Wintertide (21 page)

Mince had left The Nest early, looking for what he could scrounge for breakfast. The sun had barely peeked above the city wall when he managed to snatch a fine bit of beef from Gilim’s Slaughterhouse. After a particularly sound stroke from Gilim’s cleaver, a piece of shank skipped across the slick table, fell in the snow, and slid downhill. Mince happened to be in the right place at the right time. Snatching it, he ran with the bloody, fist-sized chunk of meat clutched inside his tunic. Anyone noticing the sprinting boy might conclude he was mortally wounded.

He was anxious to devour his prize, but exposing it would risk losing the meat to a bigger kid. Worse yet, a butcher or guard might spot him. Mince wished Brand and Elbright were with him. They had gone to the slaughterhouses down on Coswell, where most of the butchering would be done. The fights there would be fierce. Grown men would struggle for scraps alongside the orphans. Mince was too small to compete. Even if he managed to grab a hunk, someone would likely take it, beating him senseless in the process. The other two boys could hold their own. Elbright was as tall as most men now and Brand even larger, but Mince had to satisfy himself with the smaller butcher shops.

Arriving on the street in front of Bingham’s Carriage House, Mince stopped. He needed to get inside, but the thought of what he might find there frightened him. In his haste to get an early start, he had forgotten about Kine. For the past few days, his friend’s loud wheezing had woken Mince from a sound sleep, but he could not remember having heard anything that morning.

Mince had seen too much death. He knew eight boys—friends—who had died from cold, sickness, or starvation. They always went in winter, their bodies stiff and frozen. Each lifeless form was once a person—laughing, joking, running, crying—then was just a thing, like a torn blanket or a broken lantern. After finding remains, Mince would drag them to the pile—there was always a pile in winter. No matter how short a distance he needed to drag the body, the trip felt like miles. He remembered the good times and moments they had spent together. Then he would look down at the stiff, pale thing.

Will I be the thing one day? Will someone drag me to the pile?

He gritted his teeth, entered the alley, climbed to the roof, and pulled back the board. Coming in from the brilliant sunlight, Mince crawled blindly into the crevice. The Nest was dark and silent. There was no sound of breathing—wheezing or otherwise. Mince reached forward, imagining Kine’s cold, stiff body. The thought caused his hand to shake even as he willed his fingers to spread out, searching. Touching the silken material of the robe, he recoiled as it began to glow.

Kine was not there.

The robe lay on the floor as if Kine had melted during the night. Mince pulled the material toward him. As he did, the glow increased enough to reach every corner of the room. He was alone. Kine was gone. Not even his body remained.

Mince sat for a second, and then a thought surfaced. He dropped the robe in horror and kicked it away. The robe’s glow throbbed and grew fainter.

“Ya ate him!” Mince cried. “Ya lied to me. Ya
are
cursed!”

The light went out and Mince backed as far away as possible. He had to get away from the killer robe, but now it was lying between him and the exit.

A silhouette passed in front of the opening, momentarily blocking the sunlight.

“Mince?” Kine’s voice said. “Mince, look. I got me lamb chops!”

Kine entered and replaced the board. Mince’s eyes adjusted until he could see his friend holding a pair of bloody bones. His chin was stained red. “I woulda saved you one, but I couldn’t find you. By Mar, I was famished!”

“Ya all right, Kine?”

“I’m great. I’m still a little hungry, but other than that, I feel fantastic.”

“But last night…” Mince started. “Last night ya—ya—didn’t look so good.”

Kine nodded. “I had all kinds of queer dreams that’s for sure.”

“What kind of dreams?”

“Hmm? Oh just odd stuff. I was drowning in this dark lake. I couldn’t breathe ’cuz water was spilling into my mouth every time I tried to take a breath. I tried to swim, but my arms and legs barely moved—it was a terrible nightmare.” Kine noticed the beef flank Mince still held. “Hey! You got some meat, too? You wanna cook it up? I’m still hungry.”

“Huh? Oh, sure,” Mince said as he looked down at the robe while handing the beef to Kine.

“I love Blood Week, don’t you?”

