~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The clash of armor and the grunts of both horses and men sailed through the air, accentuated by the uproar of the crowds. The two combatants squared off again and spurned their hard-breathing mounts into action. Bright coverings flew and metal glinted silver in the clear air. When the two met, the rider on the left was flung from his saddle, grunting as he impacted with his fellow's lance and the ground. Applause rang out for the larger, grander knight still seated and primping for the crowd.
Those sitting in the shaded observation stand applauded as well, although it was more polite than excited. From the moment the joust had started there had been little doubt which man would win.
"Well," one of them said with a sigh, "he's done it again." He was a tall man, in his thirty-first year of life, with a dark blonde beard and hair to match. His clothing identified him as a noble, lord of the land surrounding his manor. "You know, you could at least *pretend* to be enjoying yourself."
He spoke to a woman seated at his left shoulder. Her clothing placed the rank of nobility on her as well, and several well-worn sheets of parchment lay spread around her lap. Her face was completely covered by the one she was currently reading, shutting her out of the proceedings around her. Her voice was firm, yet humorous. "You're not enjoying yourself either, brother, and I have no intention of entertaining this brutality."
The man made a sound of disgust. "This 'brutality' of yours is a time honored tradition in this country. The people love it and it gives them a moment to relax. Lord knows they need it."
"I'm not denying that, Jonathan. I'm simply saying that you're trying to impress our guests far too hard." She gestured to the Bishop and his entourage sitting several feet away in the seat of honor.
He smiled. "I'm not the only one trying to impress someone. You'd better watch this next part, your suitor is at it again."
The victor below had turned his horse and had approached the booth. Helmet on the horn of his saddle, he bowed on his horse, making the poor creature do the same, all the while grinning cheekily at the Lady. Grimacing, she hid her face behind the papers once more. Satisfied, he replaced his helmet and went back to the joust. Apparently, Sir Orin intended to best all comers, accepting any manner of fight, desperate to make an impression. Only one more man was on the list, and once he was defeated Orin would be declared winner and awarded his prize.
Through a counterfeit nod and an even falser smile, Jonathan leaned over to his sister to whisper quietly. "*That* was a little more than obvious. You can only hold him off a little bit longer you know. His fantasy 'code of chivalry' won't keep him from demanding that you marry him for forever."
"I know that." Her voice and expression were angry, but he could hear the faint quiver of fear in her words. "The only reason he's pursuing me at all is that he knows that I am greater than he is and he's threatened by that power I have over him. If he marries me than *he* will be the powerful one. He's nothing but a controlling...*barbarian*."
"And the fact that you're the most beautiful woman in the kingdom has nothing to do with it. Of course I *am* biased being your brother and all, and don't tell Alicia I said that." He smiled at the embarrassed blush of her cheeks. The humor left him as he continued however. "You cannot keep declining suitors forever Nichole. Is marriage so bad? Alicia and I are perfectly happy, why couldn't you be as well?
"I know, Jonathan, I know." She looked into the distance, her voice turning somehow sad and hopeful at the same time. "But I can't marry Orin, or any other man. It's just not right, I know it. When I marry it will be to someone far greater than any around *here*. I know my true love is out there somewhere Jon, I can *feel* it. I know 'courtly love' is just a myth, but I *do*." She looked at her brother with glassy eyes. "Isn't that strange?"
"Well, I hope your King Arthur arrives soon, or else you're going to have to settle for a knight in shining armor. And for Heaven's sake would you put that parchment away! You're making people nervous!"
"A woman has every right to read in public."
"Now *you* know that and *I* know that but not everyone's had as liberal a father as we had. Most *men* don't even know how to read, let alone women, so you can see my concern, here. Just please, put it-"
Jonathan was interrupted by a voice, booming over the crowd, reaching even armored ears. *"Hey buckethead! You man enough ta take on a real soldier?"*
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Sir Orin Gregory grinned under his helmet. He had just broken his lance on the last man on the list amidst a shower of curses, dust, and generous applause, scoring yet another point. Refusing the squire's question of whether or not to pursue the battle, the man stormed off the field. *Probably towards the nearest tavern,* Orin thought smugly. *Just as well. I can beat any man here, on the ground or in the saddle...and they know it, too.*
As the victor, Orin could by right lay claim to the man's horse, weapons and armor, as was his right, but he refused, like he had all of his earlier winnings. He had no more need of those things, seeing as he already owned the best. The *real* prize was sitting in the stand above him, waiting to be won over. Lady Nichole could not deny him forever, and he was about to point that fact out to her rather publicly when the clamor of the audience was overridden by a growl at the far end of the field.
