DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) (143 page)

He was confident of that, because he understood that if Jilseponie’s appearance had greatly changed—and it had not, he saw on those few occasions when he had watched her from afar—he would still surely recognize her. She was his mortal enemy, as he was hers, and their mutual hatred went far beyond physical appearance.

So De’Unnero, in the guise of Bruce of Oredale, had stayed near the celebration grounds, watching it all, helping where he could. And now, this fine spring day, it was nearly complete, so close, in fact, that the Allheart Brigade, Kingsmen, and Coastpoint Guards were all out drilling for their respective marches across the field, the traditional King’s Review.

Aydrian’s day was fast approaching.

De’Unnero could hardly draw breath when he considered the trial coming fast before his protégé. He was asking this young warrior to do battle—and not just battle, but
formal
battle, which was an entirely different thing—against the most seasoned knights in the kingdom, and with only a modicum of training in such jousting techniques. He had sent Aydrian off to the southeast, to Yorkey County, for he would enter the tournament as a representative of some minor landowner firmly loyal to Abbot Olin’s pocketbook. That seemed the best cover, for Yorkey County, once a bitterly divided multitude of tiny kingdoms, was dotted by small castles—one on every hill, it seemed—and produced more Allheart knights and more of the tournament entrants than the rest of the kingdom combined.

Besides, Yorkey County was the supposed home, he had whispered into Duke Kalas’ ear, of the Queen’s lover.

“Squire Aydrian of Brigadonna,” De’Unnero whispered under his breath, the alias he had instructed the boy to assume. The former monk smiled wickedly at the thought. Yes, he was asking much of young Aydrian, but he had seen the boy at battle and understood Aydrian’s prowess with the gemstones. He knew the crowd would not soon forget this tournament.

A
ydrian, dressed in normal peasant clothing and standing beside Sadye and
De’Unnero, who were similarly outfitted, shook his head with disgust as yet another arrow sailed wide of the mark, flying down the long field set up for the archery contest, traditionally the first competition of a tournament. These were not the King’s elite knights competing here, not even soldiers but only simple peasants and huntsmen.

“I would never miss so easy a target,” Aydrian said quietly to his companions, his frustration at not being allowed to enter this contest bubbling over. “I could take the target dead center, then split my own arrow with the next shot!”

“You would not get a second shot,” De’Unnero corrected. “For Queen Jilseponie, if no others, would surely recognize the feathers topping that bow of yours.”

“Then I could have bought a simpler bow,” said Aydrian. “It would hardly have mattered. The outcome would be the same.”

De’Unnero turned and smiled at the cocky young warrior. “You think yourself better than any of them?” he asked.

“Easily,” came the response.

“Good,” said the former monk. “Good. And when you are King, you can hold tournaments at your whim and prove yourself—and then you will be able to use that elven bow of yours, as well. But for now, you stand here and you watch.”

Aydrian started to protest, but he held back, for he and De’Unnero had been over this time and again that morning. Aydrian and Sadye had arrived quietly in the city, unannounced, but letting a few people see their entry and see that they were carrying armor and all the accoutrements of a tournament competitor in their small wagon.

But De’Unnero had decided not to announce Squire Aydrian of Brigadonna publicly that day, the second of the great feast, the first of the tournament knightly games. He had explained to Aydrian that he wanted to hold back for dramatic effect and so that he could continue to plant rumors among the nobles. Aydrian had complained, for indeed, he truly wanted to leap into the competition right away, but De’Unnero had summarily dismissed him, reminding him that he, and not Aydrian, was in charge.

Not wanting to start that fight again, Aydrian did not now press the issue. He turned his gaze away from the boring archery tournament, with its incredibly average marksmen, where a hit seemed more luck than skill, and focused instead on the royal pavilion, a raised stage and tent, wherein sat the King and Queen and several nobles, including Duke Kalas in splendid silver plate armor, his great plumed helm beside him. The whole pavilion was flanked by armored Allheart knights, insulating their beloved King from the rabble.

Aydrian’s gaze fast focused on the woman sitting beside Danube: on Jilseponie, his mother.

