The Pagan Night (22 page)

Ian paused, cursing himself for a fool. Balancing his lance on his stirrup and resting it against his shoulder, he reached up and torqued the clasp on his helm, then threw his visor open and breathed in a healthy lungful of fresh air. Ringlets of sweat-drenched hair tumbled down his cheeks. His face was red with embarrassment and the stifling heat.

The crowd rose to their feet in laughter and applause. Ian gave another good-natured salute, trying to stay calm under the gaze of so many people. Oddly, there was no one in the opposite list. Andre Marchand was either still struggling with his horse, or had decided against showing up at all. The grass of the field was already torn from the first few matches, and there was a spray of blood on the wooden boards of the tilt gate.

A horn drew his attention back to the crowd. The herald of the tourney came out from beneath the Celestial box, the tournament scroll in hand. He addressed the crowd, bowed in the direction of the distant Celestial dome in Heartsbridge to acknowledge the holiday, and finally to Ian himself, commending the results of the tournament to Strife’s good blessings, and Cinder’s just eye. One of the priests in the box said something Ian couldn’t hear, and the herald nodded.

He addressed the crowd, but his words were lost in the din of Ian’s close helm. The spectators seemed enthused—their cheering made Ian’s head hurt even more.

When the cheering faded away, the herald continued.

“I have read the histories and blessed the match!” he said. “Is the young Marchand not present to defend his honor?”

The crowd waited anxiously, a murmur rising up. Ian chewed his lip nervously. Then there was some movement from the stables opposite. The crowd rippled in anticipation.

A knight rode into the stadium.

He was wearing Marchand’s colors, but where Andre was slight and supple, this man was nearly the size of the horse he rode. His armor was well dented, his tabard faded with wear, and the horse bore scars across his nose and flanks. Ian whistled, low and long.

“Andre went through a bit of a growth spurt, eh?” he murmured. There was frantic whispering behind him, and he twisted in his saddle to see Sir Baird, joined by Sir Dugan. They were gesturing for him to return to the stable yard.

Ian shook his head and turned to face his opponent.

The knight lowered his helm and gave Ian the slightest nod. Then he turned to the herald and spoke.

“Graceful Andre Marchand must forfeit his place in the tournament, as his good and godly duties have called him back to Highhope,” the knight said, “but I shall serve in his stead.”

“Chev Bourdais, your name is already entered for another battle,” the herald said.

“Then strike it. For the honor of my master, the Marchand name must advance.”

Ian frowned. Chev Bourdais was Marchand’s master of guard, and a familiar figure at the joust. He had ridden beside Sir Grandieu in many battles, ridden beside Ian’s father in many more.

It wasn’t going to be a fair fight.

For a long moment no one spoke. The herald was the first to recover. He made the annotations in his scroll and signaled to the attendants, who gathered the Bourdais banner and removed it from the standings. Then the crowd was on their feet, arguing among themselves, and in the box above the priests appeared to be in a hot discussion with a group of new arrivals, these in the colors of the church guard.

Finally, a priest came forward—the one with whom the herald had consulted.

“Lord Ian Blakley of Houndhallow, son of Malcolm, will you accept the challenge that has been presented?” he asked.

Sir Bourdais rode across the lists. Two servants ran out to his side, offering him assistance. Ian knew he had the right to refuse such a change in opponent.

“I accept,” he said weakly. When no one reacted, he cleared his throat and said it again, this time at the top of his lungs. “I accept the challenge!”

“Then so be it. Gentlemen, ride for glory. May the bright lady watch you, and the gray lord judge your worth!”

A cheer went up through the crowd, and Ian felt a great warmth fill his blood. Chev Bourdais lowered his helm and surged down the tiltyard, his horse hammering forward, his lance held high and straight. Shocked into action, Ian slammed his spurs into his horse’s flank, then nearly fell out of the saddle when the destrier jumped forward. It took a stride or two to right himself, his lance bouncing high in the air.

He quickly settled into his saddle and couched the lance more steadily against his side, lining it up with the oncoming knight. Bourdais was already dipping his lance, timing the descent of the tip to intersect with Ian’s charge at just the perfect moment.

The wild gallop of Ian’s charger made control difficult, but he brought his tip down—perhaps too quickly, perhaps too slow. It went low and danced off the gate, crossing Ian’s body. He pulled it tight and re-centered it on Bourdais’ shield, but the moment was past.

