<html> <body> --------- Metamor Keep: Divine Travails of Rats by Charles Matthias and Ryx Pars II: Denuncio (h) Tuesday, June 22, 724 CR The banquet's end came not long after and soon the mages were gathered and bouts were drawn. Sigismund was selected in the second match but despite his best efforts he soon had to yield to the adroit talent of master Murikeer's eldest child. The third match featured the disfigured Magyar against the grizzled Nestorius. The coal black lion was one of Metamor's most formidable and arcane mages, and while by the bout's end he had edged the foreigner in points, he declared it was a shame for he felt like a lame child in the presence of an artist so precise was the Magyar's control over flame. Grastalko accepted his defeat with grace and decorated the lion's brow with a fiery wreath that singed no fur and, to the Nestorius's embarrassment, he could not dismiss. Sigismund returned to the High Box after all the mage bouts had completed and was greeted with warm cheers and a hearty hug from his mother who was otherwise busy making sure no one was short on wine. Thalberg put one scaly hand on his son's shoulder and gazed at him with pride in his yellow eyes. Neither Bryn nor Charlie missed their chance to congratulate him on going father in the tourney than he had ever thought he would. The archery quarter finals also proved disappointing for the High Box as two of Suria's arrows feathered the make-shift trees rather than the targets. She was welcomed warmly by her family while Horvig took it upon himself to advise her on Steppelander techniques for firing from atop horseback. “If thou dost strike thy target at speed, thou wilt strike it through trees!” It proved good distraction for her and kept her from scowling at the princess. The highlight of the afternoon, as it always was during the Summer tourney was the jousts. The eight knights remaining all rode onto the lists, pennants waving, for a quick parade before the draws would begin. And with the knights came the press of Keepers and travelers eager to see their finest warriors demonstrate their skills. Before the first draw had even begun Charlie's eyes were pulled to one side of the tourney field where a familiar gathering of rats made ready to watch. The knights crashed in the center of the tilt and as they recovered, splinters flying everywhere, Charlie slipped from the High Box as quietly as he could. His claws pressed painfully against his palms. From one side of the High Box he was able to find a little space in between the press of onlookers to watch the jousts without seeing anything he didn't want to see. Maysin followed after him but did not draw too close, watching both him and the tourney from a short distance. Charlie gnawed on his chewstick as the pounding of hooves raced back and forth along the field as the matches ground on; at least two unhorsed knights had to be carted off by their friends. Both Sir Egland and Sir Dupré advanced to the semi finals on the next day, as did two younger knights from the southern fiefs who were beginning to make names for themselves. The jousts finished at an hour when it was clear that the sun's descent could not be stopped and night was inevitable. There were four or five hours left of sunlight for the day, but after the last round of melee bouts the tourney contests would be over until the morning. And so, while the fields were prepared, the Keepers who had gathered en masse now dispersed to the booths selling food, crafts, ale, and other entertainments both innocent and otherwise. Charlie, followed by Maysin, returned to the pavilions to ready himself in case the crier called his name. Bryn and Argamont arrived moments later, with the mount teasing his rider with questions about the princess which was quite obviously the very last thing the ducal heir wanted to talk about. Maysin helped Charlie don his armor afresh – Hogue and Jackson still nowhere to be found, and neither Peter nor Timothy deigned to put in appearance – and they idly spoke of who they thought would win the golden lance this year. But before they knew it the cry went up and the first pair of combatants were called. They watched from the pavilions as Sir Dupré and Sir Intoran paired off to begin the melee bouts. Dupré's age and experience were powerful advantages, but Intoran had youth, size, and much greater reach. The bout lasted for almost a half hour before Dupré broke his sword and yielded rather than prolong the affair by finding another weapon. Intoran appeared relieved; his