She relaxed. “There’s nothing—”
Vika rounded on her and struck her across the mouth. Reeling back, Alexeika struggled not to fall. Already Vika was yanking on the rope. “Come,” she muttered. “Come fast.”
Alexeika gave her no trouble. They walked until a shivering Alexeika could no longer feel her bruised, half-frozen feet. Cold, clammy air and the smell of water told Alexeika a fjord must be nearby. If only she could jump into it and swim to freedom, she told herself, knowing that the superstitious Grethori would not go near deep water if they had any choice.
Fog writhed about their ankles, thickening as they walked. Alexeika listened with all her might, straining for the sound of soft lapping that would tell her how near to the bank they were.
In the autumn, when the summer gave way to colder weather, there were frequent fogs that came off the surface of the fjords. Alexeika could feel the mist kissing her face. Tipping back her head, she inhaled deep lungfuls of air. Ahead of her, Vika slowed down. The Grethori girl was muttering to herself, and when Alexeika crowded her, she whirled around with a snarl. “Nothing pursues us,” Alexeika said.
“You don’t know that. You don’t know!” Vika said raggedly.
“I am a demon,” Alexeika said, playing on Vika’s superstitions. “I know.”
Vika drew in breath with a little sob. “I dreamed of him. He is near.”
“No.”
Something in Alexeika’s calm voice seemed to reach Vika. She turned about, twisting the end of the rope between her hands, then sank down on her haunches in the midst of damp brush.
Alexeika was glad to rest. She yawned, fighting off a crushing sense of exhaustion, and crouched beside Vika. She heard the snick of a knife being drawn.
“Not too close,” Vika warned her with a growl.
Sighing, Alexeika moved as far away as the rope around her neck would permit. The ground felt damp and cold when she stretched out on her side. In the quiet darkness, she could hear water lapping against the rocks of the bank. How far away was the water? Five strides? Six? It might as well be fifty, for she could not run in these hobbles.
Vika began a soft chant under her breath. Presumably it was to ward off evil. Ignoring her, Alexeika stealthily drew up her knees and began to worry at the knots of her hobbles. Her nimble fingers pulled and tugged, trying to loosen her bonds. If she could get her feet free, Alexeika reasoned, she would be able to outrun Vika as far as the fjord. Once she jumped into the water, Vika would not pursue her. Although at this time of year the water would be like ice itself, Alexeika counted the risk worthwhile. She would not be able to swim with her hands bound, but as long as she floated and kicked, she would manage somehow. Night stretched on, cold and foggy. Shivering there in the darkness, Alexeika worked at the stubborn knots and at last felt one loosen. Swallowing hard, her hope growing, she renewed her efforts until the hobbles fell from her ankles. It was all she could do not to kick out in joy. Instead, listening to Vika’s soft chanting, she forced herself to lie still. She wished the girl would go to sleep, but it seemed unlikely. Whatever had disturbed her dreams kept Vika sitting bolt upright among the bushes, wary and starting at the smallest sound. A faint whiff of something burning tickled Alexeika’s nostrils, and she realized Vika was trying to cast a spell. The girl kept repeating the same incomprehensible words over and over again. Something about the rhythm and force with which Vika uttered them made Alexeika uneasy. Whatever Vika was trying to do was not working.
Alexeika wanted to make a run for it, but she thought it best to wait until daylight when she could see the fjord. She was weary and weakened from the inadequate food and water of the past few days, and knew that Vika had more stamina than she. If Vika outran her before she reached the water, she would die. So Alexeika told herself to be patient and wait until she had the best chance possible.
Vika’s muttering gave her the idea to try a spell of her own. Alexeika had worked no magic since the night when she summoned the vision of Faldain from the waters. Uzfan had been very wroth with her for taking such a risk and had forbidden her to use the magic again, lest she bring harm to herself or others.
But now, Uzfan was dead. There was only herself or Vika who could be harmed here. Alexeika did not know if she could conjure a spell, but she decided to try.
She thought of the fjord, the mist, and the darkness. She wanted to make a mist krenjin, a sort of imp of the snow-country legends. It didn’t have to be very good; all she wanted to do was distract Vika enough for her to run. At first, as Alexeika lay there straining to create the spell, nothing happened. Vika’s chanting distracted her, and, shuddering with weariness, Alexeika felt herself perilously near to giving up.
