“Titus?”
“Could he want to put us on the inside so he can close us up and starve us?”
Sedlakova liked that. “That would reduce the advantage of the falcons. They’re too clumsy to handle a shifting axis of attack. And, being on the outside, he’d have his whole kingdom to provide men and supplies.”
“That must be it.” Though it did not feel entirely right. “So let’s disappoint the man.”
The Righteous drove the remaining population out into the gathering dawn, allowing them to take nothing but their clothing. Let King Stain carry the burden of so many women, children, and old people. Let him look homeward to see Cholate’s able-bodied men demolishing churches, walls, and public works. Let him watch the resulting debris be used to render the Vilde unnavigable.
Meantime, Hagen Brokke would create more tangles and pitfalls around the Righteous camp.
Lord Arnmigal kept most of his men there. He preferred to face any attack there, though he remained unsure of the advantage. He had found a flaw in Consent’s analysis of Stain’s intent. Stain did not have men enough to properly invest Cholate. The Righteous could escape using the bridge to the north bank of the Vilde.
* * *
Hecht was napping. He did that when there were no critical demands on his time. Pella interrupted. “Wake up, Dad. You need to get up.”
“Huh?” He had been deep into a strange dream where he roamed an unfamiliar cold waste with a band of blood brothers, hunting. Their quarry might have been a man. Might once have been a friend. Might have been the father of one of the blood brothers. The hunt might have taken place in the wild country Piper Hecht called his homeland. A lot of might-have-beens wisped away like breath scattering on a winter wind.
“It’s almost noon. That Stain guy says he’s ready to fight.”
Hecht could not help being confused. “I thought he went away.”
“He came back. He says he’s chosen lances.”
Hecht shook his head. “Lances?”
Pella explained. Lord Arnmigal had issued the challenge. The challenged got to choose the weapons. After that the outcome was in the hands of God. “He probably picked lances because everybody knows you don’t fight on horseback.”
“Not lately.” He consulted his nerves. He had none. He should have had, but he was dead calm. “I want to see Mr. Sedlakova.”
“Dad? You’re not gonna…”
“Of course I am.”
“But!..”
“Get Sedlakova, boy! Now!”
* * *
It took Clej a while to collect everything but Hecht did go to the contest equipped the way he wanted. He rode a small, agile horse instead of a charger. Nor did he carry the heavy lance westerners preferred. His choice was ten feet long, thin, light, like the lances used by the Sha-lug. He bore a small round shield on his left forearm. His helmet was light, too. For armor he wore a borrowed scale shirt over his own link mail.
The mind inside the head inside the light helmet, still glacially calm, wondered if his muscles would remember the moves they would have to make.
He sensed uncertainty at the far end of the field. Those people had not expected him to show up looking confident. There was uncertainty at his own end, as well. None of his people thought him even a rudimentary cavalryman.
He considered Pella and Titus. Titus held another two lances. If Hecht broke three he would be in trouble. Stain, yonder, had a more generous supply.
Pella was pale and shaking. He could see no good coming from this.
Time stopped.
Hourli and Hourlr stepped out of nothing. The goddess extended a hand. Her brother did the same. His held a short black spear. Hourli said, “Trade.”
It did not occur to Hecht to do anything else. He knew that spear. He surrendered his lance.
The spear was heavy. It dragged his arm down. It changed as he forced it back up. It became a light cavalry lance.
The Shining Ones vanished.
Time resumed.
Hecht endured the pre-fight ceremonies, though he saw no point to them. Hagen Brokke sidled close. “Boss, get him early. He’ll start out just trying to knock you off your horse. If he sees that you’re going to be stubborn he might decide to kill you. He’s had a bad temper the past few years.”
Hecht grunted. That agreed with what the Shining Ones reported.
Still, the Enterprise would come this way next spring. Stain ought not to provoke its backers.
The Enterprise would come. There would be a Commander of the Righteous and a mission to liberate the Holy Lands. Crusade fever had begun to course through the Episcopal Chaldarean world.
Piper Hecht had to stop woolgathering. King Stain had taken his position. He and his mount alike were richly caparisoned. His charger was immense. A feather plume wobbled in the breeze above his helm. “A noble vision,” Hecht said. “A shame to ruin all that finery.”
Men from both forces lined the edges of the field. Officers tried and failed to keep them out of the barley nearby. A priest in the odd raiment of the Eastern Rite stepped to the middle of the field. He carried a pole with a white pennon attached. He swung that down as though to punish the earth, sprinted off dragging the pole.
Horns sounded, Hecht supposed for the benefit of the blind. He consulted his courage. He remained unafraid, relaxed and confident, and that made no rational sense. His opponent was famed as a tiltyard bully and scrapper.
He urged his mount forward.
In these passages knights crossed their lances behind the necks of their mounts and tried to unseat one another as they passed left side to left side. Thus, their lances did not cross and become entangled. Hecht had witnessed a few tournaments. He had not understood the formalities. Tilts were, at their base, practice for war. In war the rule was, you strove to be the man still standing when the fighting came to an end.
Stain was a traditionalist. He couched his lance under his right arm and crossed it behind his mount’s neck. His form was exquisite.
Hecht grasped his lance two-thirds of the way back, shaft tight against his forearm, the whole raised to shoulder height, arm cocked back to thrust, lance head slightly low. When Stain drew close he swerved to pass right hand to right hand. He drove his lance’s head at Stain’s face.
In the Vibrant Spring School a lancer learned to use the tip of his weapon to snatch rings off moving targets. Else Tage had been a magnificent student. Piper Hecht was fifteen years out of practice. Heartsplitter did not find the gap in King Stain’s visor.
Hecht did push the man backward in his saddle. He did remember to whip his lance round so the sharp edge of its head scored the flank of Stain’s mount. Not done to perfection, but done.
He trotted on, unaware of the uproar from the sidelines.
His mount seemed to approve of the proceedings so far.
He turned, let the beast catch her breath. Yonder, Stain was complaining. Hecht waited. He remained comfortable and confident but doubted that he had yet made his point.
Stain readied himself for another pass. His gelding was not as engaged as he. It favored its right rear leg. Blood stained its white caparison.
Hecht waited.
Stain refused another pass to the right so Hecht gave him what he wanted.
As he closed with the King, he swerved right, increasing the angle Stain must use to place his lance on target, took its head on his shield, pushed it past him. At the same time he drove his own lance down at the outside of Stain’s left thigh. The King’s mail took a long, deep, smoking, cherry-red score but held. Heartsplitter skipped to the gelding’s caparison, opened a gash in its side two feet long.
Stain’s mount stopped. It screamed. It dropped its rear end as though it meant to sit. Then it tried to throw Stain.
Hecht slowed, turned in a tight circle, came back, gave Stain a solid thump in the back of the helmet with Heartsplitter’s butt. He circled again. Stain tried desperately to control his gelding.