Sir Rowan and the Camerian Conquest (4 page)

As the opulent victory cloak fell upon his shoulders, cheers erupted from twenty thousand spectators, and Rowan felt like a king. The cloak was a symbol of a true champion, for only those knights who had prevailed in one of the five major city tournaments received one.

Rowan hefted the beautiful sword with the Camerian Tournament Council emblem engraved in the pommel. It felt even better than the Knights of the Prince sword he had used to rise this far. The balance was perfect. This would be his new tournament sword … a sword to be envied by all.

It was still early in the tournament season, and Rowan would have to defend his new title a dozen times, but his future looked bright. He would represent the great city of Laos at the Camerian Games in Kroywen in six months’ time, an honor only a few had ever won. Rowan had every intention of becoming champion of all Cameria.

When the accolades faded, Lord Gavaah put an arm around Rowan’s shoulder and walked with him toward the edge of the platform. He was a handsome man whose shrewd eyes were softened by a hearty demeanor and a ready smile. He was known for his voice, a smooth baritone that could ring throughout a stadium or purr through a contract negotiation.

“You have the makings of a great Camerian champion, son.” Lord Gavaah grinned broadly. His black mustache and beard glistened in the afternoon sun.

“Thank you, Lord Gavaah. It was an honor to fight Sir Tarrington.”

Gavaah clapped him on the back. “You did more than fight him, Sir Rowan. You beat him. And now you are in a position to become one of the greatest swordsmen in all of Arrethtrae.”

Rowan beamed at the sound of that.

“You and the CTC have much to gain if we are smart about how we proceed,” Lord Gavaah added. “That’s why I’d like to help you.”

He gestured to a man just a few paces away. The man stepped forward and bowed. “Mr. Balenteen at your service.”

“Mr. Balenteen is a CTC agent,” Gavaah said. “He will help you manage your affairs.”

“Ah … what affairs?” Rowan asked as he looked at Lord Gavaah.

Gavaah smiled. “Well, there’s your money, your time, and”—Gavaah raised a hand to gesture toward the edge of the platform—“your followers.”

Rowan’s eyes opened wide as hundreds of people began to shout excitedly.

“I’ve also arranged for a trainer to help keep you in shape for the next round of tournaments. Mr. Balenteen will arrange a meeting with Sir Hatfield tomorrow.”

Lord Gavaah slapped Rowan on the back again. “Get ready to make your dreams come true, young knight.” He turned about, his purple cloak swirling in the wake behind him.

THE VICTORY CLOAK

Mr. Balenteen was an irritating little man with a balding head and a short black mustache, but Rowan quickly saw the genius in his methods and came to rely heavily upon him over the next few months. The victory over Sir Tarrington had catapulted Rowan from a no-name tournament knight to a Camerian hero. His new status brought not only a whole new level of wealth and popularity but a dizzying schedule of appearances and high-level meetings.

Mr. Balenteen managed all of that, making sure that Rowan appeared where and when he was expected. He managed Rowan’s finances, helping him negotiate the complications of sudden fame, even making arrangements for Rowan to purchase and furnish a large estate on the east side of the city. He also kept his eye out for any chance to promote Rowan’s reputation—which is why Rowan now stood facing a long line of young men brandishing swords and shields.

As he had occasionally done before, Mr. Balenteen was offering money to squires to skirmish against Rowan for training purposes. It was great publicity for Rowan, since many relished the opportunity to fight against someone so famous, even if their chances of winning were nil. Additionally, the sum that Mr. Balenteen offered was enough to entice
some of the better fighters into the arena with Rowan, giving him at least a small challenge from time to time. Rowan’s trainer, Sir Hatfield, had never been fond of the idea and closely supervised each event.

The sky was blue and the sun hot. After a dozen duels and a dozen victories, Rowan took off his helmet and wiped the sweat from his brow.

Sir Hatfield raised his hand. “That’s enough for today.” He walked toward Rowan. The trainer was a bulky red-headed fellow who knew the sword well and had studied all of the great fighters, both past and present. He also had the tournament experience that Rowan lacked.

Groans of disappointment rose up from the fifteen men still waiting for their chance at the money and the fight.

“Come back tomorrow, and we’ll give you another chance,” Balenteen said with a smile as he shooed the men toward the arena exit.

Hatfield shot Balenteen a look of disgust, then motioned him over. “What are you doing, Balenteen?” Hatfield put his hands on his hips but continued before the smooth-talking agent could answer. “I’ve got some serious training yet to do with Rowan, and these little publicity antics of yours are getting in the way!”

“It’s Rowan’s fame that pays our wages,” Balenteen shot back. “We
both
have jobs to do—”

Rowan shook his head and turned away so his amusement wouldn’t show. Balenteen and Hatfield were each the best at their jobs, which is why they were always getting on each other’s nerves. At first Rowan had tried to smooth out their relationship, but eventually he had realized the futility of it. Now he just laughed and walked away. Besides, he was eager to clean up and relax after his long day at the arena.

