The Path of Flames (Chronicles of the Black Gate Book 1) (24 page)

They’d dropped two of the enemy and lost five of their own. Not good. Looking around, she saw the two fallen Laur knights gaining their feet, drawing their blades and backing away. Kethe cursed, drew her own sword, and immediately she felt better with the blade in her hand. This, she knew. This, she could control.

Three of the fallen knights from her side weren’t moving. The other one rose, his left arm hanging loosely by his side.

“Come on!” She beckoned to him. “Get out of the way!”

He jogged over just as the trumpets sounded and the two lines charged each other again. Kethe watched, her heart in her mouth. The distance between them was much shorter this time, and both sides immediately threw themselves into a full gallop, lances leveled. The other knight hurried over to stand beside her and they watched as the knights collided.

The sound was terrible. Splinters of wood flew. Knights fell, their horses rearing, and the survivors rode on to turn again. Kethe’s hopes sank. Only Ser Wyland and the Black Knight made it to the far side. Two more of Laur’s nights had fallen, including the massive Ser Bero, unhorsed by the Black Knight.

“Two against four,” said her companion, voice bitter. “Ser Laur, the Golden Vipers, and Ser Olbrecht. Damn them!”

Asho was lying on his side in the dirt. Kethe cursed and ran out into the center to crouch by his side. He was groaning, but sat up as she reached him.

“Asho! Get up!”

“Who said being a knight was a good idea?” He took her hand, however, and hauled himself up.

The other two knights were also standing, and just in time—the trumpets sounded. The horses began to gallop. Kethe wanted to scream in frustration. Two against four. Impossible.

Ser Wyland and the Black Knight lowered their lances and galloped fiercely toward the enemy. They collided for a third and final time, and the Black Knight unhorsed Ser Olbrecht, who smashed down to the earth. Ser Wyland drove his lance straight into Kitan, whose own lance shattered on Ser Wyland’s shield even as one of the twins caught him in the side. Ser Wyland reeled in his saddle, almost sliding right off the back, but somehow managed to hold on, gripping his pommel and hauling himself erect through sheer bloody strength and determination.

Kethe screamed with a savage pride and joy—they’d kept two men up! The Golden Vipers and Kitan turned and stared as Ser Wyland drew his sword and pointed at Kitan, then down at the tourney floor. The crowd was deafening as it cheered and roared. The riding was over. Lord Laur’s men had won the jousting, but only barely. The bloodiest, hardest work was yet to come.

Kethe shook out her arms and swung her blade back and forth in a vicious figure eight. “All right, boys,” she said, and realized that she was grinning. “It’s time to show them what we can do.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Ser Tiron’s breath was a harsh rasp within his battered helm. He threw his shattered lance contemptuously down onto the ground, but resisted the urge to pluck his helm free too. His armor wasn’t worth a cup of mule’s piss, rusted and battered as it was. Once it had been worth a fortune, but Lord Kyferin had spared no effort to insult him; for three long years it had been strapped to the tilting dummy for the knights to practice on. He’d laughed at the sight of it the night he had been released and had almost thrown it on the refuse heap, but pride, bitter pride, had made him take it down. He’d left the castle and ridden for two days to reach the ruins of his family home. It was there that he’d worked on the armor, managing to restore it to some semblance of functionality. That it had lasted three rounds of the joust was a bloody miracle.

He swung his leg over the pommel of his borrowed horse and slid to the ground. The sensation jarred him his bones. Three years he’d rotted in an underground cell. He’d lost much of his strength and vitality. But no matter. While his body might be failing, his will was yet unbroken.

“Well done,” said Ser Wyland, stepping up beside him. “Your name, ser knight? I would know beside whom I fought.”

“Piss off, Jander.” Ser Tiron drew his blade. “Watch yourself, because I won’t.”

His family sword gleamed in the sun. This at least Ser Kyferin hadn’t ruined; instead, he’d hung it on his wall as a trophy. The blade was freshly oiled and sharp enough to shave with, and its hilt felt as familiar in his palm as Sarah’s own hand had once done.

The Laur knights had already engaged those who had fallen during the first two passes. Oaths, yells, and the clangor of battle filled the air. Ser Tiron swirled his blade around in a vicious arc, his body awakening to years upon years of training for war. An old hunger stirred within him. For too long he’d been cooped up like an animal. For too long his rage had built without release.

It was time to unleash it.

Tiron loped out to the side like a wolf tracking prey along the edge of a wood. He circled the melee, in no hurry to close. The winner would be the last man standing, not the first to fall.

The action in the center was getting serious. That fool girl was fighting back to back with the Bythian. Around them men were squaring off, swords clashing, some forcing their way forward, others giving ground. Ser Tiron studied the combat, moving easily, searching for prey. For weakness. Where to strike?

There was a bellow as Ser Wyland charged straight into the center of the fray. “For the Black Wolves! For Lady Kyferin!” That turned heads. Good. Ser Tiron marked where the giant Ser Bero was hammering at a young knight half his size, each blow battering at the man’s blade, driving him back and down to one knee. Beyond him the twins were fighting as a pair, each holding two blades, a short sword and a slaughter seax, spinning with impressive speed and skill. Kitan Laur was standing at the back, waiting, longsword resting on his shoulder, watching as Jander Wyland engaged a nameless Laur knight.

Well, then. Tiron grinned mirthlessly. Time for blood.

In the old days he might have roared a battle cry himself and charged his enemy from the front. That man was gone. Instead, he darted in soundlessly and came at Ser Bero from the flank. The massive man held his great ax high, ready to shatter his opponent’s blade once and for all. Gripping his family blade with both hands, Tiron leaped up with a grunt and brought it whistling down on the ax’s haft. He sheared clear through it, the massive moon blades falling to the dirt behind Bero as the great man staggered and nearly fell, unbalanced.

