Firethorn (26 page)

Maid Vulpeja. I found I didn't have the stomach to hate her thoroughly. Suppose she
had
fancied herself a match for Galan. Well, she was but a 'prentice in these wars. Many a veteran had made the same mistake, if rumor spoke true. It was pity she deserved, being, like me, another fool for Galan's charm. Only I was the one lying in his bed at night, while she lay dying. How could I deny her healing if it was within my powers?

And Galan must be warned, though I dreaded breaking the silence between us on the matter of the wager and the maid. I feared what he might say and even more what I might say, once I started talking. I'd have to find words vehement enough to make him listen, but not so hot as to kindle his anger.

So stitch by stitch and thought by thought I made this resolve: whatever I could do to mend this harm, I should do.

rux and Ardor were now at odds; Hazard, who set one against the other, made mischief with all of us. The gods trample our resolves.

Evening passed and morning came, and still I hadn't found the words to warn Galan. He rose before cockcrow, as usual, to don his armor, and I heard him conversing with his men about the opponents he'd face that afternoon in the tourney. I listened with only one ear, having heard such talk daily: this one was of no account, that one had some metal to him; Sire Rodela saying beware of a certain Sire Voltizo; Galan laughing and saying he feared him as much as any mouse.

Still I didn't understand. But when we got to the tourney field that afternoon, and I saw the rose-colored banners of the other clan ranged against ours, I realized Crux was to fight Ardor. Then I was uneasy. Ardor had more men: twenty-three cataphracts to our seventeen, not counting the armigers. The fighters would not pair off neatly, one against one. When a clan is outnumbered, and the lines are uneven, a man can't be sure how many will ride against him.

The clan leaders had chosen the scorpion rather than the lance as the weapon for the charge, with the sword to be used after, at will. The scorpion has a wooden shaft not much taller than a man, topped by a head that combines sting, claw, and venom. The sting is the thrusting point, shaped like a short sword. Near the base of the sting is the claw, a wide sickle, sharpened on both the inner and outer curves; it could be used to hook an opponent from his horse or prune one of his limbs. Across from it is the so-called venom, a small heavy spike capable of piercing a helmet. On horseback, the scorpion is wielded with one hand while the other holds the reins. Afoot, it is most often used two-handed, like a quarterstaff. The men adorned the scorpions' shafts with fluttering pennons and tassels, as they did their lances, for the sake of show and to confuse the eyes of their enemies. These being tourney weapons, the scorpion hafts were of pine instead of ironwood and the blades of oak instead of tempered steel.

When the clans charged I forgot to be uneasy. I lost myself in the crowd; we drew in our breath at the signal, and as the charge commenced the breath rushed out with a shout and we were caught there, in the instant of greatest tension and greatest beauty, as the men urged on their horses and the banners streamed in the wind of their riding and the noise shook the air.

I drew another breath and the moment was flown. Galan had let Semenl get two strides ahead when the lines met. It was a bad habit they had, both man and horse altogether too eager, and surely the Crux would scourge Galan for it later. The horses with heart will strive to be first, and the ones that lack courage will dawdle, and it is on every man to keep the line straight and strong and tight.

Now they made fine targets. Two men charged Galan: one cataphract aimed high, using his scorpion as a lance, bracing it under his arm to put more force behind the blow; another aimed lower, at Semental, though it was foul to aim at a man's horse in a tourney of courtesy. Their armigers went after Sire Rodela.

I saw Galan rock in the saddle when the first cataphract's scorpion glanced off his shoulderguard. The impact should have broken the soft wood of the shaft, but it remained whole. As Galan galloped on he managed to sweep his weapon sideways at the other man, but the blow was feeble and he failed to hook him with the claw. Semental easily outpaced the other horses, leaving Sire Rodela to fend off Sire Galan's pursuers. Near the edge of the field, Galan turned and rested the scorpion across his saddlebow. In the few moments he had before his attackers closed the distance, I saw him flex his right hand, as if to make sure of his grip. He leaned forward and plucked a scorpion with a splintered shaft out of the padded cushion that protected Semental's chest. I hadn't seen that blow go home.