Just one krenjin, she thought, and tried one last time. She reached deep into her thoughts and formed a mental image of the creature. Gray it would be, as gray as the fog or the dawn sky. Winged it would be, flying swiftly through the forests. Fanged and clawed it would be, and ferocious. When it attacked its scream would make the blood run cold.
Vika jumped to her feet and screamed.
The sound tore through Alexeika, scattering her thoughts in all directions. She stared through the gloom at Vika, who started flailing and clawing at herself, then dancing about like a person gone mad.
When she spun around, one of her shoulders looked misshapen. Alexeika jumped to her feet, wondering if Vika had somehow mutilated herself with her own spellcasting. Just then another scream came, drowning out Vika’s cries. Alexeika realized there was a creature on Vika’s back. How it got there was impossible to say, unless it had simply dropped from the sky.
Vika whirled around again and threw herself backward against a tree in an effort to dislodge the creature. Then Alexeika saw a pair of leathery wings unfurl and begin to beat at Vika’s head and shoulders.
Astonished, Alexeika realized her spell had worked. This, she reasoned, must be a krenjin.
At last she had the diversion she needed. Pulling the noose off over her head, she threw down the rope and ran for the fjord.
When the uneven ground made her stumble, something small and gray flew harmlessly over her head. Straightening with a gasp, Alexeika saw the krenjin wheeling in the air overhead. It attacked her again, but she ducked in time. Clacking its talons together, the creature screamed in fury. Alexeika dived into some bushes for cover and wondered why the thing had left Vika to attack her instead. Was it because she’d run and attracted its attention? But, no, she saw Vika still flailing and struggling to dislodge the one on her back.
“Two!” Alexeika said aloud.
At that moment, a third one screamed and came flying through the air. Alexeika went cold inside. How many had she created?
There was no time to worry about that now. “Vika! Get in the water!” she yelled, and burst from the undergrowth to make another run toward the fjord. The two krenjins after her matched her speed, then dived at her in an effort to turn her back. Alexeika dodged under a tree and snapped off a small branch. The next krenjin that came at her was swatted from the air. It landed with a squawk of pain and lay still, a boneless lump in the shadows. Its companion flapped leathery wings and clacked its talons, but stopped its attack.
Shaking the stick at it, Alexeika ran once more. In the fog and darkness, she was barely aware of where she was headed when suddenly the ground dropped from beneath her feet. She realized she was falling, and her arms flailed wildly in the air before she hit the water with a loud splash.
The impact stung, and she sank under the surface like a stone. It was incredibly cold, so cold she thought her heart would stop. Down she plummeted through the black water until her feet hit bottom.
Instinctively, Alexeika flexed her knees and shoved herself back to the surface. Her head broke water, and she dragged in air with a gasp. Her body felt like it was being jabbed with knives of ice. Barely able to breathe, she began to shake convulsively.
On the bank, Vika screamed again—a long, shuddering wail that cut off abruptly.
As she bobbed there in the icy water, Alexeika knew the krenjins had killed her. Closing her eyes, Alexeika whispered a brief prayer for her own soul. She had done this without meaning to. It would have been one thing to kill Vika in a fight, but it was a far different matter to set demons on her like this. Ashamed, Alexeika understood how right Uzfan had been to warn her against using magic.
Not wanting to be nearby when the krenjins finished with their victim, Alexeika turned away from shore and tried to swim. She sank a few times, then treaded water until at last she managed to untie her wrists. The water had loosened the knots, which made it easier for her to work free.
The struggle to swim kept her from freezing, although she felt cold to the marrow and her teeth wouldn’t stop chattering. She wept with misery, but kept going.
Finally, as dawn broke over a new day, she emerged from the other side of the fjord, streaming water and shivering. The sunrise turned the still waters at the foot of the mountains into a shield of hammered copper, shimmering in hues of gold, bronze, and pink. The mist burned off the surface and retreated onto the bank. She staggered up beneath the trees and paused to wring water from her hair and the hem of her sodden robe.
In the new light of day, she looked at her shriveled blue fingers. The air was so cold she thought she would die. Teeth chattering, she dropped to her knees and hunched there, moaning with misery.