“Idiot. Who brings a wooden weapon to man’s fight?” Tiron moved in before Bero could regain his balance, planted his foot square on Bero’s hip and shoved. The massive knight roared in anger and toppled over onto his side with a resounding crash. “There,” said Tiron to the stunned knight who was still kneeling on the ground, notched sword held before him. “Even you should be able to handle him now.”

A rushing sensation, a blur of movement out of the corner of his eye, and Tiron wheeled, swinging his sword around in time to ward off a blow that would have taken off his head. Ser Olbrecht had lost his helm, and his gray hair hung wild about his shoulders; his smile was chilling.

“Bad move, old man,” said Ser Tiron. He rushed Olbrecht, attacking with a series of brutal overhead chops. Olbrecht moved with surprising agility for his age, deflecting the blow with clever parries, giving ground before Tiron’s strength—a strength that quickly began to fade. Tiron grimaced within his helm. He’d still not recovered. Where before he might have hammered Olbrecht into the ground, now his lungs were already burning, his muscles screaming in protest.

Tiron stepped back, gasping for breath, and Olbrecht grinned. “Tired already, Rusted Kettle? For shame. To think you’re going to lose to an old man.”

Tiron scowled. Olbrecht was good. Perhaps too good. In his prime he’d have bested any man here, but even now, in the twilight of his career, he was sufficiently skilled to outfight Tiron in his current state.

“To the Black Gate with you,” said Tiron, and hurled his sword at Olbrecht’s head.

The old man’s eyes widened in shock and he flinched to one side, Tiron’s blade crashing off his armored shoulder. He recovered quickly, but it was too late. Tiron slammed his gauntlet across Olbrecht’s jaw with everything he had, rose up onto one foot so that he could come down with all his weight, turning from his hips to bring his metal fist down onto the man’s face.

Olbrecht spun, blood and teeth spraying into the air, and crashed to the ground. Tiron fell after him, sinking down to one knee, and hissed through clenched teeth at the stitch that burned in his side and the way his vision was blurring. This wasted body. He snatched up his sword and stood, turning and quickly backpedaling away from any oncoming opponents.

There were none. The number of contestants had dropped sharply. Bero had somehow gained his feet; the young knight was lying face-down in the dirt. The twins were going toe-to-toe with the girl and the squire, and in the center Jander and Kitan were circling each other, blades raised, doing a slow sideways shuffle as each sought an opening.

One of the Laur knights was getting back up to his feet. Tiron walked over and slammed the pommel of his blade into the back of his head and the man fell to the dirt again.

Tiron’s breath was burning in his raw throat.
Damn
. He was as weak as a lamb. His whole body was shaking.

Jander and Kitan leaped at each other, blades ringing out.

“Hey!” Tiron began to run forward. “You! The idiot!”

Bero had been closing in on Ser Wyland’s flank, but he stopped and turned. He was holding the fallen knight’s sword in one massive fist, making it look like a child’s blade. A deep, bestial growl sounded from within his antlered helm. “Kettle Knight.”

“Yeah, yeah,” muttered Tiron. “Heard it before.”

He put on a burst of speed and ran in, blade held overhead as if for a downward swing. Bero raised his own sword to parry, but at the last moment Tiron checked his blow, pulled it and ducked down under the huge knight’s sword. He darted past the other man and cut down and behind at his calf as he went.

His blade connected, but Bero’s thick greaves blocked the blow. The antlered knight turned, but not as quickly as Tiron, who spun and laid a massive strike against his back. His armor rang out like a bell.

Tiron gripped his sword with both hands. An image came to him: Sarah’s face, a flickerflash of her joy as she laughed in the high meadow, golden with the light of the setting sun and fresh and beautiful forever. Then, her face as he’d seen it last, swollen and purple in the darkness of their ruined home, her head listing unnaturally to one side. Tiron roared, the sound coming from his very depths. Rage infused him, rushing up sick and ravaging from his core. Bero raised his blade but it didn’t matter.

Tiron swung. His sword was weightless. Growling and barking with hatred, he wanted one thing and one thing only: blood. He would crack this monster’s shell, shatter his breastplate through force alone. Bero was clearly not used to being assaulted straight-on. He couldn’t catch his balance. He took as many blows on the shoulder and chest as he did on the blade.

“Die!” Tiron stepped in, and stepped in again. He could see only Bero’s wide eyes through the slits of his helm. His family blade struck down again and again, and each time it left a dent in the heavy armor, chipping away the green paint and revealing dull iron beneath. He sheared off an antler horn. Smashed the helm in the side. Cracked Bero’s gorget.

His anger was febrile. He felt the black madness start to pull him down. He fought it, felt the exhaustion and weakness clutch at him with claws and haul him back into the pit, but he wouldn’t go. He smashed aside Bero’s blade. It flew and fell to the ground. Bero raised his arms and sank down to one knee. Tiron shattered a gauntlet, kicked the man in the chest and drove him onto his back.

Was that roaring sound the crowd or his own blood? He stood over the fallen knight and pounded at his helm, crushing it, disfiguring it, over and over. Bero was bellowing, yelling something, but Tiron couldn’t hear him. Finally the huge knight stopped moving. Tiron stared at the man’s dead eyes then staggered away, almost sobbing in his attempt to breathe, blade falling from his hands.

He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t stand.

The rage left him. Sarah was still dead. His years wasted in a pit were still gone. There was nothing he could do to change that. He was powerless. Fate had crushed him.

The world was swimming. He growled. He wouldn’t fall. He wouldn’t surrender. Never again. Never.