<html> <body> --------- Metamor Keep: Divine Travails of Rats by Charles Matthias and Ryx Pars II: Denuncio (f) Tuesday, June 22, 724 CR Although it was a short walk from the pavilions behind the High Box to the tourney field, Charlie allowed Maysin to take her time about it. She pranced on her hooves across the hard-packed dirt and cast up clouds of dust behind them. The zebra tossed her head from side to side, all the while making a sort of off-beat staccato by stomping her left forehoof twice for every step of the other three. The Tagendend horseman gathered behind the High Box hooted in approval as they watched, while the golden horses they brought tapped their hooves against the wooden railing in a strange sort of counterpoint. If he didn't know better he would have sworn those horses were applauding Maysin. Even after they left the pavilions behind, Keepers of all shapes and sizes who were thronging the booths set up surrounding the tourney fields to sell food, drink, and even little banners of their favored knights were apt to give him applause as they watched him, without reins, apparently lead his monochromatic striped steed in a stately dance. Charlie could not help but lift his snout high, straightening his back and lifting his tail in the slot set for it in his saddle in as regal a pose as he could command. Their arrival at the tourney field was less noticed only because several matches had already begun. Most eyes were on a pair of journeyman mages who were chasing fiery lights in the shapes of long-bodied dragons in whirligigs through the sky, but a few waved their banners in favor of a tilt before the High Box between two armored knights. Charlie saw Sigismund waiting just inside the fields practicing his sword swings and shield work. The young alligator stopped and opened wide his jaws in a saurian smile. “Good morning, Charlie!” Maysin came to a stop but gave each of her hooves one more fierce stomp as if she had just come inside from a snowy day and was dislodging all the flakes that had settled in her hide. She then lowered her front legs with a bow of her head, allowing the rat an easy glide to the ground. He slid free as smoothly as any Steppes-born horsemen trained to the saddle from wet-nurse to grave and rested one hand against the side of Maysin's neck. “Thank you, Maysin.” He bowed his head slightly as she straightened and adopted a regal pose; head and ears up proudly. Charlie smiled anew as he realized she intended to wait as his steed until he finished his bout with his alligator friend. He turned and put his hands on the tourney railing, smiling to the Steward's son. “Good morning, Sig. Did you rest well last night?” They conversed for a few minutes more before the other contests were complete and judges enough were freed to observe their bout and a few others which were beginning. Charlie saw an armored Bryn riding onto the field, Argamont in full barding, while across the list from him rode that old ram Sir Dupré on a normal though very stout horse. The Ram's helmet was open on the sides for his spiraling horns and ears; otherwise he was a figure of cold, iron gray. Charlie wished his friend good fortune against such a battle-tested knight. The rat and alligator traded a few friendly blows at first, but as soon as Sig began to press his greater body strength, Charlie took full advantage of the training he suffered beneath Vidika's merciless tutelage. Sigismund had mass and power to spare, far more of both than Charlie could boast, but what he lacked was speed of foot and Charlie capitalized upon that completely. To his credit the young alligator withstood twice as many, if not more, blows from the sharp swords that had been rendered harmless, but not painless, than the rat could have. A few minutes later and the alligator was wincing and cradling his left arm which the rat had stung with the flat of his blade to bring the match to an end. Despite his loss Sig laughed in good spirits and asked as they reached the railing to rest their swords, “Are you going to watch me in my next magic bout? It will be just after the noon hour.” “So long as I am neither tilting nor dueling blades I will be there. I should check to see when next I ride.” Charlie glanced down the field at a sudden crack of lances and crash of armor. Onlookers gasped as the ducal heir struggled to get his hooves beneath him while Argamont wheeled around to find where his rider had gone. Sir Dupré clutched the remnants of a shattered lance as he slowed his steed to a trot and then turned to check on his opponent. Those seated in the stands rose and a hush fell across the crowd as Dupré tossed his shattered lance aside and trotted back to the ducal heir. Slipping from his saddle he grasped Bryn's arm to help him stand. With a wave and a bow to the crowd Bryn walked, slowly and while rubbing his bruised posterior, alongside Argamont and a dismounted Dupré toward the far end of