But she was alive, and she was free. She had escaped the Grethori, and the consequences of her own erratic spell-casting. Now her life could begin anew. First, however, she had to build a fire and warm herself. For if she froze to death, all her efforts to escape would have been for naught. Without a strike box, building a fire proved next to impossible. She searched in vain for rocks along the bank, but this side of the fjord presented her only with smooth dirt, hackberry brambles tipped with frost, and kindling wood. Stumbling along with her robe dripping down her bare legs, Alexeika finally found a clearing of sorts and hopped about until the sun began to warm the air. She stripped off the robe and wrung it out thoroughly, then spread it on the ground to dry. The painted designs on her skin had run together or in some cases washed off completely. Plucking handfuls of grass, she scrubbed her skin until it hurt, making sure she eradicated every last trace of the Grethori magic. Then she gathered berries—sour, dried things clinging like knots to their brier vines. She ate them ravenously, shivering still, and winced as they hurt her stomach. It was useless to wish she’d managed to steal Vika’s dagger. She would have to cope, and she had confidence in her woodcraft. The most important thing was to finish getting dry and warm, before she went about setting traps for small game. Braiding together long pieces of grass, she constructed a lure while sitting in the sun. At last her bluish skin began to turn pink and she stopped shivering so violently. Combing through her damp hair with her fingers, she removed the worst of the tangles. Her thick, luxuriant tresses flowed down her back, curling at the ends as they dried. After she braided her hair, she put on the robe. Still somewhat damp, it made her cold again. Its bright colors had all faded and run together into a dreadful hue. She didn’t care. As soon as she had trapped enough small game, she would stitch the skins into new clothing, however rudimentary. Then she would burn this garment of her enemies and say curses over the ashes.
It was very quiet and solitary in the forest. Now and then, inhaling the pines, she glanced out over the fjord. She saw no evidence of settlements, heard no voices. It seemed she was the only person in the region. Loneliness pressed her heart. While she knelt in the falling leaves to set her lure, she found herself sobbing. Swiftly she choked back her emotions. This was no time for tears. She had to survive. Winter was coming, and it was a long way to Karstok, or even Lolta. She could not survive the long cold season on her own, not up here by the mountains. She had no shelter built, no caches of food stored up. And she did not want to spend the eternal months of snow and raging storms alone, with no one to even talk to.
No, she must take care of her immediate needs first, then find her bearings and start the long walk to a settlement. Someone among the rebels would take her in. Although she had lost everything else, her name still counted for something. The fetid stink of decay hit her nostrils only seconds before the hurlhound struck her in the back and knocked her down.
She yelled in fear, and then the impact of hitting the ground jolted the remaining air from her lungs. Wheezing and terrified, she struggled to roll over while the beast growled and sank its poisonous fangs into the thick cloth of her robe. It dragged her, then shook her from side to side. She heard cloth rip and felt the sting of pain as the monster’s teeth tore her skin. Red-eyed and powerful, the hurlhound was a dreadful thing that stank of the grave. She screamed at it and struck its snout with her free fist. The creature was momentarily driven back, but then growled and lunged at her again. She scrambled to one side, trying to dodge it, but the beast was too quick for her, and it knocked her down a second time. Alexeika’s flailing hand found a branch lying on the ground. She twisted, swinging it with a yell, and hit the creature’s head with all her strength.
The stick broke across the hurlhound’s bony skull and made it yelp.
Scrambling free, Alexeika crouched low and began to back away from the monster. It stalked her as she brandished the jagged end of the stick. When it growled, she growled back just to keep herself from screaming in terror. But despite her outer defiance, her heart was thudding hard enough to break through her chest. Despairing, she knew she could not defeat the creature. Everything she did only delayed her death a few seconds more. Blood was dripping down her arm from its bite, and already she felt the fire of the venom that had entered the wound. If she did not cleanse the wound soon, she would be destined to become Nonkind herself, and that was too horrible a fate to think about. The hurlhound growled, but backed a few steps away from her. Its powerful jaws hung open, panting and dripping venom that hissed on the mossy, leaf-strewn ground.
Alexeika didn’t understand why it was hesitating in finishing her. At best, her stick was a poor weapon. Perhaps the vile beast was waiting for its mate to circle behind her unprotected back. Fear melted her bowels. Every sound made her start. Her breath was sawing raggedly in her throat, and her heart still pounded so fast she thought it might burst. She dared not take her eyes off the hurlhound in front of her, for she knew that one second’s inattention would encourage it to attack her again.
