A silhouette passed in front of the opening, momentarily blocking the sunlight.
“Mince?” Kine’s voice said. “Mince, look. I got me lamb chops!”
Kine entered and replaced the board. Mince’s eyes adjusted until he could see his friend, holding a pair of bloody bones. His chin was stained red. “I woulda saved you one, but I couldn’t find you. By Mar, I was famished!”
“Ya all right, Kine?”
“I’m great. I’m still a little hungry, but other than that, I feel fantastic.”
“But last night…” Mince started. “Last night ya—ya—didn’t look so good.”
Kine nodded. “I had all kinds of queer dreams, that’s for sure.”
“What kind of dreams?”
“Hmm? Oh, just odd stuff. I was drowning in this dark lake. I couldn’t breathe ’cuz water was spilling into my mouth every time I tried to take a breath. I tried to swim, but my arms and legs barely moved—it was a terrible nightmare.” Kine noticed the beef shank Mince still held. “Hey! You got some meat too? You wanna cook it up? I’m still hungry.”
“Huh? Oh, sure,” Mince said as he looked down at the robe while handing the beef to Kine.
“I love Blood Week, don’t you?”
Trumpets blared and drums rolled as the pennants of twenty-seven noble houses snapped in the late-morning breeze. People filed into the stands at Highcourt Fields on the opening day of the Grand Avryn Wintertide Tournament. The contest would last ten days, ending with the Feast of Tides. Across the city, shops closed and work stopped. Only the smoking and salting of meat continued, as Blood Week ran parallel to the tournament, and the slaughter could not halt even for such an august event. Many thought the timing was an omen that signaled the games would produce a higher number of accidents, which only added to the excitement. Every year crowds delighted in seeing blood.
Two years before, the baron Linder of Maranon had died when a splintered lance held by Sir Gilbert pierced the visor of his helm. The same year Sir Dulnar of Rhenydd had his right hand severed in the final round of the sword competition. Nothing, however, compared to the showdown five years ago between Sir Jervis and Francis Stanley, the Earl of Harborn. In the final tilt of the tournament, Sir Jervis—who had already borne a grudge against the earl—passed over the traditional Lance of Peace and picked up the Lance of War. Against council, the earl agreed to the deadly challenge. Jervis’s lance pierced Stanley’s cuirass as if it were parchment and continued on through his opponent’s chest. The knight did not escape the encounter unscathed. Stanley’s lance pierced Jervis’s helm and entered his eye socket. Both fell dead. Officials judged the earl the victor due to the extra point for a head blow.
Centuries earlier, Highcourt Fields had functioned as the supreme noble court of law in Avryn. Civil disputes inevitably escalated until accused and accuser turned to combat to determine who was right. Soon the only dispute became who was the best warrior. As the realms of Avryn expanded, trips to Highcourt became less convenient. Monthly sessions were eventually reduced to biyearly events where all grievances were settled over a two-week session. These were held on the holy days of Summersrule and Wintertide, in the belief Maribor was more attentive at these times.
Over the years, the celebration grew. Instead of merely proving their honor, the combatants also fought for glory and gold. Knights from across the nation came to face each other for the most prestigious honor in Avryn: Champion of the Highcourt Games.
Adorned in the distinct colors of their owners, richly decorated tents of the noble competitors clustered around the fringe of the field. Squires, grooms, and pages polished armor and brushed their lords’ horses. Knights entered in the sword competition limbered up with blades and shields, sparring with their squires. Officials walked the line of the carousel—a series of posts dangling steel rings no larger than a man’s fist. They measured the height of each post and the angle of each ring, which men on galloping horses would try to collect with lances. Archers took practice shots. Spearmen sprinted and lunged, testing the sand’s traction. On the great jousting field, horses snorted and huffed as unarmored combatants took practice rides across the course.
Amidst all this activity, Hadrian braced himself against a post as Wilbur beat on his chest with a large hammer. Nimbus had arranged for the smith to adjust Hadrian’s borrowed armor. Obtaining a suit was simple, but making it fit properly was another matter.
“Here, sir,” Renwick said, holding out a pile of cloth to Hadrian.
“What’s that for?” Hadrian asked.
Renwick looked at him curiously. “It’s your padding, sir.”
“Don’t hand it to him, lad,” Wilbur scolded. “Stuff it in!”
Embarrassment flooded the boy’s face as he began wadding up the cloth and shoving it into the wide gap between the steel and Hadrian’s tunic.
“Pack it tight!” Wilbur snapped. He took a handful of padding and stuffed it against Hadrian’s chest, ramming it in hard.
“That’s a bit too tight,” Hadrian complained.
Wilbur gave him a sidelong glance. “You might not think that when Sir Murthas’s lance hits you. I don’t want to be accused of bad preparation because this boy failed to pack you properly.”
“Sir Hadrian,” Renwick began, “I was wondering—I was thinking—would it be all right if I were to enter the squire events?”
“Don’t see why not. Are you any good?”
“No, but I would like to try just the same. Sir Malness never allowed it. He didn’t want me to embarrass him.”
“Are you really that bad?”
“I’ve never been allowed to train. Sir Malness forbade me from using his horse. He was fond of saying, ‘A man upon a horse has a certain way of looking at the world, and a lad such as yourself should not get accustomed to the experience, as it will only produce disappointment.’ ”
“Sounds like Sir Malness was a real pleasant guy,” Hadrian said.
Renwick offered an uncomfortable smile and turned away. “I have watched the events many times—studied them, really—and I have ridden but never used a lance.”
“Why don’t you get my mount and we’ll have a look at you?”
Renwick nodded and ran to fetch the horse. Ethelred had provided a brown charger named Malevolent for Hadrian. Bred for stamina and agility, the horse was dressed in a chanfron to protect the animal from poorly aimed lances. Despite the name, he was a fine horse, strong and aggressive, but not vicious. Malevolent did not bite or kick, and upon meeting Hadrian, the horse affectionately rubbed his head up and down against the fighter’s chest.