Thunder burst across his face and a force like a hammer’s fall jerked his head around, throwing him skull-first out of the saddle. Bourdais’ lance had struck home, a blow to Ian’s head. Whether his opponent’s target was intentional or just bad luck didn’t matter. The pain was the same.

Ian landed on stone-hard sand, bouncing once and then rolling over. The air left him, and blood and sweat filled his mouth and clouded his eyes. He lay there, gasping for air that wouldn’t come, his skull ringing like a bell, blood in his eyes.

Someone took him by the shoulder and pulled him up. Ian’s gasps for breath were replaced by wrenching pain and he vomited hot bile against the grill of his helm. The stink was overwhelming as it slithered down his chin, and he pulled free and went to his knees, heaving. Finally, spew-tainted air tore into his mouth. Numbly, he tried to undo his visor to clear the vomit from his face.

“No, lad,” Baird yelled, and it was the first sound Ian heard, full of fear and anger. The man slapped Ian’s weak hand away from his head. The force of the blow dumped Ian onto his butt, sending jolting pain through his back and neck. “Keep that damn thing on!”

Ian squinted through his visor. There was sand in his eyes, smeared with blood. He couldn’t make the shapes around him assemble into a coherent world. His first clear thought was that he was probably badly hurt, and he wondered if his skull was split. There was certainly enough blood for that. He raised his hands to see if they still worked, since he couldn’t really feel them, and was surprised to see that they, too, were covered in blood and grit.

His blood? Probably.

Sir Baird grabbed him by the shoulder and hauled him to his feet. Dizziness swept over him, and the tide of bile in his throat came up and spattered against the inside of his helmet once again, but he didn’t fall. Instead, Ian staggered against the fence and held it in both arms. There were other sounds now creeping through the bell in his skull. The crowd, perhaps, or the herald. And drums. Ian could hear drums.

Or something else. Hoofbeats?

He looked up.

Chev Bourdais was charging at him again. He had abandoned his lance, which was probably in splinters anyway, and bore down with an iron mace in hand. The rest of the world was a blur of color and sound. Sir Baird stood between them, a heavy wooden shield grasped in both hands. It was the size of a door, and just as thick. Bourdais rode around it smartly and wheeled in place. The iron-shod hooves of the horse cut the air around Ian’s head.

He tucked and rolled behind Baird’s shield, just as the horse landed and Bourdais struck.

The mace went wide, beginning a game of dodge that Ian was barely fit to play. Bourdais wheeled and struck, wheeled and struck, the heavy iron head of the mace shattering splinters off the shield each time it came down. Ian kept moving to stay behind the shield, and, under its massive weight, Sir Baird was straining to keep them both safe. It wasn’t long before he was dragging the bottom of the shield in the sand.

A cry arose from the crowd, and Bourdais glanced up. He yelled out, took one last strike at the shield, and then whirled away from the pair.

Ian fell to one knee, and Sir Baird collapsed to the ground, the remnants of the shield sliding over him as he fell. Ian watched as Marchand’s master of guard retreated to his end of the tiltyard. Several men-at-arms waited there, with the black spear and red rose of Marchand on their chests, wearing chain and armed with long spears. They looked terrified as the knight slipped between them and disappeared.

Bourdais had just tried to kill him.

Why are they afraid?

A sound beat that thought from his head—the sound of horns and terrified cries from the crowd. Some of the spectators bolted, creating chaos and confusion. Ian turned.

Malcolm Blakley stood at the center of a group of soldiers, men and women dressed in a motley of colors from the various lords of the north. Finnen and MaeHerron, Thaen and Lann and Dougal, even a knight from the Fen Gate. Sir Dugan flanked the lord of Houndhallow. They marched onto the jousting field with swords drawn.

“Did you draw blood?” Malcolm asked. Ian blinked up at him unbelieving, trying to understand the question. “Are you listening, boy? Did you draw his blood?”

“I imagine not, unless he tore a blister on his palm from beating me.”

“Gods be good,” Malcolm said. He looked at those who stood around him. “Disperse to your masters. Gather your knights and your ladies, and flee the city. Engage no one. Fight only to defend yourselves.”