Desperately she prayed aloud, “Thod, have mercy on my soul.” And as though her prayer was heard, in the distance came the sound of rapidly approaching hoofbeats. Certain her ears were playing tricks on her, Alexeika lifted her head to listen. Aye, she could hear the rider crashing closer through the undergrowth. Hope shot through her.
“Hullo!” she shouted. “Help me! Please! I need help!”
The hurlhound growled, lowering its head and hunching its powerful shoulders.
She froze, her shouts dying in her throat.
Another growl came from behind her. Alexeika gulped, aware that the second hurlhound had arrived, exactly as she’d expected. Her heart pounded even harder. She told herself not to look, but she couldn’t stop herself.
Gripping her stick even more tightly, she risked a glance over her shoulder. The new monster stood there, all right, black and evil. It bared its fangs and crouched low to spring.
It was a mistake to have looked. The moment she turned her attention away from the first hurlhound, it bayed a note of triumph and leaped for her. The second hurlhound sprang from the other side.
Caught between them, Alexeika swung her stick around and screamed with all her might.
Within the tourney enclosure at Savroix, the herald rode up beside Sir Damiend, who spoke to him quietly. The herald galloped away to the center of the field. Trumpets blew for quiet, and the crowd settled down.
“Prince Gavril will meet his challenger, Dain of Thirst!” the man shouted. A speculative murmur rippled around the stands. Dain ignored it. He tried, also, to ignore Sir Damiend’s threats, but they had shaken him more than he wanted to admit. Angrily he tried to regain his composure. Gavril had never engaged in a fair fight with him yet, he reminded himself. Why should today be any different? “Let my challenger come!” Gavril called out, hoisting his lance aloft. “I am ready!”
But Sir Damiend did not move his horse out of Dain’s way. “Mind you remember what I have told you,” he said harshly. “Do you understand me, eld?” “Aye,” Dain replied through his teeth. Glaring at Sir Damiend, he lowered his visor with an angry clang.
“Leave him be, Sir Damiend!” Gavril called out impatiently. “I want to fight.
Let us get to it.”
Dain heard something rough and reckless in Gavril’s voice. When he noticed that the prince was carrying Tanengard in his scabbard, Dain understood that it was Lander’s evil sword making Gavril so heedless and wild. As soon as he became aware of the magicked sword’s presence, Dain heard its seductive hum. He remembered fighting with it to annihilate the Nonkind attackers. For a short time, he and the sword had been united into a single entity. And tainted though it was, the sword’s call twisted through Dain’s heart. He felt the momentary sear of jealousy, for he’d been the one who named the weapon and blooded it first. It should belong to him, not Gavril. But then Dain drew a sharp, steadying breath, and told himself that while the blade he carried today was only ordinary steel and would not pour fire into his soul, he was better off without a dark thing like Tanengard. Besides, it was an insult to the magicked blade to use it in a tourney. Tanengard was forged for war and death, not mock combat. Gavril should not use it so.
Wheeling his horse over to the lance rack, Dain selected one of ash wood, straight and lightweight, but strong. Painted crimson, it looked quite battered from the jousting, but he hoped it would serve him well. The straps of the shield he picked out were made of old, very soft and worn leather. The shield itself was heavy, crafted of thick linden wood that was strong yet could give. Dain hefted it, disliking its weight but hoping the shield would prove to be stout protection. He fitted his arm through the straps, struggling a little where his mail sleeve was too loose. “Losing your courage already, pagan?” Gavril taunted him. Anger surged into Dain’s throat. Just in time, he kept himself from hurling back an insult.
