| by Brandon "meanbeard" Salinas
from the journal of Carlo di Cenza
The next morning, I woke and began
preparations to dismantle the tent. Sir Bellas stopped me. He wore a heavy
woolen cloak that was closed at the front with a series of small bronze
clasps. The cloak had a slightly misshapen look to it. After a moment's
observation, I made out the shape of his armor beneath the thick wool. Sir
Bellas was ready for battle.
"When it happens, stay close," he told me. He
reached into his cloak. I noticed a heavy crossbow tied close to his side.
He pulled out three long daggers and handed them to me. "Keep these in
reach. Your belt, perhaps. I will do what I can to protect you, but I can
promise nothing."
I took the knives and placed them securely
beneath my belt. They were hidden from view, but quite easily reachable if I
needed them. I am not well-trained in battle, and so I hoped I would not
need those knives, but I had seldom seen my knight so grave. I resigned
myself to the fight ahead - a fight against the Royal Guard of Viamont.
I did not pack the tent. Sir Bellas told me
that we would need to flee quickly. We could not afford to be hampered by
any more weight than was absolutely necessary. Instead, we filed into the
tournament grounds. We had risen early and few had made their way beneath
the tent, so we were able to take our seats on the front row of benches. We
remained as close to the tent's exit as possible. When it finally happened,
we would have to leave in a hurry.
Sir Bellas and I sat in silence for two long
hours. He did not tell me what the day had in store for us. I did not ask.
The stands of the tourney pit slowly filled
with spectators. When the stands were full, Lord Marden entered, the prince
at his side. The crowd cheered the prince as the two of them sat in the
Lord's spectator box. Then the tournament began. We were treated to the same
sort of spectacles from the previous day - jousts, duels, and group battles.
When each match concluded, the defeated knight or knights exited the grounds
while the victor retired to the holding pen. Eventually, only two would
remain. And they would compete for the honor of the tourney helm.
Eleonora's identity remained a mystery to all
but Sir Bellas and myself. She never removed her helm, though the heat
within must have been stifling. She fought ferociously, and defeated all who
met her in the pit. With every victory, the crowd fell more to her side. By
the time her fifth match began, the crowd was on their feet, cheering with
more fervor than had yet been displayed at the tournament. They loved her,
though they had no idea who she was.
Prince Renlen loved her as well. He wore the
same suit of armor he had worn yesterday. He looked more like a combatant
than a spectator. And probably, I thought, he meant to take part as a
combatant. The princes of Viamont routinely attend tournaments, a tradition
they began after Lord Darren's honor tourney four years ago. They do not
participate in the tournament itself. They choose, instead, to fight just
the one duel - the final duel against the tournament's otherwise rightful
victor. Of course, the princes have yet to lose even one of those duels.
Even if their opponent were not exhausted from a full day of jousting the
kingdom's fiercest knights, no loyal subject of the King would dare claim
victory over a prince of Viamont.
Doubtless, this was Eleonora's plan. She
hoped to win the tournament so that she could engage the prince in a duel.
But what then? Did she intend to shame him in defeat? Or did she intend a
far worse fate? Either way, he would demand her execution. Probably ours as
well.
When the light of day finally succumbed to
the dark of night, the final battle of the tournament was announced. The
mystery knight would fight Count Corcima, King Varicci's own nephew. Corcima
had fought incredibly well that day. No opponent had lasted more then twenty
seconds against him. I had seldom witnessed a more brilliant display of
martial prowess. Eleonora would have a difficult time with him, I was
certain.
Count Corcima strode to the center of the
pit. He turned to Lord Marden's box. He raised his jousting sword to his
lips. I noted that it was not the same one he had used in the tournament
thus far. Those swords were common jousting swords made from common
Viamontian wood. No, this sword was different. It was made of fine Silveran
oak, and it was massive. The weapon must have weighed thirty stones.
Eleonora's piddly jousting sword would stand no chance against a weapon such
as that. If they were to actually cross blades, he would shatter her weapon
like a child's playhouse. But worse than that was a more chilling thought -
what would happen if he hit her in the head with that thing?
"Lord Marden, Cousin Renlen," bellowed the
knight. "I dedicate this victory to the glory of Viamont!"
Lord Marden and Prince Renlen stood and
clapped as the audience erupted into raucous applause. The simplest way to
rouse a crowd to a wild fervor has always been to invoke the glory of
Viamont, but these times of war engender an even greater sense of pride in
one's kingdom than usual. It is nearly enough to make one fear for one's
life.
As the applause died, Eleonora entered the
pit. Her appearance caused the spectators to leap to their feet once again.
