To The Sound of Clashing Swords (Story/Traveler)

[Story]

“Are you sure that you want to enter this competition, lad? There will be fighting, jousting, archery, hand to hand combat, wrestling … with grown men,” the Knight asked with an undertone of condescension thrown in with the perceptive over of the lad that stood in front of him. “It will be dangerous. There is an entire festival for you to enjoy in honour of Ser Williams,” the man added in a more good natured tone.

The boy that had announced himself as Fritz Richter at the pavilion set up at the entrance of the grand festival being thrown for the Knight General himself now grinned. Jonas was turning his sixtieth year and was laying down shield and sword in favor of spending the rest of his years in his summer home with his wife, Annabeau. After years of serving the mainland, and later the current King Locke Tyrven himself with the emergence of the northern kingdom of myth and legend, Meridan, the Knight General had seen his share of bloodshed, campaigns, and war in his lifetime, and had decided to enrich the ranks with six new knighted men to take his place.

Where the Knight General might have preferred a more modest affair to decide who would join the ranks of knighthood, it was King Tyrven who had insisted on the festival. Or, really, his queen wife, to those who knew the man as close as Jonas had. Where Locke was more inclined to go along with his wife’s ideas, the man himself was rarer than a white stag out in the wild as far as showing his face in public. Especially in an environment teeming with this many people.

Inhaling slowly, the boy took in the aroma of roasting nuts, sizzling meats served on sticks, the smell of horse and leather and man. The mingling aromas of too many people moving around one confined space, even if that space was spread out over the entirety of a bluff that overlooked the crashing sea below. Merchants had traveled from hundreds of miles away, from across the sea and across the desert sands, in anticipation of the weeks’ events and to fill their pockets with coin from the event. The sounds were just as interesting as the smells, as the chatter of foreign tongues hawking their wares, the titillating cries of children pushing and shoving through the crowds, and the shouts of men all blended together into a cacophony that made the pair of green eyes shimmer as they eyed the Knight that was challenging his right to enter this competition of showmanship for a title.

“Oh, I am quite sure, Ser Reuban. I thank you for your concern, but I’ve traveled far to be able to participate, and I can assure you that I am of age to do so,” the lad replied. His voice was clear, a little high; a boy’s voice that was either cursed to remain a falsetto, yet if the imagination worked itself, could be delusioned in a person’s mind to belong to a young enough man. He was gangly, standing only around five feet and four or so, with a whip-like build underneath the bulky tunic he wore tucked into a pair of loose fitting leather breeches. A shape underneath the garments was hard to discern, made even more ambiguous by the fact that he wore a cap on his head, dark curls stuffed up inside. The face that peeked out from underneath the cap was delicate, smooth faced; a pretty boy’s face that should more have been found in a sweet booth - where prostitutes could be bought for a handsome price -- rather than fighting in any arena of sorts.

Only Ser Reuban could not deny the quality of the clothing the boy wore, that he wore polished leather braces and shortsword worn at his belt that he had brandished and flourished through the air in a myriad of swift, precise strikes. Even by the brief show of skills, even the seasoned knight could see that this boy had at least some skill with how he handled a blade.

Besides, it might be a lesson learned when he failed during the first rounds of the tournament that perhaps he should wait until he was older before chasing knighthood. The boy looked like he would make a fine squire, but no full fledged knight.

Exasperated, Ser Reuban dabbed a pen in the inkwell set up on the table he stood over and jotted down the name the boy had given him. Fritz Richter, age 18. No House or title, but eager to prove himself. Allegedly, the son of a modest merchant that had traveled here from overseas, though the lad showed no signs of having an accent. It was not something that the knight thought over much of, for he was eager to rid himself of the boy and return his attentions to preparations of the first event. Even though that was still a few hours away, when the sun had climbed higher in the sky, and the King and Knight General would give their speeches.

Satisfied, ...Fritz stepped away from the pavilion and its banners of blue and silver to show that Tyrven himself was sponsoring the event, he did a little skip of satisfaction and let the grin that had started on his face spread until it was full of teeth and punching dimples into his cheeks. Whistling under his breath, he headed around the side to the training grounds where the other competitors - at least some of them - would be practicing and preparing themselves for what would come. In his mind, this was the perfect opportunity to give a prequel to just what he was capable of. Pausing in front of the rigged roped off fence of the training yard, where men sparred with one another, or practiced their archery on painted bales of hay, or curled their bodies in order to work their bodies. Fritz was searching amongst them to see which would be a challenge, but also a way to throw off any onlookers on what he could do.

His eyes landed first on a massive hulk of a man, shirtless and muscles gleaming in the early day’s sun, who swung a broadsword up above his head and lopped off the head of a construct made of wood and hay. Shaking his head, his attention continued to rove to a pair, dressed as noblemen, fenced and parried with one another. No, not either of them...

@Traveler

 

[Traveler]

The candidates were pouring in from every corner of the regency. Young men and those not so young all wanted their chances at knighthood bestowed not by bloodlines, but by merit; and the lands and security that would come with it. As the two knights leaned against the railing and looked down upon the crowds, they could not help but notice the disparity between the candidates who had arrived. Some, like the brawny man who lopped the head off a straw man, seemed either well-versed in the ways of the wood axe, or as one who had seen war. Others…fancy fops and soldiers past their prime, were men who neither cared to share the title ‘Ser Knight’ with, if only for their arrogance and their lack or time left to serve. For, though this was meant as a celebration for the good Knight General Ser Jonas Williams' sixtieth birthday, was also meant to allow six worthy candidates to one day serve the throne in battle; one that both observing knights knew was not far off the horizon.

Ser Ricard Debaise drew a hand across his closely shorn beard and sighed. His dark eyes scanned the fields, looking for one, just one, who might fit their hopes. “They should have put a word out for squires, not knights,” he muttered. “Half these men look to be on their deathbeds, and the other half still at their mother’s teat.” He adjusted the cape about his shoulders and ran a hand through his dark curls, eager for the tournament to begin.

His companion chuckled. He was Ser Ricard’s opposite, the sun to his dark shadows, both in appearance and in demeanor.

Ser Edwain Slayte rested his elbows on the railing and peered down, his gaze resting on a small lad who seemed to be wandering aimlessly among the candidates. Those preparing for the tournament gave no heed to the lad, and as he wandered about, wide-eyed and hapless, the knight feared he might be speared. “Hoy!” he called down to the boy. “Hoy! Get out of there!” He waved his hand, but the lad seemed lost in the chaos, and was clueless to his peril.

“What are you shouting about?” Asked Ricard. He, too, peered down, scanning for whatever had excited his companion. His dark, wavy hair framed his face as he leaned, but though he saw plenty of men stretching and preparing themselves for the upcoming bought, he saw nothing that seemed amiss. “Have you been into the drinks, my friend?”

“No,” Edwain shook his head and pointed. “Do you see that lad there? That boy? He almost was struck by an errant sword swing,” he frowned. “Who let a child into the fields?”

“Ser Ruben is manning the gate, Edwain. There is no one in there that shouldn’t be.”

“That boy is going to get himself killed,” he glanced to their left and considered descending.

“Better here than on the battlefield.”

He shot Ricard a scathing look.

“What? At least here, his mother will have a body to bury. On the field…” he shrugged. They both knew well enough that there had been many a war where the dead had been left behind due to the necessity of survival. No one liked it, but it wasn't worth the risk to the living to retrieve the dead. “It’s destiny. Let it play out, you fool. He’ll be trampled or dismissed soon enough.”

“I’m going down there,” Edwain pulled his gloves from his belt and began to pull them on, rapidly crossing the distance between their spot in the shade and the stairs.

“Suit yourself,” Ricard leaned back against the rail and took a sip from his water flask. “The tournament will start in an hour. What’s your hurry?”

But Edwain was already well on his way. There was no way a tiny lad, no matter his station, would survive the first day of trails.

Down on the field, men traded skills with bow and arrow, and blows with blunted swords set out for their use. A few took their hand at balancing a lance; the final contest three days’ hence. Today, archery and introductions would be in order, and then a competition with the crossbow. Tomorrow heralded swordsmanship, stick-fighting balanced on a log, and hand-to-hand combat, and the third day, riding skills and the lance. If those meager skills were enough to warrant knighthood, all the families might boast one. Sir Edwain knew that more than skills with sword and horse were the skills of mind and battle; chief among that was knowing where not to be.

Near the logs stood many men watching the combatants at hand. Two men faced each other, both holding a long staff. There were no blunted ends or padded garments; each blow swung hard, and as they fought it seemed they cared not if they lasted until the competition started in the hour.

Nearby stood a lad not much older than Fritz, and dressed in the simple wools and linens of a sailor. His hair ws nearly red, though it looked as if it would darken in time, and though his face held the lean fade of boyish softness, it was obvious he had just crested the cusp of manhood. He would grow into his wide shoulders and height, and one day he would be a handsome man. As Fritz drew nearer, he turned and looked directly at him, taking in the shorter stature of the lad, the gangly build, the fine clothing and bracers, and the shortsword at his hip. “You shouldn’t be here,” the young man said. “You’ll be eaten alive and spit out on the dirt.”

A groan from the crowd was quickly followed by the shout of one of the contestants on the log, who now rolled on the dirt grasping his upper arm with the opposite side. Healers rushed forth to help the man, who now had a fractured arm and quite possibly would not compete.

The lad who had commented on Fritz’s suitability to the tournament let out a sigh at the sight. “So close to the tournament too,” he said, shaking his head. “The time to practice is before the battle is at hand, not at the beginning of it.” He turned again to look at Fritz. “Do your parents know you’re here? People can die at these, you know.”

 

[Story]

It was something that appeared to amuse the boy greatly, this perception that he did not belong there. It rang truer than any of them would ever know and buried a long forgotten spur deeper into his chest, left to fester and rot throughout the years that he had been gone from these lands. Even lacking the rolling mountainside of Meridan itself and being so near the beach where the sea breeze ruffled through the crowd here and there, bringing with it the scent of salt and fish and something else purely primal, the boy still felt that gnawing of not belonging.

And it had nothing to do with the fact that the lad was smaller than most (all) present around him and appeared too young to be participating in such an event.

That along was what spurred him to continue in his current folly to begin with. The side eyed glances and speculative looks at a boy wandering around expecting to compete with those that were larger than him. It was why, upon hearing the voice that was still coming into its own, Fritz stopped and shot a sidelong glance to the other boy, sizing him up in one smooth glance before he smiled benignly.

“Oh? Would you like to spar a little before the tournament? Just a warm up, maybe I will change my mind,” he goaded, but in a good natured way while the dark green of the sea sparkled in his eyes.

Without his smile wavering, Fritz side stepped once and then stepped forward as a splinter of wood from another pair of sparring partners sailed past his head to clatter to the ground. It was the remainder of a training sword that had been whacked so hard by its opponent that it had broken into fragments, leaving the former owner stumbling back with his hands pressed up to his face, blood pulsing from between his fingers. Fritz cocked his head toward the spectacle around them and then faced the redheaded boy fully.

“You really think that it is that dangerous, then?” He tried to sound sweet with the question, like the innocent boy he was made to be. He even rounded his eyes and threw up his hands. “Mayhaps you are right. But could you please spar, just once, just so I can make my grand da proud?”

Fritz even began making his way over to where a rack of training swords were on display, plucking it and a small buckler up. Then another, to which he turned and tossed to the other boy whether he was willing to catch it or not. Looking ever like the exhilarated lad, he grinned expectantly and smashed his sword against the wooden shield in anticipation.

To the presence of any other onlookers that had him in their sight, Fritz was oblivious to them. See, he wanted badly enough to set the stage before the tournament ever began. There was some truth in his words as well, in part. He did want to make his grand da proud. Or, if not proud, then aware of his presence there.

 

[Traveler]

“What‽” Jacoby Reinstahl was certain he misheard the diminutive lad. He turned to regard him, the disbelief flooding through his brown eyes. “Did you not just see what happened? That man’s chances are gone!” The lad spoke of a ‘warm up’, but the draw of his ocean-deep eyes was like the siren to the sailor; one plunge and you were suddenly abandoned to the water’s cold embrace.

“You really think that it is that dangerous, then?” He sounded sweet and innocent, with round eyes and hands thrown up. “Mayhaps you are right. But could you please spar, just once, just so I can make my grand da proud?”

