The Red Knight (23 page)

While she’d been watching the encounter between Toran and the Thane, Berwick had taken the token of another of the Hammer. The noblewoman rode past the stand, waving and blowing kisses to the cheering masses.

“The warrior in the blue armour doesn’t appear to be taking the contest entirely seriously,” said the Satvani.

“She’s paying more attention than she appears to be Satvani,” said the Prince. “She just likes people to think she’s an idiot.”

“Ah, she is lulling her enemies into a false sense of security?”

Talin raised an eyebrow. “Something like that.”

While Berwick was playing to the crowd, the Guthlanders split up. Two rode wide, flanking Jamie. The Thane hung back. He was waiting to see which way her squire would go before committing himself. Their caution was a compliment to his skill, but she was concerned for her squire. Jamie was a brave and skilled fighter but this was his first senior melee, and the Guthlanders were taking the contest very seriously, too seriously some might say.

Jamie reined in his horse; the excited animal pranced on the spot, fired up and eager to run. When the destrier looked like she was about to burst, Jamie kicked her on and charged—straight at the Thane. When he was about half a horse length away, and much to everyone’s surprise, Jamie dived at the Thane and tackled him out of the saddle.

“He has an interesting style,” said Talin as Jamie and the Thane crashed to the ground.

“I have no idea where he learnt that,” said Alyda.

Jamie landed on top of the Guthlander and punched him in the face. Metal rang against metal. Alyda felt her own fists bunch as Jamie hit him again before jumping to his feet and lunging for the token hanging from the Guthlander’s saddle.
Nicely done
. Just as his fingers were about to close around the ribbon, the Thane’s pony shied away. Before Jamie could try again, Thorgulsen grabbed his ankle and wrenched him off his feet. Jamie went down. The Guthlander dropped on his back with both knees, flattening the smaller man.

Jamie sprawled flat, winded. Thorgulsen got up, dragged Jamie to his knees by his surcoat and then punched him to the ground. Neither Thorgulsen nor the other Guthani made any attempt to take Jamie’s token, even though his horse was standing nearby. The Thane retrieved his axe.

All eyes were on the Guthlander as he advanced on Jamie. So it came as a surprise when first one, and then the other Guthani were taken out of the contest.

Yelling a wild battle cry, Bear Berwick charged her horse into the side of one of the stout Guthland ponies, almost knocking the poor beast to the ground with her larger courser. The rider was thrown sideways and helped the rest of the way out of the saddle by a sharp jab from the lance Berwick had picked up.

The other Guthlander cast her spear at the noblewoman, but it flew wide. With barely a pause, Berwick returned the compliment and threw her lance—like a javelin. It hit the hirth square in the chest, punching her off her horse. The cheering died down to a stunned murmur.

“I haven’t seen that before either,” said Alyda. She looked questioningly at Talin. He avoided her gaze.

While Bear finished the hirth, Jamie managed to get to his knees. Thorgulsen rammed the butt of his axe into the squire’s gut. He doubled, gasping for breath.

Alyda jumped up. “Marshall!” she shouted.

The Marshal nodded, and set off running across the parade ground, shouting for the Thane to desist at once. Thorgulsen either didn’t hear or didn’t care. He raised his axe above his head.

“Is this is normal?” The Satvani asked.

“No, it bloody isn’t! Run damn you, stop him!” Alyda bellowed at the Marshal, furious that she was trapped in the stands and unable to help.

Jamie’s head lolled forward. The axe whistled down.

Bear vaulted off her horse and charged towards the Guthlander. Alyda took in the distance between them. It was too far…

Impossible.
Like the rest of the crowd, Alyda watched in amazement as Bear covered the ground between her and the Guthlander faster than was humanly possible. Skidding to a halt, she caught the axe-shaft, the blade inches from Jamie’s neck. The crowd went wild and let out a cheer so loud, it scared the birds to flight. Bear grinned at the Thane who was struggling to wrest his axe from her grasp.

