David Farland - Brotherhood of the Wolf

“Kingslayer!”

In the pandemonium that broke out, people came rushing from nearby tents, swelling the audience alarmingly.

Now Myrrima thought she understood why this battle would be fought here. Her husband had slain King Sylvarresta, slain him upon the orders of King Orden after the battle of Longmot. And though King Sylvarresta had given an endowment of wit to Raj Ahten, and was therefore nothing more than a pawn in the hands of an enemy, he had been a good king in his time, and was beloved by his people. As a punishment for his crimes, Iome Sylvarresta had sentenced Myrrima’s husband to commit an Act Penitent. But apparently that wasn’t enough for the High Marshal. He would want blood to atone for blood, and so he had challenged Sir Borenson. Young King Gaborn Val Orden would never have sanctioned such a combat. He’d not have allowed it to be fought in the high arena. So they battled here among the petty lords and the cockfighters and bear baiters.

“By the Powers,” Sister Connal swore lightly. “The only man in this kingdom I’d want between my legs, and here he’s fighting a death match!”

Myrrima glanced up into the horsewoman’s face, astonished by the insult, until she realized that Sister Connal could not know that Sir Borenson was her husband.

Then Borenson rode out onto the west end of the field. He sat upon a gray charger, wearing his own splint-mail armor, carrying a simple round shield that had been blanked. His long red hair flowed down his back, his blue eyes smiled. He studied his opponent, gauging the thickness of the man’s arms, his size.

A knight wearing the colors of King Sylvarresta rushed forward with a heavy war helm, and Borenson donned it.

Myrrima was appalled. She was astonished that her husband was in the arena preparing to fight without having spoken a word about it to her.

Knights came rushing out, bearing lances. These were no brightly painted parti-colored pieces of hollow wood. They were sturdy war lances of polished ash, bound with iron rings and tipped with steel. The steel tips were blackened with pitch, so that they would not slide across a man’s shield or armor on impact but instead bore straight through. Each lance had to weigh in excess of a hundred and fifty pounds, and was tapered at the base to a diameter of eight inches. Once a man was skewered, the lance would wedge apart his flesh and bones, creating a huge gaping wound from which no man, even with endowments of stamina, could ever recover. These lances were weapons of murder. The High Marshal bore a black lance, a color that symbolized vengeance. Borenson bore a red one, the color of innocent blood. Tied to its haft was Myrrima’s red silk scarf.

The minstrels began playing a clamorous melody before the charge.

“I must go,” Myrrima said, feeling ill to her stomach. She looked around desperately, searching for a way down from the knoll. The steep ground was covered with big rocks, and small oaks thrust up between them.

“Where?” Sister Connal asked.

Myrrima groaned and pointed. “Down there. That’s my husband!”

The look of astonishment on Sister Connal’s face was a relief to behold. Myrrima had begun to think the woman a stoic, and Myrrima’s own emotions—the shock and horror of all that she’d been through today made her feel weak and volatile in comparison.

Myrrima turned away and began racing down the steep hill as fast as she was able. By the time she made it to the bottom and crossed the Durkin Hills Road, the mob was thick around the tournament field.

She tried to force her way through the throng, and couldn’t, until Sister Connal began shouting, “Out of our way!” and shoving people aside.

Myrrima looked up to thank her. Sister Connal apologized for her earlier remark, saying simply, “I didn’t know he was your husband.”

By the time they fought their way through the crowds close enough to see well, the horses Were already charging.

This would not be a boys tournament battle, twenty-five passes with the lance, with the loser suffering nothing more than bruised ribs.

The wild shouting of the crowd was deafening. Myrrima glanced at the taut, giddy faces of those nearby. They were hoping for blood.

Both warriors had chosen odd stances. Sir Borenson rose in his stirrups and leaned far to his right, as only a warrior with many endowments of brawn could do. Furthermore, he did not hold his lance in the couched position, but instead held it overhead as lightly as if it were a javelin.

The High Marshal on the other hand leaned far forward on his black charger, trying to make his enormous bulk into a smaller target. On seeing Borenson’s stance, he muscled his lance out and held it side-armed, in a position that Myrrima had never seen a warrior use. Furthermore, he chose not to carry a shield in his other hand. Instead, he bore a short sword.

It appeared that Borenson meant to jab down into the High Marshal’s visor from above, while perhaps the High Marshal hoped to pierce Borenson’s armpit, where the lack of armor left the flesh exposed.

Yet as they met in midfield, both men swirled into furious motion.

The two horses streaked toward one another. The men atop them blurred as each sought the advantage, taking various defensive stances: Myrrima watched Borenson rise up, then crouch, then sweep his shield down in an effort to drive Skalbairn’s lance tip aside.

As for Skalbairn, she could not really watch him and her husband at the same time, but she saw him roll to the left, perhaps even dropping to the ground for half a second in an effort to avoid Borenson’s lance and then leaping back on his horse.

The men met, a vicious, seething blur.

Myrrima heard the clash of arms and armor. Someone cried out in pain while the audience cheered and horns blared. Borenson’s shield swiped up brutally while Skalbairn hacked with his short sword.

Metal flashed, and a helm went flying. Sir Borenson tumbled backward on his horse.

For one eternal moment, Myrrima thought that her husband had been decapitated. A scream of terror escaped her lips as the silver helm arced up, then tumbled to the earth. The musicians blared their trumpets at the sign of a kill, and the crowd cheered wildly.

Myrrima felt faint, grabbed for Horsesister Connal’s shoulder.

In the next instant she realized that both men had fallen—and both still lived!

They struggled with supernatural swiftness in the muddy field, roaring and beating at one another with mailed fists as they sought to disentangle.

Borenson leapt up first, jumping back a pace. Even with his armor on, he moved lightly, for he had seven endowments of brawn, and thus had the strength of eight men. Blood flowed down the side of his face. The audience jeered.

Borenson reached to his belt, pulled a morningstar, and whipped the thing about expertly, the heavy balls becoming a blur at the ends of their chains. He crabbed sideways to regain his shield.

The air smelled of mud and blood.

But the giant Skalbairn gained his feet just as easily, raced across the field to his horse. He pulled a huge axe from a horseman’s scabbard. He whirled it and advanced easily standing a foot and a half taller than Sir Borenson.

Only then did the crowd fall silent long enough for Myrrima to hear if the warriors spoke. Her husband was laughing, uttering the mad battle chuckle for which he was noted.

Borenson swung his morningstar, aiming for the High Marshal’s head, a warning blow meant to drive the monster back.

The High Marshal pivoted to his right and dodged. A moment later they exchanged a flurry of blows so fast that Myrrima could not see, with no man the clear victor. Yet when Borenson stepped back a pace to catch his breath, she glimpsed the blood still streaming from his brow.