shield was almost destroyed and his armor had so many rents and dents it would take an armor-smith weeks to repair. “That was quite a match.” Charlie blinked at the churring observation, glancing up to find Erick standing a few feet away with a pair of wooden chalices. The chosen son, the thought chased through Charlie's head like the flit of a sparrow's wing, the one not given up, bartered away. Bryn and Argamont were so deep into some dispute of attack and defense that they did not notice the shorter rat walking past them. Maysin bobbed her head in greetings and Charlie smiled to his littermate. “I would never have expected Dupré to hold out quite so strongly, or for so long. That oryx has reach, size, and youth on him.” “Both are highly trained, though I would hazard that Sir Intoran – the oryx – has had more, and been on more campaigns,” Charlie observed flatly. “At least in the last fifteen years.” His pavilion was on the side of a slight incline, as were all of the tents set aside for tournament contestants to prepare for and recover from their matches, and offered a decent view of the field over the tops of the few merchant stalls and stands surrounding the field proper. Erick ambled over and extended a cup and Charlie accepted it with a bob of his head. The contents proved to be nothing more than apple juice. “What brings you, Erick? And where's Sir Bertram? I haven't seen him at the Festival.” His brother settled on a nearby stool and stretched his back. “I wanted to congratulate you on your showing this year. And poor Bertram drew the wrong lot and had to stay and watch over the Narrows this year. He would have enjoyed seeing Father thrash me like that!” Erick laughed and then shook his head. “You've done very well, brother. I didn't even make it to the second day!” “I've had more training,” Charlie muttered neutrally, sipping the apple juice. Erick smiled and nodded, oblivious of his brother's surliness. “Oh, aye, I'll admit you've got the better of me there. Who do you hope to face next?” Erick waved a hand toward the field. Goldmark, in the form of a massive four-legged rat with a humanoid torso and arms, gamboled out like an oversize puppy. In one hand was a commendably large mace and in the other an unadorned kite shield. From the opposite side a burly human male in decidedly foreign garb staggered into sight. The steppelander warrior carried a slender, curved blade in one hand and a huge flagon in the other. “I was hoping I might be pitted against Goldmark... against any of the others I fear I have not the skill to offer much of a fight, save Bryn of course. Intoran might have let me win, but I wouldn't want to force him into that.” While they watched the steppelander tipped back the flagon to finish off its contents and then tossed it aside. The pennant dropped and Goldmark swept to one side, batting a lurching stab of the foreigner's blade aside, and then stopped when the lurch became a stagger and the man went to his knees. While the stunned rat'taur looked on the man keeled over and fountained the contents of the flagon he had just quaffed onto the dirt of the tourney field. The flagons that had gone before followed, as well the banquet the man had partaken in. Goldmark danced back out of range and cast a helpless glance toward the judges. Erick churred a laugh when the judges disqualified the drunken man advancing Goldmark to the final matches which would take place the following day. “Who's left?” Charlie winced at the man's sickness and the roaring laughter of the spectators. From what he knew of the horse peoples of the Steppes his drunkenness would not go over well with his chief. “Bryn, Kelficks, you, and Dad.” Charlie frowned and sighed. “Bryn and I have a contest of our own going, I'd rather not face him directly. Kelflicks is just... too fast unless I shed all of this armor.” He plucked at the edges of his plate cuirass and light chain. It did not encumber him much at all, as he had worn it, or its equivalent weight, in training for years. “Well, Dad was holding out that you and he might face off.” Erick smiled and tossed back the last of his apple juice. Charlie cast him a sidelong scowl. “Why?” “To see how you hold up?” Erick paid no heed to the cold irritation in Charlie's voice as he watched the drunken fighter get helped from the field by two of his fellows. “He was also hopping that one of the family might have a shot at the Summer Crown this year, too. If you and he square off, one of you will advance.” I'm not one of the family, Charlie