Yesterday's Kings (34 page)

“Remember,” Laurens said, “you’ve two choices—aim at his shield and look to take him from his saddle. Or keep your lance low and your shield high, and aim for his
groin. The armor’s weakest there, and can you put your point in—”

“I thought this was a formal combat.” Cullyn set the bit between Fey’s champing teeth. “Shouldn’t I aim for his shield? Aren’t we meant to unhorse our opponent?”

“He looks to slay you,” Laurens said, his smile cynical. “Didn’t you hear him? Didn’t you see his eyes?”

“He’s right,” Eben said. “Afranydyr’s not like Lofantyl—he’s no love for Garm. If you were facing Lofantyl it would be a true tourney. But this is a fight.”

“But I don’t want to slay him,” Cullyn protested. “I thought that if I can unseat him—”

“He’ll come at you again,” Eben said. “He’s cold as his father, and he’ll not be satisfied until you’re dead.”

“Unseat him and ride him down,” Laurens urged. “Use Fey. And if you must fight afoot, remember what I’ve taught you.” He indicated the array of weapons set beside the lances. There was a wickedly spiked morning star, and a three-bladed mace, a massive broadsword, and the lighter sword Laurens had taught him—somewhat—to use. “Listen!” Laurens said. “If you can take him from his saddle, go over him. Then come back—I’ll have the mace ready, and all you’ll need do is smash his skull. He’s better used to blade work than you, so try to avoid that. Just look to slay him, eh?”

Cullyn felt no wish to slay anyone, but it seemed he had no choice.

“The gods be with you,” Eben said.

Laurens added, “Amen.”

Then a trumpet sounded, shrilling into the morning, and Cullyn swung astride Fey. Eben and Laurens took the place of his squires, leading him to the tourney ground. He could see Lofantyl watching from the farther end, Abra at his side, clutching his arm. Both their faces were pale and intense, as if they’d no more taste for this com
bat than he. Isydrian, like Pyris, occupied a high seat midway along the path, which was warded by fences; a crowd of attendants lined the wicker walls. At each end of the ground there were six high lances set on frames, with shields beside, and all the other weapons that Cullyn thought looked too ponderous to wield. He found it hard to imagine swinging that dreadful mace against Afranydyr’s skull. He wished he could avoid this combat.

Then Lyandra appeared, dressed in a gown of clinging white, took his hand, and handed him a scarf.

“Wear my favor, eh? For you are my champion, and after you’ve defeated that churl, we’ll …” She smiled at him enticingly, and he felt his head swirl as he tucked her favor under his belt. He wondered again what he did—but then the trumpet sounded anew, and Lyandra set a foot to his stirrup and planted a kiss on his lips before she darted away. He was led reluctantly forward.

Eben handed him a shield that he fastened to his left arm. It was little more than a buckler, square-shaped and inwardly curved—intended to deflect a lance in formal joust. Eben whispered, “I’ve set what strength I can in this, but be careful.”

Laurens passed him the lance, its tip pointed, the wood flaring out beyond the grip. He couched the farther end between ribs and elbow. And waited, his heart pounding as Fey stamped the grass, far more eager than Cullyn to attack.

Afranydyr appeared. He wore armor—a breastplate of polished black wood, pauldrons and greaves and vam-braces, a helm fashioned like the face of the hawk he resembled, his eyes staring out above a hooked beak that was overhung with spread wings. The shape of a hawk was painted on his shield. He looked magnificent. And shouted a challenge as he took hold of his lance.

“No armor? Are you mad, Garm? I shall slay you—
save you surrender now. Surrender and I’ll let you live. I’ll take you for a servant—that’s better than dying, no?”

Cullyn said, “No.”

“He seeks to disconcert you,” Laurens murmured.

“He’s afraid of you,” Eben whispered. “He knows you’re syn’qui.”

Afranydyr shouted: “Well? Shall you submit now, or must I slay you?”

“You’re syn’qui,” Eben said, “and you do what you must.”

“Aim low,” Laurens repeated. “Put your point in his gut, take the bastard off his saddle and kill him.”

Cullyn said, “Shall we begin?”