“Ah, fear has robbed you of your voice,” Gavril said smugly. “Very well!” Seething, Dain trotted his horse to the far end of the list and entered the narrow wooden stall. Gavril entered on the opposite side. They faced each other, lances held ready across their saddles, and the crowd grew silent and hushed. It was a bright, unforgettable moment. The hot sunlight baked Dain’s shoulders and suffocated him inside his helmet. Gavril’s armor shone like new-minted coinage beneath his bright blue surcoat. Dain could smell the leather of his saddle and the sweat of his horse as it pawed and champed the bit. It flicked its tail and stamped a fly, tossing Dain lightly up and down. He settled himself deeper into the saddle, clamping hard with his legs. Inside, he was tense and ready, his entire being focused on Gavril. No matter what Sir Damiend threatened, Dain did not intend to lose the joust on purpose. As it was, Tanengard was capable of cleaving through his mail like butter. Gavril had the advantage in what would probably have otherwise been an equal contest, but Dain shut away his fear. He would do his best, and by Thod, he would not let Gavril finish him quickly, Tanengard or no Tanengard.
The herald waited nearby on his horse, holding aloft a flag. It fluttered brightly in the sunlight, then swung down.
Gavril yelled hoarsely, spurring his horse forward. Dain’s mount jumped into a gallop before Dain could give it the command. Caught off guard, Dain regrouped hastily and tightened his grip on the lance. He aimed it, resting it on the pommel of his saddle exactly as he’d been taught, taking care that the butt of the handle did not wedge itself against the inside of his thigh. Such carelessness, Sir Polquin had taught him, was why most novices ended up unhorsed.
Dain rushed straight at Gavril, who came toward him in flashes of gold and blue. The hoofbeats sounded like thunder in Dain’s ears. He held the lance steady, although he could no longer see if the tip of it was aimed where he wanted it. Don’t change your aim midway down the list, Sir Polquin’s voice said in his mind. Stay steady all the way through the hit.
Remembering the advice helped quell Dain’s momentary panic. He could see Gavril shifting slightly in the saddle, and hoped the prince felt equally nervous in what was the first public joust for both of them.
Fear this! Dain thought as his lance tip struck Gavril’s shield. The jolt came up the weapon into Dain’s arm and numbed that entire side of his body. At almost the same instant, Gavril’s lance hit Dain’s shield square center and skidded. Dain twisted his torso, and the lance point passed him harmlessly. There was no time to feel relief, for his own lance tip was skidding across Gavril’s shield, marring its new paint. The tip jabbed beneath the edge of the prince’s shield, and Dain twisted his forearm with all his might, using the impetus of his charging horse to lift Gavril from his saddle.
The prince actually cleared leather, and gasps rose from the onlookers. But although Gavril twisted to one side and looked as though he would fall, he managed to sling his shield off his arm and disengage Dain’s lance. Then Dain was galloping past him, his lance tip veering wildly. Dain managed to swing it aloft by the time he reached the end of the list. His horse splashed through the mud hole and jolted to a halt. Snorting, it turned around and pawed the ground in readiness for the next pass.
At the opposite end, Gavril lifted his lance high and gestured to a squire, who came running to hand up his shield. Watching near the herald, Sir Damiend glared at Dain and shook his head in warning.
Angered anew, Dain compressed his mouth. The honor of Thirst was at stake today. He thought of Lord Odfrey, who would not have backed down from either the challenge or the threat.
Turning his head in the other direction, Dain peered through his visor slits at the king’s box. He saw King Verence sitting quite still and intent in the midst of chattering courtiers. The maiden at his side with the beautiful golden hair watched with her fists pressed against her mouth. Dain squinted at her, admiring her beauty, and wondered how she could fear for Gavril when all the advantages were his.
But I nearly unhorsed him, Dain thought in satisfaction.
“Round two!” the herald announced, and raised his flag. Dain swiftly pulled his attention back to the business at hand. This time when the flag dropped, he was ready at the same time as his horse. He held his lance more efficiently, aimed it quicker and higher.
He hit his mark, but too high. Chips flew off the top edge of Gavril’s shield, bouncing off the gold helmet and making the prince flinch. Gavril’s lance crashed into Dain’s shield with more force than the first time, rocking him back in the saddle.
As he fought to hang on, Dain also struggled to keep his lance firm against Gavril’s shield. Then he heard a mortal snap of wood. Bits of wood went flying against Dain’s helmet. He could hear them hit, but there was no time to duck. The end of his lance flew up, disengaging from Gavril’s shield and walloping the side of the prince’s helmet. Gavril reeled in the saddle and shouted something. The prince’s lance rammed its way between Dain’s shield and his side. Dain felt a tremendous blow, and suddenly found himself out of his saddle. He went tumbling over the hindquarters of his horse before he knew what happened. He hit the ground hard enough to rattle his teeth, and the helmet rang about his ears like a gong.
