The Tournament at Gorlan (27 page)

With ten meters to go, the young challenger got his horse under control and his lance point steadied, zeroing in on Morgarath's black shield.

The two combatants crashed together with a thunder of
wood on metal. Morgarath's lance hit dead center on Wallace's shield. Wallace's was slightly offline, and hit with reduced impact. Both lances bent alarmingly, then shattered into splinters, hurling slivers of white wood high into the air around them. Then the two warriors were past each other, their horses now at full tilt, their momentum carrying them on, in spite of the savage impact.

A gasp rose from the watching crowd.

Wallace, taking the full force of Morgarath's lance before it shattered, had been sent reeling back in his saddle. The high rear cantle saved him from being hurled to the ground, but he slipped sideways, for a moment hanging out over the earth whirling past beneath him. Then he recovered, and the crowd let go a relieved sigh as he regained his seat, slowed his horse and cantered to the end of the list.

Morgarath had been unmoved by the impact. Wallace's lance shattering against his shield had caused him no more apparent concern than a faint movement to one side—almost imperceptible.

He cantered to the far end of the list and turned Warlock to face back the way they had come. The imperturbable warhorse stood ready and unmoving. Each combatant had attendants waiting at the opposite end of the list with spare lances. Morgarath's servant ran forward now and passed him a new lance.

He watched as Wallace reached the opposite end and received a new weapon as well. But now the young knight's battlehorse was thoroughly disturbed. He had felt his master being hurled backward and sideways by Morgarath's strike, felt him struggling to regain his balance. And now he sensed the fear that had begun to take hold of the young knight. Never before had Wallace felt anything as devastating as that center hit upon his
shield. For the first time, he began to appreciate the gulf between his level of skill and Morgarath's. As he accepted his new lance, trying to calm his horse, he realized that he was seriously outclassed.

Morgarath, on the other hand, was furious. The lance strike had been perfect—centered exactly on Wallace's shield. Morgarath had felt the overwhelming force of the impact transmitted back through the lance and into his arm and body before the shaft had shattered. The young knight should have been hurled ignominiously into the dirt. But somehow, he had retained his seat. Morgarath had even heard some among the crowd cheering as the upstart managed to stay in the combat. That infuriated him. He was used to being the crowd's favorite.

Now Wallace would be taught a lesson.

He raised his lance to the forty-five-degree point and nodded to the marshal below him. The man raised his flag, a few seconds before his opposite number did the same. The long trumpet was placed to the herald's lips and the signal to charge rang in the air.

Warlock began his measured, lumbering run. Once again, he slowly accelerated to top speed, his hooves thundering on the torn grass beneath them. As his horse's gait steadied into a full gallop, Morgarath lowered his lance point, again seeking Wallace's shield. He could see a mark in the green paint where his first stroke had hit. Wallace lowered his lance in turn, but Morgarath could see it wavering as the young challenger tried to keep it aimed at his shield.

Then, in the final five meters, with exquisite timing and precision, Morgarath raised his lance point to aim for Wallace's helmet.

There was a ringing crash. The lance point snagged in the bars of Wallace's visor and the young knight's head was thrown
back. His lance fell from his nerveless fingers as his body followed and he was hurled out of his saddle. At the very last moment, just before he lost consciousness, he had the instinct to kick his feet clear of the stirrups. Then he was driven several meters through the air by the savage impact, before he crashed to the turf. He lay still, half on his side.

A horrified silence fell over the crowd. Watching from the grandstand, Arald shook his head in recognition of Morgarath's skill. It had been a brutal stroke, but it was perfectly legal and expertly executed. There were few knights in the Kingdom with the skill to pull it off.

A murmur of relief swept over the crowd as Wallace slowly began to move. He rolled onto his stomach, then got hands and knees beneath him and started to rise to his feet, swaying unsteadily, grasping at the central fence for support. Dirt and torn grass stained his tunic and armor. Someone cheered, then applause swept over the crowd, only to die away when they saw Morgarath rein in at the far end of the list and drop lightly to the ground, drawing his massive, two-handed longsword from the
scabbard on Warlock's saddle.