“You shouldn’t be here in the first place,” Jacoby insisted as he followed the candidate to the practice swords. “How proud would your grand da be if you wound up breaking a leg or getting the sense knocked out of your head?” Even as he followed the boy, he wondered how much sense he could have had to begin with. The competition was going to be vicious. He wouldn’t even have been here if it hadn’t been a necessity, and he wasn’t a farm boy fresh off the land. He’d fought before; seen life and death, even at his young age of twenty. The other boy could be no older than sixteen or seventeen, at the most.

He was surprised when a wooden sword came sailing at his head. Quickly he plucked it from the air, then tested its weight with a whirl. He looked over at the other young man and saw that the lad had a sword and a buckler. “Well that’s not quite fair now, is it?” he said, his eyes narrowing though a smile touched his lips. If the boy wanted a lesson on just how wrong it was for him to consider trying, Jacoby was happy to oblige. “You have a shield, and I only have my good looks to protect me.”

He took in his opponent’s stance and balance, and the eager way he smashed his sword and shield together, like a southern brute. “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked. “You’ll wear yourself out before its even begun.” Lowering his center of balance, he began to move, waiting for the imp to charge him, as he expected that someone so excited to begin was want to do. The wooden sword felt weighted, as if its core had been drilled through, and lead set within. Not balanced like a sword, but it would do. The handle was too light, the blade too heavy a third of the distance from the hilt.

“Alright, then,” he agreed, “but if I’m going to spar with you, at least tell me where to have your unconscious body delivered when we’re done.”

Ser Edwain reached the lad, finally, to see him toss a practice sword to another lad about the same age. He saw the crowd was not concerned, everyone focused on the larger brutes; the flashy swords and fancy armor. As the boys circled, he waved the few spectators back. “Give them room,” he entreated, and because of his armor and the red cloak of the guard, they complied, forming a circle the two could safely spar in.

Both lads had some training; it was in their movements and the way they held the grip; firm, but not bone-tight. The younger one, the one he had been worried would be trampled to death, looked much more capable now that he was on equal footing. Though the lad was small, for a man, and slim. Most likely from a struggling family who now sought some redemption in sending their son to war. The other lad, nearly a head taller, was broad of shoulder and had the physique of hard work and lean times. Both would have made excellent candidates for squires. As knights? Edwain wished he could give them ten years to grow into their feet. They were little more than children in his eyes; not ready for the brutality that would await them if they succeeded. Perhaps, not ready for what waited them in the trials.

 

[Story]

“They were being careless, just as many who I have observed. And I have only just arrived,” Fritz remarked right back, tone smooth, in response to the other young man’s surprise that he was nonplussed by the violence, tame as it was, that was occurring all around them. In that moment, his eyes were focused on the other, the smile like a taunt on the pretty bow of his lips.

“Why should I not be here?” He echoed back to the redhead. Turning his attention back to the rack of training equipment, he selected another buckler and tossed that towards him as well, lids falling in a catlike way as he assessed his reluctant opponent like the feline would something to play with. “And I promise my grand da will not notice if I wind up with a broken leg -- or head for that matter -- so I intend to not allow that to happen. What do you think of that plan, instead of the one that you are proposing?”

Again, he clashed wood with wood, grinning now.While the older boy held his own weapon with finesse, Fritz gripped his all wrong, clutching the hilt too hard so that he was not so much brandishing the weapon, but might try and stab at his component instead. Likewise, the buckler was held awkwardly against his side. He at least knew enough to raise it up to protect his torso, but even that was all wrong. His elbow was out, which would only cause his arm to tire fast. Not to mention his stance.

“You can deliver it right to the king for all I care. The real question is where should I send your unconscious body?”

But Fritz was not going to give the other a chance to assess that before he charged forward, like a galloping steed, or a crazed man rushing headlong into battle. He even hollered, grinning like this was all a game to him. And that this was for play.

 

[Traveler]

A sizable crowd had gathered to watch the lads. Some even took wagers on who would be dragged out of the ring and who would not; the older candidates did not consider either of the youths a true challenge, but rather looked at the match as they would have a cock fight in the dusty streets of Dock Side. Among a sea of towheaded candidates, Ser Edwain’s blond mane shimmered in the sunlight like a spray of golden coins, and far above in the banister rails, his companion watched from the shadows.

Ser Ricard spotted the spry little rascal in the clearing facing off a larger lad. He grinned at the scene; in his mind, it would be a slaughter. It also promised to be exceptionally entertaining, especially from his vantage point where he could clearly see the lay of the training fields.

Down in the dust, Ser Edwain kept careful watch over the lads, pushing back the crowd as it ebbed forward. He was loath to have yet another candidate carried off in a stretcher before the tournament began, but perhaps this was the gods’ plan to narrow the range.

“The king‽” Jacoby chuffed. “You’re an arrogant little twit, aren’t you?” He saw the other lad’s chest move forward a moment before the youth rushed forward, hollering like one whose voice hadn’t gone yet through the full change of manhood. Jacoby stepped to the side and used his sword to deflect the blow, whilst shoving off on the shield in an attempt to knock the poor fool to the ground.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he yelled, then lifted the tip of his sword to parry the next blows that came. Soon he would grow tired of the imprudence and simply seek an opening to thwack the lad across the hand or thigh, hoping that pain would communicate what words, apparently, were not.

 

[Story]

Out of his peripheral, Fritz could make out the growing crowd that surrounded the training grounds. While he had expected some attention, he had not expected an audience; not this close to the actual tournament, and certainly not because two of the younger contestants were about to spar. There were plenty of others surrounding them that were preparing for the events to come. Rather than feel nervous at the scrutiny, however, this was almost what he had been looking for when he started his prowl around the grounds.

With an inward grimace, Fritz crashed with the full weight of his body against the other young man, right as he propelled him away with the brunt of his sword. The motion jarred his entire body, sending unpleasant vibrations right down to the toes in his boots. His jaw snapped shut too hard, causing him to bite his tongue and lower lip and his arms wobbled from the impact.

Though Fritz knew he had to do more than run and scream at his opponent, especially with the crowd around. Ever so subtle, his grip shifted on the wooden sword, and he used the momentum from his backward stumble to tip himself upright again. This time, when he took the offensive, the arc of the wooden sword - while slow - had more precision than his mongrel’s charge. He aimed for the other boy’s torso, his sword swings just an upgrade above a new squire learning the motions, while keeping his buckler up.

Only his grip on the flimsy wooden shield had shifted as well, somewhere in the fray, so that he could easily block the other’s attempts to get a shot in, his motions oddly fluid and quick with the shield while his swordplay continued to be slowed, unsure, as they angled and sought to find a vulnerability in the other’s line of defense.

All the while the dark olive of his eyes watched the other’s face, intense with their streaks of gold reflected back from the sun. He saw the frustration on his face and waited for it to come alive in their spar.

 

[Traveler]

If the wily lad was hoping for an audience, he was getting one. Perhaps it was the comedic nature of it all; the screaming charge, the bouncing of spindly legs and the impossible nature of the challenge. A few more pairs of eyes turned towards the small clearing, and from the banister Ser Ricard found his focus narrowing. Something in that mischievous smirk drew him. It wasn’t that he was fond of boys – he was known for his adventurers with the fairer sex. No, it was something else. The swagger. The bravado. Those dimples that pulled in with each grin. The knight leaned forward now, all thoughts of the upcoming tournament forgotten as he watched the mad charge, then the clever regrip of the lad’s hands. ‘That little scamp!’ he praised inwardly, ‘He’s up to something…’

Jacoby tilted his head when he saw the lad catch himself. His opponent might have been an arrogant twat, but he was also a well-balanced one. The taller lad had only a moment to consider this before the boy charged again, this time more calculated; skilled. Not quite skilled enough yet to worry Jacoby, but more skilled than one collision should have made him.

It took everything he had to block the onslaught of attacks, and suddenly the lesson seemed to shift its course. Jacoby’s eyes narrowed and he began to watch more carefully. A few of the strikes hit hard enough to jar his grip. Not only did his opponent seem more skilled; he seemed quicker. The reddish haired lad’s breaths came quicker. He felt reluctant to attack the smaller youth, thinking that it made him seem the bully. Yet… he was himself being hammered by barely deflected and blocked blows.

‘Damn it!’ he thought, as his face flushed in frustration. This felt wrong, like hitting his little brother, or slapping a girl, but he couldn’t let it go on much longer, lest he wear himself out and be tired before it began! He stopped defending himself when one solid smack caught him off guard and sent a stinging vibration into his wrist, eliciting a gasp. He changed tactics and moved to offend, driving forward and seeking an opening in the other boy’s defense.

 

[Story]

Fritz was trying not to eat it up and kept his expression schooled into one of determination. Only he could not help but widen his eyes in a mingle of fear and surprise every time the other young man’s sword swung too close. And while he had started in on an offensive, little more than to keep Jacoby on his toes, soon enough he had shifted again so that the shield was held up at an awkward ankle, so that every time the buckler caught the blunt of the wooden sword, it jarred his arm and caused him to lower it.

By the time the redhead had turned the offensive back on Fritz, he was leaving more room for the other’s sword to catch him. And it did -- multiple times -- as, from the appearance of things, his arm grew tired and weak from blocking the attacks.

Out of the corner of his eye, he took note that they had even more people watching them. So, nodding to himself, he let all of his defenses drop. But not in so obvious of a way. He braced his feet down into the packed dirt, but his stance was all wrong, so that the next blow from the sword that he made a feeble to block had him stumbling backwards and off balance.

The second hit he caught fully, despite the fact that he lifted she shield up again, feebly, as if it were becoming an effort, and missed the block utterly. Pain stung true when the wooden blade slapped him smartly. This time, the boy fell backwards onto his arse, face flinching as he lifted both blade and buckler, “Truce!”

One knock down and he was throwing in the towel. Lowering the practice weapon, the boy had the decency to look disgruntled, and the feeling was genuine. He caught the looks of those surrounding them, and while he expected the bemusement and concern that one who looked so young had been thrashed thoroughly, he still felt shame at what he had just displayed.

“Peace, you win,” he uttered, turning his full attention up to the other boy.

 

[Traveler]

Block, push, slash, move – Jacoby fell into the rhythm of attacking and shifting that he had been taught, feeling more balanced now that he wasn’t only on the defense. Each time he felt compassion for his opponent, at the youth’s apparent weariness or pain, he reminded himself that the wily lad had been the one to instigate their match. He had yearned for it; taunted Jacoby until he could only comply or walk away and walking away meant the other young man might enter the competition and find himself crippled or worse – embarrassing himself in front of his ‘grand da’.

It seemed Jacoby’s timing was perfect. The other boy seemed wearied from the match, with each successful smack turning the tide until the taller lad was the aggressor, driving the other to retreat. As he did so, murmurs from the crowd encouraged him:

Get his thigh!

No mercy, boys!

The pups’ have teeth!

Jacob found himself growing angry, though not at the lad. Not completely. The crowd’s jeering frustrated him; distracted him, and had his opponent not stumbled back upon his arse and called for truce, he might have turned his sword upon the crowd.

“Peace, you win,” the smaller lad uttered, turning his full attention up to the other boy.

Jacoby paused, then tucked the blade under his shied arm. “Alright,” he said, offering his hand to assist the other. “You’re not bad, actually,” he admitted, looking down at the other’s face.

Ser Edwain thought the same, though he quietly added ‘for a potential squire’ after the statement. He saw the banners being raised on either side of the field and knew they were moments from starting. The knights who would be running the tournament were getting into place, and four knights on horseback waited at either end. He glanced to the gate to see if Ser Reuban had ceased taking names yet; the more they started the better for the final draw, but the longer the sorting would take during the next three days. For the most part, contestants were expected to be eliminated by a either a terrible showing or an injury, but they would all be weighed on the final day by the points they earned. And then, of course, the final group would be judged on their battle with a true night, chosen by draw.

Above the field, in the deck that Ser Ricard and Edwain had occupied, assembled the guards who would accompany King Locke Tyrven and the Knight General, Ser Willams, and his wife. Perhaps even the Crown Prince would appear on such a day as this. Certainly, if the advisors to the king could convince that recluse to show his face to the populace his grandson would have to follow suit.

 

[Story]

The younger boy took the other’s hand in his own and used it to help in hefting himself back to his feet. His hand was smaller, but not without its share of callouses, thus proving that he was no stranger to holding a blade. An almost sheepish grin was playing on his lips, which were bowed in a pretty way, fuller than the average man’s -- thus driving home the idea that the boy’s face should have been right at home as a sweet boy, meant for pleasure instead of the fields. Eyes that had seemed hazel from afar, now struck by the sun, now lit up green and vibrant at this close of proximity to another. An errant curl had fallen free of the cap that covered the lad’s face -- and had somehow not fallen off during their spar -- and curled across his cheek, which fanned high and elegant on his face.