His mother!

A host of questions assaulted him, concerning his own identity and the intentions of those around him. Why hadn’t Lady Dasslerond told him who his mother was? Why had she and the other elves insisted that Aydrian’s mother had died in
childbirth? There could be no doubt that Lady Dasslerond, as well informed as any creature in the world, knew the truth, knew Jilseponie was not only alive and well but was also ruling as queen of the most important kingdom in the world.

And why had De’Unnero told him? He was grateful to the man, to be sure, but Aydrian wondered how much of their friendship was based upon complementary characteristics, and how much was De’Unnero’s opportunism in using Aydrian as a means to attain his old prominence again.

Aydrian chuckled at the thought and dismissed it, for in truth why did it matter? Was he not using De’Unnero in the very same manner?

He looked at his companion and smirked. A relationship of mutual benefit, he realized, and he was quite content with that. He didn’t love De’Unnero, hardly even liked him, to be honest. But together they would rise to greater glory than either of them could rightly expect on his own.

He let his glance drift over to Sadye, admiringly, thinking—not for the first time—that someday he might bring their relationship to a level of intimacy. His eyes roamed up and down her petite but well-toned body, her slender, strong legs, her small but alluring breasts.

Smiling all the wider, Aydrian turned his thoughts and his gaze back to the royal pavilion, and his grin fast drooped into a frown. For now his questions again centered on the Queen—this woman De’Unnero claimed was his mother; this woman, reputedly a great hero of the Demon War and of the plague, who had, for some reason he could not begin to understand or forgive, abandoned him at birth.

Or perhaps he could understand it.

Perhaps we are very much alike
, Aydrian thought.
Perhaps the Queen is concerned with personal glory and had little time to devote to an infant
.

Aydrian, for so many years obsessed with the notion of attaining power and immortality, could easily comprehend such a selfish, consuming need.

But Aydrian, concerned only with Aydrian, could not begin to forgive Jilseponie.

Not at all.

The archery champion, a huntsman from Wester-Honce of no great skill—in Aydrian’s estimation—was soon named and was given as his reward a fine bow of yew, presented by Queen Jilseponie herself.

Aydrian again wished that he had been allowed to enter that contest, wished that he could stand before Jilseponie, asking her those questions with his eyes if not his lips.
Patience
, he told himself.

The rest of the morning was full of music and feasting, of jesters and bawdy plays, of the colors of the noblewomen’s fine silken gowns and the drab grays and greens of the peasant women’s dirty clothes. De’Unnero and Sadye kept close to Aydrian as they worked through the throngs, a rather pleasant, if uneventful morning.

The early afternoon was much the same, until the blare of trumpets announced that the competition field had been rearranged and that the tournament would
begin anew. Caught up in the wave of bodies flocking to the small hills surrounding the field, Aydrian felt his heart leap even more in longing to participate.

For this was the start of the knightly games, the first melee, a scene of utter chaos and ferocity that young Aydrian was well-suited to dominate.

But De’Unnero would not let him. Not yet.

The competitors, almost every one wearing a full suit of plate armor, most of them Allheart knights, but with a few civilian noblemen joining in, rode their armored mounts onto the oval field from several locations, accompanied by the cheers and rousing cries of the throng of onlookers. Duke Kalas was not hard to spot, his great plumed helmet shining in the afternoon sun. The competitors formed into three ranks of seven or eight before the royal pavilion, with Duke Kalas centering the front line.

On Kalas’ signal, they all removed their helms and offered a salute of respect—a clenched fist thumped against the chest, then extended, fingers open—to King Danube and Queen Jilseponie.

“King Danube,” Kalas began, shouting so that many could hear—and the crowd went as silent as possible at that solemn moment. “On this occasion of your fiftieth birthday, it does us great honor to offer our respect to you. We ask your blessing on this combat and pray that none shall die this day—though if any should die, then he will do so knowing that he was honoring his King!”

King Danube responded with the same salute. The trumpets blared and the crowd roared.

“Notice that he said nothing of honoring Queen Jilseponie,” Marcalo De’Unnero remarked slyly.

