Session One Hundred and Thirteen - October 5, 2014

Wherein the ongoing story of the FtF campaign may be found ...

Session One Hundred and Thirteen - October 5, 2014

Postby Matt » Thu Oct 30, 2014 2:47 pm

Agrazhar 15, 732

The delegation of village elders emerging from the twilight is led by Jak of Carthen, the beadle of Varayne. Immediately to his rear, two of the Blue Boars, mercenaries hired by Sir Ewen Ravinargh to provide security for the tournament, are frog marching a pair of rough looking commoners to the fore. Other members of the village, a number of faces familiar to Sir Ewen, follow close behind, gawking. And off to one side, managing to look simultaneously bored and irritated, is Sir Arlbis Hirnen, heir to the barony of Nenda.

Jak of Carthen steps toward Sir Ewen and tugs his forelock. “M’lord. These two men have killed the metalsmith, Mykal of Ellin. There were five eye-witnesses, m’lord. An open and shut case.”

Sir Ewen considers the strangers coldly. “And who are these men?”

“We be the Haford brothers, in service to Sir Arlbis here,” one of the tousle-headed louts announces.

Unsurprised, Sir Ewen pivots. “Sir Arlbis?”

“These men are in my retinue,” Sir Arlbis allows, sounding a trifle weary. “In Nenda, the name ‘Haford’ is synonymous with ‘Jackass’. I shall abide by your ruling in this, Sir Ewen.”

“I would allow them to speak for themselves.” Sir Ewen turns back to the accused. “Well, what have you to say?”

The taller of the two defendants leans forward in the grip of the mercenary detaining him and displays some remarkably uneven dentistry. “Sonuvabitch unlawfully detained our mare. Sonuvabitch had it coming.” He glances at his brother. “So, we’re not guilty.”

Sir Ewen’s brow darkens. “You are guilty, though, of speaking discourteously to a knight.”

“Meant no discourtesy, sir. But sonuvabitch had it coming, and that’s only defense you’ll get.”

Sir Ewen sighs. “If it is within your capabilities to speak without saying ‘son of a bitch’, pray explain why you killed my metalsmith.”

The Haford brothers launch into a tandem recitation of the purported offense of the slain metalsmith, which evidently did not extend beyond some delay, undoubtedly explained by the tremendous demand for his services among the one hundred and twenty-eight knights at the tournament, in retrieving Sir Arlbis’s horse. Casting a withering eye upon his retainers, Sir Arlbis assures Sir Ewen that the mount has, in fact, been properly restored to his possession.

Sir Ewen turns to the beadle, who anticipates a question and steps forward again. “Crime warrants hanging, m’lord.”

“Sir Arlbis, might you and I have a word?” The two knights step aside, and Sir Ewen lowers his voice. “Now see here, Sir Arlbis. I have more than a thousand people gathered at this manor, and things could get out of hand if this sort of thing is not dealt with firmly. I’m afraid I am going to have to hang these fellows of yours.”

“And, in so doing,” Sir Arlbis says, unperturbed, “you will raise the caliber of my retinue by several notches, Sir Ewen.”

Sir Ewen simply nods at this assessment, and steps back before the two malefactors and his gathered manor folk. He raises his voice.

“These two men, guilty on the testimony of multiple eyewitnesses of having murdered the metalsmith of Varayne, Mykal of Ellin, are to be hanged from the neck until dead at dawn tomorrow.”


Most of his guests are already gathered under the large pavilion tent for the feast he is hosting when Sir Ewen finally catches up with them. Just outside the main tent flap, Cekiya slips up to his side and whispers some cryptic details regarding the two Black Knights she has taken it upon herself to monitor. The white-garbed knight, she says, has retired to a tent at the edge of the field and has not come out. The red-clad knight rode off with a retinue of seven along the road to Tashal. And Kaelyn, she adds, having arrived from Tashal, has been directed to one of Sir Ewen’s tents by Lady Aefewynn. Sir Ewen murmurs his understanding and then, taking counsel of himself, cautions the girl against any blatant breach of the sanctity of the unnamed competitors’ anonymity. Cekiya slinks off, however, before he has a clear idea as to whether she quite grasps the pith of the concept.

As if to illustrate Sir Ewen’s misgivings, Cekiya heads over to the manor house and weaves her way into the kitchen. Spotting some loaves of bread cooling on the sill of a nearby window, she selects two and begins to walk off. One of the male kitchen help exclaims and moves to lay hands on the slender girl, but the chief cook hastily claps a restraining hand upon his arm and shakes his head. “No, no. Leave that one alone.”