They had gotten closer than Fritz would have liked. Realizing this, he skipped back and flourished a nervous bow, grinning in a mischievous way, “I suppose we shall see now in truth.”

The lad winked at the his sparring partner, then hesitated before adding, “I am called Fritz, and I thank you for your assistance.”

Not that he was going to give the other much opportunity to respond to his odd choice in words. Turning just in time to hear the horns flare across the field to let onlookers notice that the tournament was about to begin and to begin finding seats, Fritz slunk off like a cat to meld in with the crowd outside of the training grounds. While Ser Ruben had been kind enough to prattle off where he was to prepare for the ongoing games, Fritz had already knew.

Just as he knew what was going to take place in the games already, where others too green to a knights’ tourney might still be in anticipation. The first would be a game of hand to hand combat, in a unique gladiator style where the opponents would be able to select their own (blunted or weakened) weapon. Only then would it move to a more traditional fighting with sword and buckler, as Fritz and the other boy had demonstrated in the training pit. Then there would be archery, jousting (something that Fritz cringed at), and other, smaller games dispersed throughout.

One per day, with the judges keeping track of points. If one were so lucky after this first day, they would be sponsored by a noble house’s colors, including the king’s own colors. Otherwise, they would be recognized only be a color given to them by one of the knights if they did not already come from a recognized house.

Fritz, of course, was hoping to be able to wear the king’s colors.

As he was ushered along by fully fledged knights to be coached as to what was expected of them in this tourney, Fritz was forced to discard his own gear in a pavilion set up for them right along the main staging area where those who wanted to watch could find seats, food vendors, refreshment. The gruff knight had silver in his beard, Fritz noticed, as he stood between two broad shouldered lads who reeked of their time in the sun, his voice matching his look as he spoke.

“Lads, for our first game, we will be participating in hand to hand combat. You will be provided a selection of weaponry - none that can grievously injure, mind -” he started, shooting a pair of men a warning look as they snickered and nudged each other. “...but nevertheless, can injure you. You are to select a weapon and fight in one on one combat as your names are called until one of you has either fallen or cries for a truce. This is not a street fight, but it is a way to demonstrate your skills with a weapon in your hand. I expect each and every one of you to behave as befitting a proper knight, or you will be disqualified.”

And here we go, Fritz thought dryly to himself, eyes absently searching for any sign of his newfound training companion, and wondering if he might have the opportunity to meet him in the field in truth.

 

[Traveler]

That kid was…strange. Jacoby noted his oddly pretty face and nervous bow as he skipped back and wondered what kind of travesty played in the other youth’s life to make him need to prove himself so profusely. The other winked, and then hesitated before adding, “I am called Fritz, and I thank you for your assistance.”

“Jacoby,” he answered, then watched the lad disappear into the crowd. ‘What an odd kid,’ he thought, shaking his head as he went to return the practice equipment. The horns blew long, and immediately everyone was scrambling to the assembly point where they would wait further instructions from the knights. Having no gear to begin with, he joined the others as they milled about looking for an advantageous place to stand. The covered shed row was open to the field, walled about and built much like a stable. The lad reached up to a crossbeam, then pulled himself up to scramble in the rafters where he could sit and watch, feeling much more comfortable in the beams above the crowd then shoulder to shoulder with the other men below. As he dangled h is feet and listened to the knight’s instructions, he had a chance to take in the whole of the contestants. It looked as if there were over sixty men assembled. Some had the hardened look of experience, and others, like the queer little one named Fritz, looked like a puppy among wolves.

Before the competition would begin, however, the announcements were to be made; the gruff knight before them was joined by several others who measured themselves six paces in between, standing flanked with the group of contestants.

“Okay,” Silverbeard announced, “We’ll be running four simultaneous matches today. As you hear your name called, line up behind one of the eight knights before you. Once we’re all accounted for, you’ll follow your knight to the field, where we will all stand politely while the Knight General is announced, and the King makes his greeting to the crowds. Once that is done, we will return here, remaining in our groups,” he emphasized, “until it is time to begin the contests. Any questions?”

One raised a hand and asked if they would remain in their groups for the whole of the contest.

“Until you are disqualified,” the silvered knight replied, to which several of the contestants laughed, and the man’s companion nudged him good-naturedly.

Another raised a hand. “There’s going to be six selected for knighthood, aye? Why are their eight groups then?”

“Ah…” the knight replied, “on the last day, who ever received enough points to qualify will be allowed a duel of their choice with an established knight. If they score well, they may be selected for knighthood. If not…” he shrugged.

They began to call off the names, aligning the men into the groups. Jacoby found himself in a line behind Sir Edwain, and Fritz, behind Sir Ricard. The others, all cloaked in the same red of the royal knighthood, finished their roll calls, and then the trumpets were sounded to bring them into the fields.

 

[Story]

For the first time since Fritz had stepped foot in the sea swept lands of northern Devarry, he felt nervous. They were only a small distance away from the southern lands that his mother had been born into. While Talissen was a place that Fritz had never visited himself - he had thrown himself further than the continent, skipped right across the vast ocean, and had immersed himself in the more distant cultures that lay in apparent mystery to the many who had traveled here to play their hand at becoming a king’s knight. This was the closest that he had been so close to home since he was a child, and though his mentor had warned against him coming to participate in this folly, there was a desperate longing that needled its way in his chest to want to belong someplace.

While the greying knight rambled on about the rules of the games, Fritz licked his lips, eyes darting to study what was soon to be his opponents, while also wiping his damp palms on his trousers. His feet fidgeted, causing him to move around where he stood, distracted as it was. There were other young men - boys - as Fritz was presenting him, who also looked a mix of anxious and excited in one. But then there were seasoned men; men who would make gallant knights indeed, who were sons from minor houses, wearing their finery and had likely been trained in swordplay from an early age.

So for the first time since he had demonstrated his cocky swagger into the training field, Fritz had the first impulse to leave now before it was too late. With uncertainty starting to cloud over his features, he cocked his head to the tend flap that swayed lazily in the breeze, and wondered if anyone would notice if he just … slipped away, to forget what he had set out to do and all its nonsense.

Only he did not have the opportunity to even take a step when the Knight called the name he had given -- Fritz Richter. A summons to step forward and join others behind a tall, dark haired knight draped in red. Freezing in his boots, Fritz stared stupidly for a long enough moment that the Knight lifted his eyes up and repeated himself.

“Fritz Richter, please step forward and join Ser Ricard.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled to no one, as the knight could not hear him from the crowd.

He sucked his lower lip between his teeth as he stepped forward, his footsteps wooden as he came to stand just behind the knight. Curiosity tugging at him, Fritz distracted himself by edging up close to get a good look at the man whose team he now belonged to, noting the broadness of his shoulders, the cut of his jaw, the gleam of his eye.

This was a real knight.

Then it became the second time that Fritz was having regrets about his choices. His stomach squeezed into a knot as he considered how silly he must look, smaller than the rest. ...Until he reminded himself that it was his appearance that would win him this tournament to begin with, as no one suspected that someone as diminutive could dare challenge a full grown man.

The inner thought dragged another grin across his face, which remained until the last man was called to stand in a line.

“Let us be out in the field. Remember to follow the Knight you have been assigned to and do as they say. And remember that this is an official tournament; the king will be present, so not only will you be expected to demonstrate your battle skills, but you are also expected to show respect, chivalry, and brotherhood towards one another. There will be no brawls. Do you hear me?”

There was a rumble from those assembled. Fritz mumbled a quiet ‘aye’ in response while his eyes slid to some of the rougher seeming men who seemed to leer and grin when the rules were spoken by the Knight. He suspected that while most of their lot would adhere to the rules of the tournament, there would be outliers among them, the poorer classes, who would be disqualified early on for their behavior.

Standing up straight, Fritz prepared to follow Ser Recard when the Knight was ready, though as soon as they left the tent, he was again distracted by the sheer number of people that entered his line of sight. He squinted against the sun that whipped into his face as he scanned the sea of faces, searching for the king himself. ...Even though he knew that the Locke would be the last one present; he was meant to give a speech, after all.

They would have to pass by the main stand, where royalty and nobility would be sitting underneath a pavilion that sheltered them from the sun’s head. Perched at the lowest tier, a line of ladies awaited, dangling flowers and ribbons like prizes, the colors sometimes matching the dresses that they wore. There was one lady in particular that stood off to the side, there to greet the Knights and the competitors.

The redhead had a smile plastered on her face that made Fritz snort once they were close enough that he could make her out fully. It was like she was not even trying to make it pleasant, so that her lips were curled into a smiling grimace. Flower petals littered the ground at her feet where she had plucked a good chunk of her bouquet half to death.

“A flower for mine knight,” she grated out to each and every one of the men who passed her by as she offered them a bluebonnet from her hand, some of which were missing petals. “Good luck to mine knight,” she drawled, sarcasm dripping from her voice. “A favor for mine knight,” was her last catch phrase, and Fritz couldn’t help but notice her eyes roll once a man or lad passed her by after that one.

For his part, his face split into a grin as she offered him a flower, tucking it up behind his hair. “Keep up the good work,” he snarked right back, chortling under his breath, and winning a mischievous grin from the young woman before she was turning to Ser Edwain’s group, pausing her droning well wishes to flicker green eyes over his form before offering a cat-like smile of his encouragement. She offered him a flower with no petals missing.

 

[Traveler]

The first name called was that little cocky runt, and Ser Ricard could have laughed at the irony of it. But laughing would have been unknightly, and so he only smirked at the little one walked up and took his place behind the broad-shouldered man. ‘This won’t take long,’ Ricard thought to himself, crossing his arms as he waited in the sun. He glanced over at his companion, Sir Edwain, and then back at the crowd before them. Eventually his group began to grow; an equal disbursement of young warriors-to-be and seasoned…

He frowned. Slowly the knight turned to look at the menagerie behind him. From Fritz to Hans, at the back, they were lined up, not randomly, but by size. ‘Shit,’ he thought, ‘they’re making it too fair.’ He turned back around and shot the silver-bearded knight a scowl. This was not what they had been led to believe would happen. They thought that the ten best, most fierce warriors would be chosen, not a sprinkling of mascots holding the title by name alone.

Ricard’s gaze glowered upon the diminutive lad directly at his back. Though the boy had spunk, he was too fragile for what they were about to embark upon. Too…eager, and squirrely. He could almost feel the tension and forced joviality of the lad, and wondered if the boy’s prior occupation had been as a cutpurse.

Back in the shade structure, Jacoby only had eyes for the grizzled knight. He listened intently to the rules, as if there might be a secret hidden in his words, and when his name was called he swung down on his hands and dropped lightly to the ground before finding his spot behind the golden-haired knight. The competition was already beginning to look promising.

Ser Edwain Slayte was thinking the same thing as Ricard as the first of the medium build contestants came to join his line. The towheaded boy who had been challenged to spar with the wily one was called next, and then a larger candidate, until finally a brute of a man, looking more the part of a blacksmith than a knight joined the long line of contestants. He glanced at the other seven lines and saw that they were all aligned similarly, and came to the same conclusion as Ser Ricard Debaise, the man at his immediate left. The General Knight was setting this up to allow the people’s favorites, regardless of size or strength, a change to succeed. This was not how it would be if they went to war; everyone would be equally vulnerable, and not sized up with their ‘fair’ opponent to fight to the death. No…this stank of politics and favoritism. His biggest concern was the little ones; if one them were chosen and then sent out to serve the king, they’d be the first to die.

As he took his place behind the other lines, breaking away from formation to pass beside the lady of the tournament, he noted her wooden smile despite the sunlight upon her hair, and the special position she commanded by being placed to the side, where every contestant and knight would be given one of the flowers in her basket. He noted the other ladies who waited anxiously; some had eyes for a particular man, perhaps their lover or husband, and others seemed equally enthusiastic for all.

He waited for his line’s turn, then began to walk past the redhead, thinking that her flowers were meant for the competitors alone. As he approached, the look on her face changed and she smiled, more genuinely, whilst offering him a flower.

“This bloom would be more fitting adorning you, my lady,” he said as he reached out to place it in her braid. “Keep it safe for me,” and with that he passed by, allowing the men behind him to receive their favors from the woman he had already forgotten.

They lined up all facing the king’s dais, under a shade of colorful canvas and silk. Trumpeters raised up their long brass horns, and blew a fanfare to the crowds, and then, from the side of the pavilion, marched the King’s Guard; ranks of men, all matching in demeanor and height, and looking like replicas of each other, moved as one to ready the platform, before his royal highness was announced to the crowd.