*"Hey buckethead! You man enough ta take on a real soldier?"*
Agitated, Orin stopped his horse in mid-canter to gaze upon the source of the noise. A *peasant* had somehow wandered onto the field and now stood challenging *him*! Orin's laugh echoed in his helmet and throughout the rest of his armor. "Soldier, eh? If you see one will you send him in my direction?"
The crowd erupted with laughter but the fool never flinched, only insisted on staring at Orin in the most calculating way. A peasant pushed his way to the railing followed closely by a boy half his size. "Sir Logan- I mean Logan- oh, *please* jus' *listen* ta me!" he shouted. "Tis *suicide* man! Ya don't e'en 'ave a *horse* fer God's sake!"
"Yes, *Sir* Logan. You cannot joust without a horse. *Jesting* however, now *there's* something you can sink your teeth into." Orin kept the scorn and humor in his voice for the sake of the audience. It very obviously worked as they roared with laughter at the small man again. Circling him slowly with his mount, Orin continued his perusal of the idiot. "What's this you're wearing?" He poked at the man's brown covering with what was left of his lance. "*Leather?* Oh, that's such a wonderfully ancient bit isn't it?" He leaned a little closer to murmur, "I could break you like a twig boy."
With lightening speed, the man wrapped his arm around Orin's lance and pulled both rider and horse toward him. The destrier's whinny of fear rose with the gasps and outcries of the crowd.
The man's snarling face mere inches from Orin's he growled "I would *love* ta see you try. *Boy.*" Then he let the lance go, leaving Orin to rearrange himself in his saddle.
Indignation and rage boiling inside his chest, Orin suddenly became very aware of all of the eyes watching him, and one lovely green pair in particular. He raised his voice without removing his eyes from the where they were locked with the stranger's. "This ignorant fool has issued a challenge to joust. With the peoples' permission, I accept."
Orin would have charged the man regardless of what the "people" thought, what with the burning hatred rising inside of him. But a knight's career could be made or broken by playing to the audience, both noble and common. Said peasants agreed forcefully to the duel and settled in to watch.
As he maneuvered his horse into the starting position he herd a squire ask the man if he desired to borrow a horse, or even a suitable bit of armor, and that he was sure someone would loan it to him. Orin knew better though; no one would be willing to give up a potentially good horse or shield just to see a man make a fool of himself. He missed his response but when he turned around the idiot was still standing there, fully braced and ready for attack.
He had drawn his sword, and it was like nothing the knight had ever seen before. The silvery metal was as wide as his palm was long and it was a good six feet long. The blade swept up from the hilt in three ridges, forming at the tip three rather sharp looking points. Orin laughed at the absurdity of it. *That thing's bigger than he is! The little fool can barely carry that monstrosity let alone wield it!*
One final glance around showed Orin that the audience was still paying close attention. He was pleased to note that the good Lady Nichole had put down her papers and stared as intently as the rest of the flock. *Good.* He'd teach this ruffian a lesson on his betters and then he would make good on his promise to publicly woo her.
The banner dropped and Orin spurned the Great Horse into action. He felt his face turn into a sneer against his will as he barreled toward the stranger. Amazingly, the man ran forward as well, growling all the way. Time seemed to slow for Orin, as it always did, and then sped up with a collision so loud it hurt.
The horse bucked when the two finally met. Orin felt his lance strike something soft and yielding and then a flash of silver lightening blinded him. Logan had swung the huge sword in a wide arc and Orin gasped as he found himself being thrown hard onto the ground.
The dust of the battle settled, and the utter silence of the crowd was deafening.
"Get up."
His breath heavy in his chest, Orin opened his eyes to find himself staring at blue sky. A red rage quickly overcame his shock when he slowly sat up. His stallion was whinnying and prancing about the yard, eyes rolling, half of his trapper and saddle lying in a heap on the ground around him. Tiny droplets of blood had fallen into the dry dirt from a small cut in the horse's side.
*The... The bastard cut the saddle out from under me! Impossible!*
"I said get up."
Orin noticed him standing next to his bewildered form for the first time. Logan's long hair blew in the slight breeze, the wind sweeping it back from his face into two wolf-peeks above his ears. The monstrosity of a sword lay in his hands comfortably, out of the way but ready for immediate use if needed. Other than a fine sheen of sweat on his face, the man seemed as he had but seconds ago -- and was completely unmarked. A miniscule amount of blood covered his shoulder, but that could have come from the horse. There was absolutely no wound.
*But- It cannot be! I hit him! I felt the lance go in!*
"I'd hate ta kill you sitting down, *boy*."
