Sword of Caledor (21 page)

If he won the tournament he really would have a chance to influence the tone of this new age. He would have his chance to be part of her court, to sway her choices. It was not the sort of power he wanted, or the sort of role he craved. He was a warrior, not a courtier.

And yet, he had to admit to himself, despite his reluctance to do so, there was something here that appealed to him. This felt like the setting of one of those tales of heroism and chivalry he had so loved as a child. It was glamorous and full of intrigue. It was beautiful. There was pageantry and magic. He could picture himself as a knight at the court of the fairest of elf queens. It was the sort of role he had delighted in imagining as a boy. It still had its appeal even now, although he could see the folly of it.

In spite of all his reservations, like all those others, he was happy to be here.

Chapter Seventeen

In the morning sunlight, Tyrion watched the gathering of heroes. More and more warriors arrived on the tournament grounds, great champions shorn of their retinues, single fighters who had come alone, perhaps following a dream, perhaps merely to test themselves against the best the island-continent could provide.

He stood on the field itself, where today only contestants and representatives of the Everqueen were allowed. Atharis and his retainers watched from the surrounding hillocks along with the followers of all the other champions present. He saw Arhalien of Yvresse turn and bow to his followers before he passed through the arch and onto the tournament field. His retainers cheered him but could go no further.

Tyrion saw proud armoured riders from Ellyrion mounted on their matchless, prancing steeds. He saw a lovely woman warrior from Tiranoc, staring around with fierce wary eyes. There were grim-faced soldiers from Yvresse, and tall, hard-faced elves from the Shadowlands, as harsh and craggy as the land that bore them.

They looked at him as much as he looked at them, and there was a challenge in their stare. They knew instinctively that he too was here to compete and that he would be a rival, and they could tell just from the look of him that he would be a worthy one.

In some glances there was hostility but in most of them was an odd form of comradeship. They were all here for the same reason, and by the nature of the contest, they were set apart from the mass of other elves. It was something that they shared, a kinship of spirit born of rivalry, yet forging a bond. That was the way he felt it at least, and he suspected that for those he saw it would be the same.

He looked at his potential rivals and wondered about them. What were their stories? What sights had they seen on the way here? What drove them to compete? What was it they sought?

He felt like simply going over and asking. He was endlessly curious about these things. He could not do so though, not out of shyness, but because he knew that it would be misconstrued. Perhaps they would see him as only seeking an advantage, as attempting to uncover weaknesses, and perhaps he would be.

There would be time enough to get to know a small fraction of these warriors. There would be drinking bouts and dances and all manner of merry meetings. It was something he could wait for with anticipation, part of the pleasure of being here.

He could tell by the way some of them looked at him that his reputation had preceded him. They had heard of the battles he had fought and the way he had survived an encounter with a Keeper of Secrets while still only a callow youth. They knew he had crossed blades with a monster that had fought against Aenarion himself, and that he was of Aenarion’s blood.

That thought cast a shadow over his happiness. One day the monster would be back and it would come looking for him, and it occurred to him that it would come looking for the new Everqueen as well. Like every Everqueen before her, she was descended from Aenarion’s lost daughter, Yvraine. She too would be a target when N’Kari returned to pursue his infernal vengeance quest.

Tyrion tried telling himself that he might live his entire life without ever encountering the daemon. There was over six thousand years between its last two appearances in history. He could live and die and his descendants unto the tenth generation might do the same, before the daemon reappeared.

He doubted that things would be that way. He had a feeling that he and N’Kari were destined to meet again, that their paths were due to collide during his lifetime and, if that happened, he would need to find some way to banish the daemon forever, not just for his own safety but for the safety of his children and their children beyond them. He needed to find a way if he could. He let his hand rest on Sunfang. Perhaps the great blade held the secret. He prayed that it was so.

Horns announced the coming of the Everqueen. Surrounded by her Maiden Guard, she made her way into the massive stand that had been erected overlooking the tournament field. At this distance it was hard to see anything but a tall, stately golden haired figure, graceful of movement, wealthy of dress, carrying a mystical staff in her hand. There was something about her though, a sense of power, deeply hidden, that commanded attention.

Tyrion was not the only one watching her arrival. Every eye on the field was drawn to the stand and its new occupant. It was understandable. She was after all the reason they were here. He glanced around and saw something odd. Everyone present was looking at the Everqueen with an expression that combined awe, religious reverence and love. He had not realised they all felt quite that way, and then it dawned on him that they probably could not help themselves. What he was seeing was most likely the result of a very powerful spell.

He wished Teclis were here to advise him about this. He was genuinely curious now.

Horns sounded again. This time the sequence of notes was different, a summons to battle, a challenge, a demand for attention.

The herald of the Everqueen took up his position on the great dais in front of the stand. All eyes were upon him now. He spread his arms wide with a flourish. Then he paused, dramatically, in order to focus attention before he launched into his speech.

The herald was a tall elf with silver hair. His features were very fine. He carried himself with great dignity. And yet beneath this, there was something else, a suggestion of the mountebank, of the need to please and the need to be at the centre of attention that was somewhat at odds with his majestic air.

‘Friends, fellow elves, subjects of our beloved Everqueen,’ he said, turning with a flourish to the stand. His voice carried over the murmur of the great crowd. He gave the impression of speaking in a conversational tone, but there was some magic at work that carried his voice to every corner of the field.