Jacoby scanned the pavilion for the face of the Knight General, then, seeing only the king at the moment, peered over at his competitors. As he looked across the faces one stood out – the wry pointy-chinned face of the lad who had insisted on sparring. He wondered if the boy was regretting it now, or if in his naïve excitement to see the king, had completely forgotten their little match in the fields. ‘No worries,’ he thought, ‘he’ll see soon enough. I have my own worries to tend to.’

A cheer from the crowd drew his attention back to the pavilion, where they king had just raised his scepter in greeting to the people. Joining in, Jacoby clapped with the others, and added his voice to the throngs of people shouting “Long live the King! Long live King Locke!”

 

[Story]

Locke Tyrven did not look like a man who went about waving scepters everywhere he went. In fact, it looked like a prop in his hand that had been placed there like he was playing a part in the theatre. Already, he had declined anything more gaudy than a simple circlet that rested on his brow, and wore no jewels or trinkets aside from it. He wore no foppish garments that were seen in a court setting, but had somehow been convinced into ceremonial armor that glinted bright in the sunlight, giving him the look of a sanctioned paladin; a warrior of light. Matching the gleam of his armor was the shine of silver laced thick in dark hair, near black, creating a confusing contrast against a chiseled face that could have been thirty or fifty - and anywhere in between; ageless in a way that caused more whispers and gossip among those who stared too closely. Quicksilver, too, were the eyes that gazed down into the crowd that waved and screamed, like the man was a spectacle, some rarity to grace their presence. And while he did his best to soften the intense, even dour, expression on his face, he was still like a hawk in the midst of a particularly ripe hunting ground.

There were stories that flit from ear to ear surrounding the Farseer. The most common was that he had been seduced by a faerie queen in his youth, kept in her realm for years, and as a gift upon his release was blessed with youth and the Sight to help him navigate his way through mankind after so long of living amongst their kind. Some even told that he was near a thousand years old and had championed the defeat of many tyrants through the centuries, further romanticizing his shrouded existence.

Oddly not present was his Queen, at least for now, thought seated up on the dais where he stood was a young man and a woman whom could easily pass as his wife; of middling years, the Lady was still striking in her emerald green gown, cut modestly, and her ripple of blonde hair that cascaded in ripples down her back. She sat, stoic yet proud, as she watched Locke turn and smile to an older man - by appearances, if not by actual age - and woman who sat next to his own brethren. With a motion, the Knight General took his place at Locke’s side. With just that motion, the trumpeteers were silenced, the sound dying away as the King turned his full attention again to the ground.

“I would like to thank you all for making the journey to be here today. Some of you have traveled further than others to celebrate with us today, for today - and the days to come - has provided us with a reason for festivities. We have celebrated a decade and more of peace, made possible by our men, women… of our soldiers, our people… and of course, our valiant knights who have led us into victories that have landed us into prosperous time. Let us all shed our responsibilities for this next week and revel, for our own Knight General has announced his retirement from his services to the kingdom.” The King paused here, looking around, and the crowd cheered. For all his feyness, Tyrven had a natural charisma, and it showed in the reaction of those who had gathered. “And well deserved, I’d say! In honour of his service, we will be holding a tournament, where we have invited willing men to join the knighthood as fresh faces to honor the kingdom. I will allow the Knight General to speak now, as this is his celebration…” The cheeky grin presented by Locke was met with another flare of shouting and cheering from the crowd.

With a flourish, Locke stepped back, taking his seat next to his daughter-in-law on the dais, and set the scepter down with a grimace at it against the plush seating - resembling too much a throne for his liking - as he turned his full attention to Ser Jonas Williams.


All the while, Fritz felt like he was tied in knots, hands wrung in front of him, staring up at the man giving his speech with a mixture of familiarity and uncertainty. He even shifted too close to the Knight who led them, one Ser Ricard, bumping into him awkwardly. Startling, he dragged his gaze to the man, once again drawn to the way he held himself - tall, his face set, a handsome man. Clearing his throat awkwardly, he stepped back into place with a mumbled apology, only to wait until the Knight was no longer looking anywhere near him to ogle -- just a little longer.

That is, until Locke’s speech was coming to a close. Fritz listened to it with a sense of irony, and unsurprisingly, a welling of anger that hardened his face and narrowed his eyes. Until he could practically hear the steam bursting from his ears as the crowd cheered the man on the dais. He knew as the King’s speech closed and the Knight General was introduced that there would be no more fuckery as he had demonstrated in the training field. Despite the judgement from his fellows, the doubt that someone as petite as him could even stand a chance, Fritz knew that he had to prove these thoughts wrong. So as his anger came to a shimmer, a slow smile instead replaced the heated clenching of his jaw.


Just as everyone was lining up and the speech beginning, so too was Maira handing out the last flower in her basket. By then, her feet were hurting from standing so long out there, though her pride hurt that much worse. She longed to be back home, where the woods ran thick and there was no one to bother her; where there was not quite so many people around. And where she did not have to uphold silly tasks like wishing bumbling men with puffed out chests well in the folly of man clanking toy swords and playing at battle.

If it were not her father’s celebration, she might have found some excuse to hand over her duties to a more willing lady. The gods knew there were plenty fanning themselves, panting like bitches in the throes of heat.

She knew the reason, of course. Her father wished her to be married off. Doting man that he was, he had not foisted her upon anyone just yet, and only prayed that his headstrong daughter did not ruin her chances with her fiery dragon’s tongue at any man who dares. After all, she had already chased away suitors who had come to curry favor…

...With her father.

Maira almost threw her basket down, but did not. Instead taking a lean against the wall and watched with hooded lids as they all lined up like a motley crew of good lads. And one lassie, if her eyes told her right. Not that any of the men had noticed -- they were stupid in their blindness, and Maira silently cheered for the other for her boldness in competing in this competition, at risk of getting caught for what she was.

All blind bastards with their cocks out, measuring.

Except, perhaps, the Knight with the radiant smile, the bright hair. Though that might have just been the smile, the dancing of his eyes, and the fact that he had tucked a flower in her hair. She reached up absently, touching the petals, eyes scanning until they landed on the Knight. Worrying her lower lip, she observed closely, and waited for the games to begin.

 

[Traveler]

The king stood like a shining beacon in the pavilion. The Shining Star, the Farseer – he had been the center of every lore and song that had lifted young Jacoby’s childhood from the dredges of hopelessness to one where the gods cared for the years of man and blessed those who They had deemed worthy. King Locke Tyrven was as radiant as he stood there, Jacoby imagined, as he had been on the day of his coronation. And there beside the heroic royal was the Knight General Ser Jonas Williams, who would turn 60 in the midst of the tournament celebration.

As the young knight candidate gazed up at them, he hung on ever word spoken by his idolized regent. Every time the king said ‘you’, he felt like the words had been spoken to him, alone, as if destiny were whispering to his soul. His eyes flickered to the Knight General as the king confirmed his retirement, and silently Jacoby thought to himself that most knights did not retire willingly; they died or were so injured, that a retirement was the regency’s polite way of telling them their time to serve was over. King Locke spoke of his most honored knight, and then turned the dais to him, but just before he stepped back to sit, a smile flashed across the crowd and furrowed young Jacob’s brow. ‘That cheeky grin…so familiar. So blasted annoying.’ He felt a pang of angst for thinking thusly of his ruler and lowered his gaze, his own smile growing sullener.

They said that first impressions tended to ring true. Why then, had the felt such momentary disdain towards the king on the first occasion he had to lay eyes upon him? He felt…guilty. This was the legendary Fey king, the Immortal One, the Beloved Champion of Devarry, the heart of the Talissen Continent.

Ser Jonas Williams, Knight General of the King, and hero many times over, raised his hands to the crowd. A smile graced his aged face, and though he looked old enough to possibly be the king’s father, he remembered his first day as a young squire, and eventually a knight. To think that he would one day serve King Locke and stand at his side was a dream he could only imagine. ‘One day,’ he thought, ‘one of these young men will stand where I do today.’

He drew in a breath. His voice had carried across training fields and battle fields; had commanded the swords of hundreds and had shouted the call to war. His voice was just as broad this day as he addressed the throngs gathered in his honor and for a chance to see the king. His golden hair had long since silvered, giving the man the look of one crowned in gold and silver. His eyes shined dark and clear, penetrating through every anxious heart in the field, and as he surveyed the men standing before their king, he knew the tournaments would be blessed. Yes…somewhere on that field would be the one who was worthy to stand in the seat of power and serve the king. They only had to find him.

On the field, Ser Ricard felt the soft bump of the diminutive candidate beside him. He lowered his gaze, casting it to the side to glare at the cheeky bastard. Once the troublesome little tyke moved back a step, he returned his gaze to the king. His jaw clenched as the watched the Knight General stepping before the crowd, and he forgot the little brunette at his side, instead focusing his attention at the man before him.

Ser Jonas lowered his hands and spoke once the cheering quieted. “My fellow Devarrians!” Cheers rose again as the crowd was recognized. “In the forty-four years I have had the honor of serving King Locke Tryvern, I have had many days to be grateful. Today, as I rejoice with you, my fellow citizens, I cannot begin to count my blessings. To serve a great king,” he acknowledged King Locke, and the cheers once again roared. Once the thunder settled, he raised a hand to continue. “I count the greatest blessing my lovely wife Annabeau,” he paused to take the hand of the lovely, handsome redheaded woman who was seated near his side as she blushed, and kissed her fingertips. Then he turned to the field and waved a hand in Maira’s direction. “And of course, my lovely daughter and only child, Maira – whom all of the contestants have had the honor of meeting as they passed by their king.”

“My dear daughter,” his gaze lingered on the woman standing in the field. “She can be a handful, but no child has been as loved as she has by myself. And would you not all agree - she is lovely?” he asked the crowd, and in response they cheered her beauty.

“The greatest joy a knight has, after coming home from battle, is the praise of his king and the kiss of his lovely wife. So – the winner of the tournament three days hence, shall receive an additional boon with the king’s permission. If the winner is already wed, he shall receive a full year’s salary as a gift!”

Many of the candidates cheered, imagining the wealth a full year’s salary would bring. “And,” he added emphatically, “if the candidate champion is not yet wed or betrothed, he shall receive my daughter, Maira’s hand in holy matrimony, to commence directly preceding the announcement of his achievement!”

There was a stunned silence, then the audience roared in approval at the thought of the Knight General’s daughter being married to the tournament champion. This meant that a commoner had just as much chance as those noble born to marry into the nobility, and nearly everyone in the arena had noticed the fiery-haired beauty passing out bluebonnets.

Ser Ricard slid his gaze to the side, past Fritz’s head, to steal a glance at the woman in question, before resuming his forward gaze. ‘Now that would be a prize worth winning.’ He glanced to the left, to see how Ser Edwain fared, but the other knight looked…bored. And in fact, he was.

The golden knight was trying hard not to roll his eyes. ‘Prizes, money, women, blah, blah, blah. The men are hot. They need the shade before the first fight. We’re wasting time and daylight,’ ran his thoughts. Now that the pleasantries were done, the wanted this over with.

 

[Story]

Ser Edwain was not the only one who wanted to get on with the tournament, nor was he the only one rolling his eyes as the Knight General gave his own speech and a new declaration of a prize. The line of knight-to-be’s eyes all wandered over to the flower girl as she was indicated by the man -- all just in time to watch her mouth fall open in shock. Followed immediately by her basket and a flurry of petals exploded against the wooden supports.

Her shout of outrage was at least drowned out by the sound of the crowd, though from what Fritz could observe, her head was about ready to blow free from her neck with how red she was turning. He could even see the green fire sparking from her eyes as she turned her glare towards the man who only smiled indulgently down at the girl. Hands fisted, Maira huffed and whirled in a flurry of skirts, her hair like a blaze of flame behind her as she whirled and disappeared around the side, no doubt to make her way up to confront her father.

Fritz cackled softly and bit his lower lip to keep from bursting out into a fit of giggles, though he was unable to stop the snort, nor the muffled mumble to himself, “She looks ready to perform patricide.”

But then he had the opportunity to truly think of the newest announcement. If he won, for instance. His normally tanned face blanched and, for a second, looked as if he might keel over and puke.

Only to stand up straight and at attention when the trumpets blared, shaking himself as the King’s flags unfurling in a cascade of banners, announcing the beginning of the tournament proper. A squire stepped up to the dais, his voice carrying as he announced to the crowd that the tournament was about to begin and went over a brief scroll of what the observers would see on this day. Then, taking a breath much to large for him, he read off the first two who would be fighting in hand to hand combat.