Inside the feast tent, almost all of the winning knights are gathered along with many highborn persons of note, including Sir Meden Curo, Lady Serli Ubael, Sir Arren Lydel, Sir Houla Artona, both Lady Cheselynes, Sir Rohn Sarlis, and both Kaldoric royal princes. Sir Prehil Firith cries, “Baris! I saved you a seat!” Sir Baris, grinning, is still wearing his greaves, having somehow eluded the ministrations of Kalas. Sir Prehil waves broadly, one hand around the ever-present Maryna, several ales arrayed in front of him and a pipe full of fragrant pipeweed clamped between his teeth.

“Look out for that one,” he advises as Sir Baris straddles the bench, pointing his pipe stem toward a bucktoothed, gangly, red-haired young noblewoman with a flat chest and a beak of a nose. “She’s here looking for a husband, you know. Lie low!”

Sir Baris peers in the indicated direction and flinches. “And who is this …” he swallows hard, “young lass?”
“It’s Eadril’s sister. Fairena Dariune.”

Sir Aeomund Legith, meantime, soberly sipping his ale and standing a bit awkwardly due to his earlier discomfiture in the lists, is talking shop with Sir Houla Artona. The topic he aspires to is the latest news of the fissiparous Order of the Lady of Paladins.

“Ah, Aeomund, glad to see you made it through the first round.”

Sir Aeomund shrugs. “Hard to drink with your visor down.”

“Yes, and you avoided Sir Fodial’s fate as well. Unhorsed, the poor bastard.”

“I avoided it, at the price of some sensitive parts.” Sir Aeomund agrees, shifting on his feet.

“Yes,” Sir Houla drawls. “I heard that strange fellow, supposed to be a physician, announcing for all to hear regarding the state of your gonads.”

“Saved me from having to update everyone personally.”

Sir Houla chuckles. Having suffered through this misbegotten icebreaker, Sir Aeomund inquires after some of the other knights of the Order and then manages to elicit from Sir Houla his sense of the status of the five chapterhouses of the Order in Kaldor. Of the five, one has gone to Melderyn and is not coming back, while one turned back but missed the campaign against the vikings. One of them was wiped out, leaving three of the original five. At this time, Sir Houla confides, Sir Remiu Labarn and himself agree on the need for a separate chapter for Kaldor. Sir Remiu has still not come to terms with who will be the grandmaster of the new order, Sir Houla allows with a wink, but it is certain in Sir Houla’s mind who that will be. The knights need only have the Primate in Thay to approve the division.

Sir Ewen, meantime, has been mingling with his guests, endeavoring to extend a personal greeting to each before the night is over. He pays his respects to Sir Meden, congratulating him on the splendid turnout. Bowing courteously, he expresses hope that the Lady Serli Ubael is finding her accommodations at the manor house to her liking. He pays Aethel Atan a compliment on his outfit. He thanks Sir Rohn for the offices of his young heralds. He finds himself cornered for a time by Sir Sedris Indama, who begins pleasantly enough in response to Sir Ewen’s remark about the perils encountered by the horseflesh in the first round, but who dilates at such length about the tiltyard, which Sir Sedris lives to inhabit, that Sir Ewen must forcibly disengage himself, begging neglect of his other guests. Sir Karsin Ubael accepts Sir Ewen’s apology for having missed his wedding, allowing in frank understatement that it would have been awkward for Sir Ewen and Thilisa to have remained in Minarsas. When his host asks after Sir Karsin’s bride, he responds that she is well but was not up to travelling. Sir Ewen assures him that the couple is welcome to visit Varayne any time, and Sir Karsin retires with a deprecating, “How very genteel of you …”

The Ladies Cheselyne Hosath, mother and daughter, present a formidable manifestation in the center of the tent, the matriarch parting the other guests like some imposing ship’s figurehead as she moves toward Sir Ewen, the daughter following dutifully in her wake. But the senior Lady Cheselyne proves complimentary, if in her own inimitable style. “Sir Ewen, you have outdone yourself. I wouldn’t have believed it.”

“Why, Lady Cheselyne,” Sir Ewen responds with an easy smile, “I have your own fine example to set before my mind in planning any social gathering.”

The lady offers no rejoinder save for an arched eyebrow. As they turn away, the daughter shoots a look at the mother, as if to say, “He had you on that one.”

