The Silver Serpent Page 5

  Chapter 5|Tournament

  Lerryn’s procession snaked through the crush of onlookers. Most were rural folk who might never again have the chance to witness royalty firsthand. The royal family of Galdora had not condescended to visit Galsbur or the surrounding area in remembered history. The guards, seven squadrons of seven soldiers, were the elite of Lerryn’s corps. Called the White Fang, the unit garbed each warrior in a cloak of pure white over black tunic and hose, and a mail shirt of highly polished silver. The only visible marking was on the back, where a serpent’s fang was outlined in black. A crimson drop of venom kissed the needle tip. Many in the crowd found their enthusiasm replaced with awe as these legendary fighters passed by. Nearby, Lars Harim stood dumbstruck, mouth agape, arms hanging loosely at his sides. Oskar chuckled at the farmer’s reaction.

  Oskar regarded the leader of one of the squadrons. His uniform devoid of any signs of rank, his standing was denoted by the silver armlet worn just above his wrist. Oskar had overheard someone explain the meaning of the armlets. One band signified a squad leader. More bands denoted higher rank. The soldier kept his gaze fixed immediately in front of him, but his countenance was enough to shake even the stoutest Galsburan. This was a man to be feared. Only a brief look at the other soldiers was needed to include them all in that category.

  “Glad they’re on our side,” Oskar muttered, his stomach fluttering at the awesome site. A man standing nearby bobbed a bald head in agreement. Oskar’s cheeks reddened. He had not intended to speak aloud.

  Prince Lerryn rode in the middle of the procession. Unlike his soldiers, Lerryn wore no armor. His tunic and hose were crimson, with matching fringe trimming his snow-white cape. A black viper adorned his cape. Lerryn smiled, a stark contrast to his guard. The easy air about the prince seemed to soften the mood of the crowd. Cheers erupted. Fathers hoisted children onto their shoulders. A few young women wept openly. The Prince acknowledged the assemblage with an occasional wave, or nod of his head. A girl somewhere in the back of the throng squealed, “He looked at me! He looked at me!” The ensuing thud told Oskar that she had likely fainted.

  When the last rider had passed, the cheers abated, but only for a moment. Shouts, whistles, and peals of laughter rang in Oskar’s ears. Oskar looked around for the source of the crowd’s reaction. He did not have to look far. Another procession made its way toward the tournament grounds, led by a group of what appeared, at first glance, to be soldiers escorting a shiny black carriage. The top was down, revealing several people seated within. One passenger was standing and waving to the crowd. As the carriage drew near, Oskar recognized Mistress Faun. She wore a black dress, which exposed a generous amount of cleavage. Her golden tresses were piled high atop her head, encircled by a sparkling tiara.

  Oskar noticed that the carriage was escorted not by soldiers, but by various local farmers and craftsmen who had apparently allowed Faun to talk them into serving as an ill-assorted honor guard. Faun had garbed them all in black cloaks to match her dress. Nothing else about them was uniform. Their clothing was a motley assortment of brown, dark green, and dark blue tunics and hose. Black dye was rare and expensive, thus few common folk actually owned black clothing. A few of the men had belted on ancient swords, likely family heirlooms. The remainder carried a variety of weapons or farm implements. Unlike the men of the White Fang, it was easy to read the expressions on the faces of these men. Most were deeply embarrassed, probably regretting what had seemed like a good idea a few days earlier. Oskar hoped that Faun had at least paid them.

  Mistaking the laughter for cries of approval, Faun continued to wave daintily. Hiram sat next to her, his face a mask of serenity. He stared at the sky, not acknowledging Faun or the host of mocking faces. Oskar almost felt sorry for him. Hierm’s older brother Laman sat alongside his father. Where Hierm favored their mother, Laman was the spitting image of Hiram. Tall, angular, almost handsome, but not quite. The only feature that he and Hierm shared was their mother’s golden hair. Ever the dutiful son, Laman kept a smile on his face, and stared straight ahead, never letting his embarrassment show. Joining the Van Derins in the coach was Master and Mistress Serrill, along with Khalyndryn. The three of them were decked out in their finest clothing. Though her parents appeared mortified by the jeers of the throng, Khalyndryn seemed not to notice. Her gaze was locked on the knot of white riders in the distance. After the Van Derin’s coach passed, the crowd closed in behind and followed it down the road.