“Gavin of Fairbrook and Aeron ap Derwyn! Take your places and select a weapon!”

While Fritz was processing the new turn of events, he also turned his focused on the first two that would be battling it out on the field. Gavin selected a traditional short sword, its edges blunted for the tournament, while Aeron selected a lance. Temporarily, Fritz forgot about the would be marriage to the Knight General’s daughter and honed in on the two as they began to the cheer of the crowds. Where Gavin was lithe, his clothes fine, and also wearing the colors of his house, the other man was stockier, taller, and wore leather. It became immediately clear that Aeron was the more superior fighter to the other man who, no doubt, had only trained in the art of swordplay whereas Aeron looked as if he had been in battles.

In the end, it was Gavin who lost, yelling for Aeron to yield with the blunted tip of the lance at his throat, naming Aeron the victor of their first round.

There were a handful of other fights, some easily won by their opponent, and others more of a consistent match that drew out collective gasps and cheers from the crowd before Fritz heard his name called.

The boy jerked from his stance, his stomach with him, and turned wide eyed to the squire there to lead him and his opponent out to the grounds. Fritz barely looked at who he was paired with -- a lanky young man, not dissimilar to Jacoby, but not quite the young man he had sparred with, much to Fritz’s disappointment. Another minor noble, with the way he was dressed. And the way he had selected another sword, his sharp faced grinning like a shark - all teeth and dead eyes - as he swung the blade around and sneered at the smaller boy.

Fritz looked away quickly and went immediately to a quarterstaff. He handled this much the same way he had handled the practice weapon in the training yard. Clunky, unsure, which only made the other man grin the wider.

His own grin did not appear until they had stepped out into the sunlight, surrounded by faces. But if the cheeky grin that suddenly appeared on the boy’s face did anything to deter the other man, it didn’t show. If anything, he only leered harder. Suddenly, his grip shifted on the quarter staff, his stance changing.

“Gerald of Brusch and Fritz Richter!”

His boots moved easily across the ground as Fritz paced like a panther in a cage; lithe, sure, though his eyes had dropped to watch the motion of the other man’s shadow by the time the trumpet blared, signalling them to start the fight. While Gerald rushed forward as soon as he was able, taking the offensive, Fritz danced the quarterstaff across his hands, down the length of his arm, and then across his shoulders before he even made it across the way to raise his sword. Smiling glibly, the boy seemed to dance to one side, sidestepping the elegant sweep of sword as it arced toward him as if the swordsman were a drunken brute in a bar brawl.

The rest took all of ten seconds, perhaps.

The first hard twak! Of the quarterstaff hit Gerald in the backs of his knees, sending him down into the dirt. The second caught him under the chin, where Fritz’s other hand had joined his first on the staff, evenly spread, to hold the young man’s head up and forward, but also back, until his hands dropped his sword to scramble against the dense wood that pressed into his windpipe.

Fritz only gave enough so that he could breathe and speak the words that he wanted to hear.

“I yield,” he gasped out.

Fritz grinned like the imp he was and stepped back, offering his hand to assist the other up even as he bowed. Not very sportsman-like, however, that the other young man glared at the hand instead and helped himself up as the quarterstaff was swung away, swirled, its end stuck down into the dirt.

While the crowd cheered their delight at the match, Fritz shrugged, eyes squinting into the dais to see if he could see Locke. Only the King had turned his face, speaking urgently to the Knight General, while Maira, red-faced, looked distraught as she spoke feverishly with her mother while trying to get her father’s attention.

His cheer gone, Fritz turned and made his way back to where the others waited for their chance to fight. Today, he knew, was going to be a long day.

 

[Traveler]

‘My lord…’ Ser Ricard’s eyes, along with many others, turned to view the prize’s tantrum as her basket hit the wood. The diminutive youth at his side seemed to echo his very thoughts; the Knight General was in for a bumpy ride. Apparently, whomever it was who married her would be in for the same. As the fiery lady stormed away, he thought of the temper she had displayed, and the sheer delight of it. This was no blushing new bloom to whimper and cow to a man’s demands. Lady Maira was a challenge, and he liked challenges. This competition, where every man was equal at the end, suddenly had an alluring appeal.

His companion was looking everywhere but at the lady, his boredom at the games apparent. Unlike Ricard, Ser Edwain had never looked twice at Maira, and if truth be told, and any lady in particular. It was not that he did not like their company, or one day plan to marry. It was just that they were so boring and predictable. A simple smile and a kind word, and suddenly they followed him everywhere, like lost puppies hoping for a crumb. They had no cares beyond romance, fashion, and the latest traveling bard. No…the ‘prize’, was not a prize at all, but a noose. He could feel it tightening even now around some luckless lacky’s neck, who did not even realize his life was soon to end.

Halfway through the competition, Jacoby watched as the lad he had sparred with was called out to try his chances. The sea captain’s son crossed his arms over his chest, waiting to see the boy beat, but hoping it wouldn’t prove too embarrassing. The lad chose a stick to fight against a sword, and Jacoby shook his head. In his mind young Fritz had chosen the inferior weapon; a staff against a blade. But as the event unfolded, so did Jacoby’s arms, and soon…it was over. “That little fucker,” he muttered, realizing he’d been fooled. He caught sight of the sideways glance and stern frown Ser Edwain shot him and hastily muttered an apology. But now, at least, he knew. The twerp had skills.

Jacoby was not the only one who noticed Fritz’s achievements. Ser Ricard sported a crooked grin at this unexpected turn of events, and when Gerald yielded, Ricard clenched a fist in glee, mouthing ‘YES!’ quite silently. He had the same off-kilter grin on his face as the diminutive imp returned to their group, and as Fritz passed him to walk to the end of their line, Ser Ricard winked, said “Well done,” and smacked him on the back. He liked being wrong about underdogs, especially if they were on his team.

Jacoby swung his gaze to glance at the dais, noticing the couple beside the king. Certainly, that man was the Crown Prince, Victor. Rumor had it the man had gone simple after a horse had kicked his head. The prince sat beside his stunning wife, a golden dream who looked the stuff of fairy tales and was seemingly ever glancing at the king. Prince Victor simply gazed out onto the field, occasionally smacking his right thigh with the palm of his hand, but otherwise, quite still.

“Turn your attention to the field,” Ser Edwain advised. At Jacoby’s inquisitive glance, he explained quietly. “Worry about your future opponents, not about the king. Trust me, he’s not worrying over you.”

“I thought he had a son. A grandson, I mean,” he fought the urge to glance back at the Crown Prince and his wife.

“Hmm,” was Ser Edwain’s only answer.

“You’d think the man would come to the competition. He must be of age…”

Jacoby was spared the golden knight’s rebuke when his name was called. “Henry of Calhoun and Jacoby Reinstahl!”

As the ruddy-haired man strode out into the field, he could feel the eyes of the crowd upon him. This was different from sparing with Fritz, but not so different from the ship, where the captain was king, and everyone depended on each other to survive. His opponent was a bullish man of high birth, as evidenced by his well-tailored clothing and his weapon of choice; a rapier. Jacoby sighed. Of all the weapons, that was the one he hated most. He picked up one as well and tested the bend of the narrow, tapered blade.

“Do you know how to use it, farm boy?” Taunted Henry. He took up a fighting stance, his hand held close to his shoulder.

“I’ve seen one in a blacksmith’s shop,” Jacoby smiled back. This was no whimpering youth of a man, but a trained nobleman that he faced. He nodded as they faced each other, pacing about with their strong feet forward as they took measure.

A testing lunge was taken by Henry, coming well within Jacoby’s reach. At the last moment Jacoby constrained his opponent’s blade, sending it off to the right and lunging in for a point.

As the blade stopped an inch from his face, Henry flinched. Then he realized they were not there for points, but for yielding, and quickly stepped in several times, lunging for strikes that were constrained or confined to the hilt, always nearing the mark, but never reaching. The crowd was enjoying the back and forth. Or rather, the back and back, as attacker continued to be denied, breathing more heavily as the burden of missing, and of being embarrassed, weighed upon his ego.

Henry lunged again, this time going for two quick jabs, and reaching behind with his free hand to balance himself. But Jacoby, his freehand still at his heart, constrained the blade and brought his rapier tip about in full rotation, sharply, smacking his opponent so brutally about the ears that the sheer force of it drew blood. The crowd loved blood even more, and cheers rose up.

Henry’s temper flared, and he rolled up his next thrust, planning to inflict damage to the farm boy before him. In doing so he opened up himself for Jacoby’s next move; deflecting the blade and constraining it with the basket hilt, then stepping into Henry’s space to dart out his free hand, grab Henry’s sword wrist, and then roll into his arms, as if dancing. This wasn’t a dance, though, and a quick, brutal jab with the back of Jacoby’s elbow broke his opponent’s nose. The -crack!- sounded loudly and followed the larger man to the ground.

Jacoby’s rapier tip hovered near Henry’s eye. “Do you yield?” He asked, To which the bloody-nosed noble shielding his proboscis from further damage, gurgled out his surrender.

One level was done. It seemed they had a thousand more to go, and the day was only growing hotter.

Next was archery; a skill many had out of sheer need to feed their families. This was a competition where there would be no match up, but each competitor would shoot independently. Four lines were formed, with two teams alternating at each straw target. Flag were used to indicate when it was ‘live’ and they could shoot. Three arrows, two tries, and the numbers were added. If the archers failed to shoot within the allotted time the missed shots were counted as zero. Each target held four concentric rings. A miss, or unshot arrow, was zero points. The outer ring was ten, the one within, twenty, and then thirty, and a bulls eyes was counted as forty. The highest score possible was two hundred forty points, and everyone wanted that honor. The contestants at the front, the smaller ones, shot first, and as Fritz was called to shoot, Jacoby stepped to the side to better view the scamp.

 

[Story]

Fritz was playing them more than they knew. Despite his first victory, the smile he sported after wandering back to stand behind Ser Ricard was wobbly at best, even though his green eyes sparked with the triumph. It was all a mix of exhilaration and adrenaline; both from the fight and that a small part of him was no longer hiding. What he had displayed in the training grounds had been a fool’s play -- he realized that now.

It was why every fight through the rest of the day, Fritz did not hold back. Always in his hands he had the quarterstaff, even if a particularly hard blow from a weapon cracked the dense wooden pole into two pieces, forcing Fritz to dual-wield in a series of whacks that became too hard for his opponent to keep up with. Where the men had more strength and muscles, Fritz came prepared with stamina and speed, the lithe muscle underneath the bulky garments he wore straining in a dance of concentration rather than sheer force.

What became strange about the boy’s dance out in the field was that half of the time his eyes followed his opponent’s feet, watching the other’s steps rather than their face or arms, searching the shadow instead of the movement of the body. And he never charged, not like he had with Jacoby; he waited for his opponent to come to him and then paced himself if they came with a skill better matched to his own, even though that often led to the crowd chanting for the pair to finish the match. It was a chant that Fritz ignored, but often his opponent was prone to giving in to. That was what ended some matches; the zealous nature of being surrounded by a crowd, where the opponent started to see the championship.

Then they made mistakes by being too eager. Nothing a sharp jab in the solar plexus did not fix, sending his opponent stumbling backwards, and often badly injured.

There were also the times where the opponent, after Fritz would offer his hand, would try to leap back up into the game, their ego too badly bruised to accept the help of the supposed whelp on the field. Those were the times that the boy’s expression grew hard and with a quick spin of his staff, whacked the fools across the temple hard enough that they were knocked out cold on the ground, and a pair of squires had to drag them out.

He did not lose one match out of those he was paired with.

Not even when it was so close that he had been struck hard enough in his torso that he stumbled down on one knee, stunned by the pain, stars striking in front of his eyes, the sound of masculine laughter chiming above him. The larger opponent had tried to kick him, too, which Fritz was sure was against the rules. He had rolled, tangled his legs with the man’s, and dragged him to the ground with him, thighs on either side of his neck and squeezing. The man had wheezed his yield shortly after, with the press of the staff slowly crushing his windpipe.

After that match, Fritz had crawled off to the side, panting, and vomited what little he’d had to eat that day into the grass.

Much to his relief, that had been the final fight that he had to partake in until the next event.

With sweat beaded on his forehead and his belly full of water, Fritz had managed to recuperate form the exertion of the hand to hand. He even found Jacoby once the archery targets had been set up. Big eyed, he grinned like the mischief maker he was and offered his water skin to the other boy, “You did well out there. Are you as good with archery as you are with a sword, Jacoby Reinstahl? I am sorry that we did not have a chance to fight again this bout, but perhaps soon.”

