Chapter 16
Trials by Combat

The sky was overcast, the day a dull gray, and the wind blew a chilled blast across the stands. And yet the crowd at Highcourt was larger and louder than ever. The entire imperial court, and most of the town, turned out to see the spectacle. Every inch of the bleachers was jammed, and a sea of bodies pushed against the fence. On the staging field only the blue-and-gold tent of Sir Breckton and the green-and-white tent of Sir Hadrian remained.

Hadrian arrived early that morning alongside Renwick, who went right to work feeding and brushing Malevolent. Hadrian did not want to be in the palace and risk an encounter with Breckton, Amilia, or Merrick. All he wanted was to be left alone and for this day to be over.

“Hadrian!” a strangely familiar voice called. Along the fence line, he spotted a man amidst the crowd, waving at him while a pike-armed guard held him back. “It’s me, Russell Bothwick from Dahlgren!”

Leaving Renwick to finish dressing Malevolent, Hadrian walked over to the fence to get a better look. As he did, his shadows from the palace moved closer.

Hadrian shook Russell’s hand. His wife Lena and his son Tad stood next to his old host. Behind them he noticed Dillon McDern, the town smith who had once helped Hadrian build bonfires to fend off a monster.

“Let them through,” Hadrian told the guard.

“Look at you,” Dillon exclaimed as they passed under the rail to join Hadrian at his tent. “Too bad Theron’s not here. He’d be braggin’ about how he had taken fencing lessons from the next Wintertide Champion.”

“I’m not champion yet,” Hadrian replied solemnly.

“That’s not what Russell here’s been saying,” Dillon clapped his friend on the back. “He’s done his own fair share of bragging at every tavern in town about how the next champion once spent a week living in his home.”

“Four people bought me drinks for that,” Russell said with a laugh.

“It’s very nice to see you again,” Lena said, taking Hadrian’s hand gently and patting it. “We all wondered what became of you and your friend.”

“I’m fine and so is Royce, but what happened to all of you?”

“Vince led us all to Alburn,” Dillon explained. “We manage to scratch a living out of the rocky dirt. It’s not like it was in Dahlgren. My sons have been taken for the Imperial Army, and we have to hand over most of what we grow. Still, I guess it could be worse.”

“We saved all our coppers to come up here for the holidays,” Russell said. “But we had no idea we’d find you riding in the tournament. Now that really is something! Rumor is they knighted you on the field of battle. Very impressive.”

“Not as much as you might think,” Hadrian replied.

“How’s Thrace?” Lena asked, still holding his hand.

He hesitated, not sure what to say. “I don’t know. I don’t get to see her much. But she came to the banquet last night and she looked well enough.”

“We just about died when we heard Deacon Tomas was calling for her to be crowned empress.”

“Thought the old boy had gone mad, really,” Dillon put in. “But then they went and did it! Can you imagine that? Our little Thrace—I mean Modina—empress! We had no idea she and Theron were descended from Novron. That’s probably where the old man got all his stubbornness and she her courage.”

“I wonder if she’s in love with Regent Ethelred,” speculated Verna, Dillon’s daughter. “I bet he’s handsome. It must be wonderful to be the empress and live in that palace with servants and knights kissing your hand.”

“You’d think she woulda remembered some of us little folk who cared for her like a daughter,” Russell said bitterly.

“Rus!” Lena scolded him. Her eyes drifted to the high walls of the palace visible over High Court’s tents. “The poor girl has gone through so much. Look up there. Do you think she’s happy with all these problems she has to deal with? Wars and such. Do you think she has time to think about old neighbors, much less track us down? Of course not, the poor dear!”

“Excuse me, Sir Hadrian, but it’s time.” Renwick announced, leading Malevolent.

With the help of a stool, Hadrian mounted the horse, which was decorated in full colors.

“These are friends of mine,” Hadrian told the squire. “Take care of them for me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Yes, sir! Did you hear that?” Dillon slapped his thigh. “Wow, to be knighted and in the final bout of the Wintertide tournament. You must be the happiest man in the world right now.”

Hadrian looked at their faces and tried to smile before trotting toward the gate.

The crowd exploded with applause as the two knights rode onto the field. The clouds overhead were heavier than before and appeared to have drained the color from the banners and flags. He felt cold, inside and out, as he took position at the gate.

Across from him, Breckton waited in the same fashion. His horse’s caparison waved in the bitter wind. The squires arrived and took their positions on the podium, beside the lances. The herald, a serious looking man in a heavy coat, stepped up to the platform. The crowd grew silent when trumpeters blew the fanfare for the procession to begin.

Ethelred and Saldur rode at the head of the line followed by King Armand and Queen Adeline of Alburn, King Roswort and Queen Freda of Dunmore, King Fredrick and Queen Josephine of Galeannon, King Rupert of Rhenydd—recently crowned and not yet married—and King Vincent and Queen Regina of Maranon. After the monarchs came the princes and princesses, the Lord Chancellor and Lord Chamberlain, Lady Amilia and Nimbus, and the archbishop of each kingdom. Lastly, the knights arrived and took their respective seats.

The trumpeters blew once more and the herald addressed the crowd in loud, reverent tones.

“On this hallowed ground, this field of tourney where trials are decided, prowess and virtue revealed, and truth discovered we assemble to witness this contest of skill and bravery. On this day, Maribor will decide which of these two men shall win the title of Wintertide Champion!”

Cheers burst forth from the crowd and the herald paused, waiting for them to quiet.

“To my left, I give you the commander of the victorious Northern Imperial Army, hero of the Battle of Van Banks, son of Lord Belstrad of Chadwick, and favored of our Lady Amilia of Tarin Vale—Sir Breckton of Chadwick!”