  The hills surrounding the tournament ground were nearly filled. Some people had staked out spots two days before, and camped until the day of the event. He found an open space near the top of the hill, directly opposite the viewing platform.

  Lerryn mounted the dais, recognized the crowd with an imperious wave, and spoke. Despite the distance and the roar of the massed throng, Oskar could clearly make out every word. Sorcery? A chill crawled up his spine, and he shivered. Galsburans were a practical sort. They knew that such things were supposed to exist but did not really believe. Given the response that Lerryn was receiving, most of those in attendance either did not realize that sorcery was being employed, or did not care.

  “People of Galsbur… my friends!” A roar of adoration answered Lerryn’s greeting. He paused momentarily to acknowledge the praise with a smile and nod. “It is truly an honor to be with you this day.” Another cheer, another pause. “Our nation has need of good men! Of strong men!” Oskar wondered how Shanis was reacting to that particular choice of words. “I am pleased to see many such young men standing here before me.” His gesture swept across the entirety of the tournament entrants, who stood arrayed before the dais.

  “Today we shall honor the most promising of your swordsmen, your archers...” He paused and extended his arms outward, fingers spread, as if to embrace the entire throng of people at once. “Today, the eyes of the realm are on Galsbur.” A wave of joy and pride crashed into the dais, rolling across the platform with visible effect. In her seat, Mistress Faun flinched. Several members of the prince’s entourage sat up straighter. Lerryn simply smiled, soaking it up. Normally a cynic, Oskar was startled to hear his own voice joining the din.

  When the cheers died down, a member of Lerryn’s entourage, whose rich, green robes and blue stole marked him an ecclesiast, offered a prayer to the seven gods. The invocation went largely ignored by the Galsburans and other locals, who were impatient for the tournament to commence. Oskar noted that Faun raised her hands in prayer in imitation of the dignitaries seated around her. He was pleased to see that Lord Hiram, at least, kept his hands in his lap and retained his usual, implacable stare. If the ecclesiast thought any of them impious, he did not show it. When he finished his prayer, he merely bowed to Lerryn, and returned to his seat.

  Anticipation rose anew, the tension taut like a bowstring stretched to its limt. To Oskar’s mind, everyone seemed to be leaning forward slightly, tensed as if they were about to sprint onto the field. He could almost feel the collective energy of the crowd dancing in the air.

  On the platform, Lerryn nodded to a guardsman, who raised his war horn. The rumble of the crowd ascended to a roar. While seven lengthy blasts issued from the horn, the flag of Galdora was raised atop a pole just behind the Prince’s stand. The tournament had begun!

  The day began with footraces. After several heats, Hanos Herran, a local boy, bested the field. Two members of the White Fang led him to the dais, and Lerryn himself placed a crown of what looked like ivy upon his head. Hanos, quivering nervously, bowed so deeply that the crown fell off his head. Many in the crowd laughed, but Lerryn merely returned the bow. A soldier then led Hanos into to a tent next to the viewing platform. Oskar’s gaze returned to the field, where the wrestling competition had begun.

  Oskar did not completely understand the rules of formal wrestling. Neither did many of the entrants. After a great deal of eye gouging and hair pulling in the first few matches, one of the soldiers called a halt, and launched into an animated expla
nation, accompanied by demonstrations on an unwilling-looking young man who had been the worst of the hair-pullers. While the demonstration continued, Oskar scanned the perimeter of the field looking for Shanis and Hierm. He located Shanis quickly enough. Her red hair stood out in any crowd.

  She sat at the far end of the field, far to Oskar’s right. Nearby was a large wall made of bales of straw, which would serve as the backdrop for the archery competition. Several of the more antsy swordsmen were stabbing the straw. Shanis was not looking at them. Rather, she was staring off to her left, where a tall boy with jet-black hair stood with his arms folded across his chest. The boy’s smug countenance said that he thought himself superior to these country folk. Oskar knew from Shanis and Hierm’s descriptions that this was Pedric Karst, the young man who had taken Natin’s hand. Oskar’s fists clenched. A primordial part of him that rarely surfaced wanted to force his way down through the crowd and strangle the youth with his bare hands. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes until the urge subsided.