Sirs Scina and Karison Dariune both possess the easy bearing of their refined blood, although Sir Karison gives the clear impression of being less ambitious than his older brother the heir, content to support Sir Scina rather than seek the limelight for himself. Sir Romlach Ethasial, on his way to pay court to Serli Ubael, pushes rudely past Sir Ewen with only a perfunctory greeting, but Sir Ewen has seen enough of the man to have taken his measure and know that this is simply his accustomed way, with no intended offense. Sir Hennis Joppler is of a middling landed family, Sir Rafe Delwarne the son and heir to one of the more extensive manorial holdings. Sir Craydon Eldaran, newly appointed commander of the Sheriff of Semethshire’s guard, unaware of owing his job to an episode of slaughter perpetrated by Sir Ewen and his associates, is congratulated on his new appointment and harrumphs a remark about a new broom sweeping clean where there is no dirt. Sir Bereden Pawade reminds Sir Ewen of certain events during their recent visit to Heru Keep. And Sir Arlbis Hirnen gruffly apologizes again for the unpleasantness caused by his retainers.

“Well,” Sir Ewen replies, “I apologize for having to hang your retainers.”

“Not at all. Thanks for taking the task off my hands – I’m sure it would have been necessary sooner or later.”

Sir Ewen, encountering Sir Tenden Ryselith, Captain of the Low Guard, asks after his arm and congratulates him on the outcome of his swordfight. Sir Retel Pierstel, heir to the Barony of Tonot, a large square-built man, does not shine in social conversation, while Sir Eris Karondel, Sheriff of Balimshire and holder of Hetheron Manor, is relatively expansive, and Sir Ewen learns that his sister, Lady Hilaria, is lady-in-waiting to the Lady Donesyn Dariune.

Inclining tipsily toward Sir Baris on apprehending a marked uptick in the ambient chatter, Sir Prehil points and laughs. He bellows, for the benefit of the entire assembly, “Well if anyone was going to break the rules, he’s the guy.” At the tent flap, resplendent in a positively enormous doublet, its threads interwoven red and yellow with a red lion, rampant, plastered across his considerable girth, Sir Slather Larquste enters. On top of his head, attached somehow to his hair, is a tiny toy helmet with its visor down.

Sir Slather makes his way toward a gesturing Aethel Atan, while Sir Ewen steers to intercept. Sir Colth Zord, whose fouled steed warranted Sir Slather’s disqualification, gets there first and is gracious in honoring his opponent, assuring him that the horse is unharmed and sympathizing on the unfortunate disqualification.

“This is why you should always use a champion,” Aethel Atan exclaims. “I don’t know why you insisted on doing it yourself this time.”

General laughter eases the awkwardness of the intrusion, and Sir Slather turns upon the advent of Sir Ewen at his side.

“Ah, mine host! I hope you don’t mind my breaking the unwritten rule about disqualifications. I only came for the feast.”

Sir Ewen is smiling, however, and gestures expansively. “I have already sent to the kitchens for more, Sir Slather. You are welcome here. Besides, Aethel Atan needs somebody to sit next to him.”

Formal introductions are duly exchanged, and Sir Ewen learns that Sir Slather’s father is lord of Eliten Manor, with six submanors in his holding. The estates, it seems, are in Thelshire, and subinfeudated to Sirendel Keep.

Eventually Sir Ewen excuses himself and moves on, with many guests still to greet before the night is over. Should a careful observer follow Sir Ewen all evening through the milling nobility in that busy tent, they would see him greeting his guests with firm clasps of the hand or arm, sometimes delivering a comradely but lingering clap upon the shoulder, or taking and bowing over a lady’s proffered hand. With each gesture, the diligent observer might note a certain rapt attention he pays to each guest, the way he appears to hang upon their polite and mannerly remarks as if in hopes of plumbing some deeper significance from the exchange. And occasionally, if our intrepid observer were especially perspicacious, a certain minute alteration in Sir Ewen’s expression as he turns from a very select few of the lords and ladies and knights in that tent might be fleetingly apprehended: a subtle, indolent lowering of the eyelids, an evanescent trace of a curl in one corner of the mouth. An alteration in the facial muscles as he turns away from Sir Houla Artona, for instance, and a few moments later from Sir Kornuska Harabor. And then again, perhaps incongruously, with Sir Jorold Kressenta, having condoled with him on his unsuccessful joust against Sir Braen Vardan. And finally that same expression, perhaps belying a hidden satisfaction or even pleasure, as he turns from the Ladies Cheselyne Hosath, and then in bowing himself properly away from the young Prince Torasa. Our careful observer, documenting each of these subtle alterations, might even find himself uneasy in their contemplation, and inexplicably chilled despite the warmth of the night under that tent.

