Prologue
"Mayhaps the safest way to judge people is to avoid judging them at all. Or, mayhaps an even better way is to avoid people instead." - Loran the Wise, The Souls of Men
Sir Lewis Gorling stared somewhat nervously across the crowds. He had only been transferred to Castle Tarintor a week before, just in time for the jousting tourney. He had entered eagerly, for his last outpost had been one of the biggest fortresses in all of Dallorn. He had found no one there with better lancing skills, so surely this little boon dock keep would have no true jousting competition. He seemed to be right, for he had won a dozen matches and was now about to make the final round, against the long standing winner of the tourney. The defender of the title was apparently very mysterious, for no one seemed willing or able to tell him anything about him. Gorling liked to be prepared, to know what he was getting into. He felt a little anxious as he looked at the throngs of people, all so eagerly waiting to see this final joust.
A message boy ran up to him. "Lieutenant Gorling?" the boy said respectfully. "The joust will begin shortly. It is suggested that you mount now." Gorling nodded. He went to the stall constructed for the joust. Of course, Gorling was not going to ride a horse; Dallorn's military was not called the Army of the Dragon for nothing! Over a hundred related species of dragonlike animals, ranging from the size of a large beetle to as large as a real dragon, all lived only in Dallorn. No where else in all the continent of Aristhar, or even anywhere on the world of Aris, did the creatures live. They were thus the symbol and prefered companion of all natives of Dallorn, especially their army.
Gorling's mount, Micael, was a male knight's dragon. Knights' dragons, a little larger than horses, were named because they were the preferred mount of Dallornish warriors. Micael was covered in black scales from horned head to taloned foot. He could have been mistaken for a black dragon, but most of the species of Dallornish dragons did not have wings, knights' dragons included. Micael's golden eyes seemed to light up when Gorling rose into the saddle. Gorling held his wooden heavy lance in his right, with its point facing the sky. A squire, provided temporarily for the tourney, held Gorling's shield and helm.
A single trumpet blast echoed across the Field, the large open area in the middle of Castle Tarintor, currently being used as a jousting field. That was Gorling's cue. He rode out into plain sight with an energetic wave to the crowd, but he heard only scattered mocking laughter. This was not the response Gorling expected, and he prayed silently that they would eat their laughter after he won the joust.
Suddeny, Gorling saw his competition. He had to resist the urge to laugh. The man was wearing a cloth sack as a tunic! His armor seemed in surprisingly good condition, so shiny that it had to be made of mithral. Gorling resisted the urge to try and buff his breastplate with his glove, as his more economical and practical steel had much less shine. This knight's dragon was much smaller than his, a female, Gorling noticed. Females were notoriously smaller and more agile than males, but the males had much greater strength and size. This female dragon was a stunning color, a bright bluish violet. Its scales seemed to gleam even from across the strip.
The other knight was breaking traditional jousting etiquette as well, for he already wore his helm. Mayhaps they joust differently, Gorling thought. Hoping he had made no gaff, Gorling hurriedly donned his helmet, then took his shield and lance. He held his lance at waiting, its point facing the sky. To his left and right were several hundred spectators. In front of him was the strip. A wooden partition seperated his side from his opponent's. Each would ride along the strip full speed and try to knock the other off his mount with the lance. Gorling felt himself begin to perspire under the hot summer suns.
Breaking the silence, a herald called out, pointing at Gorling, "The challenger!" Silence reigned at the herald's words. No one cheered for him. No one. "Lieutenant Gorling, are you ready?" In response, Gorling simply thrust his lance skyward and brought it down into charging position. Again the herald cried, "The defender!" This time, the crowds roared. "Lieutenant Sarnah, are you ready?" Gorling's enemy did the same.
A trumpet brayed out, once, twice, three times, and Gorling spurred his dragon forward. Micael practically flew down the strip. The other knight, Sarnah, seemed to be coming towards him just as fast. He braced his lance for the impact, barely in time, and the two collided. Amazingly, his lance just glazed Sarnah, sliding clear off the knight's shoulder to the side, but the other man's lance hit Gorling squarely in the shoulder. Neither lance broke, however. In a joust, hitting with enough force to shatter a lance tip earned one point, while knocking a knight off his mount earned three. Thus, the score was nothing for both sides.
