John Flanagan: The Kings of Clonmel

'Now listen all people! Give silence for Sir Sean of Carrick, chief steward to the King and master at arms for these combats! Silence for Sir Sean!'

The herald's voice thundered the formally worded, rather stiff announcement across the market square, dominating the loud buzz of conversation in the stands. The herald was a thickset man, with a barrel-shaped chest and massive lung capacity. He had been specially selected and trained for his role.

Gradually, the chatter in the stands died away as people realised that it was almost time for the first combat to begin. They edged forward expectantly on their seats, those at the extreme ends of the bleachers craning to see Sean as he moved to the front of the royal enclosure. He held a rolled parchment in his hand. He unrolled it and began to read. His voice lacked the stentorian qualities of the herald's but it was strong and clear and it carried easily in the sudden silence.

`People of Dun Kilty! At issue today is the legitimacy or otherwise of the so-called god Alseiass, also known as the Golden God of Good Fortune.'

There was a moment of subdued muttering from the eastern stands as he said the words 'so-called god'. It stopped as he raised his eyes and directed a hard look across the combat ground.

`Ferris, High King of Clonmel, contends that Alseiass is a false god and that his prophet Tennyson is a false prophet.'

He paused, turned and looked at Ferris, who was sitting huddled in the throne-like chair at the back of the royal enclosure. A wave of cheers rang around the arena, mingled with cries of 'Hall Ferris!' and 'Long live the King!'. Sean waited till they died away and continued.

`His majesty also contends that the one true hope of deliverance for the Kingdom is the warrior known as the Sunrise Warrior. That under his guidance and protection, we shall restore the rule of law and order in the Kingdom.'

More cheers. And stony silence from the eastern stands.

`The prophet Tennyson, for his part, contends that Alseiass is a true god.'

Now cheering rose in the eastern stands. Tennyson leaned back in his chair, looked around him at his supporters, and smiled. Halt, watching from the opposite side of the field, thought the smile was a smug one. He frowned as he noticed three figures sitting behind Tennyson, all cloaked in dull purple. The Genovesans, he realised.

Sean was continuing. 'Tennyson has guaranteed the protection of his god to those who will follow him, and vows that Alseiass and Alseiass alone can restore order to the Kingdom.

`These matters having been under contention, and with no resolution attained, the parties have agreed to the ultimate resolution of differences: trial by combat.'

The thunderous cheering that rose now was all-embracing. Both townsfolk and Outsiders alike roared their approval. After some thirty seconds, Sean glanced at the herald behind him. The heavyset man stepped forward and his voice rang out above the crowd.

`Silence! Silence for Sean o' Carrick!'

Gradually, the cheering died away, like a mighty wave that crashes in upon a beach, then recedes until there is nothing of it left behind.

`Trial by combat is the sacred, unarguable method of judgement, the ultimate court against which there may be no appeal. It is the direct appeal to all gods to decide these matters. On behalf of King Ferris, I swear the crown's willingness to abide by the final judgement, absolutely and without further argument.

`Should the followers of Alseiass prove victorious, King Ferris will withdraw all claim of the powers of the Sunrise Warrior and submit utterly to the will of Alseiass.'

There were a few scattered cheers and catcalls from the bleachers opposite the King's enclosure. For the most part, however, there was silence as the true gravity of this contest and its result sank in. And the followers of Tennyson realised that a similar binding vow would be required of their prophet – and a similar pledge to deny the god Alseiass if Killeen and Gerard were to lose. For the first time, many began to examine their own impetuous actions in joining Tennyson's band. Swept along by a mixture of excitement, fear and blind hope, they hadfollowed Tennyson's lead without giving the matter too much rational thought. Now Sean showed them the other side of the coin – the risk Tennyson was running.

`Should the Sunrise Warrior prevail, Tennyson and his followers must give the same undertaking. The sacred trial by combat to take place here will determine whether or not Alseiass is truly a god – and whether Tennyson is a true prophet or a false pretender.'

Sean paused, staring across the open ground at the white-robed figure seated opposite him. Tennyson showed no sign of responding.

`Tennyson! So-called prophet of Alseiass! Do you swear to be bound by these proceedings? Do you swear to agree to the result of trial by combat, whatever that result may be?'

Tennyson, remaining seated, glanced around at his followers. Their eyes were on him. He nodded curtly. But that wasn't enough for Sean.

`Stand, Tennyson!' he demanded, 'And swear to it in the presence and hearing of all here!'

Still Tennyson remained seated. He was unwilling to commit to such a definite course of action. Who knew what could go wrong in a trial by combat? But as he remained seated, he began to hear muttering from his own followers. Not the hard-core fifty or so who were his inner circle. They, after all, were under no delusions that there was a god Alseiass. But his new converts, the crowds of people swept up from Mountshannon and half a dozen other villages along the way, were beginning to look at him suspiciously and doubt the level of his conviction and the truth of his teaching. In another few seconds, he realised, he could lose them. Reluctantly, he stood.

`I swear it,' he said.

Sean, opposite him, allowed himself a small, grim smile.

`Then let all here witness that fact. These matters will be settled this day by combat. All parties have agreed. All parties will be bound by the result.'

Slowly, Sean began to roll up the parchment from which he had read the ritualistic formulas setting out the parameters of the day. He glanced to the pavilions, one at either end of the field.

`Let the combatants come forward! Horace of Araluen, known as the Sunrise Warrior. Killeen of the Isles, disciple of Alseiass! Step forward and receive your weapons for this sacred trial.'

And the cheering began to build again as Horace and Killeen emerged from their respective pavilions. Somewhere, a drumbeat began, giving them a cadence by which to march. Each warrior was fully armoured. Killeen wore a shirt of scale armour – brass plates shaped like fish scales that were fastened onto an inner leather garment. Like fish scales, the brass leaves overlapped each other. Horace had small links of closely knit chainmail under his white surcoat and covering his arms. Killeen wore a full helmet that concealed his face, with only his eyes glittering through the vision slit. Horace wore his familiar conical helmet with its dependent fringe of mail hanging to his shoulders as a neck guard.

Both carried their shields on their left arms. Horace's was circular, made of steel fastened over toughened wood, painted white with the emblem of the sunrise depicted on it. Killeen's was kite shaped, with a rounded top. It bore the double circle emblem of Alseiass. Beside each strode anattendant. A white-robed acolyte flanked Killeen, and Will strode beside Horace, desperately trying to keep up. Compared to Horace and the huge figure of Killeen, he looked almost child-like.

The drumbeat came to a stop with one final ruffle as Killeen and Horace, flanked by their attendants, stopped in front of the royal enclosure, where Sean stood waiting for them. Below him, at ground level, a simple table held their chosen weapons. Horace's long-bladed, unadorned cavalry sword. Brass hilted and with a matching crosspiece, it was an unremarkable weapon. But it was perfectly balanced and razor sharp.