Sometime later, when Sir Ewen finally retires from the scattered remains of the party to the privacy of his own tent, exiled from his manor house by the exigencies of hospitality, he closes the tent flap and turns away from it all. He takes a moment to light a candle. Then he sits wearily upon a camp stool and, planting elbows on knees, lowers his face into his hands. After his breathing has returned to normal, he slowly drags his hands downward and contemplates them absently, as if reading something in the splay of his own fingers in the flickering candlelight. And then he straightens, and reaching within a nearby satchel removes a small silver mirror wrapped in its own fine cloth. He turns it over, considering it for a time, and then closes his eyes for many long minutes.


Agrazhar 16, 732

Some time after breakfast the next morning, Sir Ewen takes his seat at midfield next to his wife, his head a-swim with Lady Afaewynn’s accounting. Forty thousand, three hundred and twenty pounds weight of fodder for all of the horses. Twenty-one thousand, eight hundred and seventy-five pounds weight of food, everything from pottage for the meanest peasant to peacock-stuffed swan for Prince Brandis. One hundred hogsheads of ale, ten hogsheads of wine, and five hogsheads of brandy. Total provender amounting to a value of one hundred and fifty-six pounds silver. Sir Prehil, Sir Meden and Prince Brandis have contributed fifteen pounds each, so forty-five pounds silver are offset. Making Sir Ewen’s total expense amount to 26,604d, or almost 111 pounds silver. This includes the dIscounts Lady Afaewynn has been able to manage through buying in bulk, avoiding the middle man, a negotiated twenty percent discount on ale, and extensive use of Sir Ewen’s own manorial produce. All told, the expenses account for some five hundred nobles, guests and retinues, and an even larger number of horses. He glances over at his pregnant wife, and reflects that the figures are daunting.

Haunting the early morning mists, Cekiya does not observe the white-surcoated Black Knight leave his tent, but she does see another knight go in whom she does not recognize. Her attempt to deliver fresh bread to the white knight’s tent last evening having been thwarted by an officious guard, she has seen fit to cut a small hole in the fabric at the back of the inconvenient tent. Now she attempts to follow the visitor when he leaves a little bit later, but to her amazement she promptly loses him in the maze of tents and pavillions.

Sir Aeomund, meantime, has risen at dawn and gone to the manor house to pray in the chapel before the very image of Saint Erkenwald he himself installed there during the time of his bailiffship. He departs possessed of a certain glow of fervor, feeling with a deep and surprising conviction that Saint Erkenwald smiles upon his endeavors at the tourney.

A bit later, sixty-three knights parade onto the field under a bright and clear morning sky, and then split to their respective sides of the tiltyard. Sir Arlbis Hirnen, having participated along with the rest in the procession, returns and takes a seat in the stands, as he is exempt from jousting today due to the fatalities in the first round.

Following a fanfare from the heralds, the new day’s contest gets off to a disappointing start when Sir Ranal Gybsen’s stallion throws him before he can even get a gallop in. This allows Sir Karison Dariune, shrugging and retiring to the stabling area, to advance to the next round with little in the way of exertion, and the remainder of the day his own.

Sir Conwyn Elorieth, who unhorsed the champion of Melderyn on the day before, gets his chance at Sir Telberan Brailour today. Sir Conwyn scores a point by striking Sir Telberan a solid blow to the chest, but then Sir Telberan returns the favor in the next run. On the third pass Sir Telberan places a well-aimed lance tip upon Sir Conwyn’s left shin, while the fourth gallop finds Sir Conwyn, clearly feeling outmatched, to be more shy and defensive, which rarely behooves a knight on horseback. The crack of a lance splintering resounds, and Sir Telberan wins on points.

The next match is between Sir Tagin Plaganel and Sir Empus Sorabar. The latter had experienced the thrill of unsaddling his opponent the day before, but this morning finds the tables turned. Pounding in hard on the first run, Sir Tagin spears Sir Empus in the chest, dropping him heavily onto the dirt and out of the competition.

Sir Kymed Firith commits the first disqualification of the day in his initial charge at Sir Karsin Ubael. The latter appears to handle his steed with aplomb until the instant the two knights come together, when the scion of Ubael’s mount veers slightly. What might have been a well-placed lance by Sir Kymed touches Sir Karsin’s horse. Lady Serli Ubael, the victorious knight’s sister, rises to her feet and claps her hands in a tasteful display of sororal loyalty, while the representative of clan Firith retires in mock disgrace.