He picked up his weapon again and joined the melee. Now three cataphracts set upon Galan at once while their armigers went to work driving Sire Rodela away from his master's side. Sire Rodela rarely used the scorpion or the lance. He could afford only one tourney weapon (and that one borrowed from Galan, since the armiger had won two trophy swords but lost three), so he kept to the sword, being more skilled in its use. It told against him this time, as one of the armigers against him had a scorpion and harried him while staying well beyond his reach. Sire Rodela held his shield up against the drumming of their blades. Soon his sword wagged slower and slower, like the tail of a beaten dog. The armiger with the scorpion stayed to finish him and the other two joined the fight against Galan.

Sire Galan had been singled out in other tourneys; it made sense to disable a strong fighter early if it could be done. There was no doubt that this time they intended to make him yield by main force rather than by driving him past the boundary. They crowded him on all sides. Semental lashed out with hooves and teeth, pivoted and struck again. Galan knocked an armiger half senseless; the man bounced like a sack of turnips as his horse took the opportunity to trot off the field.

The riders urged their horses closer, until Semental no longer had room to turn. Galan had lost his shield. A cataphract jabbed at him with the sting of his scorpion while the others tried to unseat him by hooking his armor with their curved claws. Galan held his scorpion like a stave to parry with the shaft and strike with both ends. Perhaps he forgot, in the heat of the fight, that the shaft was of pine and couldn't withstand a heavy blow. When it broke he kept the short end, with the blade. There was no time to draw his sword.

I was watching Galan, only Galan, yet I missed the blow that found its way under his breastplate and severed the belt of his scaled kilt before slipping through the skin and muscle of his belly. I thought Galan had lost his balance when he leaned sideways in the saddle. I thought he'd right himself again. Then he slid. Then he toppled.

I hadn't seen any blood. Nevertheless I was on my feet and running down the hill pell-mell, cursing in both the High and the Low, and praying too. I ran because I hadn't been afraid enough, given that the men of Ardor had reason to do him harm, and now I was too afraid. He'd fallen like a dead man.

Galan was half hidden by the legs of the warhorses trampling all around him. Semental did not run; Galan had trained him to stand steady on the battlefield if he was unhorsed. The stallion's head was down, as if he was blowing hard. An armiger dismounted and cut Galan's banner from the pole and took the weapon from his grip. The Crux rode up, and Sire Alcoba followed with their armigers—why did they come so late?—and while they engaged Ardor's men, Spiller and Rowney came running. The jacks picked Galan up, one at his head and one at his feet, and carried him hastily toward the enclosure on the field. His rump dragged along the ground and his head lolled.

I had the sense to stop short of the smudge pots, for it would have been sacrilege for me to enter the field during a tourney. The priests of Rift who patrolled the boundary would have cut me down.

The tourney went on and on. I waited for it to end, watching the jacks' enclosure instead of the battle as a priest of Rift hurried there, followed by two more, and close on their heels came Divine Xyster, the Auspex of Crux who served as carnifex. They stayed hidden behind the reed fence with Sire Rodela and Spiller and Rowney, and all the while I didn't know if Galan was dead or mortally wounded or merely scratched and dazed.

One clan or another won and I didn't care. Galan's men bore him back to the camp as gently as they could on a stretcher made of two lances and a length of canvas. Sire Rodela, Divine Xyster, and I walked along beside. They'd taken off Galan's helm. His face was pale. His eyes were half shuttered, showing more white than dark pupil. He kept his face turned toward me. He said, “The whoreson bastards have scratched me, haven't they?” and nothing more. His breath came in gasps with frightening pauses, and his cheeks were streaked with sweat and runnels of tears. Sire Rodela had taken off his own padded linen shirt and stuffed it under Galan's breastplate. The blood didn't show on the red shirt, but it left a trail of spots behind us on the muddy road.

They took Galan straightaway into the pavilion of the Auspices of Crux. When I tried to follow, one of the priests' varlets stopped me with a shove, for fear I'd taint Galan's wound with my touch. I wished I were his jack and not his sheath, because Spiller and Rowney were allowed to care for him. When one or the other came out of the tent to fetch something, I pestered them for news.

