever. Three hundred pounds of man and armor there." He peered up into Durand's face. "A thing like this might get a new man noticed—if that's what he's after."
In the fields, the last great charge had devolved into tangled skirmishes. Swords flashed over a storm of grunting men and beasts.
"God!" the downed man moaned. "You whoresons. I think you've separated me from one of my arms. Ach, some bastard's stepped on my hand."
Guthred moved his heel. "You're lucky you're alive, Lordship." He was busy keeping an eye on every shield-bearer and every rider. Durand watched the faces change with every heartbeat. He couldn't imagine tracking it all.
The prostrate knight wrestled his helm off, gasping, "Oi! Back, you bastards. There's a man still alive down here." An older knight, past forty, grimaced from a tight mail hood. A graying beard bristled nearly over his cheekbones. For a moment he worked his shoulder, eyes squeezed shut, but then he looked up—one eye remained an empty pucker. "Who owes me the arm?"
"That's him that's looking over you," said Guthred, taking his eyes from the lists. "I dropped you."
In front of them, a man flew from his saddle. He hit the turf like an ox dropped from a wall.
"Ah," One-Eye said. "Gimme your arm, friend." He reached up, and Durand caught his hand without thinking. The man levered himself up. "There," the stranger said, "you're settled. Arm for arm. I still owe you a life, though, I think." He was smiling. "Tell me where I'm to stand till they're done. I could use a drink. This will ruin me. I'm Berchard, by the by."
A conroi of men in blue swung past, the leader with a kicking enemy slung over his saddlebow.
Guthred looked to Durand. "Put your new friend by the fire pit. We'll start a pile."
Abruptly, Coensar was before them. He brought ancient Keening up in a salute—maybe to Durand, maybe to the crowd. The mob was loud behind them.
But as Durand glanced at the throng, his gaze fell upon a woman's face. She stood straight-backed, looking down on him from one of the wellborn boxes. Half the crowd was looking right at him, but Durand knew her; she was the one from the stream. Under the Eye of Heaven, her hair was not dark at all, but red as new blood. She wore it uncovered in the style of a maiden.
"Aw no," Guthred was saying. Somewhere across the field, a group of knights in stained gear was walking from the lists, disarmed.
"I'm afraid they're taking the polish off your grand performance there, boy. That's three of ours just yielded."
An hour later
, Durand and Guthred were catching their breath among the tents, having just hauled a knight—big as a carthorse—to safety. One of Lamoric's men, the giant had taken a blow to the forehead. The needle pulled, then popped, as Guthred's man worked on the knight. The wound bristled with eyebrow and stitches as the big knight took a pull from his wineskin.
While Durand watched the surgeon's work, Guthred kept an eye on the field.
"Aw. Aw no. Aw no!" He ripped the skullcap from his head and whipped it to the ground. "Not another! This'11 break us. Lamoric's getting a good show for the Herald."
Out in the lists, a knight Durand did not recognize was on his knees. "Does that make eight?" Durand asked.
"Or nine, friend. It might as well be nine. This will cost us." It could mean the armor, horses, and weapons of every man, all lost to ransom. Guthred bent to collect the iron bowl of his skullcap. "We haven't had a day like this in ages." He looked at Durand, and spent a long moment still and staring. "You're a real good luck charm."
The day had been long, and frustration had Lamoric's retainers snapping and snarling. An hour before, Durand and the other shield-bearers had to scuffle with the men of another retinue. One of Lamoric's knights had hit the turf right at Durand's feet. They could hardly watch another man dragged off.
"Come," said Guthred. He nodded to the carthorse knight. "He don't need his hand held. You'll see, he'll be up and surrendering like all the others in no time." A thread of blood slithered from the big man's brow to his beard.
Abruptly, the crowd was howling. "Hells, what's this?" Guthred said and bolted for the lists, elbowing a path to the front row with Durand in tow.
As Durand stepped out, Lamoric, easy to recognize in solid red, swung down from his warhorse. In front of him, a lean knight was getting up from a hard fall. He levered a shield from the muck.
It was covered in diamonds: blue and yellow, azure and gold.
"Host of Heaven," said Guthred. "Lamoric's knocked Moryn Mornaway on his arse!" Moryn's ransom would buy every man they'd lost. But Guthred's face was tense.
"Can he take him?" Durand asked.
"Shut up," was Guthred's reply.
Lamoric did a good job playing the grave knight-at-arms, waiting for Lord Moryn to collect his sword and shield. Some of the crowd were shouting, "Get to it!" and "Past time for kissing now!" There was laughter.
As Moryn stood, Lamoric raised his blade to the red face of his battle helm. When Moryn answered, Lamoric moved: gallant salute turned murderous attack as Lamoric wrenched his blade into a high slash. In the wheeling moments that followed, the two combatants sent a flickering exchange to nick shields and test distances.
The Lord of Mornaway was swift and supple; Durand spotted something in the man's gait: he'd done something to his hip. An opening like that could be enough.
The two combatants danced apart, reeling to catch themselves in clean guard positions. Lord Moryn assumed an outlandish pose, coiled with his sword cocked over his off shoulder. Durand had never seen the like.
"Come on. Coen's shown you," Guthred muttered.
Moryn waited like an adder, poised as Lamoric jittered out of reach. Suddenly, Lamoric saw some chance. He lunged close, jamming his red shield high. The Lord of Mornaway uncoiled—a fraction too slow.
In a confusion of shields and blades, Lamoric's sword clapped over Moryn's armored knee.
The lord of Mornaway sprang clear, clutching at the pain. The steel cap over the knee had blunted a maiming strike, though God knew what had become of the bone behind it.
Some of Moryn's men made to jump in. Durand braced himself to throw his fists against their swords, but Moryn snapped his hand into the air, stopping it all.
Gravely then, the Lord of Mornaway stood and raised his blade in salute.
He was brave, but no man could fight if he couldn't move.