The Silver Serpent Page 4

  Chapter 4|Karst

  Excitement, tempered with a heavy dose of skepticism, greeted word of the tournament. Sensible Galsburans were not quick to believe the crown had suddenly taken notice of their remote corner of the kingdom. Mistress Faun, eager to be the first to spread the news, had hurried to the Dry Birch’s common room only to be treated with flat disbelief. Her vehement insistence won her only a small battle, bringing a touch of condescending acceptance, the way one would indulge a small child’s fancy. She finally stormed out with her skirts clutched in white-knuckled fists, raucous laughter nipping at her heels. But when word come from both Lord Hiram and Master Yurg, that gave the townspeople something to think about. And when a squadron of soldiers arrived in town, tacked up a notice to the same effect, and proceeded to drink Master Serrill dry in an impressive display, the like of which none could remember seeing in these parts, the remaining holdouts were finally persuaded.

  Once reality set in, Lord Hiram and the town leaders set to work. They chose a nearby pasture ringed on three sided by gently sloping hills, forming a natural amphitheatre. On the open end they built a viewing platform for Prince Lerryn and any dignitaries who might accompany him. Word was, Mistress Faun had arranged the seating to place herself next to the prince.

  “I scarcely recognize this place anymore,” Shanis said as she and Hierm jostled through the crowd.

  The flow of visitors had begun as a trickle as soon as word of the tournament spread. In these last days before the event, they poured in, turning the countryside into a bustling anthill of activity. Some planned to enter the tournament, while others simply had come to witness the spectacle. So much had changed in the span of ten days. The common room was packed; Music and laughter rolled forth in steady waves at all hours. Seventhday market was now an everyday market, and had grown with the influx of “outlanders” as the locals called anyone who lived more than a day’s ride from Galsbur. Familiar faces mixed with those of strangers in a whirl of festivity. Shanis drank in the sights, the sounds, everything.

  The practice yard brimmed with swordsmen. Master Yurg was watching as young men practiced. Shanis felt a touch of resentment that their swordmaster was providing any assistance at all to outsiders, but that was Yurg. From what she could see it was evident that few of the young men had the skill to go far in the competition, but the opportunity to be a part of such an important event was too much for any youth with imagination to pass upon. The usual crowd of girls milled about, but they were not watching the drills. They focused instead on a young man standing in their midst. He was slightly taller and broader of chest than Hierm. His glossy black hair fell almost to his shoulders and his hawkish brown eyes seemed to glow against his pale skin. His clothing was fine by Galsbur standards. He was working forms, all the while carrying on in a voice loud enough to be heard beyond the throng of young ladies.

  “Of course I shall make it good sport. I’ll permit my opponents to stand with me a few moments. The spectacle would be ruined for the onlookers of course, should I make quick work of the entire field.”

  Shanis leaned close to Hierm’s ear. “Fascinating,” she whispered, “how he can work his forms and his tongue at the same time.”

  “Perhaps he means to talk his opponents into submission,” Hierm mumbled.

  She clamped a hand over her mouth, trying without success to stifle a giggle. She caught the attention of one of the girls, Madelaine Halton, a chubby, brown-haired farmer’s daughter with one green eye slightly bigger than the other, who turned and glared at the pair.

  The young man also noticed, and broke off his form. “What have we here?” The look in his eyes belied his forced smile. “Admiring my forms, are you?”

  Shanis felt an immediate aversion to this pompous stranger. “Amusing ourselves with them might be more accurate.”

  The youth was unfazed. “And what makes a girl such an expert at swordsmanship?” He flourished his sword in emphasis. To Shanis’ practiced eye, it was nothing more than a silly affectation, but given the burst of hushed whispers among the onlookers, it must have appeared quite impressive.

  “Didn’t you know?” A voice piped up from the crowd. “She’s fighting in the tournament.”

  Shanis did not try to stifle her impudent grin, but she remained silent. It was not altogether certain that she would be fighting in the tournament. Master Yurg planned to enter her name. Whether or not the prince would allow it was still in question.

  The lad sheathed his sword. His eyes appraised Shanis for a moment before he replied. “That’s not what I hear. I hear that Prince Lerryn will not allow any woman,” he spat the word with disgust, “to disgrace his tournament with her ineptitude. The very idea is an affront to the gods and to good sense.”