With her free hand, Berwick tore off his helm, and kissed him, full on the mouth. Spluttering, he snatched his axe from her and stumbled away.

Before the situation got out of hand, a crowd of Marshals came between them. The noblewoman and the Thane were escorted off the field in opposite directions. Bear was laughing and waving. The Thane was raging at the officials, and promising bloody murder. Semi-conscious, Jamie was carried off by Polyn and some of the other squires.

“Is this…?” asked the Satvani.

“No, it isn’t.” Alyda looked pointedly at Talin.

The veneer of innocence was almost flawless, but they both knew what Bear had done was beyond mortal skill. Alyda didn’t need to ask why the Ward hadn’t sounded, the flush in his cheeks told her. She was torn. Bear Berwick had just saved Jamie’s life—by cheating.

After the shouting died down, tokens were counted and Thorgulsen was declared the winner. His temper had reduced to a vicious simmer by then, but he was still inclined to tell the cheating bastards where they could shove their prize. Beth and the Suvian begged him not to. Apparently, a show of good faith was required after almost killing the Captain of the Hammer’s squire. Just to shut them up, he agreed.

Grubby peasants spilled onto the parade ground, all jostling for a view of the prize giving. Thorgulsen watched the other warriors file in front of the Antian Prince and his sycophants.

Bethanglyn fastened the clasp of his wolf fur cloak.

“There, now go—they’re waiting,” she urged.

“Don’t rush me woman, the whelp can wait, and I’m in no hurry to get close to a filthy Searskin.” Thorgulsen made the sign of the horns when he eyed the veiled figure standing beside the Prince.

“Aye. Just look at those beetle black eyes. You can tell she’s laughing at us, even though she hides behind a veil. She finds our shame amusing,” said Bethanglyn.

Thorgulsen growled. “A few hours in the company of my hirths would cure the sand demon of her insolence.”

He made his way across the parade ground; the crowd of pig-eyed Antians parted before him. He smiled, knowing full well it was not a pleasant sight. Up close, the Prince had some bearing, he might have been fit to be a hirth, albeit one from a small, outlying stead where the pickings were thin. It was the woman at his shoulder who breathed the threat of steel.

The Captain of the Hammer stood eye to eye with him; her gaze hard and calculating. He knew the look. It was the same one that greeted him whenever he caught sight of his reflection. There was a challenge in that stare; one he’d be more than happy to call her on.

“Congratulations, Thane Thorgulsen,” said Prince Talin as he handed him the prize.

Thorgulsen noted the lack of enthusiasm in the King’s get. He grunted his acceptance. The ‘prize’ was a cast silver statuette of a stag. The only good thing about it was that it had weight enough to stave in a skull. Alas, the cunt in the blue armour was nowhere to be seen, and neither was that little, red haired bastard. He’d catch up with both of them sooner or later and finish what they’d started. Stretching their hides across his shield, and hanging their scalps from his battle standard would be a more fitting prize than the poorly fashioned piece of shit they’d given him.

When he returned to camp, he found Telvier waiting for him in his tent. Bethanglyn was not. The mercenary must have caught the drift of his foul mood, and was swift to agree that he’d been grievously insulted by the Antians.

“No mortal could have done what she did, not without the aid of magic. It was outrageous! The Prince or the Captain—probably both, must have been in on the deception.”

Thorgulsen threw the stag on the table. “Like my wife, you have a gift for telling me that which I already know.”

“Forgive me Thane; ‘tis just that my sense of fair play has been grievously offended.”

“I doubt that.”

Telvier’s lips stretched into a sly smile. “I have an idea how you might be avenged on them,
and
advance our other scheme at the same time.”

“Does it involve killing any of those underhanded bastards?”

Telvier smiled. “Perhaps, at the very least you’ll get to destroy their reputation. Honour means more than life to these soft headed fools, it will be a fair kick in their morale. Trust me, I have studied our enemy.”

