Knight Fall (The Champion Chronicles Book 1) (21 page)

Brace burned deeply with anger.  He looked around, searching for anything that could be used for a weapon.  But there was nothing to be found, other than a few blades of grass.  The soldiers were young and fit, imposing figures.  One on one, he would easily kill them.  Even two on one he would have a good chance.  But five on one, he would be cut down before the first parry.  “Your army is no match for the might of the Knights of Karmon!” Brace shouted in defiance.

“You are right, I am afraid.  And that is why you have survived as long as you have.  My father soils his robes when he thinks about your fabled knights.  But there are other ways to fight a war.”  He mounted his horse and grabbed the reigns.  “Your king and my father have been conspiring for some time.  But I dare say they have not been conspiring as long as I have.”  He turned to one of his men.  “Palin, Gar, you both will stay with the spy and escort him to tonight’s camp.  Be sure that you bind his arms tightly.”

“What about them?” the soldier named Palin asked.  He nodded at Mirfar and Bellock.

Prince Toknon looked down at the old man from atop his horse and declared, “There is only one way to deal with a traitor of the realm.”  He spurred his horse forward and in one motion unsheathed his sword and swung it down upon Mirfar’s head.  The old man, too surprised to react did not move as the sword cleaved his head from his body.

Brace jumped after the Prince, letting a scream of rage escape his lips.  But before he could take two steps he was felled by a sharp blow to the back of his head.

Chapter Sixteen

Lord Neffenmark and his escort plowed through the city, heading straight for the castle gates.  The four riders, his four best swordsman, formed a wedge ahead of the horse-drawn carriage that pulled the lord.  Already hot and tired from the long ride, his irritation grew with each passing moment.  What should have been a quick trip straight through the center of the city up to the castle was a slow crawl through peasant infested streets.

He poked his head out through the curtains and shouted at his nearest escort.  “Move these people out of the way!”

The man turned to Lord Neffenmark and shook his head ever so slightly.  “There are so many.  They fill the streets and they are heading away from the castle while we are trying to go there.”

“Run them over if they are in your way!” Neffenmark shouted before shutting the curtain in anger. He let his enormous girth fall back onto the pillows, rocking the carriage back and forth for several moments.

It was not too much longer before the sounds of the crowds dissipated and the speed of the clop of the horse’s hooves increased.  The lord eased the curtain open slightly and peered ahead, seeing the castle gates only a couple of blocks away.  He closed his eyes and let his anger subside.  He needed to be angry when confronting the king, but not a real anger.  It needed to be the false anger that he so easily displayed and allowed him to think clearly and rationally.  If he let his real anger show, he knew that his mouth would get him in trouble, as it had many times before.  If he were to follow through with the lie, then he needed to be in complete control.  The last thing that he needed was to let slip any detail or deviate in any way from his well-conceived deception.

The carriage stopped and he could hear his men dismounting from their horses.  His curtain was pulled back and he found himself facing a closed portcullis, blocking their entrance to the castle.  A young boy was standing behind it.  He was dressed in a simple red tunic and white hose.  His hands were at his side and he stood stiffly, staring back at them.

“I am to see the king,” Neffenmark announced form his carriage.

“Um,” the boy muttered.  “He is not here.”

Lord Neffenmark waited for further explanation, but the boy just stood, staring back at him.  As one second became ten, and the silence still hanging over them, Lord Neffenmark was surprisingly not angered.  He was just simply surprised.

“Well?” Neffenmark asked.

The boy shrugged his shoulders.  “Sire?” the boy asked.

“Where is the king?”  Lord Neffenmark’s words exploded from his mouth, spittle flying out of the carriage and all the way to the portcullis.  His face went instantly red and his heart started beating strong and hard.  If he had the ability to get up, he would have done so and charged the thick metal gate, grabbing it and shaking it until it fell down.  But his enormous size kept him planted firmly on his pillows.

The boy, took a step back, his calmness washed away.  His face was ashen, his eyes wide with fear.  “He is at the fields, sire,” the boy said softly.  “It is the time of the great Summer Festival.  Today is the squire tournament.” 

Neffenmark’s anger subsided enough to allow him to smile at the boy.  “Thank you, my young boy.  And…” the lord was about to chastise the boy, but before Neffenmark could say another word, the boy turned and ran out of sight.  Lord Neffenmark spat on the ground, cursing the king, his castle, and this retched city.