“A slight?” Sadye asked.

“It is expected that the Queen will always be honored at such events,” explained the former monk, who had studied the etiquette and traditions of Honce-the-Bear extensively during his years at St.-Mere-Abelle.

Aydrian didn’t quite understand what the two were talking about, for he, unlike the others, wasn’t aware of the tremendous problems faced by this Queen who was supposedly his mother. He did note that both De’Unnero and Sadye were smiling at the notion that Jilseponie had just been slighted.

He turned his attention back to the field, to see that all of the competitors had taken up positions along the single-rail fence. The trumpets continued for some time, then were joined by a rank of thundering drums.

The trumpets ended, the drums rolled on, increasing in tempo until … silence.

King Danube stood again and surveyed the hushed crowd; then, with a smile he could not contain, he threw the pennant of Castle Ursal to the ground before the royal pavilion.

The competitors kicked their mounts into action, thundering to the middle of the field, falling into a sudden and brutal combat. They all carried heavy, padded clubs—not lethal weapons but ones that could inflict some damage!

It took Aydrian a few minutes to sort out the scramble as the horses came together
in a dusty crash. The padded clubs thumped repeatedly off armor—one brave and poor competitor, wearing a patchwork of inferior armor, got smacked repeatedly until he finally slumped and dropped off his mount. Immediately, squire attendants ran out, to corral his rearing, nervous horse and to drag him off the field.

And then another, the only other competitor not wearing a full suit of armor, was ganged up on by a host of knights and beaten into the dirt.

“The noblemen do not appreciate inferiors trying to join their game,” Sadye remarked sourly.

“In the past, the tournament was a way in which the Allhearts, and all the King’s guards, tried to find newcomers worthy of joining their ranks,” De’Unnero explained. “It would seem that the times have changed. King Danube’s select group of friends does not wish to allow admittance by any who are not noble born.”

“What will they do, then, when I batter the best of their warriors into the dirt?” Aydrian asked with all confidence.

De’Unnero only laughed.

“You should have let me go down there,” Aydrian remarked, as a civilian and then an Allheart knight went spinning down heavily into the dirt.

“Tomorrow is another day,” the former monk said, and his tone left no room for debate.

The patterns of the fight began playing out on the field below, and Aydrian noted more than a few curiosities. Off to one side of the main melee, a pair of Allheart knights had squared off, but it seemed to Aydrian as if their swings were not especially vicious, and he noticed one or the other ignoring a perfect advantage, an obvious defensive hole.

The young warrior caught on quickly. These two were friends, and were playing for time as more and more of the others were eliminated.

Aydrian also noted that, while Duke Kalas was fighting furiously, taking down one after another, most avoided him—though whether out of deference to the Allheart leader or out of respect for Kalas’ fighting prowess, he could not be sure.

The crowd howled and roared, cheers rising as one competitor fell into the dirt after another. Soon it was down to four: Duke Kalas, a civilian nobleman, and the Allheart pair who had been fighting halfheartedly.

Kalas immediately charged after one of the Allheart knights, and Aydrian smiled, catching on. Kalas knew that if he remained alone on the field against the obvious friends, they would likely team up against him.

He was too anxious, though, and the knight leaped his horse aside and chased to join his companion, who was fighting the civilian.

The nobleman fought well, getting his shield up repeatedly to fend off heavy blows, and even managing one counterstroke that banged off the knight’s shoulder, nearly unseating him.

But then his friend came in from the other side, and the nobleman took a vicious smash to the back of his head. He staggered and managed to turn his horse
somewhat, but that left an opening for the first of his opponents.

The To-gai mount of the Allheart knight leaped ahead, and the knight crashed his club on the nobleman’s shoulder, once, then again. The man wavered in his saddle, and the other knight smashed him across the head.

Down he went.

Even as he fell, Kalas was there, pressing one of the knights with a series of short, sharp blows.

Then it was two against one, but Duke Kalas didn’t pull away. He drove in his spurs, yanking his mount to the side, and the well-trained pony reared and kicked Kalas’ opponent.

Suddenly, the odds were evened.