  “Shanis is good.” Natin had wandered up to the gathered crowd. “She’s the best among us.”

  The dark-haired young man took a long, level look at the bread basket hooked over Natin’s arm, smirked, and made a mocking face that elicited giggles from the girls. “I do not doubt that one bit.” He looked around at the crowd that encircled him, seeming to challenge each person individually. “Of course, that is only a reflection of the sad state of the local manhood.” The rumblings that arose from the onlookers only encouraged him. “My dear ladies,” he shouted, “I am very sorry! Sorry that your birth has condemned you to live in a hamlet where masculinity is so obviously in short supply. Sorry that you have to live in a town full of large...boys.” Nervous laughter tittered from the girls not bright enough to realize he was insulting their home, their fathers and their brothers. “I do so hope you ladies will not hold it against me when I thrash your local lads.”

  Shanis rolled her eyes. She had heard more than enough from this flatulent sheep’s bladder. She grabbed Hierm by the arm and turned to leave, but he shook his head and pointed to Natin, who had dropped his basket of bread and was shouting at the stranger.

  “Who are you to come here and mock us?” Natin’s face was scarlet, and his hands trembled. He had been humiliated, but what could he do? He was no swordsman. “You are not so great!”

  Smiling wickedly, the stranger turned on Natin. “Perhaps you are right. Mayhap I have not nearly the skill of your local, ah, swordsmen.” The face he made for the benefit of the onlookers said that the very idea was absurd to him. Another smattering of laughter arose. “What I am certain of is that you are not man enough to prove it.” His predatory gaze locked on Natin.

  “I guess we will find out at the tournament, won’t we?” Shanis said in a raised voice, pushing her way past the cluster of girls. She gave Madelaine an elbow to the ribs on the way past, eliciting a satisfying grunt.

  “Why wait until then? Surely this gentleman would not object to making a few passes with me. He seems the brave sort.”

  Natin did not meet the stranger’s eye. He was staring at the ground, probably trying to think of a way to extricate himself from the situation without losing more face.

  “Go ahead Natin,” Khalyndryn piped up from behind Shanis. “Show us what you can do. You aren’t afraid, are you?”

  It was time to put a stop to this foolishness. She was about to say just that when she felt a hand clamp down on her shoulder. “Don’t interfere” Hierm hissed. “You can’t.”

  Did Hierm not realize what was happening? “He’s just trying to pick a fight. To show off,” she whispered back, turning to face her friend. “Natin can’t handle a sword. He’d stand a better chance fighting with one of his loaves of bread.”

  Hierm’s gaze was stern. “Shanis, if you stop this, you will shame him. You must not do it.” The look in his eyes one of sadness, but resolution.

  Shanis sniffed. Men and their ridiculous sense of pride! Hierm was right, of course. But if it did become necessary, she would put a stop to it. And she and Khalyndryn were going to have a long talk.

  Khalyndryn’s coaxing was all that Natin required. By the time Shanis turned back around, he had borrowed a swo
rd from one of the bystanders. The crowd drew back from the combatants. With a cruel smile, his opponent prepared himself. Natin, his face ashen, raised his blade, and nodded.

  The dark-haired stranger leapt to the attack. His first strokes were clumsy. Natin easily warded off the blows, and took the offensive. A murmur arose from the observers as Natin’s assault was barely deflected. Shanis was not fooled. The stranger was toying with Natin. She needed only to see his footwork to know that he was, at the very least, experienced.

  The crowd around the two combatants grew. A few of those drilling in the practice yard had taken notice, and now perched precariously on the fence, trying to gain a better vantage point. Master Yurg was busy on the far end of the yard, unaware of what transpired.

  Shanis was struck by a sudden thought.

  “Get Master Yurg! If he puts a stop to it, Natin won’t be shamed. Hurry!”

  Hierm nodded and pushed his way back out of the crowd.

  Natin’s advantage was short-lived. His adversary returned to the offensive with strokes that were increasingly precise. The rain of blows became a torrent. Natin backpedaled, all attention to form forsaken in a desperate attempt to defend himself. Shanis watched as the attack pressed on, and the concern in Natin’s eyes became outright fear as it became apparent to all that the outsider had no intention of stopping.