“Karl,” Neffenmark shouted.  “To this festival of theirs.  And quickly!”

***

Melanie took her seat next to Princess Elissa.  Their tent was atop the hill that overlooked the training grounds just outside of the city walls.  In times of war, the training ground was used to teach swordsmanship and pike handling to the peasants called to battle.  In times of peace, it was used by the knights in their horsemanship drills, and just as the first warm days of summer arrived, for the Summer Festival.

“A fine day,” Melanie said.  A smile was plastered on her face and she was doing all that she could to cheer up her friend.  At first the princess was not going to attend, but her father had insisted.   And when she still refused, he demanded.  Although the princess was attending, she was not liking it and she was doing everything that she could to not enjoy it.

“It’s too hot,” Princess Elissa replied.  With no wind to cool them off, it was hot even in the shade of their tent.  Her tone was harsh.  More so than she expected, or wanted, but she was in too much of a mood to apologize to her good friend.  She stayed in her own world, her eyes watching the knights help set up the arena for the squires, but her mind wandered.  She tried not to think about Conner, but she couldn’t really help it.  It was really the only reason that she was here, to watch her champion humiliate himself.  And the more she thought about it, the angrier she was.  Not so much at Conner, but at herself.  He was a handsome boy with a pleasant personality.  They seemed very much alike in many ways, even though she was a princess and he was…not.  When they were still friends, they had spent many hours just talking.  Sometimes serious, sometimes not.  But mostly she just enjoyed being with him.  He had saved her life in the woods, but that was all he ever really did.  She could see that he would never be more than the hunter that he was.  He could never be a knight and to think about him actually donning plate armor and really being her champion made her laugh out loud.

But then she caught herself.  Her eyes found him, standing with the other squires, far in the distance.  He wasn’t like the rest.  He was a little taller and ganglier.  He would never be the thick muscular knight.  He would just be a skinny peasant boy.  But she caught herself not breathing when she saw him.  A flutter went through her stomach and a tear touched the corner of her eye.  He stood there, out of place.  Wide-eyed like a lost rabbit among a pack of wolves.  The anger faded and in its place came pity.  He did try.  He tried to be her champion, but it was just not to be.

She had seen many of these tournaments before and even though they were supposed to be friendly matches, they were usually anything but.  Every couple of years, a squire would take a wooden sword the wrong way and would not make it out of the tournament alive.  Many squires came out with broken bones.  Hardly any were left unbruised or unbloodied.  It was the nature of the contest which Princess Elissa really didn’t care for.  She knew it would be a while before Conner would enter the contest.  He was probably the worst of the bunch, and would be chosen as a fighting partner last.  The squires with the first choice were the ones ready to take the next step into knighthood and they would chose the strongest opponent, and not the weakest.  In the end, it was all about honor.  There was no honor in defeating the weak.

She settled back into her cushioned seat, wishing she were anywhere else.

***

Conner looked around, eyes wide in awe at the site of the festival.  Most of the city gathered outside of the walls to watch the various events of skill that the knights and squires put on.  The training area was in a deep, natural bowl.  This allowed the crowd to sit as if they were in one of the fabled Taran arenas.  But instead of sitting on hard stone, they sat on soft grass.  The tents of the important nobles, including the king and the princess, were stacked on one end of the arena.  As the sun began to rise above the horizon, the first of the day’s crowd appeared.  By the time the sun was high in the sky, and the festivities were about to begin, the arena was lined with thousands of cheering spectators.

The squires were the first event of the day.  While the lords and nobles fed upon their lunch, the knights-to-be showed off their skills with the sword.  To the oldest, it was the first step in their rite of knighthood.  The best of the best would fight, with the winners getting a leg up on being chosen for knighthood.  For the rest, it was a time to make a name for themselves.  The winners would be remembered for the valiant skill, while the losers would simply be forgotten, hoping to make a better show at the next festival.