T
HEY DREW THEIR HORSES BACK
and couched their lances. Pyris and Isydrian looked at one another and nodded. Each raised handkerchiefs; a trumpet sounded and the handkerchiefs dropped together. The combatants charged.

Cullyn drove his heels hard into Fey’s ribs, for all the stallion needed no urging. He charged eagerly toward Afranydyr’s mount, as if angered by this combat. Cullyn held his lance pointed as Laurens had taught him. Afranydyr crouched in his saddle, protected by shield and armor, his lance angled at Cullyn’s shield.

Cullyn saw it coming and raised his own, so that both lances struck against the shields. He felt a tremendous shock run through his arm. It was far worse than the practice combats with Laurens. He felt his shield knocked aside and pain flash through his shoulder. He barely held on to his lance as he swerved Fey around before Afranydyr could recover, and found the farther end of the tourney ground and charged again.

Afranydyr had already brought his mount around, and had his shield up as Cullyn came toward him. They dashed at one another, Afranydyr crouched low in his saddle, protecting his body with the shield and his armor. Cullyn raised his own shield and wondered if he had done better to armor himself.

Then no time for thought: only the lance’s point driving at him, and the impact of point on shield.

It was worse than before. Cullyn felt it through his entire body. He swayed backward in his saddle as splinters of broken wood flashed past his face and he felt his lance torn from his grip. Fey bucked under him and he barely held astride his saddle. He rode the stallion down the tourney ground with his opponent’s laughter ringing dimly in his ears.

“Next turn I slay you, Garm!”

He reached the farther end and turned Fey to a prancing stop. Laurens threw him a fresh lance, that he caught from the air and couched, and charged again. It was only as he thundered toward Afranydyr that he realized his shield was broken, splintered by the Durrym’s lance point. Briefly, he wondered if Eben was truly gifted. But …

Too late now to correct the mistake. He approached the Durrym and dropped his point as Laurens had advised. He wondered if it were honorable, and then Afranydyr’s lance exploded through his shield and he saw splinters fly past his face as the world turned upside down and he realized in its spinning that he was pitched backward from his saddle.

He struck the ground and felt his breath smashed from his lungs. He tasted vomit in his mouth and smelled green grass and horse dung. He spat, which delivered him the taste of salty blood, and looked down at his torso. Afranydyr’s point had gone in through his ribs, and when
he took another gusty breath, he felt pain start through his side, and it seemed the world swung askew about him. He climbed panting to his feet. His side ached horribly, and his breath came thick past gobbets of dark and bloody phlegm. He saw his shirt colored and his shield was splintered, dangling uselessly from his arm: he tossed it aside. His ribs drove lances of pain into his side as he rose, and the tourney ground was misty and moving. The river and the trees and the pavilions swirled. And through the swirling, he dimly saw Afranydyr’s armored bay charging toward him, his opponent couching his lance so that it drove into his unarmored, bleeding chest.

He staggered, weaving as the big horse came toward him, and he saw, in confused triple vision, the point of the lance that must surely pierce him, pick him up, pin him, and deliver him to death.

He had no defense, save the knife Lofantyl had gifted him. He drew it and prepared to meet his death.

Then Afranydyr’s mount was smashed aside by Fey, turning Afranydyr’s lance from Cullyn. The terrible impact flung the bay horse onto its side, pitching Afranydyr from the saddle. The Durrym fell trapped, the weight of his overturned horse pinning him to the ground. He bellowed curses as he raised his shield against Fey’s stamping hoofs.

His head still spinning, Cullyn stumbled forward. His vision began to clear and he saw Fey rear up, screaming furiously, and smash his hooves down against the bay’s ribs. The Durrym animal squealed as blood spurted from its nostrils and mouth. Its side was caved in. Fey bent and snapped teeth into the neck and shook the fallen horse as a terrier shakes a rat. Then reared again, preparing to strike Afranydyr.

The Durrym’s shield was broken by the dreadful impact of the stallion’s hoofs, bits and pieces of wood hanging from his upraised arm. He was still trapped by the
body of his dead mount, and he could not draw his sword—for what good that might have done.

Cullyn forced himself to run, shouting at Fey.