Spiller said Sire Galan's abdomen had been sliced from his right rib to a handsbreadth past his navel, on the left. He and Rowney agreed the cut had been made by the point of a scorpion, which had found its way between Galan's cuirass and his kilt, punctured a hole in the mail and linen underarmor, and raked across his belly. Just the tip had gone through; the hook of the scorpion had caught on his breastplate and stopped the blade. Galan also had the mark of hooves on his thigh and forearm where a horse or two had trodden on him, and a bad bruise on his shoulder where he'd taken the first blow. No bones were broken. It was the belly wound that worried them.

The wound could easily have been mortal. It was meant to be by the man who dealt it, the father of Maid Vulpeja, the same Sire Voltizo they'd talked about that morning. But Sire Galan did, after all, have luck with him. Divine Xyster said the blade had cut to his tripes but not laid them open. A little deeper and he'd have spilled his guts and that was death for sure. He might die anyway if the wound went bad, of course, but the carnifex had sacrificed a dove and read the entrails, and the omens, on the whole, were good. He would treat him. No healer will risk his good repute on a useless attempt to cure a doomed man.

Spiller was not forthcoming about how the priest cared for Galan's wound. He was brusque with me, as if he was far too busy to attend to my questions. Rowney, on the other hand, told me a few things. He said Divine Xyster used spiderwebs to stanch the flow of blood, which came from a chest full of small reddish spiders brought along for the purpose. The priest had only to reach in a stick and twirl it to bring out a handful of the stuff. Rowney was made to pick the spiders out carefully and put them back in the chest so they could go on spinning in the dark.

Divine Xyster had put some sort of greasy salve on the wound. Rowney could tell me nothing of its ingredients except that it smelled like horse piss and contained verdigris. The priest had fetched a tarnished copper disk from a tall pot in the corner, and scraped the surface of the disk with a knife to produce a green powder that he mixed with the salve.

He'd painted godsigns and charms onto strips of linen, using more verdigris bound with egg white as pigment, and covered the wound with as tidy and intricate a bandage as one could ever hope to see, according to Rowney. Last of all he'd fumigated the tent by burning sage, candlebark, and dried flowers of consolation—the latter tending to produce a dreamless sleep; I could smell that for myself.

Rowney had said a lot, for a man who liked to be silent. I promised him a pigeon for his help, and some hen's eggs if he'd bring me a bit of the salve. I put my faith in the priest's lore of spiderwebs and verdigris, so different from anything I'd learned from the Dame. Both his lore and his prayers were bound to be more potent than my own. I was eager to know his secrets, as if in knowing I could have some share in Galan's healing. In truth I was helpless, and it was hard to bear.

I went to crouch between the Auspices' tent and Sire Guasca's, in the small and stinking hiding place I'd used earlier when I'd cast the bones. I leaned my head against the wall of the priests' tent. I heard nothing from Galan, not even a moan, only Divine Xyster droning a chant. It was evening. It occurred to me to wonder why the others hadn't come back from the tourney field. The camp was empty except for Sire Galan, the priest, his men, and me.

It was more than a feat for a wooden blade to get past iron plate, a mail shirt, and padded underarmor to find flesh. It was impossible.

After we left the field, the priests of Rift went circumspectly to the king. They had examined Sire Galan's wound and garments and they accused the clan of Ardor of bringing real weapons to a tourney of courtesy. The clan's weapons were seized, but only one, that of Sire Voltizo, proved to be of keen-edged steel, masked under silver gilt.

It was an affront to the king, to the clan of Crux, and worse—to the god Rift. Though the king had forbidden mortal tourneys, warriors still brought their private quarrels to the tourneys of courtesy. But it was uncommonly rare to flaunt the rules of battle, and rarer still to be caught doing it. No one would have objected to the man killing Galan fairly, but even Sire Voltizo's kin, who had gladly helped him humble an enemy on the tourney field, disappeared from his side when his base cheat was discovered. He wouldn't say why he'd done it (though there were some who already knew), and he claimed no one had helped him do it; he was only sorry he hadn't given Sire Galan mercy when he'd had the chance. Everyone understood this to mean giving him the point of his mercy dagger through a slit in his visor.