“There’s Adair blood in the dirt,” the man from the Fen Gate spat. “They’ve killed good knights.” His clothes were dusty from the road, and sweat streaked his face. “We must form a council of war, and…”

“We must do no such thing,” Malcolm snapped. “Not today. Not here on the tournament ground, with the fire of the bright lady still in our veins. Half of our men are too drunk to count the months, much less declare war.” He spun back to his son. “Count yourself lucky that you didn’t kill that fool.”

“Kill? Father, I barely escaped with my life.” Ian struggled to his feet. “If not for Sir Baird…”

“If Sir Baird had done his proper duty, you wouldn’t have been on this field at all.” Malcolm shot the knight a sharp look, then turned to the soldiers, who were still lingering in the duke’s shadow. “You have your orders. Go. Get out of the city. The truth of this will be found soon enough.”

“My lord, we mean to escort you back to your pavilion.” One of the soldiers gestured with his sword. “To ensure that the Suhdrin dogs…”

“Go!” Malcolm bellowed. He drew his own blade, the song of its edge ringing out above the arguing crowd, the dark feyiron blade as black as night. “Before it’s your own blood I’m spilling!”

The men hesitated, but slowly moved into the stands.

The crowd was up in arms. Friends of those who had been trampled in the initial panic drew steel, which caused others to follow suit. Yet no one moved, the spectators looking at one another drunkenly, wondering who would strike first without wondering as to why.

As the line of Tenerran soldiers marched toward them, some took it as a military advance. Drunken Suhdrin merchants hurled themselves at the Tenerrans; others ran for their lives, howling about rebellion and armed pagans in the tournament grounds. The Tenerrans didn’t hold back, cutting their way free of the press. It wasn’t long before the screams were radiating out from the arena, spreading like wildfire through the tourney grounds.

“Gods
damn
them,” Malcolm growled. Sir Baird and Sir Dugan stood warily at his side, watching the chaos unfold. “Halverdt won’t even have to excuse his monster’s actions. They’ll have a war by dawn.”

“They already have it,” the man from the Fen Gate said, lurking in Malcolm’s shadow. They turned to him. “The Deadface declared it, with or without his master’s word.”

“What’s this I hear about Gwendolyn Adair ambushing Volent’s men by the Tallow?” Malcolm asked.

The man shrugged. “She did what she felt was best, to save the lives of the innocent.”

“The lives of the innocent?” Malcolm loomed over the man, veins standing out on his neck and forehead. “Do you know how many innocent lives will be lost if there’s war? The harvest is nearly upon us! What happens to the crops if we pluck the farmers from their fields? If Halverdt’s armies burn their way through our wheat and slaughter the cows to feed their fighters? How many children will starve under Cinder’s judgment this winter?”

“A tragedy,” the knight said, “but their blood will be on Halverdt’s head, not Adair’s.”

Malcolm peered silently at the man for a long moment, fist clenched, and it appeared as if he might strike him.

“Get out of my sight!” he yelled. “Return to the Fen Gate, and pray that we can make peace before the season turns.”

“My lord, sending this man out into the tournament grounds will be his death,” Sir Dugan said. “He has ridden day and night to reach us, his horse is spent. He doesn’t have the luxury of flight. His face is known to Halverdt’s men. They will kill him before night falls.”

Malcolm paused, glaring.

“What is your name?”

“Sir Alliet Merret,” the man said.

“A Suhdrin name.”

“I am sworn to Colm Adair. I rode with his daughter into the fight at the Tallow.”

“Then we have you to thank for this mess,” Malcolm said.

“He was slaughtering them like pigs… women and children! Would you have done less?”

“We will discuss that later,” Malcolm said. “Take off your tabard and cover your head. You will ride north with us.”

“I will not hide my colors,” Merret said.

“Then die here, for no reason,” Malcolm replied. He strode off, marching straight for the stables. “Baird, Dugan, with me.” The two knights hesitated, then rushed after their master. Ian was left alone on the field with Sir Merret.

“Your father is a hard man,” Merret said.

“Did you expect something less from the Reaverbane?”

“No, I suppose not,” Merret said. He looked out at the roiling crowd. The paths cut by the Tenerran soldiers closed and were replaced with Suhdrin blades and Suhdrin faces. “This is not how I planned to die.”