Dazed and furious at his apparent defeat, Dain struggled up and pulled off his helmet. His ears were still ringing, and it took him a moment to focus his eyes. When he did, he saw Sir Damiend and the heralds gathered around Gavril, who was lying flat on his back with his arms outstretched.
The crowd watched in absolute silence. Amazed to find it a draw instead of a defeat, Dain grinned to himself. He saw the king leaning forward, one white-knuckled hand gripping the front edge of the box. As he dragged in a shaky breath—finding it hurt his ribs to do so—Dain glanced back at Gavril, who had not yet moved. If he’d killed the Prince of the Realm, Dain knew, his life would be worth less than the dung his horse was currently depositing.
He felt an overwhelming desire to run for the gates, then scorned his cowardice and stood his ground.
At that moment, Gavril sat up, with Sir Damiend’s assistance. He staggered to his feet, holding his helmet in his hands. Applause broke out, increasing as the crowd realized he was shaken but unharmed. Glaring over at Dain, he mouthed an insult that Dain chose to ignore.
The herald climbed back on his horse. “Lances are declared a draw,” he announced, “with both contestants unhorsed in the second round. Swords are next.”
There was more cheering from the crowd.
“Contestants will engage!” announced the herald. “Swords only. No shields.” Dain put his helmet back on and gave his borrowed horse a pat before striding forth to meet Gavril.
“Over here, sir knight,” said the herald, gesturing to an area of freshly raked sand well away from the lists and its mud hole. Dain smiled grimly to himself and veered over to where he was told to go.
This fighting area happened to be directly in front of the king’s box. Conscious of the crowd, as well as the royal onlooker, Dain did not draw his sword as he had been taught. Instead he waited as Gavril strode up, holding a drawn Tanengard in his hands.
Dain bowed to Gavril in courtesy, and heard a murmur of approval from the courtiers. Gavril cursed him and swung the weapon without waiting for the herald’s signal.
It was poorly done of him, and the crowd booed. Dain had been hoping the prince would lose his temper. With quick feet, Dain skipped out of Gavril’s reach, evading the whistling menace of Tanengard, and swiftly drew his own weapon in a single motion that became a parry of Gavril’s next blow. The weapons clanged against each other, and the crowd cheered for more. Fast and furiously they fought, these two youths who had been enemies since their first meeting. Back and forth, parrying and attacking with too much speed and force for long endurance. Gavril moved like a cat, springy and light on his feet, but his preferred weapon was the thin-sword, a light, delicate, and deadly weapon that killed by piercing, not with its edge. He seemed ill-practiced with the broadsword he now wielded.
Dain, on the other hand, had never been allowed to hold a thin-sword. For him, there had instead been long hours of drills with the broadsword, a heavy, slower weapon. Swinging it in practice, over and over and over, had built strength in Dain’s arms and shoulders. His muscles rippled smoothly now, although he was hampered today by the ache in his ribs and the unaccustomed weight of his mail and helmet.
Roaring a muffled curse, Gavril charged him. Dain caught his blade high and held it. As the two youths strained against each other, Dain heard the war-song of Tanengard humming louder and louder. He looked through his visor into Gavril’s eyes and saw nothing in them but fury and the lust to kill. For a moment, Dain felt his courage quail before such opposition, but as he kept his weapon locked and straining against Gavril’s, he felt Tanengard’s strength flow into him as well.
It was as though, as a hound seeks its master, the sword’s power had sought him. It began to hum more loudly than ever, resonating inside Dain with such intensity he grunted and pushed Gavril back.
Disengaging his weapon, he retreated several paces and drew in several deep breaths to clear his mind.
Misunderstanding his retreat, Gavril laughed and came at him again. Dain pivoted on his back foot, turning to place himself well within Gavril’s reach. Ignoring the swing of Tanengard with such recklessness that the crowd gasped, Dain felt the blade whistle past him. It should have cleaved him in twain. But he forced himself to sing in his mind, a clear song of battle and strength, forced himself to match his song to Tanengard’s, and the blade did not strike him. It twisted in Gavril’s hand to miss Dain, as he had known it would. Disbelief flashed in Gavril’s eyes, but he had no more time to react. Dain swung his weapon, lifting it high. He could have taken Gavril’s head off at the neck with that blow, but at the last moment he tilted his blade and let the flat of it strike the prince’s helmet.