  “I hope Shanis gets a chance at him,” he whispered. “I hope, I hope, I hope.”

  “You all right, boy?” Lars Harim, apparently recovered from his shock at seeing the White Fang at close range, cocked his head and stared at Oskar.

  “Yes sir,” Oskar replied, a bit abashed. He pointedly fixed his gaze on the wrestlers, so as to cut off any further embarrassing conversation.

  The wrestling competition resumed with several spirited matches taking place simultaneously. As the less-experienced wrestlers were eliminated, the matches began to look less like melees and more like sport. Each contest took place inside a small square, with boundaries marked off by ropes only a hand’s length above the ground. Oskar deduced most of the rules by watching. The rest he learned by listening to conversations going on around him. A wrestler earned a point for throwing his opponent to the ground, or by forcing him out of the designated area. A soldier oversaw each match, and awarded points. Kicking and punching were not allowed. Tripping was legal, but one did not receive a point for taking down an opponent in this manner. In the absence of a “throw down” or an “out”, the overseer could award a point for “controlling the action.”

  It quickly became evident that the class of the tournament was a veritable giant of a boy from one of the outlying communities. Towering head and shoulder above the rest of the combatants, the young man combined incredible strength with surprising speed for one of his size. He quickly became the crowd favorite as he plowed through the tournament field. Not knowing his name, someone on the hill to Oskar’s left began shouting “Bull! Bull!” The rest of the spectators picked up the chant. Oskar thought that the boy’s matted black curls and lack of a neck made him look more like a troll than a bull.

  In the finals, the Bull faced off against a lean fellow of above-average height. The boy had some muscle on him, but next to the Bull, he appeared woefully thin. He also seemed overly preoccupied with his hair, which he combed thoroughly between matches before knotting it atop his head in some strange sort of bun. In his mind, Oskar had already nicknamed this boy “Hair”. The hairstyle, coupled with his perpetual grin made him appear almost effeminate.

  “This fellow’s going to be killed.” Oskar voiced the thought that must have been in everyone’s mind.

  To everyone’s surprise and pleasure, the match was competitive. Bull, though quick for his size, was not as fast as Hair, who managed to trip Bull a few times, all the while avoiding his clutches. When Hair managed to send Bull stumbling out of the ring, earning his first point, the chants of “Bull! Bull!” subsided for a moment.

  Oskar filled the gap by shouting, “Hair! Hair! Hair!” Most of the people looked at him as if he were deranged, but a few laughed, and joined in. Within moments, chants of “Bull!” met shouts of “Hair!” as the two boys went at one another. Oskar did not think it possible, but the smile on the blond boy’s face actually seemed to grow broader.

  The match ended when Bull finally got a solid grip on his opponent, and crushed him in a bear hug. When he finally dropped Hair onto the ground, the boy lay motionless on the thick grass. The soldier overseeing the match knelt over the boy, examining him at length before pronouncing him “out”.

  Concern for the fallen wrestler tempered the crowd’s enthusiasm. Oskar was impressed to see Bull drop to his knees and speak to the young man who lay on the ground. Apparently satisfied with whatever response he received, Bull stood and allowed himself to be led to Lerryn’s dais. By the time the prince had crowned the wrestling champion, the runner-up was on his feet to the sound of applause and a few shouts of “Hair”. He was still smiling. Oskar noted that this time, both young men were taken into the tent.

  The archery competition opened with a nervous contestant sending his first shot over the protective backdrop and into the crowd. The arrow struck a man in the leg, but the victim was so drunk that he ripped the arrow from his thigh and held it aloft. Laughing, he staggered several steps through the crowd before his legs melted and he fell in an incoherent heap. A few of the spectators, overcoming their surprise, hurried over to tend to the man. The shaken young archer recovered his composure enough that he was able to hit the target with his remaining shots, but did not come near the bullseye.