Pure innocence. It was obviously a deceptive act, as the boy’s lit up deviously, causing the wide, almond slant of his eyes to crinkle and dimples punched into his cheeks before the boy practically skipped away to join his own team.

To the knight that led them, though, Fritz’s face pulled into something more serious. He was not sure yet how he felt for the much taller man who had shown he had bursts of wicked humor, but then was as stern as could be expected from a fully vetted knight. Fritz found himself going quiet in his presence, but also watchful, curious.

He wore the same look of stoic quiet on his face when he finally stepped up, bow in hand. It was a sport that he was less confident in than the hand to hand that he had demonstrated. Chest puffed, he took his stance more tentatively, and making sure to not stare at the competitors off to his right and left, he pulled back and let his first arrow loose.

The first hit the outer ring, causing the boy to flinch.

Then with a renewed look of determination, he took more time as he notched the narrow and focused down the line. Breathing deep, he let his second arrow fly, which hit just shy of a full bull’s eye.

Blowing a stray curl that had flopped over his brow, Fritz turned around. Instead of paying attention to his score, he sought Ser Ricard’s eye to see if he had performed well enough for the archery match.

 

[Traveler]

Ser Ricard could not keep himself from rooting for the scrawny imp. Every time it seemed Fritz was matched with someone who would have been his undoing, the quick-footed, unorthodox runt of the litter seemed to pull through, sometimes with a decisive victory that surprised even the judges. He found himself critiquing the boy’s strange focus on footwork, and his lack of variety in the weapons he chose, but also praising the lad internally for being so damn good with the staff. In fact, it seemed like h was head and shoulders above the others when it came to fighting with a glorified broomstick, and though he took taunts as well as he gave them, the boy never seemed fazed by whatever threats the others threw at him.

Ricard glanced over at his companion, and when there was a short lull in the sparring to drag off another of the contestants that had been brained by Fritz’s staff, walked over to see how his team was faring.

“Is it too late to place a wager?” He grinned, his swarthy confidence shining beneath his thick dark hair.

Edwain sighed and shook his head. He was standing, arms crossed, as Jacoby faced another opponent. “Always a game for you, isn’t it?” he asked. His blue eyes flickered over to where the jaunty little sprite of a man rejoined his group, the wicked grin on the lad’s face displaying his confidence after knocking out another of his opponents.

“You, on the other hand, take life much too seriously.” He followed Edwain’s gaze to where the young men sparred. Both had long, hand-and-a-half swords, fighting in the style of the roguish islanders. They circled each other, shields ready, while their blades rested on the top of the sword, looking for an opening in their opponent. “Oh, I remember this one – he’s the man who always uses the same weapon his opponent chooses, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” Ser Edwain grumbled. “He says it makes the fight ‘more fair’.” He turned to Ricard, the expression on his face indicating that the knight did not agree with his team member’s assessment.

Ricard scoffed. “There’s no reason to be ‘fair’ on the battlefield.”

“I know…” the two stood, arms crossed, and watched as the men banged each others’ shields and searched for weaknesses in their defense.

“So he’s like, what? A farm boy raised by a retired knight?” The way Jacoby moved indicated some training, but his wide-eyed, freckled face and the simplicity of his clothing did not scream of money or title. In fact, it shouted the opposite.

“No, not exactly,” Ser Edwain sighed again, sounding deeper and more resigned than earlier. “Ship captain’s son,” he volunteered. “He’s spent more time on the decks of a ship than on dry land, to hear him tell it.”

The other man had taken a swing across his knuckles, and between the heat, the impatient crowd, and his own brashness, now charged Jacoby. His sword was high over his head and his shield raised as he closed the distance between them. Jacoby went to one knee, seemingly tripping.

“His father’s part of the royal navy then?” Aske Ricard as he scratched at the scruff on his chin.

As the other man’s eyes widened, victory in sight, Jacoby flung his shield flat, spinning it feet above the ground and catching the other man across his shins. His unprotected shins. The crack of metal on bone was loud enough to draw a gasp of horror from the crowd. The attacker went down, his sword flying through the air. Jacoby whirled to one side and brought his sword down across the back of his opponent’s head, slowing his otherwise fatal blow just before it touched the man’s skull. He stepped on the man’s back and pushed him into the ground, still holding his blade in place, and looked to the judges for judgement.

“No,” said Ser Edwain, his voice rising slightly in pitch. “Not a captain of the royal navy,” he met Ser Ricard’s gaze. “His father’s a pirate. Captain Reinstahl. Captain Dread Reinstahl.”

“Ah…Captain Dread, with a bounty on him big enough to make us both kings,” he lowered one hand and let it hang before himself. “Well! Fuck me,” he chuckled. “Wouldn’t that be something for the bards to sing about?” he patted the Golden Knight’s shoulder solidly, smirking at him as he went to leave. “Good luck with your bounty. I think I’ll keep my money on the runt.”

Between events, the remaining contestants rested in the shade of the awnings, drank water, and boasted about their victories. Jacoby was busy wrapping his left hand, where a sword blow had sprained the muscles between his metacarpals. He looked up at Fritz’s sudden reappearance, surprised the boy had lasted as long as he had. He smirked back at the big-eyed liar and accepted the water skin. “Thanks,” he said, taking a long drink before handing it back. “I guess we’ll have to see how good we both are, don’t we? You played a good trick, Fritz Richter. Dirty, but good.” He drew in a breath and let it out, glancing over the other lad’s head as the targets were brought out.

At Fritz’s mention of not getting to spar against each other, he shook his head. “I’m not.” He looked down at the minx of a trickster and frowned. “There’s always someone out there better than you are – and always someone worse.” He watched the lad skip away, carefree and apparently sure of his abilities, and finished wrapping his hand. Day one was only half done; too many more days like this, and there wouldn’t be enough left of him to make a decent bucket of chum.

Once again, Ser Ricard’s attention was drawn back to his runt. Sometime during the last bought of sparring, Fritz went from being ‘the’ runt to ‘his’, as if his enjoyment of the thorough thrashings brought about by the end of the whip’s staff were somehow attributed to Ricard’s wicked gratification.

He frowned at the near miss, disappointed, but still glad that points were had. Many of the other archers missed the target completely, even though it was only fifty paces away. He lowered his head briefly. The brat could still make it through the day. He had not failed any of his sparring matches, and the set up would allow for those who completely lacked a skill to make it up on other events. Still…he glanced over at Ser Edwain and saw a dark-skinned, lanky lad step to the line. Quickly, with out pause or hesitation, that contestant smoothly drew an arrow and placed it in the two center circles. One after another, his arm rowing in concentric ease. Though he only got two in the bull’s eye, the third arrow, in the thirty-point ring, meant that he had scored 110 points. One of the highest points Ricard had seen all day.

He turned his dark gaze back to Fritz, in time to see the lad score a thirty as well. That gave the lad forty points so far, and one arrow left. Then the waif turned, looking at Ricard as if to see if he had seen the last shot, and caught the knight’s narrowed gaze staring back. That open-eyed, curl-blowing expression on the lad’s face was oddly intoxicating, and the knight’s own gaze darkened. He was weighing Fritz’s accomplishments as reflecting on himself, when it was just a luck of the draw that aligned the youth’s fate with his. Wasn’t it? He scowled and looked away, not wanting to affect the final bow shot for the lad.

His turn away drew his attention back to Ser Edwain’s line. Jacoby was next, and like the man before him, retrieved all three arrows from the quiver staked to the ground. Jacoby held the three arrows in his free hand, rolling them to test their warble before placing two in his bow hand and notching the other against the line. He shot the first, keeping his arm still as the arrow passed, and once it had cleared the wood began to draw back the second. Like the man before him, he shot the next arrow before the first had reached its destination, and like the man before, scored well.

As Jacoby walked by the Golden Knight, Edwain reached out and snagged him by the upper arm to pull him near. “Speed isn’t what they are measuring, Reinstahl,” he growled. “Stop showing off and score well.” The knight’s azure glare seemed to bore into the younger man. “On the third day you might regret not scoring as high as you could – every point counts, and if you want to see yourself knighted, rather than used as a method to ensnare your father to turn himself in, you’ll do as I advise.” He released the arm with a short shove, sending the boy back to the end of the line.

Jacoby brushed off his sleeve where the vice-like grip had bruised him and took his place beside the last shooter.

“What did he say to you?” the lad asked. His straight, black brows and long nose gave the boy a sculpted, equine look, and his short, tightly curled hair shone with oil. He looked his future opponent up and down, noting that he had scored identically to himself.

“Nothing,” Jacoby muttered. He didn’t understand the knight; at first, Jacoby had felt compelled to open up to him and tell him of his origins. And now, it seemed like Ser Edwain was using that information against him. He rubbed his cheek and wondered if he was, as his father had often charged, too trusting to die of old age. Perhaps getting off the ship had been the wisest thing he could have done. Perhaps his father had been right.

At the end of the day’s events, the remaining men met once again at the back of the arena, and once again were addressed by the gruff Silverbearded knight. “Good job, men!” He clapped his heavily gloved hands together, sending a puff of dust from between them. “Now – I know a lot of you are feeling like celebrating tonight.” His eyes gleamed from beneath his bushy brows. “Don’t. You’ll be best served going to bed…alone,” he added, to the amusement of many of the lads. “Tomorrow, an hour after sunrise, we’ll be starting the check in. If you’re not back by the time the contests starts you’re out of the game,” he warned. A third of the contestants had numbers so low it was not likely they would make it. Others were close enough that they thought they had a fighting chance, but many of these numbers were wounded. Some, like the ones who got on Fritz’s bad side, were not coming back, already too injured to even consider continuing their challenges.

 

[Story]

You are Fritz … what was it? That’s right, Richter. At least here he was. He knew how to hunt; he knew how to kill spry rabbits with a bow and arrow. Shooting a non-moving target from fifty paces away should have been cake, and yet the rise of his nerves after the high of his adrenaline rush during those first bout of games had made him all that much more aware that he had an audience. Not to mention that the knight that he had been placed under, Ser Ricard, had taken a liking to him -- or at least his apparent skill when it came to hand to hand combat. Call it a complex, but Fritz had felt himself brighten up every time the man had noted his skill, punctuated with a wicked grin that had him blushing with more than just the embarrassment of being complimented.

Blushing.

Oh, but that wasn’t something that he ever did. Ever. And the fact that he could only mumble and twist his tongue up in knots instead of form actual, coherent sentences around the man was another problem altogether. While not his mother - gods bless her soul - Fritz was not known to be struck dumb. And yet here he was, ogling over his shoulder at the man instead of focusing.

Sucking in a breath and straightening out his shoulders, he jerked his attention back to the target. This time, his eyes narrowed in concentration, fingers carefully drawing back the bow as he notched the arrow. Holding steady, he forgot to breathe as he loosed the arrow and watched it zing through the air and--

He screamed his delight in a whoop that he soon harnessed into something that was more of a masculine exclamation, or grunt. The point of his final arrow had made its mark. While not dead center, he had made the center ring.

He had his typical shit eating grin slashed across his face when he meandered back -- tall, proud, there was no skip in his step, no -- to where the others waited in line, in time for the next on his team to step up to take his chances with below and arrow once Fritz’s arrows had been removed. Though Fritz had been paying less attention to his competitors and more attention to his own performance, preferring not to add any additional pressure unless it was right in front of his.

Surely, his two shots earned him enough points to keep him ahead of the game, especially with him not being defeated in the hand to hand combat.

The closer he was to the strung together gaggle of men, though, the slower his walk became. Rather than seeking out Ser Ricard’s grin in the crowd, his acute stare honed in on the younger red head, Jacoby, just as the fellow’s own knight gripped and pulled him aside.

Sleek as a cat and trying his best to look inconspicuous, Fritz dropped back enough to listen to the words that the knight spoke with piqued curiosity. But while Fritz did not approach the other boy while he talked to another on his team, he did store away the conversation for later.

That later happened to be when they had all been gathered and wrangled back into the pavilion that they had started in. He sidled up to the other boy like a weasel, his elbow discreetly shooting out to elbow Jacoby in the ribs.

“So who are you? Someone important? The pretty blond knight?” As if Fritz could talk about men being pretty, though he had the teasing grin to back him up. While he bobbed his head in time to Silverbeard’s words of warning about staying up and about too late, he was not truly paying attention; he was too curious now about his fellow knight to be. “We could go out and get a pint to celebrate surviving the day and pretend that we are friends?”