The knight snarled at the offense and clamored to his feet. Mysteries would be left for later, now his abused pride cried out for retribution. He'd be damned before he let this *peasant* get the best of him!
"You are a very lucky fool," he spit out.
"Luck had nothin' to do with it. Now shut yer yap an' put yer sword where yer mouth is!"
Orin lunged at him, swinging his sword in the clever arc that his father had taught him and that his opponents never suspected. It would feign the man into leaving himself wide open and practically begging for a sword in the gut. If he had stopped for a moment to think past his anger he might have elongated the fight, enjoying the slow defeat of this *Logan*. But he wanted to see the stranger *gone*, and this move worked every time...
...Except *this* time the stranger had easily evaded his trick, moving with the preternatural swiftness of a giant cat. His previously wide and crude sweeps merged into movements so fluid as to utterly disappear from one point of contact to the next. Orin had never seen anyone so fast or so *strong*. The blades sparked faintly as they met in a dance of movement and mortality.
*What matter of devil-?*
And then Orin was the one with a sword in his gut, or at least slipped between his armor. The dance stopped dead, and he looked up from his as yet unharmed stomach into the eyes of a master. They were hard, unyielding, and completely lethal. He would have no trouble sliding the blade into the knight's innards, and Orin was shocked to still be alive. The message in those horridly dark eyes was plain as day: *yield, or die.*
With bile rising in his throat from the shame, Orin straightened and threw his sword down, admitting defeat to the creature. The eerie silence of the crowd erupted into bales of cheering and excitement, none louder than those of the farmer that had tried to convince Logan to back down.
Shivers of rage ran down Orin's spine.
The monster straightened as well, replacing the horrible sword in its scabbard on his back. He turned to the peasant in the stands. If possible, the mob cheered even louder. "Thanks for th' ride inta town Peter. I think I'll be riding back on my own though. Tell Emma I said goodbye." And he turned and walked toward the panicked stallion, soothing it with his voice alone. After a few pats to the large horse's quivering nose, he began to strip him of what was left of the trapper and saddle, investigating the cut he himself had administered.
Orin's mind sputtered. *He's...He's taking my HORSE!*
Oh, he could not- *would* not suffer this indignity. It was the beast's right as victor to seize what he wished, but he would not hold it for long. *No man born on this earth can move like that, nor heal so quickly. Whatever this THING be, I will not allow it to continue this outrage!*
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The clash of armor and the grunts of both horses and men sailed through the air, accentuated by the uproar of the crowds. The two combatants squared off again and spurned their hard-breathing mounts into action. Bright coverings flew and metal glinted silver in the clear air. When the two met, the rider on the left was flung from his saddle, grunting as he impacted with his fellow's lance and the ground. Applause rang out for the larger, grander knight still seated and primping for the crowd.
Those sitting in the shaded observation stand applauded as well, although it was more polite than excited. From the moment the joust had started there had been little doubt which man would win.
"Well," one of them said with a sigh, "he's done it again." He was a tall man, in his thirty-first year of life, with a dark blonde beard and hair to match. His clothing identified him as a noble, lord of the land surrounding his manor. "You know, you could at least *pretend* to be enjoying yourself."
He spoke to a woman seated at his left shoulder. Her clothing placed the rank of nobility on her as well, and several well-worn sheets of parchment lay spread around her lap. Her face was completely covered by the one she was currently reading, shutting her out of the proceedings around her. Her voice was firm, yet humorous. "You're not enjoying yourself either, brother, and I have no intention of entertaining this brutality."
The man made a sound of disgust. "This 'brutality' of yours is a time honored tradition in this country. The people love it and it gives them a moment to relax. Lord knows they need it."
"I'm not denying that, Jonathan. I'm simply saying that you're trying to impress our guests far too hard." She gestured to the Bishop and his entourage sitting several feet away in the seat of honor.
He smiled. "I'm not the only one trying to impress someone. You'd better watch this next part, your suitor is at it again."
The victor below had turned his horse and had approached the booth. Helmet on the horn of his saddle, he bowed on his horse, making the poor creature do the same, all the while grinning cheekily at the Lady. Grimacing, she hid her face behind the papers once more. Satisfied, he replaced his helmet and went back to the joust. Apparently, Sir Orin intended to best all comers, accepting any manner of fight, desperate to make an impression. Only one more man was on the list, and once he was defeated Orin would be declared winner and awarded his prize.
Through a counterfeit nod and an even falser smile, Jonathan leaned over to his sister to whisper quietly. "*That* was a little more than obvious. You can only hold him off a little bit longer you know. His fantasy 'code of chivalry' won't keep him from demanding that you marry him for forever."
