The Ring by Deborah Chester

Author:Deborah Chester [Chester, Deborah]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fantasy - General
Published: 2010-12-14T05:00:00+00:00

13

Within the tourney enclosure at Savroix, the herald rode up beside Sir Damiend, who spoke to him quietly. The herald galloped away to the center of the field. Trumpets blew for quiet, and the crowd settled down.

“Prince Gavril will meet his challenger, Dain of Thirst!” the man shouted.

A speculative murmur rippled around the stands. Dain ignored it. He tried, also, to ignore Sir Damiend’s threats, but they had shaken him more than he wanted to admit. Angrily he tried to regain his composure. Gavril had never engaged in a fair fight with him yet, he reminded himself. Why should today be any different?

“Let my challenger come!” Gavril called out, hoisting his lance aloft. “I am ready!”

But Sir Damiend did not move his horse out of Dain’s way. “Mind you remember what I have told you,” he said harshly. “Do you understand me, eld?”

“Aye,” Dain replied through his teeth. Glaring at Sir Damiend, he lowered his visor with an angry clang.

“Leave him be, Sir Damiend!” Gavril called out impatiently. “I want to fight. Let us get to it.”

Dain heard something rough and reckless in Gavril’s voice. When he noticed that the prince was carrying Tanengard in his scabbard, Dain understood that it was Lander’s evil sword making Gavril so heedless and wild. As soon as he became aware of the magicked sword’s presence, Dain heard its seductive hum. He remembered fighting with it to annihilate the Nonkind attackers. For a short time, he and the sword had been united into a single entity. And tainted though it was, the sword’s call twisted through Dain’s heart. He felt the momentary sear of jealousy, for he’d been the one who named the weapon and blooded it first. It should belong to him, not Gavril. But then Dain drew a sharp, steadying breath, and told himself that while the blade he carried today was only ordinary steel and would not pour fire into his soul, he was better off without a dark thing like Tanengard. Besides, it was an insult to the magicked blade to use it in a tourney. Tanengard was forged for war and death, not mock combat. Gavril should not use it so.

Wheeling his horse over to the lance rack, Dain selected one of ash wood, straight and lightweight, but strong. Painted crimson, it looked quite battered from the jousting, but he hoped it would serve him well.

The straps of the shield he picked out were made of old, very soft and worn leather. The shield itself was heavy, crafted of thick linden wood that was strong yet could give. Dain hefted it, disliking its weight but hoping the shield would prove to be stout protection. He fitted his arm through the straps, struggling a little where his mail sleeve was too loose.

“Losing your courage already, pagan?” Gavril taunted him.

Anger surged into Dain’s throat. Just in time, he kept himself from hurling back an insult.

“Ah, fear has robbed you of your voice,” Gavril said smugly. “Very well!”

Seething, Dain trotted his horse to the far end of the list and entered the narrow wooden stall.

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