The knights prepared to traverse the strip a second time. A trumpet cried out thrice, and again the dragons nearly flew towards each other, running like the great cats. This time, Gorling felt a smack dead center on his chest, and Sarnah's lance head shattered like glass on impact with his breastplate. His own lance grazed the opponent's shoulder again, sliding right off. The score was now one to nothing, in his enemy's favor.
This was impossible! Gorling had never been beaten in a tourney before, and the idea that he might lose now, against a foe he had never seen before, struck him to the bone. He felt himself sweating profusely. He could not lose, not now.
As Gorling waited for the trumpet's next bray, he noticed something in his opponent's profile. There was an oddity of some kind involving the man's shoulders. They pointed upward at an odd angle, and protruded much too far outward for the man's narrow frame. Perhaps a birth deformity, Gorling thought. That could be an explanation for why he wore a cloth sack.
The knight had no time to dwell on his revelation, for the trumpet began to play yet again. They charged. Suddenly, Gorling was aware of the silence. There had been light talking and laughter before, but now only the sound of clawed feet running on dirt could be heard. For a second, that silence rang out and lingered. The dragons running began to echo in Gorling's heartbeat. His breath grew faster. His lance arm tensed.
Then the silence exploded. Sarnah's lance hit Gorling squarely in the chest with more force than seemed possible. It fractured into dozens of pieces upon impact. The twin suns grew brighter and brighter, and Gorling felt himself falling backwards. His own lance swung wildly, missing his opponent by several feet. Sarnah remained mounted, and Gorling lay on his back on the hard-packed dirt.
Feeling himself flush scarlet, Gorling tumbled onto his stomach and refused to rise from the ground. He just laid there as he heard the cheering. The voices of no more than three hundred people could have been a thousand for the way the cacaphony rang in his ears. Micael stood protectively over his rider as the knight let himself wallow in shame.
Before he could fall too deeply into his reverie of self-pity, Gorling felt a light nudge on his back. "Get up," a gentle voice spoke laughingly, "I know I could not have hit you that hard!"
Grudgingly, Gorling rolled over again to face the source of his defeat. What stood before him was like nothing he had ever seen. He tried to rise, but found that his body would not obey his commands. The suns were behind Gorling's victor, forming a silhouette, an almost celestial glow around the knight. Yet that was not what made him gasp. That knight was a woman! Gorling, the famous undefeatable Sir Gorling, had been knocked off his steed by a woman ! She had removed her cloth sack, and Gorling now saw why she wore it. Aside from hiding a distinctly feminine breastplate, there were wings protruding from her back! The wings were short, each only about two feet long, and covered in silver feathers. Gorling dimly realized two things then: that the wings must have been what created the odd profile, and that his jaw was hanging at an odd angle.
Were that not remarkable enough, the woman had skin the color of the brightest blue sky, with deep purple freckles. Her wavy hair, cropped to her chin, was a stunning silver, and slightly pointed ears peaked out of the mithral locks. Her eyes were molten blue-violet with silver flecks, the same color as her dragon. Combined with the mithral armor she wore, it truly made her look like a holy celestial being.
Grinning broadly, she held out her hand to help him up. "Fair day, Sir Gorling!" He just stared emptily at her, his jaw still hanging. "Come on, you cannot just lie there all day. Get up!" she said playfully.
Gorling just looked at her. "You, you a-are a ...," he managed to sputter.
"A half-avariel aasimar? Or a woman?" She smiled and held out her hand again. Gorling weakly took it, and she hoisted him to his feet with a surprising strength. "Lady Gwendolyn Sarnah," she added calmly, almost as an afterthought.
Gorling still gaped at her. He had been beaten by a woman. An aasimar, a being descended from angels? Who was she? "Are you an honorary knight, lady?"