The marshal stepped forward. “My lord, what are you doing?” he said urgently.

Morgarath shoved him aside and began to march toward the tottering figure of his opponent.

“He hasn't conceded,” he said. “The fight continues.”

“He doesn't need to concede!” the marshal shouted after him. “You unhorsed him!”

“He must concede or the fight continues!” Morgarath shouted.

Both marshals were shouting now, but he ignored them. A killing rage was on him. Wallace turned to see the tall, black-clad figure striding toward him. He staggered. His eyes wouldn't focus properly but it seemed to him that Morgarath had his sword in his hand. Dazed and confused, Wallace reached for the sword he carried at his waist, not sure what was happening but sensing the need to defend himself.

He heard feet pounding on the turf as Morgarath was almost up to him. The Baron of Gorlan swung his huge sword back for a horizontal stroke as Wallace fumbled to draw his own sword, which had somehow become tangled behind his back.

Then a blue-clad figure came into sight and shoulder-charged Morgarath before he could begin his forward stroke. Morgarath, his peripheral vision restricted inside the jousting helmet, never saw Arald coming.

Arald's shoulder drove into Morgarath's ribs with a sickening impact. Even beneath the chain mail, Morgarath felt the force of Arald's charge. He lost his balance and crashed over into the dirt. As he tried to rise, he felt his sword pinned to the
ground by Arald's foot.

He struggled furiously, but to no avail. And now Arald had his own sword clear of the scabbard and its point at Morgarath's throat.

“It's over, Morgarath!” Arald said coldly. “Let the boy be!”

And now they were surrounded by marshals and officials, including Baron Naylor, the grand marshal of the tournament.

“My lord, what are you doing?” he cried, aghast at Morgarath's unknightly behavior. At last, the lord of Gorlan gained control of himself. He released his grip on the sword, allowing one of the marshals to help him to his feet. He pushed his visor up and shook his head in mock bewilderment.

“My apologies, my lords,” he said. “I thought I heard the boy shout continue.”

There was a general chorus of understanding. Naylor nodded wisely.

“These things can happen in the course of a combat,” he said. “But no harm done and all's well that ends well.” He gestured to the surgeon's attendants to take Wallace into their care. Then he nodded approvingly at Arald. “Just as well Baron Arald was thinking quickly. He saved us from a certain tragedy.”

Arald curled his lip as he and Morgarath locked eyes. Then Arald mouthed a single word:

Liar.

Morgarath leaned forward, pretending to embrace his fellow baron in gratitude. But as his mouth came close to Arald's ear, he whispered his reply.

“I'll kill you for this.”

“T
HERE
'
S
LITTLE
DOUBT
NOW
THAT
M
ORGARATH
WILL
challenge you,” Halt said.

Arald shrugged casually. “There never was. I can take care of myself.”

“Still,” said Duncan, “he's a snake in the grass and he'll do his best to kill you.”

Again, Arald was unfazed by the comment. “He might find I'm a tougher nut to crack than young Wallace,” he said. “And even he wouldn't dare to try and claim a misunderstanding like the other day.”

“Keep an eye on him, nevertheless,” said Crowley.

They were seated once more in the armorers' tent in Arald's compound. Duncan, Pritchard, Halt, Crowley and Farrel were present, discussing plans for the melee later that morning. Arald regarded Farrel. The burly Ranger had constructed a wooden replica of his battleax to use in the melee. Only practice weapons were allowed and an ax, even with blunted edges, was considered too dangerous to use in the event.

“Are you ready?” Arald asked Farrel.

The Ranger nodded. “Don't worry. We'll definitely cramp Teezal's style.”

“How many of you?” asked Arald.

“Just two. That'll be enough to take them by surprise. A bigger group might draw attention. We could be disqualified by the marshals. And the more of us there are, the more chance of Teezal realizing what's going on.”

Arald nodded. He had a good idea who would be assisting Farrel in the melee, but he decided to say nothing.

At that moment, Mistress Pauline entered the tent.