***

Trumpets blared and drums rolled as the pennants of twenty-seven noble houses snapped in the late-morning breeze. People filed into the stands at Highcourt Field on the opening day of the Grand Avryn Wintertide Tournament. The contest would last ten days, ending with the Feast of Tides. Across the city, shops closed and work stopped. Only the smoking and salting of meat continued as Blood Week ran parallel to the tournament, and the slaughter could not halt even for such an august event. Many thought the timing was an omen that signaled the games would produce a higher number of accidents, which only added to the excitement. Every year crowds delighted in seeing blood.

Two years before, the Baron Linder of Maranon had died when a splintered lance held by Sir Gilbert pierced the visor of his helm. The same year Sir Dulnar of Rhenydd had his right hand severed in the final round of the sword competition. Nothing, however, compared to the showdown five years ago between Sir Jervis and Francis Stanley, the Earl of Harborn. In the final tilt of the tournament, Sir Jervis—who already bore a grudge against the earl—passed over the traditional Lance of Peace and picked up the Lance of War. Against council, the earl agreed to the deadly challenge. Jervis’s lance pierced Stanley’s cuirass as if it were parchment and continued on through his opponent’s chest. The knight did not escape the encounter unscathed. Stanley’s lance pierced Jervis’s helm and entered his eye socket. Both fell dead. Officials judged the earl the victor due to the extra point for a head blow.

Centuries earlier, Highcourt Field had functioned as the supreme noble court of law in Avryn. Civil disputes inevitably escalated until accused and accuser turned to combat to determine who was right. Soon the only dispute in contention became who was the best warrior. As the realms of Avryn expanded, trips to Highcourt became less convenient. Monthly sessions were eventually reduced to bi-yearly events where all grievances were settled over a two-week session. These were held on the holy days of Summersrule and Wintertide, in the belief Maribor was more attentive at these times.

Over the years, the celebration grew. Instead of merely proving their honor, the combatants also fought for glory and gold. Knights from across the nation came to face each other for the most prestigious honor in Avryn: Champion of the Highcourt Games.

Richly decorated tents of the noble competitors clustered around the fringe of the field, adorned in the distinct colors of their owners. Squires, grooms, and pages polished armor and brushed their lords’ horses. Knights entered in the sword competition limbered up with blades and shields, sparring with their squires. Officials walked the line of the carousel—a series of posts dangling steel rings no larger than a man’s fist. They measured the height of each post and the angle of each ring that men on galloping horses would try to collect with lances. Archers took practice shots. Spearmen sprinted and lunged, testing the sand’s traction. On the great jousting field, horses snorted and huffed as unarmored combatants took practice rides across the course.

Amidst all this activity, Hadrian braced himself against a post as Wilbur beat on his chest with a large hammer. Nimbus had arranged for the smith to adjust Hadrian’s borrowed armor. Obtaining a suit was simple, but making it fit properly was another matter.

“Here, sir,” Renwick said, holding out a pile of cloth to Hadrian.

“What’s that for?” Hadrian asked.

Renwick looked at him curiously. “It’s your padding, sir.”

“Don’t hand it to him, lad,” Wilbur scolded. “Stuff it in!”

Embarrassment flooded the boy’s face as he began wadding up the cloth and shoving it into the wide gap between the steel and Hadrian’s tunic.

“Pack it tight!” Wilbur snapped. He took a handful of padding and stuffed it against Hadrian’s chest, ramming it in hard.

“That’s a bit
too
tight,” Hadrian complained.

Wilbur gave him a sidelong glance. “You might not think that when Sir Murthas’s lance hits you. I don’t want to be accused of bad preparation because this boy failed to pack you properly.”

“Sir Hadrian,” Renwick began, “I was wondering—I was thinking—would it be all right if I were to enter the squire events?”

“Don’t see why not. Are you any good?”

“No, but I would like to try just the same. Sir Malness never allowed it. He didn’t want me to embarrass him.”

“Are you really that bad?”

“I’ve never been allowed to train. Sir Malness forbade me from using his horse. He was fond of saying, ‘A man upon a horse has a certain way of looking at the world, and a lad such as yourself should not get accustomed to the experience, as it will only produce disappointment.’”

“Sounds like Sir Malness was a real pleasant guy,” Hadrian said.

Renwick offered an uncomfortable smile and turned away. “I have watched the events many times—studied them really—and I have ridden but never used a lance.”

“Why don’t you get my mount and we’ll have a look at you.”