But they were simply the warm-up to the main show.  The crowd was really waiting for the knights to make their appearance in their finely polished plate armor to show off their skill with lance, sword, and bow.  Although they all wanted to win the competitions, it was more about showing their skill and bravery to the people of the kingdom.  The Karmon Knights were the best of the best, and the show gave the people something to remember them by.  They competed hard, but in the end, they had fun with the competitions.  They were brothers-in-arms and winning was never more important than honor.  But for the squires, knighthood could be won or lost at the day’s competition.  It was their one time, outside of battle, to show the knights who had what it took to attain knighthood.  Although honor and courage were synonymous with knighthood, if a knight couldn't fight, he was no good to the kingdom.

Conner found himself gawking at the crowd, trying to see each and every face cheering them on.  Their faces blended together, though.  It was too much.  The loudness was crushing, fraying every last nerve.  His palms sweated and his heart raced.  A push on his back sent him stumbling forward and he almost lost his balance.

Conner spun around, suddenly oblivious to all that was around him.  It was Hollin, the best of the squires.

“Move along, little boy,” Hollin said.  He stood with feet wide, hands on his hips.  He wore a leather vest over a tunic that had the arms ripped off.  His bulging biceps were exposed, and he flexed them more.  Hollin would be a knight before the end of the year.  He had it all, size, strength, stamina, intelligence, and bravery.  The problem, Conner knew, was that he was more jerk than anything else.

“Watch yourself,” Conner growled back, standing his ground.

“Stand aside and get back to the end of the line, where you belong,” Hollin said, a slight smirk spreading across his face.  The squires were to march out onto the field and be presented to the king in an order determined by their skill in training.  The best of the squires would be first, and he would be presented personally to the king, while the rest of the squires would simply be announced by name.  Then the first squire would choose his opponent, calling him out to the center of the ring where they would do battle with wooden practice swords.  The winner would then call upon another squire, who would then in turn call out his opponent.  Although a squire could call out any remaining squire, it was prescribed practice to call out an opponent who was equal or even better.  A win over a lesser opponent was not treated as well as a loss to superior opponent.  A brave knight would stand and face the greatest of opponents without fear.  By sending him to the back of the line, Hollin was putting Conner in his place.

Conner said nothing, letting Hollin and the rest of the squires pass.  He looked back at the large tent where the squires had prepared themselves.  Goshin was there, arms crossed, a blank look on his face.  In each hand he held half a broomstick, each half about three feet long.  Conner gripped the wooden broadsword strapped to his side, a weapon that he knew he would never use.  It was not his, nor would it ever be.  He let the words of Hollin just fall away.  He was a bully. Always had been, and would always be.  He was strong and courageous, but lacked something that he saw in other knights, like his new friend Marik.  He had to let the words go; he knew he could not let them bother him.  Goshin had taught him well and now it was up to him to take those lessons to practice.  He could not fight with anger, or the anger would blind him.  He needed to fight without emotion, with his eyes and hands, brain and heart.  He gave a nod to his teacher and turned back towards the other squires and followed them out onto the field.

***

King Thorndale looked down upon the festival and was saddened.  The crowd was as large and boisterous as ever.  This was a great day for the kingdom, as food and wine flowed as swiftly as the great Tyre River.  The city shut down for the day as food was prepared and everyone enjoyed a day of celebration.  He was as proud as ever to have a large group of squires competing to see who would earn the honor of knighthood.  He loved to see his regal knights in their full dress armor, surcoats draped across their shoulders, their swords hanging at their sides.  But there were two knights missing.  Brace was a good friend, and although he didn’t know Marik all that well, he trusted him.  Two of his best were gone, and he couldn’t show his fear.  Normally it was the honor of the Knight Captain to introduce the games.  It weighed heavily upon the king’s heart that his best knight was not here.  And he even might be dead.  He was anxious to hear from Marik, to hear about his good friend.  But he knew the kingdom must go on.  The festival must go on.  He could not show his fear, for the kingdom relied upon him for its strength.

He glanced to his right to see his most trusted servant, Arpwin, standing his post, ensuring that the king’s cup was filled.  Two royal guard, familiar faces, but names unknown, stood behind and on either side of the king’s plush chair.  His ears perked at a commotion, and Arpwin’s eyebrows raised.  The slight movement of his guards to grip their swords caused him to look back towards the entrance to the tent.  An enormous man filled the entire opening, his face red from exertion.

The two guards pulled their swords partially out of their sheaths, but the king lifted a hand.

Huffing and puffing, the fat lord of the north entered the king’s tent.  “Your majesty,” the man said with a feeble attempt at a deep bow.