 

[Traveler]

Ser Ricard watched his eight remaining contestants swarm into the shaded structure to received their final instructions. He and the other knights fell back, and though they were all friendly with each other, the strongest ties were between the Dark Knight and the Golden Knight, nicknames earned back when they were in their early years of training. Other knights had their nicknames; The Gambler, for taking risks in battle, The Arrow, a knight who played by the rules and was deemed ‘straight as an arrow’, The Horseman, a knight undefeated in the lance, Ladies’ Knight, known for being married less than a year with each of his four wives, and The Beard, for obvious reasons.

As the Dark Knight walked over to Ser Edwain, his expression was one of mirthful mischief. “Are you going to dinner at the Knight General’s tonight? We’ve all been invited to meet his daughter, you know the one? The Prize?”

Edwain rolled his eyes. “I’m sure she would love to know she’s being referred to as ‘the Prize’,” he said. “These courtly intrigues don’t interest me, Ricard. You know that. I’m waiting to see if any of the men in my group would care to seek out words of wisdom.”

“Oh…like the bit of scolding I saw you give your favorite?” He grinned as he crossed his arms and turned to look over the gaggle of want-to-be knights.

“I don’t have favorites.” Growled Edwain.

“Of course you do. We all do. Look – “ he pointed towards The Arrow. “Ser Vainte has been keeping his eyes on that curly-haired butcher of a man, the one who fights with axes? And Ser Harald,” he said, pointing towards The Horseman, “likes that long-haired man, the really tall one who fights better with his hands than he does with weapons. We all have favorites, and you like the pirate’s son.”

Edwain shot him a glare. “I should have never told you that about him,” he said. “The boy’s got enough going against him as it is.”

“But he’s your favorite…” Ricard teased.

The Golden Knight grumbled, mirroring Ricard’s stance as they both looked over the group. It seemed that they were getting ready to disperse. “How do you have time to watch the others’ groups?” After a moment he answered Ricard’s question. “Yes, he is my favorite. But not as a knight. As a squire perhaps. He needs time. They all do.”

“Well, for half of them they will have the time they need. Once they learn to pee on their own and get off their mothers’ teats,” he chuckled, then slapped Edwain on the shoulder. “Well I’m off. Hopefully, to meet my new bride,” he winked. He sauntered away, all thoughts of the contestants behind him as he began to think of the evening ahead. Behind him, Ser Edwain turned his eyes back on the group at hand, thinking of what he had learned about each of the men through short exchanges of words and his ability to influence them with his birthright. He turned to look back at the Dias where the king and his family had been seated throughout the tournament.

Despite Edwain’s position in life he had rarely seen King Locke, and then, only at functions such as these. The man was not oriented towards family. He rarely seemed to put much stock in his brood, perhaps the reason that the Crown Prince once tried so hard to please him and draw his attention. How ironic, then, when the most attention Edwain had seen him give the man was once he was kicked by the horse and laid halfway between life and death for months in the infirmary. Scowling, he turned his attention back to the contestants once again. There was no use in wasting time thinking of a king who never seemed to think of his men.

Back under the shade of the awning, Jacoby strained to hear the Silverbearded knight’s words, when a sharp pain shot into his ribs.

“Ow!” he glared down at the pipsqueak at his side. Him again… “What is wrong with you?” At hearing Fritz’s question his brows furrowed. “No! What…why are you asking me that?” If he was ‘important’, then people would start asking questions. And Edwain’s assertion that he would be held as bait for his father had never occurred to him until today. He glanced up and saw Ser Edwain standing in the sun, looking resplendent and noble as the evening light glinted off his armor. “What…you got some kind of fondness for my knight? I’ll trade you,” he said. “Ser Edwain pretends to be your friend and then he’s not. I’d rather take Ser Dark-and-Scowly any day.”

‘If you’re not back by the time the contests starts you’re out of the game,’ the Silverbeard warned the group, then dismissed them.

Jacoby studied Fritz’s eager, dark eyes. “Pretend we’re friends over a pint?” he considered it. “I suppose so – there’s a tavern at the inn I’m staying,” he said, gathering his belongings. “As long as you understand I’m only having one. I can’t afford to ruin tomorrow by being drunk.”

The dockside had many taverns, inns, warehouses and whorehouses, and despite Silverbeard’s warning, they saw many of their companions seeking out the latter as they passed it by. Music and laughter filtered out of the Ruby Kisses’ door as it opened and closed, giving both lads a good view of the bosom-exposed women within. A strong whiff of perfume and human sweat seemed to linger like a cloud outside its doors.

“Here’s where I am,” Jacoby said, indicating a Tavern called The Pelican’s Bounty. It was three stories tall, with the top two floors dedicated to rooms, and the bottom section set apart; one area for eating and drinking, and one for those who wanted to drink and gamble. Workers controlled tables and dealt cards or passed dice, ensuring that every game was as fair as possible, and that the tavern got their cut.

“Where are you sleeping tonight?” he asked his small rival as they waited for a table. “Don’t tell me you’re heading to the Ruby Kisses too?”

 

[Story]

Silverbeard - or, rather, Ser Alun Trynal - dismissed the contestants with his final instructions and waited until the last of them had trickled out of the pavilion to do what they would until the turn of a new day. Only then did he turn his attention toward the seasoned knights who had been assigned the motley crew. They were all younger than he and while he had sired no children of his own, he viewed the men knighted by the king as his own brethren, in a way. At least while they were under his tutelage. He made his rounds on a leg that dragged slightly and possibly caused him pain now that he was retired, up in years, and yet he walked as a man too stubborn to admit any discomfort.

His hand slapped the back of The Arrow first, grinning broadly with a face hidden by the thick beard on his face, “Ser Vainte, did you have a favorite today or are you just pining for your wife and cannot wait to be rid of this lot?”

Only to move to the next man, exchanging light hearted banter, or less than so as was the case with The Horseman, who had just lost a child to a miscarriage this past summer, but he and his wife had high hopes of trying again once he returned to their lands.

The last of the knights that Alun stopped by were his Golden and Dark knights, whom he clapped hard on the back and inserted himself into their conversation with a satisfied grunt and a devious sparkle in his dark eyes as he eyed them both.

“My two bachelors,” he observed gruffly. “Will you be joining the King and his company for tonight’s dinner? The King does not have the opportunity to visit with the Knights in his command so often, not like the old days when he was one of us, so I would suggest you both show yourselves like everyone else. To show your respects, at the very least.”

But then he chuckled, slapped them again across the back, and stepped away with a lingering glance to Ser Edwain before he turned away and started to saunter off to resume conversations with the others while tossing in the air in a booming voice, “Dinner will be served in an hour, lads. Let us wrap things up here and head to the King’s tent. What do you say?”

~~~

“Yours is the scowly one,” Fritz hissed at Jacoby as he sidled back up at the other boy’s side while he went about collecting his things. Fritz only had to slip off for a moment to gather his own belongings, glad to be done with today, and anxious to at least glean some sort of ally out of the men that had come to the conversation. Not that he had planned it that way. No, he had planned to be a lone wolf until the very end and win his prize.

And then what?

He knew his own secrets well enough, just as he knew that they would come out eventually, especially if he won the tournament. But that was neither here nor there and he had a pint to drink with his alleged pirate friend now, so there was that.

“Ricard loves me,” he replied in a more surly voice, once they were well on their way out of the pavilion, then shot a look at Jacoby with a grin when the other boy mentioned only one pint. “Are you a light weight that you are under the table after just one pint?”

He teased, then let the redhead lead them down the way into town. His eyes popped curiously as they passed the throngs of people milling about. Nostalgia laced through his mind, pushed down as soon as they approached closer to the docks where the smell of fish and booze mingled with shit and people. Eyeing Jacoby side long, he nudged him with an elbow again right in the ribs. “You should consider coming to stay with me,” he offered, teasing, as they approached the tavern’s entrance.

Fritz had to step to the side as a pair of lumbering men, dock workers by the looks of them, swung their fists on their way out the doors. Both were stumbling drunk, locked together, and slinging curses as often as they were swinging their fists. Snatching Jacoby by the back of the collar, he jerked him off to the side too and snickered, “This is the kind of place where they’ll slit your throat for a penny, isn’t it?”

Still gripping the other boy by the collar of the shirt, he wandered into the common area of the tavern and grinned impishly at the serving girl, looking harried, curtsied low with her breasts popping from her bodice, “Table or room?” she snapped at them, her eyes looking irritated and anxious at once as she took the pair in.

“Table, we already have a room,” Fritz explained with an even cheekier grin as he looped his arm through Jacoby’s and pulled himself close to the other. He even batted his lashes at the girl, who now looked at them with boggled eyes and confusion, as if trying to decide if she should be disgusted or not.

She finally decided that she did not care one way or another and led them through the fray of noise and men, women with low cut blouses dumped across laps, and the rowdy cries of games gone great or awry. To the back, where it was a little quieter but not by much, they were dumped at a table and a warning, “You better be able to pay. What do you want?”

“Whatever the cook has on special and two ales,” Fritz responded for them and pulled out a pair of silvers to reassure the woman, sliding them to her discreetly. “Just for you,” he mouthed, then winked, before finally settling down to stare at his new companion with wide olive eyes.

“So you’re a pirate,” he grinned. One of those shit eating ones. Or maybe like a cat who had gotten into the cream. “Aren’t you? That has got to be exciting. And don’t deny it; I overheard.”

~~~



Dinnertime in the midst of the festival grounds for the king was kept away from the throes of the celebrations and fun making of those that had traveled for the event. The great tent was set up atop a hill overlooking the flickering lights and encampment strewn, it seemed, for miles. Just because the tournament had ended for the day did not mean that the people were retiring for the evening. There were the wanderer’s encampment with their shows and oddities; an entire troupe of fire dancers were putting on a show once darkness fell fully and a man who claimed he had gifts with alchemy had brought exploding lights for the sky.

Locke hated all of it. And yet he endured while still longing for the comfort of his sky swept kingdom where he found more ease in books and plans than he did around the faces that hovered and smiled at his mere presence. His daughter in law sat to his right while the Knight General sat to his left. Then it was his wife, daughter, and the string of knights that had arrived from the training ground. A handful of other lords and ladies privileged enough to join them bobbed and ogled the king as if trying to discern his age, merit, or just simple thoughts. While his mouth opened and replied in short sentences to those who approached him, a smile lightening the otherwise pensive look written across his features. Lady Anabeau had risen and had moved next to the Queen Apparent, Olivia Tyrven, and chattered with her eagerly.

Meanwhile, Locke turned his attention from the head of the table to Ser Williams and his daughter Maira, though their exchange caused his smile to curve in a wicked way as he listened.

“Papa, you promised you would let me choose when the time came. Please, you have to reconsider selling me like a cow,” Maira begged the old knight, her eyes shifting between sparking with anger and looking large enough to weep.

“Maira, my dear. You are a woman grown now and your mother has expectations of you. Don’t you want a family? A husband? A life?” The great man was trying to console his daughter, even patting her hand as it clung to his sleeve, his smile endearing.

It only angered the girl all the more. She bared her teeth like a feral hog, her freckled face infusing itself with heat, “I am a woman grown. I have the right to choose my life. I do not wish a husband, nor a child--” she shuddered at the word. “And I definitely do not wish to a groveling wife to any of these insipid asshats--”

“MAIRA! Your tongue, girl, or--” The Knight General growled at his daughter, his heckles finally raising. It only raised the girl’s all the more as she rose up to the challenge that her father posed.

“Or what? You will beat me like a common wench? Perhaps I shall become a Mistress of the sea--”

“You will do no such things, daughter of mine. Myself or your mother did not raise a whore…” he growled his next warning, turning around in his seat and lowering his voice to a menacing growl.

“...But maybe you did,” Maira snarled right back, her voice dripping with sweet acid. “Perhaps I will go down to the docks and thrust out my tits and find a sailor to have his way with me. Then what, FATHER?”

“MAIRA,” came his final warning. Then his voice softened, “We can discuss this later. Please do not embarrass your mother. And for gods sake, child, you are in the company of the King… I knew you have spent too long around my men for that foul tongue to have grown in your head.”

Her face red, Maira at least clamped her lips shut and folded her arms as she turned away from the man, abashed at least for the time being, even if she seethed next to him. And invited no company to join her. Only she could not help but whispering one last, “....Or perhaps I have earned my foul tongue by not complying to the rule of a man, Father, or becoming a brainless twit. You made sure I was educated by the best, Father dearest.”

To which the Knight finally turned away after swiping his hand over his face in exasperation, muttering something about the complications of women and why he never beat the spirit from his daughter.