She, however, did not bow to the crowd. She merely stepped into the center
of the field, raised her sword to her lips, and bowed to Lord Marden and the
prince. Then she took her battle position.
The crowd quickly settled down. There was
utter silence beneath the tourney tent. Eleonora stood, her left side facing
Count Corcima. She crouched low, her sword's point resting against the
ground. Her bronze heaume stared impassively at Count Corcima, who had taken
a more traditional tournament pose – body front, blade held to his forehead.
The two regarded one another for a moment, then Corcima attacked.
He rushed forward and swung low, that great
battering ram of a sword grazing the earth as its pendulous motion sent it
sailing up towards Eleonora's face. Eleonora leaned backwards, allowing the
blade to swing up past her face. There was a loud ting as the tip of the
sword grazed her heaume. She quickly stepped to the left and whipped her own
sword around, smashing the knight in the back of the head with the most
sickening thud I had ever heard.
Count Corcima tripped forward and landed flat
on his face. He did not move.
Nor did the audience.
No duel of that tournament had ended so
quickly or so fiercely. We were shocked at the speed of its resolution. But
more importantly, we were concerned for the safety of the knight. Such a
blow was more than capable of killing a man. And the pool of blood slowly
spreading around Count Corcima's head gave us reason to believe that it had
indeed killed this man.
But after a tense moment, the knight stirred.
He placed his palms on the ground and slowly rose to his knees. He shook his
head, spraying a light shower of blood into the sand around him.
He staggered to his feet and turned to
Eleonora. The two regarded one another for a long moment. I feared he might
renew his attack against her, but as shaky as he was, I knew she could have
easily bested him a second time.
But such fears were unwarranted. The noble
knight bowed to the victor of the duel, then left the pit.
The audience members rose to their feet and
chanted Corcima's name. Lord Marden and Prince Renlen did the same. Eleonora
merely watched him go. The chanting quickly died as he exited the tent.
Lord Marden called to Eleonora, "Mystery
knight. You have bested every other contestant in these games. You have
proven yourself to be the finest warrior in the land. You well deserve this
helm of honor." Lord Marden gestured to a young page. The boy opened a small
wooden gate and entered the pit. He carried a large quilted pillow before
him. On that pillow rested a gleaming silver helm. A large horse's tail was
attached to its top and flowed majestically behind it. The page walked to
Eleonora, knelt, and raised the pillow before her.
Eleonora regarded the helm. Sir Bellas and I
tensed. He reached beneath his cloak and grasped his crossbow. I rested my
hand on one of my knives. If she removed her heaume now, how would the
prince react? The two had not laid eyes on one another since Darren's death.
Surely, he was quick enough to determine what Eleonora had planned for him.
But Eleonora did not remove her heaume. She
looked up from the tournament helm and spoke. "Lord Marden." Her voice was
muffled from within the tight-fitting heaume, but it was unmistakably a
woman's voice. The audience gasped in astonishment at that. Lord Marden
looked at Prince Renlen, clearly uncomfortable with this development. Prince
Renlen merely gazed at Eleonora with a smirk on his hateful face.
"Lord Marden," she continued as the gasps of
the audience faded. "I have bested all but one. Until that duel is complete,
I shall not consider myself worthy of such an honor as this." With that, she
held the hilt of the sword to her breast, its tip pointed toward the earth.
Then she bowed her head.
"Young knight –," Lord Marden started. But
Prince Renlen cut him short.
"Leave the pit, page. There is one more duel
to fight," shouted Prince Renlen as he leaped over the railing of the Lord's
spectator box. The audience erupted into a series of shouts and cheers as
the page scurried to the sidelines. At the same time, a trio of retainers
swarmed on the prince. They removed his cloak, equipped his helm, then
handed him his wooden sword. His blade was not quite the size of Count
Corcima's monstrous weapon, but it was made of the same fine wood. Certainly
enough to shatter Eleonora's meager blade. I wondered if it was the same
weapon he had used to execute poor Darren. I am sure Eleonora wondered the
same.
Eleonora must have realized that she had no
chance of ending a duel with the prince as quickly as she had the fight with
Corcima. Her meager blade would not stand a chance against Renlen's sword.
She strode to a young boy who waited on the sidelines of the pit. He held a
large, cloth-wrapped bundle. She handed the boy her own small weapon and
took the bundle from his hands. She unwrapped it to reveal her own Silveran
blade. It was every bit the match of the prince's own, right down to the
platinum hilt.
Eleonora handed the boy the cloth and strode
out to the center of the field. She and the prince held their blades to
their lips and nodded a curt nod to one another. With that, the battle
began.