thought, but ground his teeth to bite back his angry words. “Then perchance he shouldn't have run you through the thresher yesterday.” Oblivious, Erick clapped Charlie on the shoulder and stretched, his tail lashing lazily back and forth. “You're the better rat, Charlie. Well, since that bout took ever so long we'll have to wait half a candlemark until they call the next match. What would you say your odds are against Bryn or that Lutin, by the way? I might cast a small wager in your honor.” Frowning, whiskers adroop, Charlie sighed. “Against Bryn, I'm as likely to win as to lose. Against the Lutin... not good.” His head tilted slightly and he carefully set aside the empty chalice, having heard in that simple inquiry where he stood in relation to his own sire in Erick's eyes. No doubt where his wager would be cast if Charlie were not facing the horse or the Lutin. “Doff the armor, then, if you face Kelficks. After half a decade under that draconian child Vidika I wager you can hold up to a good bit of punishment!” Charlie snorted. “He's been trained by the same evil child, Erick, and he's a Lutin beside. They might drop at a single swing of a honed blade, but we're using tournament bruisers... he can suffer just as much pain as I can. Nocturna knows, he can probably take a good bit more.” “Ahh, don't be so hard on yourself,” Erick chortled in good humor, his dark rodent eyes gleaming in the shadows of the pavilion as he looked beyond. “Will your lady bid you a favor to bear into battle?” He held up a yellow ribbon that had been wound about one of his forearms. Charlie blinked, chuffed, and scowled. “My whom, a what?” He leaned back in his chair, momentarily distracted from his maudlin thoughts. “Whose is that?” “Your lady! Or, leastwise, a fair maiden to grace you with the luck of her banner!” Erick fingered the yellow sash with an impish grin, “Gossamer, the rabbit who tends mother's herb garden, gave me this.” “Gossamer?” Charlie guffawed. “She's a dowager! Married, and with a good score of skirt pullers beside! “And as much a grandmother as I could ever want.” Erick grinned hugely and nudged Charlie with an elbow. Charlie nudged in return. “And don't you have a bride to be?” “Aye, well, this is merely a favor, not a proposal! And here you ride favorless.” With a puff of breath past his incisors Charlie poked his little-brother again. “I've no one who would dandy me with frills of silk, Erick.” His sibling seemed only to grin all the more widely as his gaze was cast pointedly beyond the tent, where Bryn, Argamont, and Maysin were talking about one of the steppelander's golden horses visible in the corral behind the High Box. “No one, indeed?” “Maysin?” Charlie snorted with a shake of his head. “She's been retained as a steed, Erick, of her own volition. And she's already got a suitor, besides. I'm not like my father in his youth to drift from bed to bed without anchor.” “Ah, so hanging on your arm last night meant nothing? You two seemed rather closer than lord and servant.” With a shake of his head Charlie chuffed a sigh, “No. No, we are nothing more than friends, in the proper way between vassal and liege. She's as much bodyguard as mount... I daresay more of the former than the latter. I'm really not comfortable with the idea of someone lowering themselves to be used as a mount, though for them I guess it is an honorable enough profession.” He shrugged and leaned back in his chair. Maysin glanced aside into the shadows of the pavilion for a moment as Argamont said something, likely quite ribald and off color, that made Bryn bray a very equine guffaw of laughter. “She also knows that, eventually, some luckless lass will be foisted off on my arm for political ends and, for that, I need to maintain some degree of respectability. Bastards muddy the line dangerously.” “Fecundity just as much,” Erick observed laconically. “Ahh, and there is the crier. Up, up, brother. Let us go see who will be crossing blades.” The two of them stood from their seats and ambled out of the pavilion's shade into the late afternoon sunlight. The three equines fell into step with them, Maysin carrying Charlie's sword belt and shield. Charlie's armor jangled and chuffed metallically against the heavily quilted gambeson that kept the ringlets from stripping his fur and the whole affair was unpleasantly hot. It was a familiar heat, though, and a familiar weight so it distressed him not in the least. ---------- May He bless you and keep you in His grace and love, Charles Matthias </body> </html>