DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) (144 page)

Kalas took a glancing hit by the other knight for his efforts, but he shrugged it off and pulled the pony around. On came the fierce Duke, smashing away with abandon.

The crowd went wild, anticipating that a champion would soon be named.

Aydrian could hardly believe that the remaining knight was backing defensively in the face of Kalas’ wild offensive. Certainly the Duke was raining heavy blows, but just as certainly, the man was leaving wide openings.

Backing meant only that fewer of the blows would land, and perhaps not as hard, but the knight was offering no response at all.

Down came Kalas’ weighted club, banging against an upraised shield. Down again, and the knight barely managed to get his shield in the way.

The Duke’s To-gai pony pressed in hard, and the knight’s pony staggered. Reflexively, the knight grabbed the reins in both hands.

Kalas wasted no time, smashing his club across the knight’s visor. He pressed on even harder with his pony; and the knight, falling back and holding on instinctively, fell off, bringing his pony down with him.

The pony immediately scrambled up from the ground, leaving the knight writhing.

Duke Kalas wasn’t paying him any heed. He galloped to the royal pavilion, bent low, and scooped up the pennant, then rode the perimeter of the combat field, victory pennant held high.

The crowd went wild with enthusiasm, cheering for their beloved Duke—who had all along been regarded as the heavy favorite to win the competition.

Marcalo De’Unnero motioned for Sadye and Aydrian to follow him as he led them away from the tumult. “Duke Kalas will sit in wait for a challenger tomorrow,” he explained.

“I could have defeated him,” Aydrian stubbornly insisted.

“Prove it tomorrow,” said De’Unnero.

“By not entering today’s bout, Aydrian will have to go through all the rounds of combat,” Sadye remarked, looking at the former monk curiously.

De’Unnero smiled at her, showing clearly that she had guessed the plan. “All competitors who did not fight today will begin in the morning,” he explained
to Aydrian. “Three winners of that group will join into the three groups divided among today’s losers, with the three who fell last before Duke Kalas to head each group. When a champion among the newcomers and losers is found in each group, he will fight the respective group leader, with the winners moving on.

“That will leave four, counting Duke Kalas,” De’Unnero went on. “And those four will fight until one is standing.”

“Open melee?” Aydrian asked.

De’Unnero shook his head. “One-to-one combat. Lance, and then weapon, if necessary.” He smiled and stared hard at Aydrian as he finished. “Real weapons tomorrow, not these padded clubs.”

Aydrian returned the smile, glad to hear it.

“One last thing,” De’Unnero said as they made their way out of the fairgrounds toward the villa that they had taken outside Ursal. “Duke Kalas, as today’s victor, will ride tomorrow as the King’s champion.”

“And Aydrian?” asked Sadye, but her grin told the young warrior that she already knew.

“Aydrian will not have to announce until the final round,” said De’Unnero. “Then he will ride for the Queen.”

“T
he Talon’s sure to win the first, eh?” said a grubby man with bristling brown and gray stubble for a beard and hair that he kept picking at, trying to tear out some lice.

“Should’a been here yesterday,” his equally grubby companion replied, running a dirty sleeve across his nose, then spitting on the ground to the side, the wad landing right at De’Unnero’s feet.

The former monk regarded it for a moment, then closed his eyes and suppressed any feral urges bubbling within him. He didn’t look back at the two particularly dirty and unpleasant peasants but considered their words as he looked at the field, where all the late entrants were gathering. It was easy enough for him to discern who “the Talon” might be; for among the dozen newcomers, only one wore the armor befitting a nobleman—or a rich nobleman’s champion, at least. The rest of the group were far less impressive, young men out to prove something to some lady who had caught their fancy, perhaps, or who were deluded enough to believe that their skill in riding and with the lance would somehow overcome the huge disadvantage brought by lack of armor.

De’Unnero smiled at the thought—he could well imagine inexperienced Aydrian riding out on the field in similar fashion, thinking his skill would overcome the disadvantage. That only reinforced to De’Unnero the good fortune Aydrian had found in connecting with him out there in the wilds of Wester-Honce. De’Unnero, too, was a master of fighting, and he knew without doubt that he could destroy Duke Kalas in combat.