It is impossible for me to describe the
ferocity with which those two fighters attacked one another. Nor am I a
skilled enough warrior to accurately recount the various blows and parries
each duelist levied against the other. All I can say is that the fight was
the fastest, fiercest match I ever witnessed. It was immediately obvious
that Eleonora had held back her full potential in the preceding duels. She
had always appeared to be just slightly better than each of her opponents,
but in this final battle with the prince, she displayed a level of finesse I
have never before witnessed; not even in my own Sir Bellas.
But no matter how skilled she was, there was
no way to escape the fact that this was Eleonora's seventh match of the day.
She was tired, and Prince Renlen used that fact to his advantage. Though the
two of them began the fight as equals, Eleonora quickly showed signs of
fatigue. Her attacks became less intense, her parries less sure. The prince
also grew tired, it was clear. No warrior can wield a sword the size of
those Silveran blades for long without succumbing to exhaustion. But
Eleonora's decline was much quicker than Renlen's.
I gripped Sir Bellas' arm. She was going to
fall. I was sure of it.
Only moments after I came to that
realization, it happened. The prince delivered a fierce upward slash.
Eleonora parried the blow, but in the process lost her footing. She stumbled
backward. Prince Renlen took that opportunity deliver a quick kick to the
center of Eleonora's chest. She sailed backwards and landed in the dust with
an audible thud.
The prince was on her. He clearly had no
compunction against attacking a downed opponent.
The prince tried to swing his sword down into
her gut, but she rolled to the side. His sword sank deeply into the
hard-packed earth, and he lost valuable seconds struggling to wrench it
free. Eleonora sprung to her feet, and delivered a fierce kick into the
prince's right side. Prince Renlen staggered to his left, pulling his sword
from the ground. He nearly fell, but he used his blade to correct his
stagger.
He spun to face his attacker, clearly
expecting an attack against his back. But Eleonora merely stood, watching.
She wanted to win this battle; that much was clear. But she was a far more
chivalrous fighter than the prince.
The two faced one another in a moment of
stillness. Both had nearly lost the match. They were well aware of their own
fatigue. Each understood this battle would be won in the next few moments.
And so did we all.
Eleonora turned her left side to the prince
and held her blade lowered to the ground. The prince did the same.
They regarded one another a very long time,
taking advantage of this brief respite to catch their breath. Their chests
heaved, and their breathing was audible, but other than that, there was
neither movement nor sound beneath that tourney tent. Finally, when the
waiting became almost too intense to bear, the prince spoke. His voice was
ragged and low.
"Why do you wait, milady?" he gasped. "Come
over here and finish this fight."
Eleonora said nothing.
A look of agitation crossed the prince's
face. He was clearly not used to this sort of situation, and he obviously
felt the crowd's favor leaving him. He called out to Eleonora, quite a bit
louder this time. "Why do you hide, lady? What girl hides beneath that
Bloodless heaume?"
Again, Eleonora said nothing. She stirred not
a muscle.
"Fight, damn it!" shouted the prince. "Come
over here and fight!" His body was quivering with rage.
Then finally, Eleonora spoke a soft
proclamation that I almost missed. I almost wish I had, because those words
tore at my heart. "I dedicate this victory to the young Lord Darren. May his
beauty live on forever."
Lord Marden's eyes widened. He clutched at
his throne and gasped. Prince Renlen turned to the Lord for but a moment,
and that moment was all Eleonora needed.
She raced forward and swung her blade upward
at the prince. He turned to her and tried to parry her blow, but her
strength was too great. She knocked the blade from his hand and sent it
spiraling into the crowd, nearly splitting Sir Borlac's aged skull.
Eleonora cracked the prince in the face with
the hilt of her sword. His nose shattered, spraying blood onto Eleonora's
bronze heaume. He staggered and doubled over, holding his bleeding face.
Then she smashed the blade into his gut. It clanged against his armor, but
still knocked the breath from his lungs. The prince fell to his knees, blood
pouring onto the ground from his shattered nose, but Eleonora was not yet
finished with him. She swung her sword upward and hit him in the face again.
The force of the blow lifted the prince from his knees and sent him sailing
onto his back.
The prince's Royal Guards had their hands on
the hilts of their swords, but none made a move into the pit. The confusion
in their eyes was clear. They were blood-bound to protect the prince, but
until he called them into the pit, they were forbidden to intervene. For the
disgrace he would suffer at being "saved" by his guard when he had not
called for them would be too great. Certainly too great for one as proud as
this young prince. Great enough to have the offending knight executed,
whether that knight's efforts had truly saved his life or not.