  As the contest progressed, Oskar determined that archery was not a great spectator sport. The better archers came close to the center of the target with nearly every shot. Only the observers who sat near the front could tell who had made the best shots. Thankfully, the competition moved along at a brisk pace until Edrin Kalloh, a local boy, emerged the winner. As he received his crown, the crowd roared with excitement. Not so much, Oskar thought, in support of the archer, but instead because it was time for the swords!

  A chill ran up Shanis’ spine as she listened to the roar of the crowd, rising to a tumult as the swordsmen were called onto the field. She had never been nervous about using the sword, it having always come easily to her. Besting the boys had been fun, the pressure always being on them not to lose to a girl. But today it was Shanis who felt the pressure. For the first time, something important was dependant on her performance. This was the chance to live her dream. The chance to attend the Prince’s Academy. But she had to win.

  The winner of the tournament would gain a place in the Prince’s Academy, but others might also be invited if they were deemed worthy. Gossip among the contestants held that two wrestlers and three archers had been invited. The young men needed only to acquit themselves well in order to be considered. Shanis knew that that would not be enough in her case.

  She did not know why Prince Lerryn had been so agreeable to her competing. Likely, he was amused by the novelty of it all. A girl with a sword! Doubtless, he did not expect her to win. He probably expected her to make a fool of herself. She would show him. If she won the tournament, he would be bound to admit her into the academy. She would have earned that right in front of thousands of witnesses. Anything less than a victory might give Lerryn an excuse to exclude her.

  She scanned the crowd in search of her father. She did not expect to see him. He had left early that morning, hauling goods for Lord Hiram. He had not wished her luck. In fact, they had not spoken of the tournament since the day she had learned that she could compete. Arriving home, she had leapt into her father’s arms like a young girl. For a moment he was his old self, laughing a deep, hearty laugh as he clutched her tight to his barrel chest.

  Upon hearing the news, though, her father hung his head, shrugged his bear-like shoulders and whispered, “If it must be.” He then retired to his room, and did not come out until morning.

  Shanis’ mother had died during childbirth, but this tragedy had not stopped Colin from filling his daughter’s life with happiness and love. Her earliest memories were of walks in the woods with him. He taught her scout craft, how to track, hunt and survive in the wilderness. He taught her hand-to-hand fighting and trained her in the use of the knife and the bow.

  He
presented her with her first sword in her seventh summer: a blunt-edged tournament sword that was just right for her size and strength. Colin taught her the basics and then turned her over to Master Yurg for training.

  Colin Malan had also taught her to read and to do sums. He was truly a remarkable man. How many simple teamsters had the breadth of knowledge and experience that Shanis’ father had? Moreover, how many men would commit the time to raising a daughter alone?

  The thing she most remembered was that he had taught her that being a girl should never hold her back. “You can do anything, Shanis. Anything. Always believe.” How many times had he said those words to her? Shanis felt that she no longer knew this sad, strange man. His ill temper had grown worse over the past few months. The closer she came to her sixteenth birthday, the less supportive Colin became. All of the things he had taught her no longer seemed to matter. Suddenly he wanted her to be another one of the girls. Which made the note he had left for her all the more puzzling.

  She had risen early to find that her father had already left. A piece of parchment lay beneath her sword.

  Shanis,

  The sword is your destiny. I thought I could keep you from it, but I was wrong. I cannot be with you today because I would try to stop you. A man does not always know when he is beaten. Trust Yurg. Know that I will always be your father.

  Papa

  The note was strange in many ways. Apparently, her father was resigned to her pursuit of the sword. What did he mean, “Trust Yurg”? She had always trusted Yurg. He was like a second father to her. And why tell her that he would always be her father? It was strange.

  The bark of a soldier giving instructions jolted her back to awareness. She recognized Captain Tabars from the encounter between Natin and Pedric Karst. She ground her teeth at the thought of Karst. She hoped that she would have the chance to make him pay for what he had done to Natin. She had only a moment to think before Tabars began moving people around. The contestants were divided into rows, each person several paces away from the others. Tabars explained that they would begin by working through some basic forms.

