Soul of Tyrants (Demonsouled) by Jonathan Moeller

Author:Jonathan Moeller [Moeller, Jonathan]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Azure Flame Media, LLC
Published: 2014-01-15T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 6

1

Tournament

The day of Lord Malden’s grand tournament dawned.

Armies of workmen descended on the fields outside Knightcastle, raising the lists, assembling benches, and building platforms for the ladies and the great lords. Throngs of peasants from the countryside and townsfolk from Castle Town surrounded the tournament field. Merchants sold food and ale, armor and weapons. Jongleurs wandered the crowd, singing ballads of heroic deeds. A few enterprising fellows set up betting pools, the good money riding on Tobias Roland and Amalric Galbraith.

Mazael watched the crowd from the walls of the High Court, wondering how many San-keth changelings hid among them. He had heard nothing from Trocend, and Lucan had disappeared yet again.

“Lord,” grunted Adalar, “I’ll never get this breastplate adjusted if you keep fidgeting.”

“I’m not fidgeting,” said Mazael.

“Fine. Then stop sighing. And complaining,” said Adalar.

Mazael gave him a look.

Adalar grunted again. “You ought to get a new breastplate. This one looks like a peasant’s cook pot.”

“It suffices,” said Mazael. He wore a mail coat, gauntlets, a helmet, and a cuirass, all of it well-used. “And it has saved my life on more than one occasion.”

“It looks bad,” said Adalar, buckling Mazael’s sword belt.

“That’s what the surcoat is for,” said Mazael.

Adalar shook his head and helped Mazael don the surcoat.

“You’re going to the squires’ melee, I hope,” said Mazael.

Adalar nodded.

“The prize is substantial,” said Mazael. “A hundred gold pieces, three horses, a suit of plate. If you win, you’ll be quite well equipped once you become a knight.”

Adalar stepped back and scowled at Mazael’s armor again.

“Once we return to the Grim Marches, I think it is time you were knighted,” said Mazael.

Adalar’s head jerked up in surprise.

“It’s almost time,” said Mazael. “By the time we return home, you’ll be more than old enough. I hope you’ll swear to my service then.”

“I don’t know,” said Adalar. “I…was thinking about striking out my own…”

Mazael frowned. “Why? I…”

Adalar peered at the barbican. “They’re lining up. My lord, we’d better go.”

Mazael frowned, but followed his squire to the stables. Adalar already had Chariot saddled and waiting. The big destrier stamped his hoofs, eager for combat. Mazael grinned, patted Chariot on the neck, and clambered into the saddle.

“Eager devil,” muttered Mazael. He remembered feeling that way about battle. Still, it was just a tournament. And he had used more lances in war than in sport. “Let’s get on with it.”

Mazael and Adalar rode to the barbican, the Cravenlock banner billowing from Adalar’s lance. Hundreds of landless knights, minor lords, and a few greater lords eager for glory waited in the barbican. More than a few Justiciar and Dominiar knights traded barbed glances. Mazael had never seen so many knights gathered for a single tournament.

Sir Commander Amalric Galbraith sat atop his horse, watching the assembled knights like a wolf overlooking sheep. Sir Garain wove here and there through the knights, lining them up according to rank. Then Lord Malden’s heralds rode to the gate, their banners billowing.

“The time has come,” they boomed, “and Lord Malden summons you to the Field of Valor.

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