  A distant voice rang out. Shanis breathed a sigh of relief as she saw Master Yurg running toward them. The dueling boys neither heard nor saw the swordmaster’s approach. Natin was tiring visibly. Stumbling and falling to one knee, he raised his blade in a gesture that was part defensive and part supplication.

  “Hold! Hold!” Shanis shouted. The dark-haired outlander ignored her cry. He struck down hard in a sweeping slash. Natin screamed as the blade sliced through his wrist, spraying a hot, bloody froth across his face. His sword fell useless to the ground.

  Then all was bedlam. People pushed and shouted. Shanis tried to fight through the throng that milled about Natin. She stumbled over Khalyndryn, who was bent over at the waist, retching. The dark-haired boy’s head bobbed above the crowd, and she took off after him in mindless fury. Before could reach her quarry, two men in white cloaks grabbed her by the arms and lifted her off the ground. She was too surprised to cry out. She looked about her and saw that several similarly garbed men were in dispersing the crowd.

  The men wore polished chain mail under their cloaks. All were armed. These were the prince’s guard! Things began to quiet as the soldiers chased people away with sharp commands and more than a few threats of flogging.

  Natin still lay on the ground. Master Yurg knelt over him along with two of the soldiers. His sword lay a few feet away in the blood-soaked grass. Another of them held Hierm by the upper arm. Natin’s assailant stood with his arm pinned behind his back by an angular man in a flamboyant red and yellow checked cloak. The strange man seemed to wear a permanent smile along with the harp that was strapped to his back.

  A stout soldier, his yellow beard streaked with gray, stalked up to them and inspected the three with a look not much short of contempt. “Come with me.” He led them down the crowded dirt path that ringed the green in Galsbur’s center. The soldiers half-dragged them up the steps of the Dry Birch, through the common room, where everyone paused to stare and shout japes, and into the small, private room in the back of the inn.

  Lord Hiram sat at a small table in the corner with two men in merchant dress and a young man who could only be Prince Lerryn

  The Prince was a tall man; even seated, that much was evident. His curly brown hair was cut short, just above his high, red collar. His skin was deeply tanned, unusual for royalty, but Lerryn’s reputation was that of a soldier, and a good one. He spent little time at the palace in Archstone, preferring instead to remain in the field with his guard. He took in the scene with an amused expression.

  “New recruits, Captain Tabars?” His laugh, deep and rich, cascaded over the three youths. Shanis hated him instantly.

  Captain Tabars’ face reddened. “Dueling, Highness. This one here,” Tabars gestured at the young stranger, “near killed a local boy. Cut his hand ‘most clean off!”

  The Prince was no longer smiling. His brown eyes bored into the three young people. “And the other two?”

  “Had to grab them too.” Tabars shook his head and directed a scowl at Shanis and Hierm. “Were going to dispense a little local justice, they were.”

  The Prince cupped his hand in his chin and gazed at Shanis with an intensity that took her breath. “The girl too?”

  Shanis’ heart sank. She had been deluding herself. The Prince was as bad as the rest of the men. He’d never let her fight in the tournament.

  “Yes, Highness,” Tabars said. His bearded chin twitched. “Oh yes, indeed.”

  “Master Van Derin,” Lerryn inquired, turning his attention to Lord Hiram, who was staring daggers at his son. “Do you know these young people?”

  The question hung in the silence as they awaited his reply. Shanis wondered if he was going to deny them, but he finally spoke, his voice a tired drone. “Your Highness, the boy to your right is my wayward son Hierm. The girl is Shanis Malan, the daughter of a man in my employ.”

  Hierm bowed as his father introduced him. Shanis knew that she should probably curtsy, or something ridiculously ladylike. After an awkward moment, she nodded and bent her knee slightly. Smiling, the Prince inclined his head in return.

  “The other I do not know,” Hiram continued. “He is not from these parts.”

  The jet-haired young man piped up right away. “Pedric Karst, Highness.” He bowed deeply. “My father is the Duke of Kurnsbur, to the east and south.”

  If this name meant anything to the Lerryn, it did not register on his face. He turned to the man who had brought Karst in. “And who might you be?”