 

[Traveler]

“So, it’s just ‘Ricard’ now is it?” Jacoby teased. “You’re on a first name basis with your knight?” He grinned, then the grin disappeared once Fritz accused him of being a lightweight. He scoffed back at the lad as he took the lead. “I’ll drink you under the table any day, you little twit. After the tournament.”

Thankfully the quick-witted scamp was there to jerk Jacoby to the side lest he met his end at the drunkard’s fist, and when Fritz asked if the patrons here would slit their throats for a penny, he nodded. “Even a half one.” The boy’s suggestion of staying with him was not dismissed; this place had seemed quieter yesterday. Civilized, almost. It might have been that he had been in the company of his shipmates then, and as such all things seemed brighter. Today, however, he was wondering if he should sleep with his dagger under his pillow.

It didn’t help that Fritz practically told the serving girl that they were together. Jacoby jerked his arm from the impish boy’s grasp, glaring down at those sparkling, mischievous eyes. “You’re a cheeky little monkey, aren’t you?” He muttered, following the serving woman and Fritz to the back of the tavern. Along the way he stepped over a drunkard already passed out and witnessed a bit too much of what was going on with the woman on the brigand’s lap. Even on the ship the crew had all shielded him from the worst of the worst.

There were no such filters here.

Jacoby shook his head and scoffed as he watched Fritz tip their serving wench. “You know,” he said, leaning forward on an elbow. “For what you just paid her, she’d probably blow you under the table. What are you doing waving money around like that? Are you trying to see if we can get ourselves killed before tomorrow?”

But then Fritz surprised him, causing him to lean back in his chair. He regarded the dark-haired, dimple-cheek boy in front of him, then leaned forward again. “Do you ever think before you speak?” he asked. Scratching at the back of his neck he sighed. “Yes, I am. Was. But I’d appreciate it if you kept that to yourself Fritz.” His eyes scanned the crowd as they spoke, and when the serving girl came back with their ales he quieted. Once she left, he continued, his voice still low so only his companion would hear. “I don’t know that it’s exciting; it’s the only life I know. I was born at sea; I didn’t want to die out there without at least seeing what life on land could be like. And my father gave me his blessing, so here I am.

“But what about you?” He asked, taking a drink of his ale. “Why are you doing…this.” He lowered his head slightly, unwilling to mention the knight trials in the company of those around them. “I mean…you’re good at fighting, but…” he shook his head. “You just don’t look the part.”

Their stews and bread soon arrived, with a few whole radishes on the side. Jacoby picked up one of the orbs and bit it in half, relishing the sharp, spicy flavor as it flowed into his mouth. After what they had gone through today, he felt like he could eat an entire tuna by himself.

After they had eaten a few bites Jacoby frowned into his bowl. He didn’t mean for anyone to know about any of his past. But Ser Edwain just started asking questions, and soon he started answering them. He felt like they’d known each other forever and were friends. It was the strangest thing. He looked up at the wiry little scamp chattering in front of him and realized he felt the same way about Fritz. He wondered if it was simply being away from the ship that did this to him, as he nodded at the tale shared by the young man sitting before him, and enjoyed their meager meal.

~ * ~​

Prince Syrus Tyrven had rarely been seen in the last few years. His presence had begun to be as brief as his Grandfather’s. Some thought that it was the injury his father, Crown Prince Victor, ten year’s past that had begun the downfall of the heir’s apparent health. When he was seen, he rarely spoke, and his eyes were sunken and drawn. The lines of his face were harsh, as if he had aged thirty years in the last decade instead of ten.

So, when he appeared briefly at his mother’s side, his dark countenance a sharp contrast to her golden, youthful one, many took note. His garb was finely wrought in indigo and grey, and the only ornament he wore was his silver circlet, looking more like a wayward nobleman than part of the royal family. When his mother reached up to fix some perceived error in his hair, the prince pushed her hand away despite her protests. He glared at his grandfather, then followed the man’s gaze to the spectacle of the Knight General and his daughter. Maira.

Seeing the Knight General struggle so with that impudent woman-child tightened Syrus’s jaw. Even he showed more respect to his family, and Syrus felt that he had cause. The girl…she was simply being an ungrateful brat.

His eyes lifted to the back of the room where the knights had gathered, sweeping across familiar faces and feeling relief that no one looked back with recognition. At least, not of their companion.

“Son,” the Queen Apparent entreated. “Sit with us, stay a while.”

“I can’t,” he answered, looking down into her radiant face. How obvious it was that she loved him. Not her husband, but the king. His grandfather. “But I came, as promised.”

Her eyes glistened a moment before she composed herself. “Yes, yes you did. Thank you.”

“Hmm,” he touched her shoulder briefly, then walked out the back. He was needed elsewhere.

~ * ~​

Ser Ricard Debaise had waited for Edwain, but the Golden Knight was nowhere to be seen. He turned to Ser Alan Windlark, a captain knight not tasked with corralling the recruits and seen as the most likely candidate for the position of Knight General. The man’s reddish-brown moustache reached beyond his chin, and though his pate was receding, he still struck a handsome figure in his evening attire. He was recounting a story of Ser Jonas in his early years, and their trek across the Plains of Antioch far to the South. The younger knights listened politely, their eyes fixated on Ser Alan, though occasionally their gaze flitted over to the other side of the table where the Knight General was sparring with the prize.

He decided to walk over and introduce himself. There was no reason not to, and from what he could see, she needed a distraction to see her ‘predicament’ was not as dire as she might believe. As he strode over in his armor and cloak, he noticed a glint of sunlight entering the grand tent. “Ser Edwain!” He greeted him with a clasped arm. “You’re late.”

“I didn’t realize we had a date,” he pulled his left sleeve down, adjusting the tunic under his chain mail, and glanced around the room.

“Did you just…shower?” Ricard asked, frowning at the other knight.”

“It seemed prudent, seeing as how we were dining in the presence of the king and have been standing all day in the sun. Why? Did you not?” He noticed a glance in their direction and smacked his companion with the back of his hand. “Someone’s looking at you,” he said. “You should go say ‘hi’.”

Ricard smirked and turned to she the back of Maira’s head. “Come on,” he said. “It will be less awkward for her if it’s the two of us instead of only me. She can’t take this much awesomeness,” he said, drawing a hand along his chest, “without diluting it with some of you.”

Edwain chuckled and followed him over to the redheaded prize. His stomach protested his departure from its goal, and in response he crossed an arm over his abdomen, willing it to quiet until could sit at the table with the others. He wondered briefly where the lads had gone, then quickly dismissed the thought. Whether they showed up tomorrow or now was their concern. For their sake, he hoped the younger ones did not Then he could pick them up as squires, as it should be, and teach them all they needed before they donned the title ‘knight’.

Beside him, Ser Ricard caught the redhead’s eye and inclined his head. “Good evening, Lady Williams,” he greeted. “We’ve never been properly introduced. I’m Ser Ricard Debaise, and this is,” he turned to Edwain, and seeing him distracted, elbowed him sharply in the ribs. “This is Ser Edwain Slayte.”

The Golden Knight raised a hand in greeting. “Hey,” he said, then glanced up at her hair and noticed it was devoid of any blue. “I’m going to go get a bite. Nice meeting you,” he said to her, turning to leave.

 

[Story]

First name basis. That had Fritz looking guiltily off to the side. And was that a hint of a blush dusting his cheek? He had high cheeks, for a boy, even a young one. A heart shaped face, full lips, long lashes, and wide eyes. A caramel complexion complemented the dark curls pinned up under a cap still. Not to mention the little dimple in his chin -- and even his cheeks, when he smiled. He was not smiling then, though, and instead was worrying his lower lip between his teeth, “Well, mayhaps he does not realize we are on a first name basis, but he seems to like me well enough. Or that I fight well enough. He is always grinning at me, so I assume that he likes me.”

Then the lad caught himself by the time they had settled in at their table, his eyes roving their surroundings with a morbid kind of curiosity, especially where his attention settled on a sailor simply hooking a beefy arm around one of the serving wenches and dragging her into his lap, his other hand diving down the front of her bodice as if it was the most appropriate thing in the world.

He had missed some of the more lewd patrons who already had women in their laps, and far less clothes, even out in public as they were.

“Is this a brothel as well?” His interest was both piqued and horrified as his eyes landed back on the male as he suggested that their own wench would perform provocatives for just the two silver he had parted with. “You know, I think you should come stay with me and the wanderers; the Romani are often misconceived as thieves, but they really just want to earn an honest living. And you would not have to worry about being murdered for your belongings. They also have sweet women … and men, actually, that you can purchase for an evening, but they are more costly than two silver, I am afraid.”

He flashed the serving girl a grin who was showing a bit more cleavage than before and winked at Fritz as she leaned over to set their ales down. For his part, Fritz blinked owlishly at the woman and picked up his ale, sipping the bitter substance as he slithered down into his chair and turned back to his new pirate friend.

“Don’t want to be thought of as a brigand, so you’re trying to be impressive by becoming a knight?” He snorted, despite the hypocrisy. Then cleared his throat and sat up in an attempt to be more manly.

“And I am just a bastard. Mum is dead, father is …” he just shrugged to complete that thought with a wry grin, “And I was mostly raised by distant cousins, I think, in the mountains. They have a different way of life up there. They teach all to fight, if they are willing, no matter what …” he trailed off again, lowered his lashes down to the stew that the wench hustled over. “...you look like. What are fighters supposed to look like, anyhow?”

This time he leaned forward, interested in the other’s perspective of this, and he had not even taken more than a couple sips of his ale. “I was raised differently,” he offered up again. “So this is all an experience. What is it that you think the King is looking for in a knight?”


~~~


Locke forced his attention away from the spectacle between daughter and father at the arrival of his grandson, decked out as he was in finery, where Locke himself wore a simple black doublet over fine black breeches; a monochrome of color complete with a similar circlet over his brow. His interest was only moved when the lad stopped briefly only to speak quietly to his mother, before moving. Locke took that opportunity to rise himself, glancing over his shoulder before sweeping himself into place before the lad, a solemn expression on chiseled features.

His eyes glinted silver in the flickering light of the lighting within the tent as he dropped a hand on the other man’s shoulder, “Syrus.”

It was a simple word, but potent nevertheless. He even tried to smile as he tried to discern the other man’s mood, and that look was as penetrating as the single word.

“Your ... cousin has come to visit us. Keep an eye on her while you are out and about, will you?”

Locke looked like he wanted to say more, but something shifted in his eyes. Perhaps it was the way the Prince looked at him that had the King pulling away and turning to allow the other man to leave, only to add before Syrus could disappear out the back of the pavilion completely, “And be careful, Syrus; I know you have inherited much. If you ever wish to speak, please seek me out.”

The reluctant King returned back to take his place at the head of the table, his attention otherwise turning to the meal that the servants had brought out to them. A summer soup, a variety of cheeses and fruits, with a main serving of glazed fowl. Theirs was a bounty, and something that Locke considered to be over proportioned to what they were owed or could very well consume. It was another reason why he wished to escape back to the far north.

Only Olivia turned her attentions to him, chattering hopefully, and so he turned with a smile, ready to indulge his daughter in law in idle conversation, while also trying his best not to notice the flitting hand on his arm or the way her smile curved suggestively. While his son may be prone by illness, this woman was still his son’s wife.

Not for the first time, Locke wished that the Prince were ready to take the mantle, but he did not need his Sight to understand that Syrus still needed time to find himself before he would be ready to accept the burden of it.


~~~


Maira’s father had retreated once the knights had arrived, leaving the girl to pick at her food and contemplate the future that her father had devised for her. It had at least given her an opportunity to calm her temper and think more clearly, especially as the pair of knights approached where she sat.

Her lips twitched as if she could not decide whether to be irritated at the interruption or not as the flaming crown of her head lifted and green eyes wandered from her father’s Dark and Golden knights, lingering on the fairer man with more of an indulgent almost smile. She remembered him as the one who had placed her flower offering in her hair, and her hand absently lifted to check for it, only to remember that it had fallen out during her storm about her father and mother for her choice.

And for some reason, she felt guilt in the pit of her stomach for it.

Lips pursed, she turned to consider Ser Ricard and nodded, “I know of you both. And as my father has so deemed, he has now made it known to everyone who I am. Call me Maira.” Though as soon as Edwain had made his greeting and was trying to retreat, she jerked herself up into a straighter sitting position. “Here, sit, Ser Edwain. I have plenty of food here already.” Then she added, with a glance at Ricard, “Will you both sit?”