Sir Rowan and the Camerian Conquest (3 page)

Aldwyn tilted his head at the strange response.

“What is it, boy?” he asked.

Rowan glanced at the splendid sword that hung from Sir Aldwyn’s belt, then looked up at the knight.

“I’d … like to buy something from you, sir.” Rowan’s gaze went back to the sword that sparkled in the morning sun, its pommel brilliantly flashing a unique mark he had seen once before.

Sir Aldwyn’s hand fell on the golden hilt of the sword as he followed Rowan’s gaze. He placed a gentle hand on the lad’s shoulder. “I’m afraid a sword such as this costs far more than you have.”

Rowan looked up, his face flushed. “I … I know, for this
is
all I have. I don’t want to buy it, sir.” He swallowed hard, hesitating even to ask such a daring question of a knight. “May I buy a chance to hold it for just a moment?”

Sir Aldwyn stared hard at Rowan, stunned at the request. Rowan ducked his head and lowered his gaze. He slowly tucked the coin into a pocket and began to turn away. But the beautiful sound of steel sliding on steel touched his ears as Sir Aldwyn slowly removed his sword from the scabbard.

Rowan lifted his head, turned about, and watched with widened eyes as the slender silver blade made its final exit from its home. Sir Aldwyn held the sword across both hands, palms open, and offered it to Rowan. Rowan looked up with absolute hope in his eyes and caught the subtle nod of the knight.

His hands quivered as he reached out and touched first the perfect steel of the blade and then the intricate yet sturdy hilt that bore the load of such a gallant weapon. Slowly his right hand encircled the grip, and he lifted the weapon.

The sword felt good—no, it felt great—in his hands, almost as if he’d been reunited with a lost brother. It was weighty, but not as heavy as he’d expected. He held it before himself, wanting to take position and execute a cut. He glanced up at Sir Aldwyn. The knight nodded and stepped back. Rowan assumed a perfect middle-guard stance, then attacked an invisible enemy with a high to low diagonal cut followed by a horizontal cut and a quick thrust.

He held his final position, and chills flowed from the sword through his arms and up and down his entire body. He closed his eyes, trying to memorize the feel of the weapon in his hands. He relaxed, stood straight, and handed back the sword hilt first, the blade supported by his left hand, just as he’d seen the tournament chancellor do many times.

Sir Aldwyn took the sword and held it just a moment longer as Rowan soaked it up with his gaze, then placed it back in the scabbard. Rowan retrieved the coin from his pocket and held it out to Sir Aldwyn. The knight reached for it but instead closed Rowan’s fingers around the coin.

“You have good form for such a young lad,” Aldwyn said with a gaze that seemed to penetrate into Rowan’s heart. “Come to the haven of the Prince, and I shall teach you.”

He picked up Algonquin’s reins, wheeled the horse around, and mounted. Rowan stood motionless, staring after him until he disappeared around the corner. Then he sprang to life and sprinted back into the stable to gather his meager belongings.

That was the day that changed Rowan’s life forever. Sir Aldwyn mentored Rowan for the next four years, teaching him the ways of the Prince, the Code, and the sword. Rowan thrived under the training—fully embracing the truth of the Prince and the Code, at least at first.
Truth be told, his interest in Sir Aldwyn’s stories eventually waned, but he reveled in the swordsmanship. With proper food and exercise, his body grew into that which it was intended to be—a powerfully muscled physique. His strength was beyond that of normal men, even at the youthful age of seventeen, and he soon mastered and exceeded all that Sir Aldwyn taught him about the sword.

On the day of Rowan’s commissioning, Sir Aldwyn presented him with a magnificent sword of the Prince and invited him to ride by his side on a mission for the Prince. But though Rowan was grateful for Sir Aldwyn’s kindness, the ventures of ordinary knights held no interest for him. He was determined to fight in the tournaments, to be one of the famous knights that stood before ten thousand cheering spectators.

At age eighteen, and against Sir Aldwyn’s counsel, Rowan entered his first tournament and lost in the initial round. He had allowed the spectacle of the event to distract and hinder him. Afterward, the taunts and jeers of the small crowd so humiliated him that he wondered why he had even tried. As he walked through the arena gate, his embarrassment slowly transformed to determination. He glanced back into the arena as the next combatants entered under the cheers of many, and he vowed never to lose another fight—no matter the cost.

From that day forward, Rowan threw himself into training with single-minded determination. He pushed his body and his mind, drilling long hours each day, sparring with any partner he could find. After six months of intense work, Rowan registered for a small tournament in Sanisco, a city not far from Laos.

When the flag of commencement dropped, Rowan became so focused and determined that the sound of the crowd melted to silence and the stadium faded from sight. All he saw or heard was the knight before him and the sword the man held. An intensity akin to fury filled his veins, and after just a few strokes the duel was over. When he released the battle to victory, the sights and sounds of the arena flooded in upon him like the rushing waves of the sea. It was a glorious feeling, and Rowan reveled in it.

By day’s end, Rowan was the champion of the Sanisco tournament.
He received the gold medallion amidst the cheers of hundreds of spectators, and a new tournament hero was born. As Rowan stood on the platform, satisfaction settled deep in his soul, and yet he hungered for more.