This outcome is more or less replicated when Sir Chymel Vareth, vanquisher of Sir Prehil Firith’s frowsy-headed champion the day before, fouls the horse of Sir Fargo Poulty, whose personal steed had been killed under him in round one. Sir Fargo appears to take this second infringement hard, and is seen shaking his head in disgust and repeatedly looking behind him to check his new horse’s flank as he rides off the field. Sympathizers in the crowd shout encouragement to Sir Fargo, and issue reproaches at the retreating, visored Sir Chymel.

Sir Lanas Wyant, whose mount had also been fouled the day before by Sir Rollard D’Audrieu, gains the satisfaction of peeling Sir Keidin Klunn from his saddle with little fuss. Sir Keidin, who had advanced yesterday when his foe had self-dismounted prior to their first run, lays stunned and unmoving upon the sward for a few moments, prompting Sotor of Pelanby to emerge from the sidelines and trot over to his side. The physician can be seen bending over the prostrate knight and asking a few inaudible questions. Finally Sir Keidin rises laboriously to a smattering of applause from the crowd and is helped off the field.

The Sheriff of Balimshire, Sir Eris Karondal, drives a lance into Sir Haldan Obart’s thigh to gain a point in their first encounter. The injury takes but a few moments to tell its tale, and by the time the Sheriff has trotted his stallion back to the start line and turned its head about, Sir Haldan’s mount is riderless and the good Sir Haldan is picking himself up from the soil.

While the squires assist Sir Haldan from the field and retrieve his riderless horse, an unheralded Cekiya slips in between Sir Ewen and Thilisa, causing the Lady of Varayne to exhibit a marked stiffening of the spine. While his wife manages to extrude an even greater degree of hauteur from her person than is her usual wont, the odd girl is slyly pointing out to Sir Ewen a knight for whom she has been searching all morning. Sir Tellas Valador, retaking his seat after seeking some refreshment during the last tilt, was the person who had eluded her at daybreak as he had departed the white knight’s tent. She is rewarded by the slightest twist of a smile from Sir Ewen, and a nod, and she slips away before the affronted Caldeth blood can come to full boil.

The next bout is between Sir Ban Faragar and Sir Cradon Eldaran, both puissant knights who had thrown their foes from the saddle on the day before. Sir Cradon takes a blow to the helm in the first gallop but maintains his horse, while the second run sees both knights score hits. Sir Ban, rising to the occasion, strikes Sir Cradon’s chest on the third pass and advances on points.

Sir Rafe Delwarne, whose drunken opponent had spilled from the saddle on the previous day, finds himself down on the dirt without the benefit of alcohol when Sir Yebisi Immen manages a canny lance thrust to his hip on their first run. Sir Kornuska Harabor, determined to avoid further disparagement at the hands of his father, unhorses Sir Ryle Lartyne but is seen favoring his left leg as he subsequently dismounts and hands the reins over to his squire. And Sir Sedris Indama, whose first mount had been injured yesterday by Sir Toren Curo, is atop a fresh steed when he knocks Sir Orsin Tubath from his saddle in their second charge.

Prince Brandis Elendsa and Sir Karnis Anthin both adopt conventional stances and go about their work conservatively in their three passes, the Prince no doubt taking pains to avoid fouling the steed of his opponent given the excruciating controversy endured during his first round. Both knights plant repeated strikes upon each other’s shields before Sir Karnis is sprung from his saddle by the royal lance.

Sir Hunar Asvaler advances when Sir Bulwar Tarth is thrown by his recalcitrant steed before they can even come to blows. Then Sir Scina Dariune, who had moved up the day before when his opponent had been disqualified, faces Sir Rodin Daront, who had unhorsed his own foe in the initial round. Sir Scina wastes little time in the very first charge, however, absorbing Sir Rodin’s blow upon his shield while punching Sir Rodin clean from his saddle. As Sir Scina departs the lists, he raises his lance and points it directly up at Sir Aeomund Legith, whom he will face in the next round should the latter advance. The crowd whoops and whistles in appreciation at this provocative gesture, as there is nothing like a keen rivalry to add some zest to the tilting and raise the stakes among the bookmakers working among the audience.