But the prince did not call to his guard. I
don't know why. And to a degree I am glad he did not. For the prince was a
vile young boy who grew into a vile young man; he deserved his fate.
Instead, he lay on the ground with his hands
on his bleeding nose. He tried to stand, but his knees gave way. He sank to
the ground, kneeling before his attacker. He looked up and spat a mouthful
of blood and teeth at her. "Bitch! What right do you have?" he screamed, his
voice petulant and childish. "What was he to you?"
Eleonora lowered her blade and removed her
heaume. Her dark hair clung to her sweat-drenched face, but her identity was
clear. And when the prince saw her, hope fled from his eyes.
Lord Marden stood. His mouth hung open. He
seemed a man torn between his duty to his kingdom and his love for his
long-dead son. His mouth opened and closed, struggling for words. But none
came.
Eleonora lifted her massive wooden blade with
both hands, its hilt above her head, its tip pointed downward towards the
prince's breast. "Hail Bellenesse," she cried, then plunged the sword
downward. It tore through the prince's armor. Its bloody tip ripped through
his back and pinned him to the tournament floor.
The boy screamed. I had never heard such a
pitiful, heart-rending scream. But I had not long to relish it.
The crowd erupted into cries of shock and
outrage. As one, the spectators rose to their feet and unsheathed their
weapons. The crowd surged forward, and we were taken with it. I was lifted
from my seat and carried forward, my feet dragging along the dirt floor.
Eleonora released her blade. Renlen remained
pinned to the ground, his now-dead hands wrapped around the hilt of the
wooden weapon. Eleonora produced a small gem from within the folds of her
armor, then closed her eyes.
At this point, my feet finally reached the
ground and I was able to move under my own power. The crowd rushed towards
Eleonora, intent on slaying her where she stood. I looked to Sir Bellas,
hoping that he would tell me what to do.
He motioned for me to close my eyes, and I
did so without question. Though my eyes were shut, I was not completely
shielded from the blinding flash of Eleonora's gem. A burst of brilliant
light forced its way beneath my eyelids. As one, the hundreds of spectators
in the tourney tent erupted in screams of agony.
I felt a hand on my shoulder. Sir Bellas
quickly whispered into my ear, "Let's go!"
I opened my eyes. The entire tent was on
their knees, hands clawing at their faces. Blood poured down their cheeks,
as though their eyes had erupted in their very skulls.
I looked to Eleonora. She was already gone
from the tent. Sir Bellas and I fled after.
Those few people who stood outside the tent
looked to us in puzzlement. They had heard the commotion, but still had no
idea what had actually happened in there. I unsheathed one of my blades,
expecting one of them to try and stop our flight.
Eleonora ran ahead of us towards a group of
three horses tied up near a small tent. Three small packs sat on the ground
nearby. Eleonora picked up a sword that was stuck point-down in the ground
and severed the horse ties with one quick stroke. She then picked up one of
the packs and tossed it over her shoulder without looking back. Sir Bellas
grabbed it out of the air and tossed it back to me. I quickly slung it over
my shoulders. The others did the same with their own packs, and we mounted
our horses. Eleonora sped off into the nearby forest. Sir Bellas and I
followed.
It was nearly an hour before we heard them
behind us. There must have been hundreds of them, scouring the forests for
any trace of our retreat. But we left no sign. Though we careened through
the forest at an incredible pace, we did not do so heedlessly. I learned
later that Eleonora and Sir Bellas had scouted their retreat several months
before. That fact was obvious as we made our escape. Not a branch was broken
nor a bush stirred. We sailed through the forest as silently as our mounts
would allow. In a matter of hours, all signs of pursuit faded into the
evening gloom.
We have been in hiding for days now. We did
not take the direct route to the Duke's fortress. We instead traveled South
for two days. Once we reached the shore, we headed West for a time. Our
current plan is to commandeer some sort of small fishing boat that will
allow us to travel up the coast to the port of Salizzen. From there, it will
only be another three days to the lands of Bellenesse.
We have not spoken much since the tournament,
only enough to coordinate escape and survival plans. I still do not know why
they brought me with them. And I can only assume that the entire reason for
this expedition was to avenge Darren di Marden's death. But one thing I do
know: I am terrified. Because I know what is coming. Eleonora showed herself
when she killed the prince! Everyone there knows that the House of
Bellenesse is responsible for his death! It is only a matter of time before
the King wages war on our house.
But again, I must wonder, was this really
about Darren di Marden? Was he the only reason for this horrible turn of
events? Or is there some larger plan at work? I almost hope that there is.
For unless the Duke has some plan in mind to repel the might of Viamont, I
see no hope in surviving the civil war that is sure to come.
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