  “Sandrin Skedane at your service, Highness.” The man made a graceful bow. “I am a loremaster,” Skedane continued, “and a man of songs. I have come to see your tournament, and perhaps memorialize it in story and verse.”

  Shanis took a long look at him. His flamboyant red and yellow cloak was not all that was odd about him. His puffy, black hair was sprinkled with silver, and his chin whiskers, the only hair on his face, was twisted into a hands-length braid, with red and yellow ribbon woven in. His weathered face suggested that he had seen as many summers as Lord Hiram, but he seemed as spry and agile as a youth. He had easily taken Karst in hand.

  “I see.” Lerryn’s tone said that he did not care one whit why Skedane was here. “Would you care to tell me what you witnessed?”

  “I am sorry, Highness,” Skedane said, holding out his hands in supplication. “I happened upon the scene just as the boy was injured. I took this one in hand,” he said, nodding toward Karst, “before things grew even more heated.”

  “I thank you for your assistance. I assume you can find your way out?”

  Skedane’s face fell for a moment, but he caught himself and smiled at the prince. “Of course, Highness. Happy to be of service.” He backed out of the room, his smile fading to a grin.

  Lerryn waited until the man was well away and Tabars had closed the door before he spoke.

  “Master Karst,” he said, leaning forward and placing his hands on the table, fingers interlaced, “can you tell me how you came to cross blades with this other young man?”

  “We were only making a few passes, Highness,” Karst replied smoothly. “Practicing for the tournament. At least I was practicing.”

  Shanis clenched her fists and glared at the boy. Captain Tabars saw the expression on her face, and shook his head. The message was clear; do no interrupt.

  “I have to admit I had teased him a bit,” the boy continued, “all in good fun, mind. I guess he was angry. Things got out of hand, and I just...”

  “You just cut off his hand.” Lerryn’s voice was without emotion.

  “No Highness,” Karst shook his head. “I mean, yes, but.
.. I didn’t intend to! He fell and I was going to knock the blade from his hands to finish it...impressively. But at the last moment, he flung his hands in the air. I didn’t expect that. There was no time to stop.”

  Lerryn now turned his attention to Hierm and Shanis. “I suppose the two of you do not believe that this was an accident?”

  “This was no accident. Natin was giving up. This ox brain didn’t have to do what he did.” Lord Hiram sat up straight and cleared his throat, but she ignored him. “Natin was no match for him to begin with. This boy knew what he was doing the entire time.” Silence and expectant stares answered her. She looked quizzically at Lerryn before realizing what everyone was waiting for. “Um... Your Highness,” she added. Tabars snorted, but the slight crinkle around Lerryn’s eyes told Shanis that he, at least, found her lack of formality amusing.

  Lerryn turned to Hierm. “And you, young van Derin? Do you concur with the opinion of this girl?”

  “Yes Highness,” Hierm replied instantly. “He could have stopped himself.” He did not meet the eye of his scowling father. “There is no doubt in my mind.”

  “And did this young man... Natin I believe it was,” Lerryn propped his feet on the table. He rocked back on his chair, hands folded behind his head, and stared at the ceiling. “Did this Natin raise his hands just before Master Karst delivered his blow?”

  “He did, Highness, but with all due respect, I maintain that the blow could have been stopped.”

  “He raised his hands,” Lerryn said, frowning at the ceiling. “Perhaps the girl is correct, and this Natin was trying to yield. Be that as it may, it would be totally unexpected to one practiced at swordplay.” He removed his feet from the table, and turned back to Lord Hiram. “Is your son an adept bladesman?”

  Hiram nodded. “Fair, Your Highness. Better than some, not as good as others.”

  Shanis did not miss the man’s meaningful glance in her direction.

  “Very well.” Lerryn clapped his hands together. “Young van Derin, in your opinion, had this Natin attempted to block Master Karst’s blow, would his sword have been knocked from his grasp?”

  Hierm paused for a moment before answering quietly. “I can not say for certain, Highness. I think it likely, though.” He let his head hang.

  Shanis was incensed. Had it not occurred to the Prince that she might have an opinion herself? She was about to voice that opinion when someone entered the room.

  “And what say you, Swordmaster?” Lerryn looked to the door, where Yurg had just walked in. The prince seemed unfazed by the blood covering Yurg’s tunic.

