Michael Sullivan - Avempartha

“I’ll have to agree with the wizard then. I’ve never heard of a town making anything that fits that description,” Hadrian said.

“There’s more. Supposedly, the village was inundated with requests for arms. The Turists didn’t feel it was right to make weapons for just anyone, so they only made a few, and only for those who had a just and good need. Powerful kings, however, decided to take the god given craft secrets for themselves and prepared to battle for control of the village. On the day of the battle, however, the armies marched in to discover the village of Tur-all its inhabitants and buildings-were gone. Not a trace was left of their existence except for a single white feather that came from no known bird.”

“Any dwarf in Elan would give his beard for the secrets of Tur, or even the chance to study a Tur blade.”

“And you think Alverstone is a Tur blade?” Hadrian asked.

“What did you call it?” Magnus asked his beady eyes abruptly focusing on the fighter.

“Alverstone, that’s what Royce calls his dagger,” Hadrian explained.

“Don’t encourage him,” Royce said, his eyes fixed on the tower.

“Where did he get this, Alverstone?” the dwarf asked, lowering his voice.

“It was a gift from a friend,” Hadrian said, “right?”

“Who? And where did the friend get it from?” the dwarf persisted.

“You are aware I can hear you?” Royce told them, then seeing something, he pointed toward Avempartha. “There, look.”

They all scrambled up to peer at the outline of the fading tower. The sun was down now and night was upon them. Like great mirrors, the river and the tower captured the starlight and the luminous moon. The mist from the falls appeared as an eerie white fog skirting the base. Near the top of the spires, a dark shape spread its wings and flew down along the course of the river. It wheeled and circled back over the falls, catching air currents and rising higher until, with a flap of its massive wings, the beast headed out over the trees above the forest, flying toward Dahlgren.

“That’s its lair?” Hadrian asked incredulously. “It lives in the tower?”

“Convenient isn’t it,” Royce remarked, “that the beast resides at the same place as the one weapon that can kill it.”

“Convenient for whom?”

“I guess that remains to be seen,” Esrahaddon said.

Royce turned to the dwarf. “Alright my little mason, shall we head to the tunnel? It’s in the river, isn’t it? Somewhere underwater?”

Magnus looked at him surprised.

“I am only guessing, but from the look on your face I must be right. It’s the only place I haven’t looked. Now in return for your life, you will show us exactly where.”

Arista stood with the Pickerings on the south stockade wall watching the sunset over the gate. The wall provided the best view of both the courtyard and the hillside beyond, while keeping them above the turmoil. Below, knights busied themselves dressing in armor; archers strung their bows, horses decorated in caparisons shifted uneasily, and priests prayed to Novron for wisdom. The contest was about to commence. Beyond the wall the village of Dahlgren remained silent. Not a candle was visible. Nothing moved.

Another scuffle broke out near the gate where the list of combatants hung on the hitching post. Arista could see several men pushing and swinging, rising dust.

“Who is it this time?” Mauvin asked. The elder Pickering leaned back against the log wall. He was in a simple loose tunic and a pair of soft shoes today. This was the Mauvin she most remembered, the carefree boy who challenged her to stick duels back when she stood a foot taller and could overpower him, in the days when she had a mother and father and her greatest challenge was making Lenare jealous.

“I can’t tell,” Fanen replied, peering down, “I think one is Sir Erlic.”

“Why are they fighting?” Arista asked.

“Everyone wants a higher place on the list,” Mauvin replied.

“That doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t matter who goes first.”

“It does if the person in front of you kills the beastie before you get a chance.”

“But they can’t. Only the heir can kill the beast.”

“You really think that?” Mauvin asked, turning around, grasping the sharpened points of the logs and peering down the outside of the wall. “No one else does.”

“Who’s first on the list?”

“Well, Tobis Rentinual was.”

“Which one is he?” she asked.

“He’s the one we told you about with the big mysterious wagon.”

“There,” Fanen pointed down in the courtyard, “the foppish looking one leaning against the smokehouse. He has a shrill voice and a superior attitude that makes you want to throttle him.”

Mauvin nodded. “That’s him. I peeked under his tarp, there’s this huge contraption made of wood, ropes, and pulleys. He managed to find the list first and sign his name. No one had a problem with it when they thought the contest was a tournament. Everyone was just itching to have a go at him, but now, well, the thought of Tobis as emperor has become a communal fear.”

“What do you mean was?”

“He got bumped,” Fanen said.

“Bumped?”

“Luis Guy’s idea,” Mauvin explained. “The sentinel decreed that those farther down on the list could move up via combat. Those unsatisfied with their place could challenge anyone for their position to a fight. Once issued, the challenged party could trade positions on the list or enter into combat with the challenger. Sir Enden of Chadwick challenged Tobis who gave up his position. Who could blame him? Only Sir Gravin had the courage to challenge Enden, but several others drew swords against one another for lesser spots. Most expected the duels would be by points, but Guy declared battles over only when the opponent yielded so they have gone on for hours. Many have been injured. Sir Gravin yielded only after Enden pierced his shoulder. He’s announced he’s withdrawing and will be leaving tomorrow, and he’s not the only one. Several have already left wrapped in bandages.”

Arista looked at Fanen. “You aren’t challenging?”

Mauvin chuckled. “It was kinda funny. The moment Guy made the announcement, everyone looked at us.”

“But you didn’t challenge?”

Fanen scowled and glared at Mauvin. “He won’t let me. And my name is near the bottom.”

“Hadrian Blackwater told us not to sign up,” Mauvin explained.

“So?” Fanen stared at his brother.

“So, the one man here who could take that top spot without breaking a sweat doesn’t even have his name on the list. Either he knows something we don’t, or he thinks he does. That’s worth waiting out the first night at least. Besides, you heard Arista, it doesn’t matter who goes first.”

“You know who else isn’t on the list?” Fanen asked. “Lord Rufus.”

“Yeah, I saw that. Thought he’d be the one to challenge Enden-it would have been worth the trip just to see that duel. He’s not even out in the yard with the rest.”

“He’s been with the archbishop a lot.”

From their elevated position, Arista scanned the courtyard below. The light was gone from the yard, the walls and trees casting the interior in shade. Men went around lighting torches and mounting them. There were hundreds assembled within the grounds and more outside all gathered into small groups. They talked, some shouted. She could hear laughter and even a bit of singing-she could not tell the song, but by its rhythm she guessed it was a bawdy tavern tune. There was a lot of toasting going on. Dark figures in the failing light, broad, powerful men slamming cups together with enough force to spill foam. Above it all, on a wooden platform raised in the center of the yard, stood Sentinel Luis Guy. He was high enough to catch the last rays of the sun and the last breaths of the evening wind. The light made his red cassock look like fire and the wind blowing his cape lent him an ominous quality.