Renwick nodded and ran to fetch the horse. Ethelred had provided a brown charger named Malevolent for Hadrian. Bred for stamina and agility, the horse was dressed in a chanfron to protect the animal from poorly aimed lances. Despite the name, he was a fine horse, strong and aggressive, but not vicious. Malevolent did not bite or kick, and upon meeting Hadrian, the horse affectionately rubbed his head up and down against the fighter’s chest.

“Get aboard,” Hadrian told the boy who grinned and scrambled into the high-backed saddle. Hadrian handed him a practice lance and the shield with green and white quadrants, which the regents supplied.

“Lean forward and keep the lance tucked tight against your side. Squeeze it in with your elbow to steady it. Now ride in a circle so I can watch you.”

For all his initial enthusiasm, the boy looked less confident as he struggled to hold the long pole and guide the horse at the same time.

“The stirrups need to be tighter,” Sir Breckton said as he rode up.

Breckton sat astride a strong white charger adorned with an elegant caparison of gold and blue stripes. A matching pennant flew from the tip of a lance booted in his stirrup. Dressed in brightly polished armor, he had a plumed helm under one arm and a sheer blue scarf tied around the other.

“I wanted to wish you good fortune this day,” he said to Hadrian.

“Thanks.”

“You ride against Murthas, do you not? He’s good with a lance. Don’t underestimate him.” Breckton studied Hadrian critically. “Your cuirass is light. That’s very brave of you.”

Hadrian looked down at himself, confused. He had never worn such heavy armor. His experience with a lance remained confined to actual combat, where targets were rarely knights. As it was, Hadrian felt uncomfortable and restricted.

Breckton motioned to the metal plate on his own side. “Bolted armor adds an extra layer of protection where one is most likely to be hit. And where is your elbow pocket?”

Hadrian looked confused for a moment. “Oh, that plate? I had the smith take it off. It made it impossible to hold the lance tight.”

Breckton chuckled. “You do realize that
plate
is meant to brace the butt of the lance, right?”

Hadrian shrugged. “I’ve never jousted in a tournament before.”

“I see.” Sir Breckton nodded. “Would you be offended should I offer advice?”

“No, go ahead.”

“Keep your head up. Lean forward. Use the stirrups to provide leverage to deliver stronger blows. Absorb the blows you receive with the high back of your saddle to avoid being driven from your horse.”

“Again, thank you.”

“Not at all, I am pleased to be of service. If you have any questions, I will be most happy to answer them.”

“Really?” Hadrian responded mischievously. “In that case, is that a token I see on your arm?”

Breckton glanced down at the bit of cloth. “This is the scarf of Lady Amilia of Tarin Vale. I ride for her this day—for her—and her honor.” He looked out at the field. “It appears the tournament is about to start. I see Murthas taking his position at the alley, and you are up first. May Maribor guide the arm of the worthy.” Breckton nodded respectfully and left.

Renwick returned and dismounted.

“You did well,” Hadrian told him, taking the squire’s place on the charger. “You just need a bit more practice. Assuming I survive this tilt, we’ll work on it some more.”

The boy carried Hadrian’s helm in one hand and, taking the horse’s lead in the other, led the mounted knight to the field. Entering the gate, they circled the alley and came to a stop next to a small wooden stage.

Ahead of Hadrian lay the main arena, which an army of workers had spent weeks preparing by clearing snow and laying sand. The field was surrounded by a sea of spectators divided into sections designated by color. Purple housed the ruler and his immediate family, blue for the ranked gentry, red for the church officials, yellow for the baronage, green for the artisans, and white for the peasantry, which was the largest and only uncovered section.

Hadrian’s father used to bring him to the games but not for entertainment. Observing combat had been part of his studies. Still, Hadrian had been thrilled to see the fights and cheer the victors along with the rest. His father had no use for the winners and only cared to discuss the losers. Danbury questioned Hadrian after each fight, asking what the defeated knight did wrong and how he could have won.

Hadrian had hardly listened. He was distracted by the spectacle—the knights in shining armor, the women in colorful gowns, the incredible horses. He knew one knight’s saddle was worth more than their home and his father’s blacksmith shop combined. How magnificent they had all seemed in comparison to his commoner father. It never occurred to him that Danbury Blackwater could defeat every knight in every contest.