Thorgulsen snatched up his axe from where it was leaning against the table and smashed it down on the stag. The statue and the table exploded in a mess of silver and splinters.

Thorgulsen smiled. “It’s a start I suppose.”

After presenting the savage with his prize, the Prince went to watch the final of the joust. Bear Berwick had vanished and Jamie was in the infirmary, with, thankfully, nothing worse than a sore head and a cracked rib. Alyda would have liked to have a word with all of them, probably several, and none of them nice. Ruining the tournament’s reputation was one thing—trying to kill her squire was quite another.

The joust was the last competition of the tournament, but the Satvani insisted on leaving without watching it. Duty bound, Alyda had to escort the Naran to her waiting caravan. It was an unexpectedly sudden departure, but she was glad to see the back of the Narans, particularly the Satvani and her incessant questions.

When they reached the huge canopied wagons, Alyda bowed. If she got this over with quickly, she might be able to catch the end of the joust. To her surprise, the Princess threw her arms around her waist and hugged her.

“Thank you for your hospitality, Ali,” said the Satvani.

“Er…Thank you, Highness.” Alyda replied, not sure if she should pry the woman off her or just wait until she was finished. The Captain of the Hammer wasn’t in the habit of hugging strangers. After far too long, the Satvani let her go.

“Forgive my familiarity, Captain, but I feel I know you as well now, as I shall in the future.”

Something hadn’t translated from Naran to Antian, but Alyda let it pass. She just wanted to get rid of her. “Thank you, Highness. It’s been a pleasure to meet you.”

“Even though I have bored you with all my questions?”

Alyda was about to deny the truth, but the Satvani giggled and patted her arm.

“No need to answer, Captain Stenna, I own my faults. When you visit Nara, I will repay your patience, and your kindness.”

Now Alyda was really confused. “Thank you, Satvani, but I don’t think I’ll have the liberty to travel to your homeland. A knight’s time is not their own.”
Which is why I’m here, and not watching the joust.

The Satvani shook her head. “I am quite sure you will come, Captain Stenna. Zuharan al Nara has seen it, and he is seldom mistaken.”

“
I’m afraid I do not recall meeting the gentleman,” said Alyda.

“You haven’t, yet. My Lord is in Nara, he told me about you before I left.”

Just go along with it.
Alyda smiled politely.

The Satvani laughed. “I see by your face that I shall be leaving you with a mystery. Until we meet again, Captain Stenna. May the spirits bless you, and guard you in the darkness.”

Alyda watched the Satvani’s caravan rumble out of the Arth, the Satvani’s odd prediction lurking like a shadow in the back of her mind. When they’d gone, she set off to the tilt yard. She hadn’t gone very far when she met Nevenna coming the other way.

“I’ve missed it, haven’t I?”

“Aye, that’s what I came to tell you. Bergsten won.”

Alyda clapped her on the back. “Well, I can honestly say that’s the best thing I’ve heard all day.”

Nev grunted. “Wish I could say the same. He might be one of ours, but Del was robbed.”

“You would say that…”

For the whole of that night, it rained solidly. By noon the next day, the grounds of the Arth had turned into a bog, miring horses and wagons, sucking boots off feet and dampening any high spirits that had remained after the alcohol had run out.

Alyda was taking a short cut through the tented marketplace. She was on her way back to the Arth after spending the morning organising the crews that were keeping the road clear. During the tournament the marketplace had been a thriving centre of activity. It was now a deserted, rain soaked island drowning in a sea of mud.

Alyda skirted the rut puddles that were the size of duck ponds, keen to get back to the Arth and get changed. She was soaked to the skin, and a little hung-over from celebrating Bergsten’s win into the early hours. A peel of laughter rang out from the only ale tent still open for business.

Whoever owned
The Golden Hart
was making the most of the terrible weather and by the sounds of it, had caught a fair haul of stragglers, happy enough to drain the barrel dregs while they waited for the rain to stop. As she walked past the tent, someone called her name.