It hit with a mighty gong, and the prince went staggering back three steps before his knees buckled and he fell. Tanengard landed in the sand and lay there, glittering brightly.
The crowd jumped to its feet, yelling so loudly Dain’s own head buzzed with the noise. Dazed, he stood heaving for air. Under his armor, sweat poured off him in rivers. The helmet was suffocating him. After a moment, he regained his wits enough to pull it off.
Cool air hit his face and revived him enough to step out of the way as people rushed to Gavril’s side. The prince lay where he’d fallen, unmoving. The king, looking concerned, leaned over the edge of his box.
Sir Damiend pulled Gavril’s dented helmet off and cast it aside. By then, a man in physician’s robes was kneeling beside the prince. Gavril’s eyes opened, blinking slowly. He did not look as though he had his wits. Dain took another step back. Still panting for air, his arms trembling with exhaustion now that the fight was over, Dain felt a surge of jubilation. He had beaten Gavril, and this moment was sweet.
“Dain!” shouted a voice he knew well.
He spun around with a big grin and waved to Thum, who was pushing his way through the crowd now spilling into the enclosure. Sir Terent and Sir Polquin were with him, but it was Sir Terent who reached Dain first. Red-faced and round-eyed, the knight planted himself in front of Dain. “Well!” he said, as though he could find no other words. “Well!” Sir Polquin came limping up and clapped Dain on the shoulder. “That was the best-delivered blow of mercy I have ever seen. A reckless attack there at the last. You took far too big a chance, but beautifully ended.” “Lord Odfrey would have been proud of you,” Thum said. The unexpected praise made Dain glow with pride. He grinned at them, still too breathless to speak.
Over on the ground, Gavril slowly sat up. The court physician rose to his feet and smiled at the king. “All is well, your majesty. He is unharmed.” Relief flashed across the king’s face. “Help him to his feet.” When the guards tried to obey, Gavril shook them off. Glowering in ill temper, he kicked the squire who tried to pick up his sword. “Leave that!” he snarled. The boy retreated hastily, and Gavril picked up Tanengard himself, wiping the blade with care before he sheathed it. As he looked up, his dark blue eyes met Dain’s, and his scowl deepened.
Dain met his murderous look impassively, taking care not to smile or gloat. The people surrounding them buzzed with excitement, gesturing widely as they recounted the contest to each other.
The king called to Gavril, and he swung away without a word to Dain. Instead, Sir Damiend, looking dangerous, stepped up to him. His green eyes were stony. “So,” he said in a quiet voice of menace. “You chose to defy me. You are an impudent pagan and in need of the lesson I promised you.” Dain, unsure if Sir Damiend meant to draw on him then and there, gulped but held his ground.
Sir Terent stepped between Dain and Sir Damiend. “What’s this about?” he asked sharply, glaring at Sir Damiend. “By what right do you insult Lord Dain?” Sir Damiend frowned and shifted his attention reluctantly to the burly knight.
“Lord Dain, is it?” he said with contempt.
“Aye, ‘tis,” Sir Terent said gruffly.
The church knight’s gaze took in Sir Terent’s size and steely determination. Sir Terent was no knight of the court, but instead a rough fighting man, as tough as they came, and utterly fearless. “You’re one of the Thirst men,” Sir Damiend said.
“I am. As you should remember, commander. I’m one of the ‘expendable’ men you watched fight your foe while you held back.”
A flush spread across Sir Damiend’s cheeks. Before he could answer the king’s voice rang out:
“There’ll be no challenges between protectors. Desist, both of you. The contests are over.”
Sir Damiend bowed and backed away a few steps, but not without a parting glare at both Dain and Sir Terent.
Sir Terent sniffed in contempt. “Damned puppy.”
The crowd suddenly parted to make way for the king, who came now into the enclosure and walked up to Dain. The hot sunlight shone on his gold collar and sparked fire inside its enormous rubies.
“Well fought, young Dain of Thirst,” he said, and held out his hand in friendship.