Rowan sheathed his sword and walked over to his knapsack, glancing once more toward Balenteen and Hatfield, who were deep in a heated discussion as they walked out through the arena gate. The tired knight flung his victory cloak about his shoulders and fastened the tie across his chest. Then he picked up his knapsack and turned to leave, but one of the training squires was facing him with helmet and visor in place and sword drawn.

“We’re done today, bloke.” Rowan tried to walk past the squire, but
the man sidestepped to cut him off. “Come back tomorrow,” Rowan said, perturbed by the man’s rude refusal.

“I will fight you.” The squire swung his sword before him.

Rowan could tell by the stance and inexperienced grip that the squire was only just beginning his training as a knight. This was one of those impertinent, ill-trained glory seekers Rowan hated to encounter.

“Look, chap, my agent is gone and so is the money.” Rowan tried to step around the squire once more, but the sword did not drop, and he was intercepted again.

Rowan clenched his jaw and tried to keep his anger from getting the best of him, but the long day had worn his patience thin. He dropped his knapsack, threw back one side of the cloak over his left shoulder, and drew his sword, intending to disarm the insolent fool quickly so he could be on his way. He glared at the squire as he swung his sword in a flourish across the space between them. The squire shuffled nervously as he seemed to understand the foolishness of his actions.

“Do you really want to do this?” Rowan’s voice conveyed his indignation.

The squire hesitated, looking as if he might turn and run, but then he attacked with a volley of poorly executed cuts and slices. Rowan resisted the temptation to laugh as he easily thwarted each cut, playing with his opponent as a cat would a captured mouse.

When the man’s initial attack ceased, Rowan planned to execute a cut-thrust-bind maneuver to disarm the inexperienced squire and quickly end the fight. The cut nearly blasted the sword from the squire’s hand, but somehow he held on to it. Then the thrust nearly found its mark in the man’s chest, and Rowan had to pull up short to keep from impaling the imbecile. But at the last moment, the squire was able to deflect Rowan’s sword to the right.

Now Rowan was in the perfect position to end the fight. He executed a disarming bind, but the squire’s sword held, and in that small subtle moment of time Rowan felt something strange through the blade of his sword. He felt strength from the squire that had not been apparent earlier. Their blades locked motionlessly as Rowan peered into the darkened slit of the squire’s helmet.

Rowan left the bind and reengaged. This time, the man’s sword seemed to fly faster and stronger than before. Rowan’s anger surged as he realized the man had played him. He increased the intensity of the duel, bringing powerful cuts and slices to the fight. Remarkably, the squire kept pace. He retreated some at first, but within just a few moments, he had adjusted and was matching Rowan’s advance with a powerful defense.

Rowan’s anger soon turned to shock, for he was now holding nothing back. The empty arena clanged with the ferocious volley of a full tournament duel. When Rowan’s advance had expired and the squire was still standing solidly before him, he hesitated and lowered his sword.

“Who are you?” Rowan asked, winded by his attack.

The man whipped his sword in a circular motion and assumed a powerful swordsman’s stance. He paused for just a moment, giving Rowan only enough time to recover from his stupor, then attacked.

For the first time in many months, Rowan found himself retreating without a counterattack plan. The sword of this man flew faster and stronger than that of any tournament knight he had ever faced. Rowan’s fear rose as he slowly realized his life was in jeopardy. He focused completely on simply keeping the man’s blade from penetrating his defense.

Then it happened. Cut, slice, thrust, deflect—one fraction of a moment too slow, and Rowan could not recover. The man’s sword arced upward across Rowan’s chest, tearing into his victory cloak and severing the tie that held it about his shoulders. The blade continued upward. Rowan winced and turned, just missing the cutting tip of the man’s blade. The move put him off balance, and he knew it was over. There was nothing he could do to stop the final cut of this master’s blade.

Rowan stumbled backward as his cloak fell to the ground where he had stood. The moment came and went, but Rowan did not die. He recovered to see that the man had ended his attack. Rowan’s victory cloak lay on the ground between them, revealing a long gash across the royal cloth where the medals were pinned.

Rowan was too stunned to speak. What had just happened?

The man lifted his gaze from the cloak to Rowan, and Rowan felt the chill of fear race up and down his spine. No one had ever beaten him so soundly. Was this the next tournament champion of Cameria?

“Who are you?” Rowan asked again.

The man stared back in silence, then turned and walked toward another gate that led out of the arena. Rowan knelt down to his victory cloak and lifted it from the dirt and straw field of the arena. Slowly the shock and humiliation of the fight washed away, and a tide of anger began to burn. The Camerian Tournament Council did not give a second victory cloak to any fighter, not even the grand champion. Rowan ran his finger across the jagged cut in the fine cloth and let the anger settle deep into his bosom.

“Whoever you are,” he said quietly, “I will face you again one day when I am prepared. You will pay.” Rowan tightly clenched the cloak, making a fist. “I swear it!”