Sir Prehil Firith stands erect and announces “Uthor Groinsticker!” at the outset of the next match between Sir Teslim Doraster and Sir Uthor Claune. The latter’s new moniker will get little further use in the tournament, however, as the unfortunate Sir Uthor misses the privy parts of a cautious Sir Teslim and sticks the horse instead, resulting in a disqualification.

Then Sir Aeomund Legith rides against Sir Marp Sebgan, the knight who slew Sir Semwis Camber with a lance through the visor. A collective tension seizes the crowd as the spectators lean forward in their seats, the images of yesterday’s fatalities still thrillingly fresh in their minds. Sir Aeomund takes a few moments to attain some mastery over his high-spirited stallion, which snorts and rears as it approaches the mark, while Sir Marp awaits, preternaturally still, at the other end of the lists. Sir Aeomund levels his lance, snaps down his visor, and the signal is given. The thunder of hooves chases the two knights down the yard as they close, each leaning avidly in, and the simultaneous crack of two broken lances reverberates as they rush abreast. Sir Aeomund takes a blow to his armored midsection while his own lance thrust, aimed high, catches the crown of Sir Marp’s helm and wrenches it sideways, twisting the knight apart from his horse and, rolling over once in midair, down. The fallen knight’s helmet impossibly askew, the armored figure unmoving for several long beats, the crowd at first supposes him dead as well, but then Sir Marp slowly struggles to his feet and is helped, staggering, from the tiltyard, clearly injured and unable to remove his mangled helmet. Sir Aeomund Legith, circling back around and cantering his horse past the noble persons up in the stands, turns his head slightly away from the spectators as he draws abreast of Sir Scina, pointedly ignoring the Dariune scion and eliciting a knowing buzz from the appreciative crowd.

Sir Stanis Gask, who had been spared the necessity of lathering his horse yesterday by a foe’s balking mount, jousts against Sir Drogo Halgens, whose own steed had been fouled in the first round. Sir Drogo hits Sir Stanis in the groin right out of the gate, which rocks Sir Stanis in his saddle but fails to dislodge him. Sir Drogo follows up on their second pass with another stout hit, shattering Sir Stanis’ shield into useless kindling, and the Gask supporters in the stands appear ready to accept the inevitable. But then the steadfast Sir Stanis redeems himself in the third gallop when he lunges and drives his lance into Sir Drogo’s left knee, sending the twisting rider airloft. The vanquished Sir Drogo limps off the field while the reinvigorated crowd cheers wildly for Sir Stanis, approving a stirring comeback when they see one.

Two knights who had unhorsed their opponents on the previous afternoon follow. Sir Eben Calasty and Sir Celed Ubael, Sir Karsin’s cousin, waste no time in coming to grips with each other, charging down the lists with little preliminary fussing at the lines. Sir Celed spears Sir Eben a painful strike to the gut, gaining the first point. Sir Eben’s shin is pegged next, and then Sir Celed closes the deal on the third gallop, denying Sir Eben any points for a clean win.

The next matching, curiously enough, is between two knights who were forced to draw their swords in the first round to vanquish their opponents. But the contest between Sir Tenden Ryselith and Sir Rald Ertanar proves anything but even, which surprises no one given the obvious state of Sir Tenden’s debility following his hard-fought victory yesterday. Sir Rald handles his steed impeccably, and while Sir Tenden manages to strike Sir Rald a painful blow to the hip in spite of the awkward angle he must hold his right arm, he succumbs to Sir Rald in three unremarkable passes.

Sir Sorol Margant, bearing a prominent wad of Sotor of Pelanby’s bandaging across the bridge of his nose, jousts next against Sir Colm Drascar, whose stallion appears none the worse for wear following the scrape inflicted upon it the day before. Both knights lose their seats in the second charge, pick themselves up, and close on each other with swords drawn, the crowd roaring in approbation. Sir Colm, favoring his left ankle due to an apparent sprain taken on hitting the ground, lays his blade twice upon Sir Sorol in rapid succession, but Sir Sorol strikes back, tagging his opponant’s chest and then his hip to tie the score. The blades flash and weave and both knights land dangerous sword strikes above the shoulders, Sir Colm’s left cheek guard being touched beside the visor, and Sir Sorol’s neck taking a slash upon the collar. The blows coming near simultaneously, Sir Ewen nods from his seat in the stands to extend the bout to a tiebreaker. The knights close again, exchanging valid blows and eliciting another nod from the risers, and then Sir Sorol takes a wicked looking slash to his left shoulder and loses the match, blood escaping from the joints of his armor as he goes down on one knee. Sotor rushes out, and it appears evident to all that the defeated knight has more of Sotor’s stitching and gauze in his future.