"I know that." Her voice and expression were angry, but he could hear the faint quiver of fear in her words. "The only reason he's pursuing me at all is that he knows that I am greater than he is and he's threatened by that power I have over him. If he marries me than *he* will be the powerful one. He's nothing but a controlling...*barbarian*."
"And the fact that you're the most beautiful woman in the kingdom has nothing to do with it. Of course I *am* biased being your brother and all, and don't tell Alicia I said that." He smiled at the embarrassed blush of her cheeks. The humor left him as he continued however. "You cannot keep declining suitors forever Nichole. Is marriage so bad? Alicia and I are perfectly happy, why couldn't you be as well?
"I know, Jonathan, I know." She looked into the distance, her voice turning somehow sad and hopeful at the same time. "But I can't marry Orin, or any other man. It's just not right, I know it. When I marry it will be to someone far greater than any around *here*. I know my true love is out there somewhere Jon, I can *feel* it. I know 'courtly love' is just a myth, but I *do*." She looked at her brother with glassy eyes. "Isn't that strange?"
"Well, I hope your King Arthur arrives soon, or else you're going to have to settle for a knight in shining armor. And for Heaven's sake would you put that parchment away! You're making people nervous!"
"A woman has every right to read in public."
"Now *you* know that and *I* know that but not everyone's had as liberal a father as we had. Most *men* don't even know how to read, let alone women, so you can see my concern, here. Just please, put it-"
Jonathan was interrupted by a voice, booming over the crowd, reaching even armored ears. *"Hey buckethead! You man enough ta take on a real soldier?"*
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sir Orin Gregory grinned under his helmet. He had just broken his lance on the last man on the list amidst a shower of curses, dust, and generous applause, scoring yet another point. Refusing the squire's question of whether or not to pursue the battle, the man stormed off the field. *Probably towards the nearest tavern,* Orin thought smugly. *Just as well. I can beat any man here, on the ground or in the saddle...and they know it, too.*
As the victor, Orin could by right lay claim to the man's horse, weapons and armor, as was his right, but he refused, like he had all of his earlier winnings. He had no more need of those things, seeing as he already owned the best. The *real* prize was sitting in the stand above him, waiting to be won over. Lady Nichole could not deny him forever, and he was about to point that fact out to her rather publicly when the clamor of the audience was overridden by a growl at the far end of the field.
*"Hey buckethead! You man enough ta take on a real soldier?"*
Agitated, Orin stopped his horse in mid-canter to gaze upon the source of the noise. A *peasant* had somehow wandered onto the field and now stood challenging *him*! Orin's laugh echoed in his helmet and throughout the rest of his armor. "Soldier, eh? If you see one will you send him in my direction?"
The crowd erupted with laughter but the fool never flinched, only insisted on staring at Orin in the most calculating way. A peasant pushed his way to the railing followed closely by a boy half his size. "Sir Logan- I mean Logan- oh, *please* jus' *listen* ta me!" he shouted. "Tis *suicide* man! Ya don't e'en 'ave a *horse* fer God's sake!"
"Yes, *Sir* Logan. You cannot joust without a horse. *Jesting* however, now *there's* something you can sink your teeth into." Orin kept the scorn and humor in his voice for the sake of the audience. It very obviously worked as they roared with laughter at the small man again. Circling him slowly with his mount, Orin continued his perusal of the idiot. "What's this you're wearing?" He poked at the man's brown covering with what was left of his lance. "*Leather?* Oh, that's such a wonderfully ancient bit isn't it?" He leaned a little closer to murmur, "I could break you like a twig boy."
With lightening speed, the man wrapped his arm around Orin's lance and pulled both rider and horse toward him. The destrier's whinny of fear rose with the gasps and outcries of the crowd.
The man's snarling face mere inches from Orin's he growled "I would *love* ta see you try. *Boy.*" Then he let the lance go, leaving Orin to rearrange himself in his saddle.
Indignation and rage boiling inside his chest, Orin suddenly became very aware of all of the eyes watching him, and one lovely green pair in particular. He raised his voice without removing his eyes from the where they were locked with the stranger's. "This ignorant fool has issued a challenge to joust. With the peoples' permission, I accept."
Orin would have charged the man regardless of what the "people" thought, what with the burning hatred rising inside of him. But a knight's career could be made or broken by playing to the audience, both noble and common. Said peasants agreed forcefully to the duel and settled in to watch.
As he maneuvered his horse into the starting position he herd a squire ask the man if he desired to borrow a horse, or even a suitable bit of armor, and that he was sure someone would loan it to him. Orin knew better though; no one would be willing to give up a potentially good horse or shield just to see a man make a fool of himself. He missed his response but when he turned around the idiot was still standing there, fully braced and ready for attack.