Not on a horse, though, and certainly not in the formal combat of a joust. Aydrian’s fighting style, like De’Unnero’s, was one of foot speed and balance, but
that did little good when your feet were set into stirrups!

And a lance was not a weapon to be dodged and parried.

Thus the armor. De’Unnero smiled in anticipation, for he knew that Sadye and the young warrior were not far off, and he could hardly wait for the grand entrance.

The armor! Not a man down there, not Kalas himself, was more splendidly outfitted; and the truth of Aydrian’s gemstone-enhanced armor was even more impressive than the show.

The gasps began to resonate across the field and to the left, and De’Unnero smiled all the wider. He saw the peasants parting like grain before the wind, and through the masses came Aydrian, tall upon Symphony. He wore the shining golden-trimmed armor, the helmet obscuring his features. Symphony, too, had been armored, lightly, and atop it, the horse wore a black and red fringed blanket, that hid the telltale turquoise set in his powerful chest. If she saw that gemstone, then Jilseponie would know the identity of the horse.

She would suspect anyway, De’Unnero figured, for few horses were as magnificent as Symphony, even though the horse was old. He didn’t fear that recognition, though, for De’Unnero knew that he would enjoy watching Queen Jilseponie’s face crinkling with confusion and trepidation.

He glanced at the royal pavilion then, and noted that Jilseponie and Danube were already looking Aydrian’s way, the King even coming out of his seat to regard the unexpected and unknown newcomer. Sitting beside Danube, Duke Kalas, too, rose to regard the unknown knight. Kalas, wearing his regular clothing, for he would not be fighting before midafternoon, tried to appear calm; but even from this distance, De’Unnero could see the curiosity on his face.

Onto the field rode Aydrian, sitting with perfect posture upon the imposing stallion. He kept Symphony at a slow walk, as De’Unnero had instructed, and took a roundabout route, letting the crowd see him clearly, on his way to the line before the royal pavilion, where he had to announce his intent.

Finally, he arrived, moving Symphony into place right beside the one called the Talon.

“Well done,” De’Unnero whispered under his breath, for while the other imposing knight looked over at Aydrian, the young warrior didn’t even do him the honor of looking back.

It took a long while for the crowd noise to quiet, and King Danube let it go at its own flow, sitting back, studying Aydrian.

De’Unnero was more interested in Queen Jilseponie’s expressions, for the myriad that crossed her face could be interpreted in a multitude of ways, he knew, and when he glanced at Duke Kalas, and saw the fiery nobleman looking at Jilseponie as often as he was at the newcomer, he could easily guess what sinister notions might be crossing Kalas’ wary mind.

Finally it was quiet, and the King stood, staring at Aydrian. This was when Aydrian was supposed to remove his helmet, De’Unnero knew, and he had instructed
the young warrior to do no such thing.

“My King,” Aydrian said, and he drew out his sword in salute.

De’Unnero saw Jilseponie’s eyes widen, briefly. Tempest had been disguised, its hilt wrapped with blue leather, but by its very design, the elven sword was narrower and more brilliantly silver in hue than the dull thick swords of the human craftsmen. Like Symphony, the presentation of Tempest would be a tease for the Queen, yet another clue that could only heighten her suspicions.

“Do you wish to take part in our games?” King Danube asked after a while, when it became apparent that Aydrian had no intention of removing his helmet.

That was the formal greeting, and De’Unnero breathed easier that the matter of remaining concealed had not been challenged.

“I do, my King,” Aydrian said calmly.

“And what is your name and title?” the King formally asked.

“I am Tai’maqwilloq,” Aydrian replied boldly, “of Honce-the-Bear.”

De’Unnero started, surprised and angered that Aydrian had taken a name other than the one they had planned. After the initial shock, the former monk nearly laughed aloud, for it was obvious to him that Queen Jilseponie almost leaped out of her seat. She recognized the elven name, no doubt, and the simple fact of that told her that this was no ordinary nobleman! Furthermore, Jilseponie would understand the translation of the name, Nighthawk, so akin to her beloved Nightbird!

The significance seemed to be lost upon King Danube, though. He chuckled. “A strange name,” he remarked. “Or is it a title? And Honce-the-Bear is a large location, young Tai’maqwilloq. Could you be more specific?”