Again, the crowd cheered. Hadrian caught sight of Amilia in the stands, clapping madly with the rest.

“To my right, I present the newest member to the ranks of knightly order, hero of the Battle of Ratibor, and favored of Her Most Serene and Royal Grand Imperial Eminence, Empress Modina Novronian—Sir Hadrian!”

The crowd roared with such intensity that Hadrian could feel their shouts vibrating his chest plate. Looking at the sea of commoners, he could almost imagine a small boy standing next to his father, waiting in excited anticipation.

“For the title of Champion, for the honor of the Empire, and for the glory of Maribor these two battle. May Maribor grant the better man victory!”

The herald stepped down to the blasts of trumpets, which were barely noticeable above the cry of the crowd.

“Good luck, sir.” A stranger dressed in gray stood at Hadrian’s station, holding out his helm.

Hadrian looked around but could not see Renwick anywhere. He took the helm and placed it on his head.

“Now, the lance, sir,” the man said.

The moment Hadrian lifted it, he could tell the difference. The weapon looked the same, but the tip was heavy. Holding it actually felt better to him, more familiar. There was no doubt he could kill Breckton with it. His opponent was a good lancer, but Hadrian was better.

Hadrian glanced once more at the stands. Amilia stood with her hands pressed to her face. He tried to think of Arista and Gaunt. Then his eyes found the empty space between Ethelred and Saldur—the throne of the empress—Modina’s empty seat.

“I proclaim my faith in his skill, character, and sacred honor. I know his heart is righteous and his intentions virtuous. May you both find honor in the eyes of Maribor and compete as true and heroic knights.”

The flags raised and he took a deep breath, lowering his visor. The trumpets sounded, the flags dropped, and Hadrian spurred his horse. Breckton responded at the same instant and the two raced toward one another.

Hadrian only crossed a quarter of the field before pulling back on the reins. Malevolent slowed to a stop. The lance remained in its boot, pointing skyward.

Breckton rode toward him. A bolt of gold and blue thundering across the frozen ground.

Excellent form.

The thought came to Hadrian as if he were a spectator—safe in the stands, or like that boy so long ago holding his father’s hand along the white rail, feeling the pounding of the hooves. He closed his eyes and braced for the impact. “I’m sorry, Da. I’m sorry, Arista,” he muttered within the shell of his helm. With luck, Breckton’s blow might kill him.

The hoof beats drummed closer.

Nothing happened. Hadrian felt only the breeze of the passing horse.

Had he missed? Is that possible?

Hadrian opened his eyes and turned to see Breckton riding down the alley.

The crowd died down, shuffling as a low murmur drifted on the air. Hadrian removed his helm just as Breckton pulled his horse to a stop. The other knight also removed his helm and trotted back to meet Hadrian at the rail.

“Why didn’t you tilt?” Breckton asked.

“You’re a good man. You don’t deserve to die by treachery.” Hadrian let the tip of his lance fall to the ground. Upon impact, the broad ceramic head shattered to reveal the war point.

“Nor do you,” Breckton said. He slammed his own pole and revealed that it, too, had a metal tip. “I felt its weight when I charged. It would seem we are both the intended victims of deceit.”

The sergeant of the guard led a contingent of twenty soldiers onto the field and said “The two of you are ordered to dismount! By the authority of the regents, I place you under arrest.”

“Arrest?” Breckton asked, confused. “On what charge?”

“Treason.”

“Treason?” Breckton’s face revealed shock at the accusation.

“Sir, dismount now or we will use force. Try to run and you will be cut down.”

On the far side of the field, a contingent of seret entered in formation and mounted troops blocked the exits.

“Run? Why would I run?” Breckton sounded bewildered. “I demand to hear the details of this charge against me.”

No answer was provided. Outnumbered and out-armed, Breckton and Hadrian dismounted. Seret surrounded them and rushed the two knights off the field. As they did, Hadrian spotted Luis Guy in the stands near Ethelred and Saldur.

The crowd erupted. They booed and shouted. Fists shook and Highcourt Field was pelted with whatever they could find to throw. More than once Hadrian heard the question, “What’s going on?”

The seret shoved them out of the arena through a narrow corridor of soldiers that created a path leading them out of the crowd’s sight and into a covered wagon that hauled them away.

“I don’t understand,” Breckton said, sitting among the company of five seret. “Someone conspires to kill us and we are accused of treason? It doesn’t make sense.”

Hadrian glanced at the hard faces of the seret and then down at the wagon floor. “The regents were trying to kill you…and I was supposed to do it. You were right. I’m not a knight. Lord Dermont never dubbed me. I wasn’t even a soldier in the Imperial Army. I led the Nationalists against Dermont.”

“Nationalists? But Regent Saldur vouched for you. They confirmed your tale. They—”

“Like I said, they wanted you dead and hired me to do it.”

“But why?”

“You refused their offer to serve Ethelred. As commander of the Northern Imperial Army, that makes you a threat. So they offered me a deal.”

“What kind of deal?” Breckton asked, his voice cold.

“I was to kill you in exchange for the lives of Princess Arista and Degan Gaunt.”

“The Princess of Melengar and the leader of the Nationalists?” Breckton fell into thought once more. “Are you in her service? His?”

“Neither. I never met Gaunt, but the princess is a friend.” Hadrian paused. “I agreed in order to save their lives. Because if I failed to kill you, they will die tomorrow.”

The two traveled in silence for some time, rocking back and forth as the wooden wheels of the wagon rolled along the snow-patched cobblestone. Breckton finally turned to Hadrian and asked, “Why didn’t you do it? Why didn’t you kill me?”

Hadrian shook his head and sighed. “It wasn’t right.”