“Teezal and his group will be fighting in the blue force,” she
said, placing two scarlet armbands on the table. “I've had you two registered with the reds.”

Arald wasn't surprised when Farrel retrieved the two armbands and handed one to Duncan.

“You're sure about this, my lord?” Arald said.

Duncan nodded. “I owe these people a few bruises,” he said grimly. “And with the possible exception of yourself, I'm the best fighter we have. We need to thin Teezal's group out quickly, then get off the field.”

“So long as you're not noticed and recognized,” Crowley put in.

Duncan turned his gaze on him. “I'll be wearing a full-face helmet,” he said. “And it's been a long time since I've had one of those knocked off my head.”

They heard a rustle of canvas as the outer door screen was pulled aside, then replaced. Then the inner screen opened in turn. The double screen had been Crowley's idea, to prevent spying eyes from seeing into the tent when they were conferring.

Martin, the Baron's secretary, entered, a worried expression on his face.

“My lord, serious news,” he said and Arald gestured for him to continue. Martin glanced around the table to make sure everyone was listening, then announced: “Tiller is dead.”

There were startled exclamations from the assembled group. Duncan held up his hand for silence.

“Dead?” he queried. “How did this happen?”

Martin shrugged uncomfortably. “It appears that he took poison, my lord.”

“Took it, or was given it?” Crowley put in.

“There's no way of knowing that, sir,” Martin said unhappily.
He felt that Tiller's death reflected badly on him. He was in charge of the Redmont camp's administration. “He could have had the poison concealed on him all this time.”

“Surely he was searched?” Duncan said.

Crowley interjected. “My men searched him for weapons. But poison could have been concealed anywhere on his person or in his clothes.”

“Still, it's something of a coincidence that he managed to get his hands on poison just when we were about to use him to denounce Morgarath,” said Halt.

The others muttered agreement, but Lady Pauline disagreed with the general view around the table.

“It's really no great loss,” she said. “His evidence wouldn't have been conclusive. Morgarath could always claim that we'd recruited him and coerced him into the accusation. He would have provided useful corroborating evidence of Morgarath's guilt, but that would have been all.”

The others looked at her, realizing she was right.

Pritchard was the first to speak. “The key witness is still going to be King Oswald,” he said. “That's always been the case. And now this feud between Arald and Morgarath will give us our best chance to set him free.”

“How so?” asked Arald.

“Your interference in his fight with young Wallace has infuriated him. He's fixated on making you pay for it. And that means his attention will be distracted from Oswald. Your duel will provide a perfect opportunity for us to get into the castle and release him. You can be sure his own followers will be distracted by the event too. Security is sure to be slack.”

“Assuming, of course, that he does challenge you,” Pauline
said.

Arald smiled at her. “Oh, he will. And if he doesn't I'll challenge him.”

Outside, they heard the brazen note of multiple trumpets sounding from the jousting field.

“That's the first call for the melee,” Arald said. He glanced at Duncan and Farrel. “You two had better get ready. And for pity's sake, be careful!” he added, looking directly at Duncan.

Farrel smiled. “Don't you want me to be careful, my lord?”

Arald treated him to a mock scowl. “I can always get another Ranger,” he said. “Round here, they're as thick as fleas on a stray dog. But we only have one heir to the throne.”

The dividing fence down the center of the jousting field had been removed for the Grand Melee. The two sides, each wearing their distinctive colored armbands, formed up in three rows at either end of the field.

Already, the crowd was buzzing with excitement. The Grand Melee was a popular event with the spectators. It was a guaranteed source of violence and action. The individual fights that took place gave spectators ample opportunity to wager on their outcomes, and there was always the attraction of wagering on either the red or the blue side to be triumphant at each stage of the melee.

On the blue side, Teezal mustered his six fighters around him.

“Remember who we're targeting,” he said.

They had been briefed on a dozen knights whom Morgarath wanted removed from contention and they had spent the morning memorizing their crests and individual insignia. The six
men, clad in chain mail, wearing pot helmets and carrying an assortment of drill swords, clubs and maces, all nodded.

