David Eddings - Queen of Sorcery

Barak did not even bother to draw his sword. He swung his huge arm in a wide circle and crashed his fist with stunning force against the side of the swarthy knight’s helmet. Sir Haldorin’s eyes glazed as he was swept from his saddle, and he made a vast clatter when he struck the ground.

“Would anyone else like to comment about my beard?” Barak demanded.

“Gently, my Lord,” Mandorallen advised. He glanced down with a certain satisfaction at the unconscious form of his senseless kinsman twitching in the tall grass.

“Will we docilely accept this attack on our brave companion?” one of the knights in Baron Derigen’s party demanded in a harshly accented voice. “Kill them all!” He reached for his sword.

“In the instant thy sword leaves its sheath thou art a dead man, Sir Knight,” Mandorallen coolly advised him.

The knight’s hand froze on his sword hilt.

“For shame, my Lords,” Mandorallen continued accusingly. “Surely ye know that by courtesy and common usage my challenge, until it is answered, guarantees my safety and that of my companions. Choose your champions or withdraw. I tire of all this and presently will become irritable.”

The two parties of knights pulled back some distance to confer, and several men-at-arms came to the hilltop to pick up Sir Haldorin.

“That one who was going to draw his sword was a Murgo,” Garion said quietly.

“I noticed that,” Hettar murmured, his dark eyes glittering.

“They’re coming back,” Durnik warned.

“I will joust with thee, Sir Mandorallen,” Baron Derigen announced as he approached. “I doubt not that thy reputation is well-deserved, but I also have taken the prize in no small number of tourneys. I would be honored to try a lance with thee.”

“And I too will try my skill against throe, Sir Knight,” Baron Oltorain declared. “My arm is also feared in some parts of Arendia.”

“Very well,” Mandorallen replied. “Let us seek level ground and proceed. The day wears on, and my companions and I have business to the south.”

They all rode down the hill to the field below where the two groups of knights drew up on either side of a course which had been quickly trampled out in the high, yellow grass. Derigen galloped to the far end, turned and sat waiting, his blunted lance resting in his stirrup.

“Thy courage becomes thee, my Lord,” Mandorallen called, taking up one of the poles Durnik had cut. “I shall try not to injure thee too greatly. Art thou prepared to meet my charge?”

“I am,” the baron replied, lowering his visor.

Mandorallen clapped down his visor, lowered his lance, and set his spurs to his warhorse.

“It’s probably inappropriate under the circumstances,” Silk murmured, “but I can’t help wishing that our overbearing friend could suffer some humiliating defeat.”

Mister Wolf gave him a withering look. “Forget it!”

“Is he that good?” Silk asked wistfully.

“Watch,” Wolf told him.

The two knights met in the center of the course with a resounding crash, and their lances both shattered at the stunning impact, littering the trampled grass with splinters. They thundered past each other, turned and rode back, each to his original starting place. Derigen, Garion noticed, swayed somewhat in the saddle as he rode.

The knights charged again, and their fresh lances also shattered. “I should have cut more poles,” Durnik said thoughtfully.

But Baron Derigen swayed even more as he rode back this time, and on the third charge his faltering lance glanced off Mandorallen’s shield. Mandorallen’s lance, however, struck true, and the baron was hurled from his saddle by the force of their meeting.

Mandorallen reined in his charger and looked down at him. “Art thou able to continue, my Lord?” he asked politely.

Derigen staggered to his feet. “I do not yield,” he gasped, drawing his sword.

“Splendid,” Mandorallen replied. “I feared that I might have done thee harm.” He slid out of his saddle, drew his sword and swung directly at Derigen’s head. The blow glanced off the baron’s hastily raised shield, and Mandorallen swung again without pause. Derigen managed one or two feeble swings before Mandorallen’s broadsword caught him full on the side of the helmet. He spun once and collapsed facedown on the earth.

“My Lord?” Mandorallen inquired solicitously. He reached down, rolled over his fallen opponent and opened the dented visor of the baron’s helmet. “Art thou unwell, my Lord?” he asked. “Dost thou wish to continue?”

Derigen did not reply. Blood ran freely from his nose, and his eyes were rolled back in his head. His face was blue, and the right side of his body quivered spasmodically.

“Since this brave knight is unable to speak for himself,” Mandorallen announced, “I declare him vanquished.” He looked around, his broadsword still in his hand. “Would any here gainsay my words?”

There was a vast silence.

“Will some few then remove him from the field?” Mandorallen suggested. “His injuries do not appear grave. A few months in bed should make him whole again.” He turned to Baron Oltorain, whose face had grown visibly pale. “Well, my Lord,” he said cheerfully, “shall we proceed? My companions and I are impatient to continue our journey.”

Sir Oltorain was thrown to the ground on the first charge and broke his leg as he fell.

“Ill luck, my Lord,” Mandorallen observed, approaching on foot with drawn sword. “Dost thou yield?”

“I cannot stand,” Oltorain said from between clenched teeth. “I have no choice but to yield.”

“And I and my companions may continue our journey?”

“Ye may freely depart,” the man on the ground replied painfully.

“Not just yet,” a harsh voice interrupted. The armored Murgo pushed his horse through the crowd of other mounted knights until he was directly in front of Mandorallen.

“I thought he might decide to interfere,” Aunt Pol said quietly. She dismounted and stepped out onto the hoof churned course. “Move out of the way, Mandorallen,” she told the knight.

“Nay, my Lady,” Mandorallen protested.

Wolf barked sharply. “Move, Mandorallen!”

Mandorallen looked startled and stepped aside.

“Well, Grolim?” Aunt Pol challenged, pushing back her hood.

The mounted man’s eyes widened as he saw the white lock in her hair, and then he raised his hand almost despairingly, muttering rapidly under his breath.

Once again Garion felt that strange surge, and the hollow roaring filled his mind.

For an instant Aunt Pol’s figure seemed surrounded by a kind of greenish light. She waved her hand indifferently, and the light disappeared. “You must be out of practice,” she told him. “Would you like to try again?”

The Grolim raised both hands this time, but got no further. Maneuvering his horse carefully behind the armored man, Durnik had closed on him. With both hands he raised his axe and smashed it down directly on top of the Grolim’s helmet.

“Durnikl” Aunt Pol shouted. “Get away!”

But the smith, his face set grimly, swung again, and the Grolim slid senseless from his saddle with a crash.

“You fool!” Aunt Pol raged. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“He was attacking you, Mistress Pol,” Durnik explained, his eyes still hot.

“Get down off that horse.”

He slid down.

“Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?” she demanded. “He could have killed you.”

“I will protect you, Mistress Pol,” Durnik replied stubbornly. “I’m not a warrior or a magician, but I won’t let anybody try to hurt you.”

Her eyes widened in surprise for an instant, then narrowed, then softened. Garion, who had known her from childhood, recognized her rapid changes of emotion. Without warning she suddenly embraced the startled Durnik. “You great, clumsy, dear fool,” she said. “Never do that again—never! You almost made my heart stop.”