People gasped. Dain, nearly overwhelmed by the tremendous honor shown to him, extended his hand. It was grasped firmly and released. King Verence smiled at him through his neatly trimmed beard. His green and blue eyes twinkled in good humor. “I can’t say I cheered for you, but I like a good contest that’s well-matched.” He turned his head and beamed at his sulky son. “The next time you two joust, I daresay Gavril will be hot for revenge. That will liven up the game, eh?”
Dain stared at him in wonder, hardly able to believe the king was chatting to him in such a friendly way. And what did he mean by saying there’d be another joust? Was he implying that he would approve Lord Odfrey’s petition of adoption? Dain’s heart began to thump.
“Mind, however,” the king continued, “that you do not infect his highness with your reckless ways. You are bold on the field, young Dain—a bit too bold. These older knights will soon take that out of you, eh, Lord Roberd?” The champion, attired now in a doublet of black silk and a fine chain of gold, looked like a simple country baron of wealthy means, except for the scars on his knuckles and a hawkishness about his dark eyes. He bowed to the king and shot Dain a glance of keen appraisal. “Promising,” he murmured. To Dain, that was the highest praise of all. Among the onlookers, Sir Polquin beamed as though bursting to tell one and all that he’d been the one who trained Dain in arms.
Laughing, the king patted Dain on the shoulder and moved on. His guards, protector, and entourage followed him. The courtiers, especially the ladies, stole quick looks at Dain as they passed by. Embarrassed by all the attention, Dain was relieved when the royal party began to wend its way across the enclosure.
“Well,” Sir Terent said, heaving a huge sigh. “You’ve won the king’s favor today, m’lord. But you’re a demon and a scamp, stealing my armor this way. Victory or not, I’ll see you scrubbing the rust off my mail tonight.” Dain’s grin vanished. He looked at his protector and saw that Sir Terent meant what he said. “Aye,” Dain said in a chastened voice. “I meant no harm in borrowing—” “Hah! Is that what you call it?” Reaching over, Sir Terent pulled off Dain’s steel cap and the mail coif beneath it, without bothering to unlace the gorget. It raked Dain’s face as it was pulled off. “The king may be charmed by your rascally ways, but you look to me like a lad in serious need of chores.” He swung away from Dain and whistled to his horse, which came trotting across the field with its reins dangling. Thum caught the animal and held it by its bridle while Sir Terent put the cap and coif atop the saddle and held them in place by crossing the stirrups over them.
“You took a good hit from that lance,” Sir Polquin said to Dain. His gruff voice was softer than usual, and his gaze held concern. “Any hurts?” Dain wondered where Sulein had gone to, and shook his head. Sir Polquin stuck his finger in the new dent made in the side of the breastplate. “And this?” he asked. “Ought to be a wondrous bruise underneath.” When Sir Terent reached for the buckles that fastened the breastplate, Dain had a vision of them shucking him out of the mail there in the enclosure in front of everyone.
“Don’t fuss,” he said sharply, evading Sir Terent’s reach. “It’s nothing.” Sir Terent gripped him. “Stand still,” he commanded, and took off the two halves of the breastplate.
Being rid of its weight gave Dain immediate relief. The mail alone was heavy enough.
“I’m surprised you didn’t wear my surcoat as well, while you were stealing gear and horseflesh,” Sir Terent grumbled.
Dain’s face flamed red. He glanced at Thum, who shrugged and looked away. “Cease plaguing him,” Sir Polquin said unexpectedly. “It’s in your armor that he defeated the prince. Take pride in that and stop scolding like a fishwife. We might almost think you jealous of his victory today.”
Sir Terent’s jaw bulged and he turned on the master of arms with a glare. “Jealous, am I? You must be afflicted with heatstroke. I had his promise that he’d come straight here and stay out of mischief. How can I protect him when he—” “But you did protect me,” Dain broke in quickly. “You stood against Sir Damiend exactly when I needed you.”
Sir Terent grunted, looking unappeased. “That white-livered church knight with his holy airs. I’d like to run my sword up his pious—” “Your pardon, sirs,” interrupted a young page. Dressed in the king’s livery, his long brown curls reaching to his shoulders, the page bowed to Dain. “If it pleases you, my lord, the king requests your presence at the sword contest.” Dain blinked, thrilled anew by the honor extended to him.