“No! Leave him!”

The black stallion danced on his hind legs, the forelegs pawing air. Cullyn shouted again and Fey dropped, hooves crashing close to Afranydyr’s face. He snapped his teeth a hand’s span from Afranydyr’s face and moved back, eyeing Cullyn as if disappointed.

Cullyn took his bridle and walked the stallion away. “Thank you.” He stroked the velvet nose. “You saved my life. But now I must settle this.”

Fey snorted and stared at him as if he were mad. His eyes and champing teeth said, Slay him and be done with it. Cullyn forced him back, stroking the neck now, smelling the exciting scent of horse sweat. He calmed the stallion and turned toward Afranydyr.

“Shall we leave this?” he asked. “I’ve no wish to slay you.”

“No!” Afranydyr glowered at him, pride hot in his eyes. “Cede the combat to a Garm’kes Lyn? Never!”

“I only came here to bring Abra home,” Cullyn said. “And now I’m not even sure of that.”

“Cursed Garm,” Afranydyr replied. “Do you think I want her? No, but my brother’s stupid—in love with her.”

“We can talk about that. We can talk about peace between Kash’ma and Ky’atha; between Kandar and Coim’na Drhu.”

“No!”

Afranydyr heaved himself from under his dead mount and limped to where the weapons were racked. He picked up a broadsword. Cullyn said, “No!” even as the Durrym came toward him with the big sword circling above his head.

It whistled through the afternoon air, sunlight bright on the blade. Cullyn ducked under a decapitating swing and stepped away. His vision was returned now—no longer tripling—but his legs were unsteady, his stomach queasy. And he realized that his only weapon was the lyn’nha’thall Lofantyl had given him. He pressed a hand against his aching ribs and saw his fingers stained with blood. He saw Afranydyr bring the great blade back and danced away again as the blade cut air before his face, instinctively raising the lyn’nha’thall. It was smashed from his hand, the blade splintering as Afranydyr shouted from behind his hawk-featured helm, and raised the great sword again.

It seemed to Cullyn that the shattering of the friendship blade was a kind of symbol—as much as the giving. A gift from Lofantyl, it was earnest of his intent. That Afranydyr broke it so readily was indication of his intent. These brothers were very different: Cullyn might talk of peace with one, but with the other only of war. He fought Afranydyr only because the Durrym was bloodthirsty and proud, hating the Garm no less than so many Kandarians hated the Durrym—for no good reason that he could see. Yet here he was, locked in mortal combat simply to determine whether or not he be allowed to speak with Abra and find out if she wished to return home, or remain with Lofantyl. And perhaps from her decision broker some kind of peace.

He longed for peace even as he ducked under Afranydyr’s great blade.

The sword whistled by his head. He felt hairs cut loose, raining on his face as he ran, as best he could, to the Zheit end of the tourney ground. It felt like swimming—his legs seemed to work only in slow motion as Afranydyr came after him, the broadsword raised to cut him down.

Laurens handed him a shield that he strapped to his
arm even as Afranydyr’s blade came crashing down against the rack, hacking wood and sending weapons spilling in all directions. Cullyn grabbed the first he saw—a mace—and dropped and rolled as the broadsword came at him. It hacked into his shield, splinters falling loose as he fell down under the dreadful impact.

He tumbled over the grass as Afranydyr’s blow landed on the sward. The force was such that the blade imbedded deep, and Cullyn had time to rise and swing the mace against the Durrym’s helm.

A wing broke off and Afranydyr stumbled back. Cullyn raised his shield against Afranydyr’s counter and swung again. His blow landed against the helmet and Afranydyr was knocked to his knees. Laurens shouted: “Slay him!”

Cullyn raised the mace in both hands, braced to bring the weight of it down against Afranydyr’s damaged helmet. It would shatter the battered helm and the skull beneath and Afranydyr would lie dead and defeated before him. But it seemed without honor: he stepped back, lowering the heavy weapon as the Durrym rose. Dimly, he heard Laurens’s snort of disgust, and Eben’s weary sigh. From around the tourney ground there were shouts of approval and deprecation. He backed away as Afranydyr clambered to his feet and lofted the broadsword again.