Sir Colth Zord initially appears relieved to have a knight of ordinary proportions riding toward him down the lists, but the sensation fails to linger when he finds himself peremptorily cast onto the churned earth by Sir Tellin Doraster.

And then Sir Baris Tyrestal, having visited the bucket tent well ahead of his match today and arriving promptly on the line before the horns blow, jousts Sir Talvar Sigan, whose steed had been lightly fouled the afternoon before. The insult appears to have daunted the stallion little, as Sir Talvar and horse appear to be in perfect accord as they gallop stolidly in, bearing down upon Sir Baris. As the hard-driving mounts race abreast, Sir Baris lunges with his lance and Sir Talvar leans away, turning aside the crunching blow to his chest while his own lance snags the plate armor on Sir Baris’s left boot. The split second collision and the snapping leverage of the other knight’s weapon catching the plate pries Sir Baris skyward, and with a sense of unbelief he feels his bottom completely vacate the saddle. He has time to register that both of his booted feet are swimming free in the air, the stirrups located somewhere beneath him, with his left hand still clutching shield and reins and a shrill wind whistling in his helmet. Then suddenly the horse, Streiffe, gives a tremendous kick and its haunches slam upward, smashing the lip of the saddle against Sir Baris’s privy parts as contact is sickeningly reestablished. Sir Baris reels and flails, his legs pumping wildly in a frantic effort of lunatic counterbalancing as his horse veers and he begins to spill over the left side of the undulating saddle, both hands grappling desperately to shorten his grip on the reins and embrace his mount as he topples over. Miraculously he manages to stay connected to the heaving, pounding horse as it reins abruptly in, although when Kalas arrives the knight’s right thigh is most of what remains in the saddle and the rest of Sir Baris is plastered to the left side of the steed, his helmed head and drooping shield the closest portions of him to the ground, breathing in tremendous gulps and asking plaintively whether he is still mounted.

Sir Talvar, meantime, has cantered back around and rides past, shaking his head as if to say, Who is this guy? Sir Baris is righted and properly seated with some assistance, while Sir Ewen, up in the stands, finds himself in the end stages of the world’s longest wince and manages to studiously ignore his wife’s scathing regard during the slow moments while the knights choose new lances and return to their starting spots. Sir Baris fusses for a time with his saddle and stirrups, as if some equipment malfunction were to blame for his near-unhorsing, and when the adrenaline of the first pass drains from him it is replaced by a bowel-churning cramp emanating from somewhere above his physical injury shooting straight into the injury to his ego.

Finally Sir Baris aligns himself on the mark and levels his lance, but as he touches spurs and hunkers down he appears to be attending more to the placement of his shield than the aim of his lance. Sir Talvar strikes the guarding shield dead on, while Sir Baris manages a lucky hit to Sir Talvar’s neck. Both knights keep their horses, and the score advances to two points each. Regaining his composure now but over-cautious still, Sir Baris gallops in and both he and Sir Talvar shy away, missing each other completely and impotently circling back around. The crowd groans, boos, and Maldan Harabor cups his hands and yells, “Baris, you pussy!” Ignoring the jibe, Sir Baris closes once more with Sir Talvar, aiming high, and manages to catch the other knight’s left cheek guard, keeping to his horse and advancing, to his immense relief, on points.

Immediately following this, Sir Hamond Xalaker, whose steed was fouled the day before, has the same doomed horse killed underneath him by Sir Bereden Pawade, making it both Pawade brothers suffering disqualification in two days. The Constable of Heru, who takes a cruel lance blow upon the chest in the process of accidentally spearing his opponent’s mount, is assisted from the field with a few cracked ribs. When the buzz from the crowd has settled, Sir Alva Nimos, yesterday’s victorious underdog, is unhorsed by Sir Brunis Odasart, mounted atop a fresh steed after losing his first horse in round one. A boring match between Sir Avin Torolla and Sir Merwyn Elorieth, cousin to Sir Gorbar, ends in Sir Merwyn winning on points. Sir Klodel Selekos gains his second unhorsing of the tournament by separating Sir Hiril Skally from his stallion. And Sir Braen Vardyn finds the tables turned on him by Sir Borne Tyndas, losing his seat despite a masterly show of horsemanship at the outset, unable to avoid a strike from Sir Borne to the groin.