“It is my name, and hence my title, my King,” said Aydrian. “And I claim no specific place within your realm as my home. On the road I heard of this tournament, and so I have come. To prove myself worthy.”

“Worthy to the King?” asked Duke Kalas, breaking etiquette by speaking.

Danube turned a sour glance his way.

“Worthy to myself,” Aydrian answered, and Danube turned quickly back to face him. “For until that is proven, I am not worthy to anyone else.”

“Perfect,” De’Unnero whispered admiringly.

King Danube chuckled, breaking the tension. “Well, young knight, you have ridden to the right place for such a test,” he said, and he motioned to one of the squires, who ran out to hand Aydrian his padded club. Then Danube swept his hands to the side, to the trumpeters, who began their song announcing the beginning of the day’s competition.

It started with a brawl like the one the day before, an open melee, where only the last three astride would advance to the formal joust.

De’Unnero watched the tumult with approval, for Aydrian was playing nothing safe here. As soon as the drumroll ended, signaling the beginning of the fight, the young warrior charged headlong into the middle of the fray. He came through the small group that blocked his way like a giant scattering skinny-limbed goblins,
Symphony slamming one horse and rider to the ground and Aydrian taking out the one on the other side with a mighty smash across the chest. The fallen competitor lay flat on the rump of his galloping horse for a few strides, then bounced off to slam hard into the ground.

For the third opponent, directly before him, Aydrian used his elven techniques. As the horses came abreast, the man tried to chop down at Aydrian, but the young warrior, using his padded club like a sword, gave a subtle parry that made his opponent’s weapon slide harmlessly to the side. Aydrian then hit his opponent squarely in the face, smashing his nose and blackening both his eyes beneath the brim of his armored hat.

The man went back—how could he not?—and the motion made him tug the reins, slowing his horse.

Aydrian hit him again, with a swipe to the back of the head as the horses passed, then he pulled Symphony into a tight turn and came up beside the dazed, possibly unconscious, competitor, who was still sitting astride the mount, though it seemed more out of simple inertia than stubbornness.

Aydrian could have reached out and gently pushed the man from his saddle, but the fire was in him now, the primal fury. He swatted the man with a brutal blow that sent him flying from his seat.

The crowd went wild with appreciation. De’Unnero’s grin nearly took in his ears.

Aydrian pulled up Symphony and looked around. Only a few competitors remained, including the Talon, who seemed intent on staying as far away from Aydrian as possible. That was a common practice among the nobles, based on simple logic—why fight each other when there are peasants, easy victims, to be found?

Aydrian wasn’t thinking that way, though, and Symphony thundered across the field to bring him to the Talon.

The man seemed genuinely surprised to see this other obviously rich knight coming after him, as was evidenced by his lack of preparation. He managed to fight his horse around into position, but he had to work hard to get his club up in line to block Aydrian’s swing.

It didn’t matter, for the swing was but a feint, anyway. Aydrian let go of his club as soon as it contacted the other man’s weapon, and instead grabbed the Talon’s wrist as the horses passed and held on with frightening strength, driving his spurs hard into Symphony’s flanks.

The horse charged by, then turned sharply behind the Talon’s mount, and Aydrian held on firmly.

The Talon twisted awkwardly, then flew free of his saddle, spinning and falling with his arms and legs flailing wildly, facedown to the ground.

The crowd went wild.

Aydrian had no weapon now, but it hardly mattered. The five others remaining wanted nothing to do with him, and so the young warrior paraded around the perimeter of the field, drawing huge cheers wherever he passed, while the others
fought their clumsy way down to two.

The three remaining walked their mounts to stand before the King, who pronounced them worthy of the joust.

And all the while, Queen Jilseponie stared at Aydrian with a look of sheerest confusion, and Duke Kalas stared at him with a look of sheerest contempt.

De’Unnero’s smile had not diminished at all.

It was beginning perfectly.

“H
e will have to win three jousts to face his group’s leader, an Allheart knight,” Sadye said to De’Unnero as they wandered through the crowd at the midday festivities. Sadye had sent Aydrian away from the tournament grounds immediately following his victory, as planned, where other agents had collected him and hustled him far from adoring peasants and prying noblemen.