the field. “Well, it appears that Bryn won't be riding again this tourney. I rather hope I won't be tilting against Sir William.” Sigismund slapped his tail on the ground. “You might if you win another tilt or two. So does this mean Bryn will be buying the drinks?” “One round!” Charlie snorted a short laugh at the young alligator's exuberance – as if Sig would even drink more than one round; of wine at that. “And that's only if I don't get unseated in this round, too, and the draw has me facing my own Sir Egland at the tilt!” Charlie sighed with a shake of his head. Against the Ecclesia trained elk knight he held out little hope that he would remain in the saddle, much less emerge victorious. “But, for me, the real contest is with swords. I'm not the best with a lance.” He would not have long to wait to prove or disprove those words as his was the last of the tilts for the morning. Charlie had barely an hour to enjoy riding on the outskirts of the field watching his sister compete with bow and several mages clash in brilliant contests of elemental control. His eye caught a human stranger dressed in brightly-colored clothes that seemed more a collection of patches than a whole garment who had burn scars across the left half of his head that left the flesh black and pink in a twisted mess. Yet, where Sig relied on the illusion of fire to startle his opponents, this mage commanded both the smoking wick and the raging inferno with equal facility. An entire montage of mountain, dragon, mounted army, and battle ensuing was writ in that wreath of flame that he caressed with his unscathed fingers as if they were nothing more than petals of yellow and orange. Charlie was not surprised to see him victorious over his awe-struck opponent. But no sooner had that contest come to a close than the time for his own drew nigh. Both he and Maysin hurried into their armor all the while the rat cursed himself for failing to learn that foreign mage's name. Despite their haste they returned to the tourney field with minutes to spare. He could feel Maysin's tension beneath him as they took up their position at the far end of the list. Bryn, humorous at his earlier ignominious defeat, volunteered to stand in as Charlie's squire. “Looks like you're going to need Eli's own luck, Charlie my good rat,” the young stallion chuckled as he helped Charlie secure his shield before handing him a lance. At the far end of the tourney field Egland's own squires prepared him though, where Bryn stood nearly eye level with Charlie even mounted Egland was seated astride a far larger, much more powerful mount that was not even a horse. Egland's mount was, in fact, the Marshal of House Sutt; Intoran the oryx in his full animal form. “I feel a sparrow facing down an angry bull,” Charlie groused from beneath the visor of his helm. It had been fashioned into the shape of a rat's head and even had scalloped ear plates to protect the vulnerable flesh of his ears. “But maybe I'm too small a target for him.” Bryn brayed a warm laugh and clapped Charlie upon his back. “I saw him lance all ten rings this morning at a full gallop, Charlie. Even Saulius only managed eight at the same pace.” “That must have been rather humbling for him; Sir Saulius, I mean.” Bryn shook his head. “After his many victories here and on the battlefield in years past, that knight needs no more accolades to know his worth.” Charlie laughed nervously and tightened his grip on the lance. “That does sound like Sir Saulius.” Maysin cast a brief glance back at the two of them, and then gave a very equine shudder as the pennant was raised by the tournament marshal below the High Box. She trotted out at a proud pace matched at the far end of the list by the starkly patterned oryx serving as Egland's mount. Both raised their lances in salute to each other and then the Duke's box before lowering their long spars and lurching forward. Maysin found her stride within two paces, head low and neck stretched. Charlie couched his lance and braced his shield for the crushing impact he could feel long before it landed. Fortunately, with a slight shift of Maysin's headlong charge, Egland's blow only glanced off of Charlie's shield. He swayed in his saddle nonetheless for, even glancing, it was a solid blow. Intoran twisted his head at the last possible moment and deftly knocked Charlie's lance wide so he struck nothing whatsoever. A few in the crowd railed at the uncommonly intelligent actions of both mounts but, being Metamor where intelligent mounts were not unheard of, the tilt stood and Egland got the point. Charlie achieved the second point when, upon their second tilt, he lowered his lance and swung it a little more wide than the goal of Egland's shield. When Intoran saw the blunt steel tip of the lance held steady toward the gorget of his neck barding he raised his head slightly and shifted outward from the rail intending to put the lance against the layered steel