The white-surcoated Black Knight tilts opposite Sir Romlach Ethasiel, heir to the Barony of Setrew, next. The first, brisk pass yields a glancing blow to the white helm and a thumping strike upon Sir Romlach’s shield. In the second gallop it is Sir Romlach’s helm which absorbs a hit, and it is clear from the reeling knight that he has incurred some form of head injury in the pass. Despite this, the point of his lance has still landed upon the white knight’s left knee armor, bringing the score to two points each. It is plain that Sir Romlach’s equilibrium is badly awry on the third gallop, however, and he suffers an easy slash across the neck and a consequent humiliating loss on points. The white-clad Black Knight advances.

As the afternoon shadows grow longer, Sir Mykel Vartuny and Sir Holm Vareth miss each other completely on their first canter down the lists. The crowd laughs and groans, and someone calls, “Get them off the field!” Chastened, the two knights put on a better show in the subsequent gallop, each touching armor and gaining a point. And then the contest ends to the satisfaction of the spectators, who always love to see a knight dropped onto the dirt by his opponent, in this case Sir Holm disconnecting from his horse as Sir Mykel flashes by. And then Sir Rogan Kilew faces Sir Sterba Yardartha, who charges in hot on the first pass, his lance splintering like balsa wood against the abdominal armor of Sir Rogan, who stays mounted in spite of yesterday’s injuries. But in the next tilt the over-aggressive Sir Sterba lurches in his approach, which appears to take Sir Rogan by surprise, and his misguided lance inflicts a superficial scratch to the flank of the lucky Sir Sterba’s horse.

The final contest of the day is between Sir Retel Pierstel, eldest son of the Baron of Tonot, and the red-garbed Black Knight whom Sir Ewen identified as a Deryni the day before. The first splintering collision between the two bypasses each shield to strike the red surcoat of the anonymous knight and the right thigh of Sir Retel. The latter thrust penetrates armor but the stolid Sir Retel keeps his saddle and both knights return to their marks with a point each. Sir Retel rides well in the second pass in spite of his seeping leg, pegging the red surcoat again at dead center while his unnamed opponent’s lance glances off his own neck armor. Those among the spectators avid to learn the identity of the Black Knight are disappointed for the nonce, however, as Sir Retel fails to land a blow on the third charge, taking a head-turning crack across the right cheek of his helmet. The heir of Tonot keeps his horse but loses on points, and the Deryni knight advances to the next round of thirty-two.

Later, the evening’s feasting is hosted by Sir Prehil Firith, with entertainment congruent with the tastes of the heir of Kobe. Somehow Sir Prehil has obtained the services of a troupe of extraordinarily lewd dancing girls and, while the production is generally considered by most to be in abominable taste, everyone in attendance has to admit that the performers are quite talented. Maryna appears to be one of the dancers, and Sir Baris recognizes a few of the others, and concludes that the house of courtesans in Tashal must have been emptied out for the evening.

Some time after the dissipations of Sir Prehil’s party have been relegated to the most depraved, Cekiya manifests herself at the opening of Sir Baris and Sir Aeomund’s tent. Sotor of Pelanby is perched atop an iron-bound chest, all elbows and knees and inkstained fingers, providing professional advice as the two warriors attempt to one-up each other in describing the agonies of their mangled genitalia. Kalas, quiet and unnoticed in a corner, squats comfortably on a stool, polishing some pieces of armor.

“You boys are not going to win,” Cekiya chants in her singsong fashion, turning their heads.

Sir Aeomund frowns at this intrusion, and waves his hand irritably. “This is bad luck. Get this woman out of the tent!”

But Sir Baris frowns thoughtfully as Cekiya simpers cruelly and scurries away, and after a moment he sends Kalas out to retrieve the girl. Cekiya returns readily enough, and smirks at them in the flickering candlelight. “You just told me to leave,” she points out, pouting.

“Cekiya. What is it that you know, and we don’t?” Sir Baris asks the question warily, putting down the axe he had been absently fingering. “You don’t want us to win?”

Cekiya shows her teeth without smiling. “I overheard something. I heard Thistle talking to the Big Man.”

Sotor claps his hands and exclaims, “I love these games!” This draws a pair of savage scowls from the knights.

Cekiya pirouettes on one heel and comes all the way around, full circle. “He said you are not going to win.” She shrugs. “The Big Man told Thistle.” And then she giggles, spins once again, and slips through the tent flap and into the night before the others can question her further. Behind, an uneasy silence lingers as the candles suddenly spasm and gutter, wavering in the draft of her soundless departure.
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Matt
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