‘We are gathered here at the start of the reign of a new Everqueen to select her champion. Unto that champion will fall the duty of guarding our kingdom’s greatest treasure. Into his hands will be placed the life of the Everqueen. He will be called upon to defend her from all threats and all challenges and to protect her from harm, even if it costs his own life. The victor of this great tournament will be participating in a grand tradition that stretches from the earliest days of our realm.’

Tyrion thought the herald very self-satisfied and pleased with the sound of his own voice, but the words resonated anyway. He realised that up till now he had been thinking about this tournament simply from the point of view of his own needs and desires.

He had known about the responsibilities the position of champion entailed but he had never really thought about them and about the place implied in history and culture. Now he was forced to.

If he did win, he would be subordinating his own life to that of the Everqueen. He would be expected to give up his own life to save hers if need be. Was he really up to that challenge?

The answer was fairly simple given his personality. If the duties of champion fell to him, they would be performed to the best of his ability.

He had risked his life before on behalf of the kingdoms and for lesser reasons. He was certain that he was capable of doing so in the service of something much more important.

While he was thinking this, the herald spoke on, invoking the names of famous champions of the past and recounting their deeds and their sacrifices.

Tyrion was stirred, as were the people round about him. There was magic in the air again and he knew that the herald was using it. There was something about the elf’s voice indeed. It was not just a spell, although there was an element of that. It was simply that the way that the elf spoke touched something deep within the soul. It went beyond his choice of words and the beauty of his speaking voice. There was something in Tyrion and in the others present that responded to it on a level deeper than thought.

It was a talent worth possessing, Tyrion thought. To be able to address troops in this manner would be a gift indeed. One of the most important things for a leader was being able to motivate the warriors who followed you and this type of magical speaking would be invaluable for that.

The herald continued, ‘Today, friends, mighty and worthy warriors have come together from every corner of Ulthuan to compete in a contest to find a worthy heir to those mighty champions of the past. By the time this full moon has passed, a new champion will have been selected to guard the peerless treasure of our realm.’

The herald gazed upon the assembled competitors and smiled. ‘Looking out at all of your faces, I can see there only the noblest of intentions…’

That beautiful voice carried no note of irony and yet it was there. Tyrion sensed it.

‘Selflessly you seek to enter the service of our great queen. Selflessly you are putting aside personal ambition in order to take up a duty. It tells me something about the greatness and nobility of the spirit of our people and our kingdom that so many of you have come together here with no other desire than to serve.

‘I can see that all of you are worthy. It saddens me that only one of you will, at the end of the contest, be able to take up the role of champion. However, the elf to whom this great honour falls will know that he has faced and bested worthy opponents indeed. You represent the best of the people, their great spirit, their great desire for self-sacrifice, their great love for their queen. I am proud to stand here before you and tell you what you need to know to participate in this contest.’

The herald was really milking the moment here. And why not? It was the sort that only came once in most elves’ lifetimes. How often was a new Everqueen crowned? How often was a new champion chosen? This might be the only time this contest would take place in Tyrion’s lifetime or the herald’s. The winner in the next few days would be remembered for as long as there were elves in the world.

He realised that this was important to him. Glory was important to him. More than wealth, he craved renown. He wanted to prove himself worthy. The question was – was he willing to pay the price?

‘Today we begin with the tournament. The first round will decide who continues into the next rounds. Today every participant will prove his worthiness with a blade and shield. These are the most basic weapons of the warrior.’

Tyrion thought that the bow was actually the most basic weapon of the warrior, but he could see why the stress would be laid upon using sword and shield. These were the sort of weapon that a bodyguard was much more likely to be called upon to use.

The herald held up a small brooch. It was in the shape of a leaf and the bronze suggested the colours of autumn. ‘Each of you will be issued with a bronze leaf and each of you will be matched against a worthy foe. The winner of the contest will be awarded his opponent’s leaf. He should return it to the heralds and progress to the next round of combat. The winner of that contest will be awarded his foes brooch to return to our watchers and progress to the next round. This will go on until there is only one winner and only one brooch. And it will set the pattern for all of the other contests that will take place. Once the horns sound, you will go from here and collect your brooches and proceed to the fields of trial, where you will be assigned your opponents.’

Everyone seemed light-hearted now and ready to begin and he felt the same way. After all these days of waiting, he was about to step forward into the contest. He found that his heart lifted at the prospect of a fight. Whatever happened, he was determined to enjoy himself today.

Smiling, he walked off towards the trestle tables at which lesser heralds were waiting to distribute the tokens of the contest. He collected his and pinned it to his breast. All the other warriors present were doing the same.

Tyrion entered the roped off area in which the first round of the tournament was to take place. He walked across to the sergeant-at-arms and was issued with a blunted sword, armour and a shield. He swiftly donned the armour. It was heavier than the very fine mail that he was used to, but it was adequate and he did not doubt for a moment that it was capable of resisting the blunted edge of the weapon he was carrying.

Of course, that did not mean that injury was impossible. The weight of a blade swung in combat practice could still break an arm or a rib. It was not unknown for elves to be killed during such trials. He knew that he would need to be cautious, because any sort of broken bone would disbar him from the championship and immediately end all hopes of winning.

Next he tried the blade and found it reasonably well-balanced. It did not harmonise with his movements with the supernatural grace of Sunfang. It was not even as close to being as good as the sword he’d carried most of his life, which had been a gift from Korhien. But it would do. Given a few moments he could habituate himself to its use. The shield was the fairly large kind commonly used by infantry. He strapped it on to his left arm. He had worn this kind of shield many times over the course of many battles. It felt like donning an old familiar pair of boots.