She looked at him coolly. "Of course not! Could someone with no true combat training beat you in competition?" She saw his blush. "I have been the Champion of the Joust in Castle Tarintor since its founding, and I have earned that title justly."
"Lady, I am curious. Why do you wear that sack?"
"Two reasons. The wings prove a distraction to you and a hindrance to me, and a cloth bag helps to protect them, both from wood chips and from sight. And," she added pointedly, "it helps disguise me."
"Why would you do that?"
Lady Gwendolyn cooly appraised Gorling with one thin raised violet eyebrow. "Would you joust against a woman?"
Gorling sighed. "A fair mark, I suppose." He was feeling more comfortable talking to her now, and he could not help but notice her beauty. "Did you say you were an avariel aasimar?"
"Nay, I am but a half of one. My mother was an avariel elf, and my father a human aasimar. I thus have my mother's wings and eyes, and my father's silver tones."
Gorling nodded. He knew enough about elves to understand what she was talking about. The most common elves were the silvaniels, the green haired elves who lived in the trees, but there were other kinds. The qualiniels were the flame elves, with ebony skin and hair like fire. The dargoniels lived below the waves and rarely ventured to the surface, and the evil black skinned drouiels lived in the bowels of Aris. Apparently, Lady Sarnah had a avariel for a mother. Avariels were the winged sky elves, all blue skinned with feathery wings large enough for them to fly. Avariels were extremely rare outside the elfin lands. Just as rare were aasimars, those with the blood of celestial beings somewhere in their ancestry. To imagine, someone who was both a half-avariel and an aasimar! "I have never heard of another like ye, Lady Sarnah," Gorling said honestly.
"Neither have I, Sir Gorling. Neither have I." The lady knight seemed to dwell on her thoughts for a moment, then said, "You were a worthy opponent, Sir Gorling. Mayhaps Arwyn and I," she added, pulling her exotic looking dragon over, "shall see you again sometime."
"I look forward to it, Lady," Gorling replied. Once one got over the wings and skin, he mused to himself as he led Micael away, she was actually quite beautiful.
"Mayhaps the safest way to judge people is to avoid judging them at all. Or, mayhaps an even better way is to avoid people instead." - Loran the Wise, The Souls of Men
Sir Lewis Gorling stared somewhat nervously across the crowds. He had only been transferred to Castle Tarintor a week before, just in time for the jousting tourney. He had entered eagerly, for his last outpost had been one of the biggest fortresses in all of Dallorn. He had found no one there with better lancing skills, so surely this little boon dock keep would have no true jousting competition. He seemed to be right, for he had won a dozen matches and was now about to make the final round, against the long standing winner of the tourney. The defender of the title was apparently very mysterious, for no one seemed willing or able to tell him anything about him. Gorling liked to be prepared, to know what he was getting into. He felt a little anxious as he looked at the throngs of people, all so eagerly waiting to see this final joust.
A message boy ran up to him. "Lieutenant Gorling?" the boy said respectfully. "The joust will begin shortly. It is suggested that you mount now." Gorling nodded. He went to the stall constructed for the joust. Of course, Gorling was not going to ride a horse; Dallorn's military was not called the Army of the Dragon for nothing! Over a hundred related species of dragonlike animals, ranging from the size of a large beetle to as large as a real dragon, all lived only in Dallorn. No where else in all the continent of Aristhar, or even anywhere on the world of Aris, did the creatures live. They were thus the symbol and prefered companion of all natives of Dallorn, especially their army.
Gorling's mount, Micael, was a male knight's dragon. Knights' dragons, a little larger than horses, were named because they were the preferred mount of Dallornish warriors. Micael was covered in black scales from horned head to taloned foot. He could have been mistaken for a black dragon, but most of the species of Dallornish dragons did not have wings, knights' dragons included. Micael's golden eyes seemed to light up when Gorling rose into the saddle. Gorling held his wooden heavy lance in his right, with its point facing the sky. A squire, provided temporarily for the tourney, held Gorling's shield and helm.