  Yurg made a hasty bow. “The boy will live, Highness.” He paused a moment, glowering at Karst. “We had to take his hand.”

  Lerryn shook his head. “Did you happen to witness this incident?” He stressed the word “incident”.

  “I saw that a duel was taking place. I hurried to put a stop to it. But I regret to say I did not see the blow that cost the boy his hand.”

  “Did the injured boy have anything to say about what happened?” Lerryn gestured to a servant standing against the wall, who hastily refilled the prince’s wine glass.

  “He is scarcely coherent. He said that he did not know the intent of his opponent.” Yurg’s voice was flat, but Shanis could tell that he was having a difficult time keeping his temper in check. “Natin was not a student of the sword, but he is a fine young man.”

  Lerryn sipped his wine and seemed to contemplate those words. When he finally spoke, his voice carried a tone that said he would brook no nonsense. “I cannot judge whether or not Master Karst intended the injury that he inflicted on Master Natin. It is, however, my judgment that Master Karst, as a young man of allegedly noble birth, has no business starting duels with farm boys.

  “Tabars! What sort of coin is Master Karst carrying?”

  After a brief search, the soldier relieved Karst of a small purse. He sorted through the contents. “Two golds. A few silvers...coppers.” The soldier shrugged.

  Lerryn nodded. “The gold shall be given to the boy’s parents. A poor repayment for his hand.”

  “Give them the entire purse. I have another.” Karst smirked.

  Shanis clenched a fist and took a step in Karst’s direction. Lerryn waved her back to her place without taking his eyes from Karst.

  “Master Karst, do you wish to participate in my tournament?”

  “I do, Highness.” The boy’s face paled as he realized he had said too much.

  “You will control your words and your actions. My tournament is two days hence. I want neither to see your face nor hear your name until that time. Am I understood?”

  “Yes. I swear it.”

  Lerryn nodded, and gestured toward the door. Karst bowed, and scurried out of the room. The Prince now turned his attention to Hierm and Shanis, who stood shoulder to shoulder in front of him.

  “I expect that all thoughts of retribution will be forgotten immediately.”

  “Yes, Highness.” Hierm’s voice was a rough whisper.

  Shanis stood, arms folded across her chest, staring back at Lerryn, who seemed content to wait her out. A few coins? That was all? Karst should be whipped. She controlled her tongue; no use in arguing with the second-most powerful man in Galdora. At long last she nodded in agreement.

  Lerryn smiled and turned to Yurg. “Swordmaster, I understand this young woman is one of your students. Is that usual for Galsbur?”

  “It is most unusual, Highness, but she is of unusual talent. She and master van Derin are the bests students I have ever trained.”

  The prince seemed to look at her with new eyes, taking stock of her: her face, chest, arms and legs. He looked at her not as a man might leer at a young girl, but as a man might inspect a horse.

  “The two of you may go,” he said at long last, nodding toward the door.

  Relieved, Shanis turned to leave when Lerryn called to her.

  “Miss Malan.”

  “Your Highness?” She turned to face the Prince.

  “I look forward to witnessing your skills firsthand in my tournament!”

  His words were like a shock of cold water. She gasped, but realization dawned within her, warming her very soul.

  “Thank you, Highness,” she whispered, as if a loud voice might wake her from what must be a dream. “Thank you.” She made another failed attempt at a curtsy, then made a quick bow instead before darting from the room, fearful he might change his mind or say he had only been kidding.

  She had to contain herself to keep from skipping through the common room. When they emerged into the street, she caught Hierm in a bear hug. “I’m going to do it, Hierm. I’m really going to do it.” She couldn’t take revenge on Karts, but perhaps she could beat him in the tournament. She could do no more for Natin than that.

  Hierm merely smiled and squeezed her tightly.

  She thought that nothing could spoil her mood, but then she noticed the figure standing a few paces from them. Karst waited on the edge of the green, across the dirt track from the inn. Pushing away from Hierm, she stared into Karst’s eyes. He had regained his cruel glare, and any semblance of humility had vanished once he left Lerryn’s presence.

  “I am Pedric Karst,” he hissed. “Remember my name.” Without further word, he turned and stalked away.