More crowds. More cheering. More glory and gold.

That day was the making—and the eventual unmaking—of the mighty Sir Rowan.

BREAD AND TOURNAMENTS

Steely blue eyes glared from behind ringlets of sweat-soaked sandy hair. Rowan gripped his sword tightly as the fight paused just long enough for the two combatants to reset their positions and their minds. The riotous roar of the crowd, previously lost in the rush of battle, engulfed them once more in endless concussions of cheers and chants. The two men stepped slowly in a clockwise motion, anticipating their next engagement.

This fight this day was everything for Rowan. After eighteen months of tournament victories, he had finally been allowed to compete at the grand Laos tournament. Sir Tarrington was the undisputed champion of Laos, the third largest city in Cameria. If by some miracle Rowan could defeat him, his ranking among tournament fighters would escalate. This would mean regional recognition by the Camerian Tournament Council.

Cameria had elevated the tournament events to a kingdomwide competition that transcended the games of Thecia and rivaled the bloody events of the old days. After the five major cities of Cameria united and battled to bring an end to Sir Adophal’s reign of terror in the southern kingdom, an era of prosperity, power, and peace had dawned, and the people needed something new for which to cheer.

They were cheering now, riotously, and the roar gave Rowan a surge of energy. He looked into Sir Tarrington’s eyes and saw surprise in them—the champion had not expected this level of competition from such a young man. Three judges watched just out of sword’s reach. Five nonfatal hits would end the fight, but so would one fatal hit. The tally was four to three in Tarrington’s favor.

Rowan prepared as Tarrington exploded a powerful advance. Rowan held his ground, but not without apprehension. He knew he was stronger than Tarrington, but there was always the element of experience to contend with. This often was the reason for the defeat of a rising competitor. Rowan had nearly fallen to Sir Yalteran in the previous duel because of it. He was determined to overcome that disadvantage now.

Tarrington’s sword flew faster than ever before, but Rowan caught every thrust and refused to give ground. Their dancing swords arced, cut, and sliced in an endless volley of mastery. Rowan slowly turned the advance of Tarrington into retreat as he gained control of the flow of the fight and increased its tempo. His sword flew with the fury of a vengeful adversary to find its mark. The frenzied crowd roared, sensing that Sir Tarrington’s near-decade reign as the champion of Laos was in jeopardy.

Then Rowan saw his first real opportunity. A cut from the left had put Tarrington’s sword too far outside his torso and left him unbalanced. Rowan took advantage of the opening. He countered with a diagonal cut, then began a quick thrust that would be nearly impossible for Tarrington to parry. Midway through the thrust, however, he realized Tarrington’s left foot had shifted slightly back, a sign that the champion’s “mistake” had really been a ploy. Rowan pulled short on his thrust and recovered just in time to block Tarrington’s intended victory cut. This time Tarrington truly was out of position, for he had gambled that Rowan would fall for his trick.

With one quick, powerful cut to Tarrington’s head, the fight was over. Tarrington fell to the ground. Rowan covered him and nearly followed with another cut, but all three judges held up their red flags, indicating the end of the fight. Tarrington’s helmet was dented, and he was dazed but uninjured.

The arena exploded with cheers and applause—there was a new champion in Laos. It took Rowan a moment to fully comprehend what had just happened. He had defeated the legendary Sir Tarrington in the Laos arena. He had risen from city street urchin to tournament champion, and the people loved it!

He reached down and offered Tarrington a hand up, and the veteran knight accepted. When he gained his feet, both men removed their helmets.

Tarrington looked deep into Rowan’s eyes, almost with a look of relief.

“This is yours now. Defend it well.” Tarrington grabbed Rowan’s arm and raised it into the air. The crowd doubled its cheering. Rowan looked to the seat where he had arranged for Sir Aldwyn to sit. His mentor was clapping too, but there was no smile on his lips.

Rowan’s spirits sank, but only for an instant. He looked at the cheering crowd, and their roar of approval carried him on a buoyant wave of exhilaration. Surely this was what he was meant to do.

It seemed as if he was born for it.

On the ceremony stand, Lord Gavaah himself presented the tournament sword, medal, money, and the coveted victory cloak to Rowan. The man’s very presence was an honor, for Lord Gavaah was the impetus behind the Camerian Tournament Council. It was he who provided the wealth and the savvy to organize the tournaments at Elttaes, Amion, Laos, and Berwick into the first regional league of structured tournaments. Lord Gavaah’s brilliant Bread and Tournaments strategy—offering free bread to anyone who attended the games—had brought nearly instant fame and success to what had been a loosely structured and unprofitable activity.

Within two years, the council had taken tournament attendance to a near frenzied level of participation. Lord Gavaah’s return on his initial investment of fifty thousand loaves of bread and four opulent stadiums had made him wealthy beyond measure, and his influence in Cameria was widespread.

Rowan didn’t really care who or how or why the tournaments had gained such popularity. He just loved them … every part of them. At first he had convinced himself that participating would be an effective way to proclaim the Prince, but somewhere along the way his call to be a Knight of the Prince had faded into the background and the tournaments themselves had become his priority. Now he basked in the glory that came with being a champion.