  Shanis drew her sword, and ran through the mental exercises that Yurg had taught her. One with the blade. In her mind’s eye, the blade became an extension of her body. She shed her emotions, her random thoughts, whittled away by the sword’s razor edge. Her blood flowed through the sword. The sword breathed with her. She was the sword. The sword was her.

  She flowed through the forms with a practiced ease. Calm... focus. Her mind regarded the activity about her with a detached curiosity. Next to her, an awkward young man with a bulbous nose barely averted hacking off his own foot as he feebly attempted to follow along with the group. One of the Prince’s guards intervened, and removed the boy from the group. Some part of Shanis heard the boy’s sobs as he was led away. Another part of her wondered who had signed for the boy to enter. Probably he was the son of some nobleman who thought himself worthy because of his station.

  The forms came to an end. Shanis noted that several hopefuls had been weeded from the field during the working of the forms. All the better. Even using a tournament sword, a novice could be seriously injured.

  Three dueling circles were marked off in a triangle in front of the dais. Almost immediately, a soldier called Shanis to the one nearest Lerryn and the other guests.

  A tall, grim-looking soldier with a pockmarked face approached her. “Get a jerkin and a sword. Give your own sword to me.” He waited while Shanis unbelted her sword and handed it over. He carelessly tossed it to the side, and then addressed her opponent in the same way. If he had treated her sword casually, nothing else about him was casual. His every move spoke of barely contained danger, like a snake poised to strike.

  Shanis chose a jerkin from a nearby pile. The tournament armor was a thick leather vest padded with wool. Shanis chose the lightest one she could find. She took more time choosing from the stack of blunted tournament swords. The weight was not of great concern to her, but proper balance was paramount. After testing several blades, she finally found one to her liking, and moved into the circle. Her opponent was waiting for her, as was the swarthy soldier. She wondered if he would be annoyed at the delay, but instead he gave her an appraising look, and a nod. Obviously, he understood what she had been doing.

  Her adversary was a tall, broad-shouldered boy who looked to be of an age with her. The fine cut of his clothing marked him as someone of affluence, if not nobility. He had unruly auburn hair and a freckled face. He made no effort to hide his contempt for her, chuckling as she took her place in the circle. He must have misinterpreted the delay as hesitation on her part.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Shanis spied Lerryn smirking. Mistress Faun, face twisted in revulsion, was whispering in Hiram’s ear. Hot rage surged inside of her, and she had to fight to control her temper. Focus.

  “I am Squadron Leader Khattre,” the soldier said. “You will obey my instructions at all times. I will call all points. No points for strikes to the head and neck. Three points wins.” With that, he handed each of them a light helm. “Ready positions!”

  Hastily, Shanis donned her helm and moved to the center of the circle. She stood sideways to her opponent, looking at him across her right shoulder. She held her sword point-down in front of her. Her grip was tighter than it should have been. She was too tense. Calm… One with the blade! Her mind raced.

  A few cheers arose from the crowd, but only a few. Taunts and jeers drowned them out. One man made an extremely profane proposition to her, which was received with much laughter. This was not at all how it was supposed to be! Her calm evaporated. Faun and her superior airs. Lerryn making sport of her. The smirking boy facing her in the circle. She wanted to destroy them all. When Khattre called “Begin!” she leapt into her opponent, hacking through him with unbound fury.

  Taken by surprise, the boy backpedaled momentarily, then moved to the side, sliding past her. “Point!”

  That was too fast. How did I...

  More catcalls from the crowd. Shanis looked down. The point was not hers. Her opponent had stabbed her in the very center of the abdomen. With a real sword it would have been a killing blow. A painful one. She felt her face flush. She had lost control. The rage she had felt only moments ago drained away, replaced by humiliation. Khattre looked disappointed. She glanced up at the dais, where Faun veritably glowed with satisfaction. Lerryn maintained his amused grin. Hiram stared through her, as if he wished she were invisible. Everything was amplified. The laughter rang in her ears. She stepped back and shook her head vigorously, as if she could make it all go away.