A single trumpet blast echoed across the Field, the large open area in the middle of Castle Tarintor, currently being used as a jousting field. That was Gorling's cue. He rode out into plain sight with an energetic wave to the crowd, but he heard only scattered mocking laughter. This was not the response Gorling expected, and he prayed silently that they would eat their laughter after he won the joust.
Suddeny, Gorling saw his competition. He had to resist the urge to laugh. The man was wearing a cloth sack as a tunic! His armor seemed in surprisingly good condition, so shiny that it had to be made of mithral. Gorling resisted the urge to try and buff his breastplate with his glove, as his more economical and practical steel had much less shine. This knight's dragon was much smaller than his, a female, Gorling noticed. Females were notoriously smaller and more agile than males, but the males had much greater strength and size. This female dragon was a stunning color, a bright bluish violet. Its scales seemed to gleam even from across the strip.
The other knight was breaking traditional jousting etiquette as well, for he already wore his helm. Mayhaps they joust differently, Gorling thought. Hoping he had made no gaff, Gorling hurriedly donned his helmet, then took his shield and lance. He held his lance at waiting, its point facing the sky. To his left and right were several hundred spectators. In front of him was the strip. A wooden partition seperated his side from his opponent's. Each would ride along the strip full speed and try to knock the other off his mount with the lance. Gorling felt himself begin to perspire under the hot summer suns.
Breaking the silence, a herald called out, pointing at Gorling, "The challenger!" Silence reigned at the herald's words. No one cheered for him. No one. "Lieutenant Gorling, are you ready?" In response, Gorling simply thrust his lance skyward and brought it down into charging position. Again the herald cried, "The defender!" This time, the crowds roared. "Lieutenant Sarnah, are you ready?" Gorling's enemy did the same.
A trumpet brayed out, once, twice, three times, and Gorling spurred his dragon forward. Micael practically flew down the strip. The other knight, Sarnah, seemed to be coming towards him just as fast. He braced his lance for the impact, barely in time, and the two collided. Amazingly, his lance just glazed Sarnah, sliding clear off the knight's shoulder to the side, but the other man's lance hit Gorling squarely in the shoulder. Neither lance broke, however. In a joust, hitting with enough force to shatter a lance tip earned one point, while knocking a knight off his mount earned three. Thus, the score was nothing for both sides.
The knights prepared to traverse the strip a second time. A trumpet cried out thrice, and again the dragons nearly flew towards each other, running like the great cats. This time, Gorling felt a smack dead center on his chest, and Sarnah's lance head shattered like glass on impact with his breastplate. His own lance grazed the opponent's shoulder again, sliding right off. The score was now one to nothing, in his enemy's favor.
This was impossible! Gorling had never been beaten in a tourney before, and the idea that he might lose now, against a foe he had never seen before, struck him to the bone. He felt himself sweating profusely. He could not lose, not now.
As Gorling waited for the trumpet's next bray, he noticed something in his opponent's profile. There was an oddity of some kind involving the man's shoulders. They pointed upward at an odd angle, and protruded much too far outward for the man's narrow frame. Perhaps a birth deformity, Gorling thought. That could be an explanation for why he wore a cloth sack.
The knight had no time to dwell on his revelation, for the trumpet began to play yet again. They charged. Suddenly, Gorling was aware of the silence. There had been light talking and laughter before, but now only the sound of clawed feet running on dirt could be heard. For a second, that silence rang out and lingered. The dragons running began to echo in Gorling's heartbeat. His breath grew faster. His lance arm tensed.
Then the silence exploded. Sarnah's lance hit Gorling squarely in the chest with more force than seemed possible. It fractured into dozens of pieces upon impact. The twin suns grew brighter and brighter, and Gorling felt himself falling backwards. His own lance swung wildly, missing his opponent by several feet. Sarnah remained mounted, and Gorling lay on his back on the hard-packed dirt.
Feeling himself flush scarlet, Gorling tumbled onto his stomach and refused to rise from the ground. He just laid there as he heard the cheering. The voices of no more than three hundred people could have been a thousand for the way the cacaphony rang in his ears. Micael stood protectively over his rider as the knight let himself wallow in shame.
