Only as they drew closer did Damon recognise the man who rode second, with a Banneryd black-and-blue shirt and saddlecloth. It was Koenyg, as broad and strong as any of the cavalry, astride his favourite chestnut stallion.
The adjudicator waited astride his white horse with a ballskin dangling from his hook. He dropped it as the two teams lined up opposite each other, and Jaryd and the Banneryd captain dismounted to inspect it. The ball was a folded bundle of skins wrapped with twine and leather strips, about the size of a man's chest. Jaryd dug his hook into the folds and lifted, then tried the same with a hook through the outer straps and twine. Tyrblanc did the same, and both seemed satisfied. They clasped forearm to forearm, but if words were exchanged between them, Damon could not hear. Tyrblanc was the larger, and by far the more ferocious-looking, but skill in lopping heads was not necessarily the same as skill in hauling the ball.
The teams then lined up abreast, facing the scaffold seating. Archbishop Dalryn stood in his robes before the royal box and proclaimed the gods' blessing upon proceedings. As that line-up dispersed, the Tyree Goeren-yai performed a chant in a tongue Damon did not recognise. The captains returned to the centre circle with several others, and the rest found their starting positions across the field.
Damon found himself starting next to Koenyg. His big brother smiled at him, the dark, knowing smile that only an older brother could manage, foreboding of future torments and humiliations.
"I'd thought you were busy?" Damon suggested, as their horses jostled and snorted, eager to be underway.
"Not too busy to teach my little brother a lesson or two in horsemanship," Prince Koenyg replied. Damon sat taller than Koenyg in the saddle, yet he knew better than to take comfort in that. Koenyg was all muscle and determination. He was Commander of Armies now, Kessligh's old title, besides his usual responsibilities as the heir-defence of the realm primary amongst them. The king made broad decisions, but where force and strategy were in question, it was up to Koenyg to turn those decisions into action. Such responsibilities were the apprenticeship that would prepare an heir for the task of kingship. There were those, however, who suggested that the king had delegated too much.
"What's she doing here?" Koenyg asked, nodding to Sasha on the far side of the field.
"Her name's Sasha," Damon said sourly. "You might recall her-little terror in a dress, always yelling?"
Koenyg gave him a whack across the stomach with the back of his hook, none too gently either. "This will be trouble for Family Nyvar," he remarked.
Damon refrained from hitting him back. It was perhaps not a great idea to hit the heir in front of more than one thousand people. "You don't sound surprised."
Koenyg gave him a sideways look as his horse danced and tried to rear. Koenyg knew everything that went on within palace walls, and many things beyond, that look said. If Jaryd had had a fight with his father, the heir of Lenayin would know.
Koenyg smiled. "You should have declared Krayliss in breach at Halleryn," he said offhandedly. "If you'd killed him there, we wouldn't have this trouble here."
"It would have cost lives," Damon retorted.
"It may now cost more lives. You've heard Lord Kumaryn tried to arrest Sasha in Baerlyn?"
"I heard."
"The great lords are relatively powerless, Damon, all save the northern three, and perhaps Krayliss. Their power comes from having their people united beneath their leadership. The others like Kumaryn are largely ignored by their own people. They insist the king needs them, but in truth it's the north we need. The north is strong, we must keep them on our side."
"At the cost of justice?" Damon retorted.
"Most likely we'll have to kill Krayliss anyway," said Koenyg. "Here or there, what's the difference?"
"Sasha didn't leave much choice," Damon replied. "Krayliss threw himself upon the king's mercy after her duel, I could hardly refuse."
"Sasha has a habit of siding with troublemakers," said Koenyg. "Best that you wise up to it, brother."
Damon snorted. "I'll not lick the north's boots just because it's convenient."
Koenyg turned a hard gaze upon him. A strong, broad face, more rounded than Damon's or Sofy's. More like Sasha, Damon thought, and their departed mother. "You will if I tell you to," Koenyg said darkly.
Damon could not think of a reply. Then the adjudicator saved him the trouble and yelled for a start.
Tyrblanc drove his horse straight at Jaryd, and Jaryd's mount shied aside. Other horses rushed the circle, but the Banneryd were better coordinated, using their horses to block while one rider leaned low from his saddle and hammered the ball with his hook. That rider wove past intercepting Tyree horses, dragging the weight on one arm and steering with the other, then a skilful switch of hands as Sergeant Garys came thundering up on his right, and hauled the heavy ball across the saddle to the protected side.
Garys ducked a forearm blow aimed at his head, jostling the Banneryd's horse, steering him away from the goals toward the outer wing as a massed thunder of horses pursued. Damon galloped to the defence, between the ball and the goals. Another Banneryd horse blocked Garys's, which reared alarmingly, and the ball-carrier galloped free down the flank, to the cheers of slightly nervous spectators on the perimeter, who were pleased to see the action come close, but were making to scatter even now.
Banneryd riders formed a blocking perimeter for their man, harassing those who tried to intercept, but already a Tyree horse was coming at him from the right, and another, unnoticed, had somehow come ahead to stand unattended on the perimeter line. As the ball-carrier's attention switched to his new assailant, the unnoticed rider dug in heels and accelerated up the line. The ball-carrier saw, too late, and tried to switch the ball, but the charging rider leaned left-handed from the saddle as the horses slashed past in opposite directions, and smacked ball-on-hook so hard it tore the Banneryd's hook from his hand.
Damon was already racing in pursuit to assist, weaving past the mass of confused riders, who tried to change direction or figure out what had happened… and there ahead was Sasha, racing at top speed astride a middlesized dun mare, her left arm low and behind her with the weight of the ball on her hook. She galloped right past the noses of the Taneryn contingent on the sidelines, who roared and cheered as if she were one of their very own.
Ahead, two Banneryd riders came across from deep defence to block her way… where were the Tyree forward blockers, Damon wondered? Then he saw them, holding back and making no attempt to make a path for Sasha. One of them was Pyter Pelyn.
Sasha swung the ball across her saddle to the right, pulled hard left, swinging her horse across and exposing her right side… a Banneryd rider held back, turning in a circle in case she reversed and tried to flank him. Sasha held her line, heading for the second Banneryd rider, then tried to dive between him and his comrade. It was suicide, and they converged on her, but Sasha threw a glance over her shoulder to Damon, took both hands off the reins and threw the ball two-handed off to her left.
It hit and rolled, catching both Banneryd riders wrong-footed. Damon accelerated straight for it and leaned low from his saddle to swing. He felt the hook catch, and the weight on his arm… and nearly slipped, his heart racing as he suddenly noticed the speed at which the grass flew past.