  Glancing up she noticed Yurg seated to Lerryn’s left. Why hadn’t she noticed him before? Her gaze locked with his. A brief narrowing of the eyes was the only response he gave, but it was enough. She remembered an argument not so long ago. ‘If an opponent can make you angry, he can kill you just as easily. For all the gifts you have with the blade, you can’t grasp that simple concept!’ His voice echoed in her mind. Now she understood his anger, his frustration. Calm. Like the forms. Calm.

  “One with the blade.” she whispered. “One with the blade”. She moved back to the center of the circle, as if in a trance. She sliced away her feelings, and discarded them one-by-one. Frustration, confusion, embarrassment, anger, all gone. She was one with the blade. She was the blade.

  No longer did animosity of any sort show on her opponent’s face. In fact, he no longer seemed to regard her in any way at all. She was no longer worthy of his concern. It showed in his posture, in the lazy way he held the sword. His eyes darted toward Khattre, impatiently waiting to dispatch this foolish girl. This time, Shanis did not care what he thought of her. She did not care what anyone thought. She was the blade.

  “Begin!” Shanis easily deflected a broad, sweeping stroke that had been aimed at her head. She flowed smoothly into an attack. She pressed forward, this time under control. Her adversary cocked an eyebrow. Once again she h
ad surprised him. This time it cost him.

  “Point!” Khattre shouted.

  The boy stared at her for a moment. He suppressed a chuckle, then returned to the center of the circle. When the duel resumed, he leapt to the attack.

  Shanis glided into a defensive posture. The blows rained down. She deflected them with ease. She danced around the circle with a grace borne of years of training. Her attacker redoubled his efforts to no avail. His blade never came close. Shanis remained on the defensive. She now knew the extent of the young man’s abilities.

  Around the circle they spun, the boy now hacking away in frustration. He had tired visibly. His footwork was sloppy, his strokes long and looping. Shanis decided to give him a rest. She neatly deflected his blade and stabbed for the heart.

  “Point!” If Khattre was surprised at this turn of events, his serious demeanor gave no hint.

  This time, a few people in the crowd cheered. Most still taunted her. Those who did not understand swordplay believed that they had seen a superior swordsman drive his opponent around the circle, only to fall victim to a lucky stab. Khattre met her eye with a lengthy stare, as if taking stock of her. Her opponent received only a sympathetic shake of the head before they were recalled to action. This time Shanis would leave no doubt in anyone’s mind.

  A tight, measured attack drew the boy’s blade in close to his body. He mounted a feeble defense, Shanis blade coming ever closer. Four strokes to the abdomen in quick succession. A forehand slash across the bridge of the nose came just short of blinding the young man. Shanis had intended to miss. In a panic, the boy threw his blade up to protect his face. With a loud smack, Shanis’ backhand stroke cracked across his stomach, driving the wind from him and buckling his knees.

  “Match!” Khattre thrust his left fist into the air and pointed his right hand at Shanis.

  This time the cheers almost equaled the whistles and insults that were hurled her way. Shanis turned toward the dais, removed her helm, and knelt in an exaggerated bow. More applause, and many more jeers. Lerryn stood, and returned her bow along with a flourish of his cape.

  Mistress Faun looked scandalized. Shanis treated her to a mock-curtsy, difficult to do while wearing leather armor and holding a sword. Lerryn clapped his hands, and nudged Faun with an elbow to the ribs. It took Faun only a moment to decide this was all Lord Hiram’s fault. She ignored both Shanis and the Prince, and laid into her husband with a vengeance. As usual, Hiram took it all with a stony detachment. Lerryn shook his head at Faun and continued to applaud.

  “Girl! On guard!”

  At the sound of Khattre’s voice, Shanis spun around. Her vanquished opponent, now on his feet, charged at her. Reflexively, Shanis ducked under a stroke that would have caved in her skull. She somersaulted on her left shoulder, and came up underneath her assailant. With a deft thrust, she drove the pommel of her sword up into his groin. He made surprisingly little sound as he toppled and fell. The crowed roared its approval. Somewhere beneath the calm of the sword, Shanis smiled. This might be fun, after all.