Before he could fall too deeply into his reverie of self-pity, Gorling felt a light nudge on his back. "Get up," a gentle voice spoke laughingly, "I know I could not have hit you that hard!"
Grudgingly, Gorling rolled over again to face the source of his defeat. What stood before him was like nothing he had ever seen. He tried to rise, but found that his body would not obey his commands. The suns were behind Gorling's victor, forming a silhouette, an almost celestial glow around the knight. Yet that was not what made him gasp. That knight was a woman! Gorling, the famous undefeatable Sir Gorling, had been knocked off his steed by a woman ! She had removed her cloth sack, and Gorling now saw why she wore it. Aside from hiding a distinctly feminine breastplate, there were wings protruding from her back! The wings were short, each only about two feet long, and covered in silver feathers. Gorling dimly realized two things then: that the wings must have been what created the odd profile, and that his jaw was hanging at an odd angle.
Were that not remarkable enough, the woman had skin the color of the brightest blue sky, with deep purple freckles. Her wavy hair, cropped to her chin, was a stunning silver, and slightly pointed ears peaked out of the mithral locks. Her eyes were molten blue-violet with silver flecks, the same color as her dragon. Combined with the mithral armor she wore, it truly made her look like a holy celestial being.
Grinning broadly, she held out her hand to help him up. "Fair day, Sir Gorling!" He just stared emptily at her, his jaw still hanging. "Come on, you cannot just lie there all day. Get up!" she said playfully.
Gorling just looked at her. "You, you a-are a ...," he managed to sputter.
"A half-avariel aasimar? Or a woman?" She smiled and held out her hand again. Gorling weakly took it, and she hoisted him to his feet with a surprising strength. "Lady Gwendolyn Sarnah," she added calmly, almost as an afterthought.
Gorling still gaped at her. He had been beaten by a woman. An aasimar, a being descended from angels? Who was she? "Are you an honorary knight, lady?"
She looked at him coolly. "Of course not! Could someone with no true combat training beat you in competition?" She saw his blush. "I have been the Champion of the Joust in Castle Tarintor since its founding, and I have earned that title justly."
"Lady, I am curious. Why do you wear that sack?"
"Two reasons. The wings prove a distraction to you and a hindrance to me, and a cloth bag helps to protect them, both from wood chips and from sight. And," she added pointedly, "it helps disguise me."
"Why would you do that?"
Lady Gwendolyn cooly appraised Gorling with one thin raised violet eyebrow. "Would you joust against a woman?"
Gorling sighed. "A fair mark, I suppose." He was feeling more comfortable talking to her now, and he could not help but notice her beauty. "Did you say you were an avariel aasimar?"
"Nay, I am but a half of one. My mother was an avariel elf, and my father a human aasimar. I thus have my mother's wings and eyes, and my father's silver tones."
Gorling nodded. He knew enough about elves to understand what she was talking about. The most common elves were the silvaniels, the green haired elves who lived in the trees, but there were other kinds. The qualiniels were the flame elves, with ebony skin and hair like fire. The dargoniels lived below the waves and rarely ventured to the surface, and the evil black skinned drouiels lived in the bowels of Aris. Apparently, Lady Sarnah had a avariel for a mother. Avariels were the winged sky elves, all blue skinned with feathery wings large enough for them to fly. Avariels were extremely rare outside the elfin lands. Just as rare were aasimars, those with the blood of celestial beings somewhere in their ancestry. To imagine, someone who was both a half-avariel and an aasimar! "I have never heard of another like ye, Lady Sarnah," Gorling said honestly.
"Neither have I, Sir Gorling. Neither have I." The lady knight seemed to dwell on her thoughts for a moment, then said, "You were a worthy opponent, Sir Gorling. Mayhaps Arwyn and I," she added, pulling her exotic looking dragon over, "shall see you again sometime."
"I look forward to it, Lady," Gorling replied. Once one got over the wings and skin, he mused to himself as he led Micael away, she was actually quite beautiful.