He had drawn his sword, and it was like nothing the knight had ever seen before. The silvery metal was as wide as his palm was long and it was a good six feet long. The blade swept up from the hilt in three ridges, forming at the tip three rather sharp looking points. Orin laughed at the absurdity of it. *That thing's bigger than he is! The little fool can barely carry that monstrosity let alone wield it!*
One final glance around showed Orin that the audience was still paying close attention. He was pleased to note that the good Lady Nichole had put down her papers and stared as intently as the rest of the flock. *Good.* He'd teach this ruffian a lesson on his betters and then he would make good on his promise to publicly woo her.
The banner dropped and Orin spurned the Great Horse into action. He felt his face turn into a sneer against his will as he barreled toward the stranger. Amazingly, the man ran forward as well, growling all the way. Time seemed to slow for Orin, as it always did, and then sped up with a collision so loud it hurt.
The horse bucked when the two finally met. Orin felt his lance strike something soft and yielding and then a flash of silver lightening blinded him. Logan had swung the huge sword in a wide arc and Orin gasped as he found himself being thrown hard onto the ground.
The dust of the battle settled, and the utter silence of the crowd was deafening.
"Get up."
His breath heavy in his chest, Orin opened his eyes to find himself staring at blue sky. A red rage quickly overcame his shock when he slowly sat up. His stallion was whinnying and prancing about the yard, eyes rolling, half of his trapper and saddle lying in a heap on the ground around him. Tiny droplets of blood had fallen into the dry dirt from a small cut in the horse's side.
*The... The bastard cut the saddle out from under me! Impossible!*
"I said get up."
Orin noticed him standing next to his bewildered form for the first time. Logan's long hair blew in the slight breeze, the wind sweeping it back from his face into two wolf-peeks above his ears. The monstrosity of a sword lay in his hands comfortably, out of the way but ready for immediate use if needed. Other than a fine sheen of sweat on his face, the man seemed as he had but seconds ago -- and was completely unmarked. A miniscule amount of blood covered his shoulder, but that could have come from the horse. There was absolutely no wound.
*But- It cannot be! I hit him! I felt the lance go in!*
"I'd hate ta kill you sitting down, *boy*."
The knight snarled at the offense and clamored to his feet. Mysteries would be left for later, now his abused pride cried out for retribution. He'd be damned before he let this *peasant* get the best of him!
"You are a very lucky fool," he spit out.
"Luck had nothin' to do with it. Now shut yer yap an' put yer sword where yer mouth is!"
Orin lunged at him, swinging his sword in the clever arc that his father had taught him and that his opponents never suspected. It would feign the man into leaving himself wide open and practically begging for a sword in the gut. If he had stopped for a moment to think past his anger he might have elongated the fight, enjoying the slow defeat of this *Logan*. But he wanted to see the stranger *gone*, and this move worked every time...
...Except *this* time the stranger had easily evaded his trick, moving with the preternatural swiftness of a giant cat. His previously wide and crude sweeps merged into movements so fluid as to utterly disappear from one point of contact to the next. Orin had never seen anyone so fast or so *strong*. The blades sparked faintly as they met in a dance of movement and mortality.
*What matter of devil-?*
And then Orin was the one with a sword in his gut, or at least slipped between his armor. The dance stopped dead, and he looked up from his as yet unharmed stomach into the eyes of a master. They were hard, unyielding, and completely lethal. He would have no trouble sliding the blade into the knight's innards, and Orin was shocked to still be alive. The message in those horridly dark eyes was plain as day: *yield, or die.*
With bile rising in his throat from the shame, Orin straightened and threw his sword down, admitting defeat to the creature. The eerie silence of the crowd erupted into bales of cheering and excitement, none louder than those of the farmer that had tried to convince Logan to back down.
Shivers of rage ran down Orin's spine.
The monster straightened as well, replacing the horrible sword in its scabbard on his back. He turned to the peasant in the stands. If possible, the mob cheered even louder. "Thanks for th' ride inta town Peter. I think I'll be riding back on my own though. Tell Emma I said goodbye." And he turned and walked toward the panicked stallion, soothing it with his voice alone. After a few pats to the large horse's quivering nose, he began to strip him of what was left of the trapper and saddle, investigating the cut he himself had administered.
Orin's mind sputtered. *He's...He's taking my HORSE!*
Oh, he could not- *would* not suffer this indignity. It was the beast's right as victor to seize what he wished, but he would not hold it for long. *No man born on this earth can move like that, nor heal so quickly. Whatever this THING be, I will not allow it to continue this outrage!*
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