of his breast and shoulders. Egland adjusted smoothly but Maysin understood her rider's goal and shifted inward so closely to the rail that Charlie's armored leg brushed against it. Egland's lance struck a glancing blow from the crest of Charlie's shield and swung wide, forcing him to duck even as he hauled the tip of his lance in and upward to strike the papal knight's shield true. With an explosive snap the shaft of his lance shattered in a shower of splinters and he heard Egland whoop in surprise over the thundering hooves of their mounts. “Nicely run!” Bryn congratulated him as Maysin bounced to a sliding stop at the end of the list. Charlie hugged a laugh and handed off his shattered lance for a fresh one held up by the Duke's son. “That surprised him!” “Surprised me too!” Charlie briefly adjusted his helm which had been knocked slightly askew when he ducked behind his shield. “He's got four feet on me in height and reach!” “Now, one more like that and you'll have the match.” He gave Charlie's shoulder a shove and retreated back toward the rack of lances. “Give that old buck the shaft!” Squaring his shoulders Charlie leaned forward, the pennant dropped and Maysin surged into a quick gallop. Her black mane hissed against the front of Charlie's helm, audible despite the cheering of the crowd and the thundering of hooves. His lance lowered and held steady toward the elk's shield; all he needed to do was make a final strike, even glancing, without taking a hit from the iron ball at the tip of Egland's lance. That ball looked like a catapult stone as it sped toward him and he hunkered further behind his shield. His aim was true, the ball of his own lance squarely set upon the center of Egland's shield, and even with Maysin's inward shift twenty feet before connecting, he kept his aim true. Unfortunately, Egland weighed a good deal more than Charlie did and, when lances and shields met it was Charlie that took the brunt of the elk's shattering lance. His own struck true, but only a glancing blow, as Charlie felt Maysin slip out from beneath him. His forward momentum had come to an abrupt halt while she had not slowed. As a result there was a moment of weightless falling before the jarring crash of armor and flesh coming to an ignominious sprawl upon the churned earth of the tournament field. The onlookers burst into a roar of applause while Charlie tumbled to a stop face down in the dirt, quite stunned, his tail ingloriously pointing toward the sky like a bent pennant pole. Getting his arms under him the young rat pushed himself up a bit and shook his head as he spat dirt from his muzzle. His helm had taken at least two solid face-down hits upon the ground in his tumble from the saddle and it had half-filled with earth and sod. Heavy hoof-falls sounded nearby and strong hands grasped his shoulder. “You all right, Charlie?” Egland, down from his mount, was the first to reach his stunned opponent. After helping Charlie sit up Egland eased his helmet off allowing him to clear the last of the dirt from his whiskers. “Tumbled is all, Sir.” Charlie spat mud and raked his tongue against his teeth with a scowl. “That was... quite a hit.” Beyond the knight Charlie spied Bryn trot up and Intoran standing, still in his saddled, armored animal form, looking on with some concern. Maysin trotted up and almost pushed Charlie back down in her urgency to see that he was not injured. Charlie grunted, caught between an irritated grumble and laugh, and pushed her nose away gently. “I'm okay, I'm okay! Just help me up. I feel like a landed fish in this armor.” Grasping Maysin's neck and Egland's shoulder he hauled himself upright to the relieved cheer of the crowd. Holding his helm up in one arm he took a bow, as did Egland, before they withdrew to their respective ends of the list. “Looks like I won't be buying that round, after all,” Bryn chortled. “We still have the quarter finals of foot.” With Bryn's help Charlie shed himself of his armor and retired to the Duke's pavilion to bathe and change into a fresh doublet and bloused leggings. With the eight knights for the quarter finals determined the tournament field was cleared and a host of laborers swarmed out to clear away the debris, rake the churned earth flat once more, and brought out long, wheeled tables to array them throughout the field. As was customary the Royal family hosted a banquet for the midday meal on the second day of the festival for all attending, regardless of social position or rank. Commoners rubbed elbows with aristocrats and lower nobles while, in the High Box, the royals looked on and offered toasts and speeches. Thomas held the field silent for almost a quarter hour with a long monologue about the triumphs of the past year, the challenges overcome, the gains and losses through the harsh winter, and the year to come. ---------- May He bless you and keep you in His grace and love, Charles Matthias </body> </html>