One, however, raised a hand in doubt. “Sir David of Holder and Morris of Norgate are on the blue side,” he pointed out. “Aren't they our allies in the melee?”

Teezal regarded him scornfully. “We're here to get rid of them. If they're wearing blue, they'll be that much easier,” he said. “They won't be expecting us to attack them. Just get behind them and hit them hard and fast. Nobody'll notice in the confusion.”

The trumpets rang out, sounding the one-minute-warning signal. Teezal set his shield a little more firmly on his left arm and drew the weighted wooden sword from his belt.

“One minute to go,” he said. “Get ready!”

A minute later, the trumpets blared long and loud and, with a roar, the two sides charged across the field at each other.

As the first ranks crashed into each other and weapons began to rise and fall, Teezal found himself behind Sir Morris of Norgate. Teezal glanced quickly around to make sure nobody was watching, but the blue force were all intent on the enemy facing them. Quickly, he brought his sword down onto the warrior's helmet. Morris staggered, looking round in alarm. He hadn't realized that an enemy had got behind him. He saw a black-clad fighter a few meters away, then saw the wooden sword swinging toward his forearm. The bone cracked as the blow landed and Morris cried out in pain and anger. Then the black-clad man backhanded the pommel of his sword into Morris's face and he went down under a surge of trampling feet.

“Come on!” Teezal yelled to his small force, and they followed him through the struggling mass, forming a wedge behind
him as they sought their next victim.

“There!” Farrel yelled, pointing with his ax at the little formation forcing its way through the melee. In a series of disorganized individual combats, it was easy to see Teezal's group, working together as they surrounded one of the red fighters. Farrel recognized their target as a warrior from the fief of one of Arald's supporters and he shoved his way through the fighting mass of men to get to him.

“Take them from behind!” Duncan yelled and they swung in behind the six men, who were surrounding the knight as he desperately tried to defend himself. But there were too many attackers and he was taking blow after blow from the wooden weapons.

Duncan slammed his shield into the side of one of Teezal's men, sending him flying. The man stumbled and fell to his knees, where an enthusiastic member of the red force, seeing his chance, brought a wooden mace crashing down on his head.

Duncan didn't bother to see what happened to his first victim. He went at the rest of Teezal's group like a battering ram, his heavy wooden sword flashing from side to side, beating
down his opponents' defenses, finding the small gaps left unprotected by their shields and delivering crunching, crushing injuries. They went down before him like wheat before the scythe. Some turned away, nursing broken limbs. Others crashed to the turf, unconscious. Duncan was a master warrior, powerful, fast and pitiless, while Teezal's men were, for the most part, semiskilled bullyboys accustomed to striking from behind and with overwhelming numbers in their favor.

Too late, Teezal realized that his troop had been cut down by the terrifying red-clad knight, who moved through them like a hurricane, his sword rising and falling, sweeping and thrusting almost too fast for the eye to follow its blur of motion.

He turned to see if any of his men had survived these first violent few minutes and found himself facing a grim, heavy-set man in chain mail and a surcoat bearing Arald's blue and yellow colors. The man smiled at him and brandished his heavy wooden ax.

“Didn't turn out quite how you planned?” he asked.

Morgarath's henchman realized that he had been outwitted. Instead of targeting Arald's followers, he and his men had been targeted themselves by these two fighters. With a scream of rage, he swung an overhand blow at the man.

Farrel's drill ax was fashioned like his real one. The cutting edge of the blade was a crescent of hardwood, with a supporting center strut connecting it to the long haft. The ends of the crescent extended past the center strut, giving him a large striking surface, without the prohibitive weight of a solid blade. As a result, there was a gap between the top quarter of the blade and the haft of the ax. He used this now to his advantage, trapping the descending sword blade in the gap and twisting savagely to
spin the sword out of its owner's hand.

Teezal looked aghast as his weapon flew through the air. Then the flat of Farrel's ax slammed against his head. He was wearing a helmet, but it did little to stop the concussive force of the blow. His eyes glazed and his knees sagged as he sank to the ground.