The Windrider, Episode 4: Eliminating the Competition
Becky Minor
The sharp crack
of lance against shield echoed through the arena, compelling the multitudes that packed the grandstands to gasp as one. I dodged the splinters of the riven weapon that flew over my head. One of the two combatants before me tumbled from the back of his horse and landed with a rattling thud on the dirt floor of the arena, kicking up a cloud of caramel-colored dust. I winced for him before I dashed closer to the downed warrior. I had been in his position and did not envy him.
The warrior scrambled to his feet, tossing his lance aside and groping for his sword. The lack of surety with which his hand found his hilt told me who would prevail in this round. He spread his feet shoulder width and braced himself to meet the charge of the horseman who came about at the other end of the arena.
The ground trembled under the thundering footfalls of the black courser in silver barding as he charged toward the center of the field of contest. The elf on its back drew a heavy flail, the links of its chain rattling like impish laughter. The mounted soldier brought his weapon around as he bore down upon the footman, and again the clamor of weapon-meets-shield rent the air. This time, pieces of the shield flew all directions, and the footman crumpled to the ground.
The courser careened past me, a little too close for my taste, so I shot a glare at its rider before I raised my hand high. The herald trumpeters blew the Cease of Battle call.
“No, I—I can go on,” the footman rasped as he struggled to one knee.
With the gruesome angle at which his forearm hung, I knew his words to be no more than bravado. The healers and I converged upon the downed contestant. His condition looked no better up close than it had from a distance.
“This round is over for you, soldier,” I said. “Go get that arm straightened out.”
As the wounded footman turned for the arena’s edge, polite acknowledgment of his efforts rippled through the stands. Unhurried, I headed for the center of the arena. When I turned to face the crowd, I raised my chin to gaze past the multitudes and addressed King Saransaeloth in the royal spectators’ box.
“The round goes to Sir Direllian Mithveranon!” I proclaimed for the third time that day.
Thunderous applause erupted from the crowd as Mithveranon made a final circuit of the arena to pass through the gate. Over the past three days this warrior, whose name no one had heard before he first took the field, had proven that no opponent could best him. He showed no lack of prowess. Decorum, perhaps. I did not doubt Mithveranon would stand among the finalists, a contender for the title of King’s Champion.
The trumpeters burst into a complicated rill, calling the spectators to tea. I smirked at the idea. Having stood in the midst of every event today, my body bore a thick layer of dirt, the wages of my forced role in this year’s tournament. No matter. Those who put me in this position would endure my grime, for I would not forego a chance at a few moments’ refreshment and shade.
I stepped inside the tent where the officers of Delsinon’s fortress took their repose. Before I had even cleared the entry, the Prophetess Veranna swished up to me and handed me a dainty saucer and cup. I repressed a snort at her doting. It would take more than a cup of tea for her to make amends for what she had done.
Several officers crowded me as I took my first sip, wetting a throat dryer than the sands of North Deklia. The officers jockeyed for position, talking over one another as they attempted to lay compliments at my feet.
“His Majesty shall certainly acquire a fine champion this year, with the tournament in your capable hands, Captain Ecleriast.”
“A smoothly run operation, Captain. A true pleasure.”
“Never has the tournament had such an air of authority--all owing to your leadership.”
I nodded in response between sips of tea or mouthfuls of dainties, quietly accepting these accolades—the spoils of my position.
“So, is officiating such a terrible arrangement?” Veranna said as the corner of her lip took a crooked upturn.
I crunched on a point of toast, topped with a fried quail’s egg. “So far it has been…bearable,” I replied. To Veranna’s good fortune, my temper over the whole matter had cooled from how I felt a few days earlier.
*
A multi-colored palette of banners caught high in the afternoon breeze snapped and crackled like the flames of a bonfire. At the south end of the wide arena, practicing trumpeters called to one another through their silver horns, their clarion bell tones raising goose bumps on my skin. Little else brought me the thrill of a tournament. My excitement mounted with every step as I marked off the strides my steed would take as we conquered the field. Once a year, the Week of Tourney dominated the doings of Delsinon. And this year’s battle belonged to me.
The stables just outside the contest ring bustled as grooms, stable boys and warriors prepared their mounts, their partners in competition. A tight cluster of well-dressed elders gesticulated over parchments as they kept a sharp eye to both those who worked the stables and those who, like me, previewed the course for tomorrow morning’s first event.
I stood below the rack of rings that awaited my spearing lance. Beside me, a much younger elf, a warrior scarcely beyond boyhood, stared up at the rack.
“They look closer once you are mounted,” I said with a smirk.
The youth nearly leapt out of his chain armor. “Yes, Sir. I am certain they do, Sir. You would know. Sir.”
“First tournament?”
The elf swallowed hard. “Is it so obvious?”
“I fear it is.” I clapped him on the shoulder. “But take heart. The brave often find favor in this place.”
“I hope so. I would not want to embarrass my unit with an unseemly showing—not with…”
The boy’s nervous prattle receded into the background of my mind as I saw the prophetess Veranna sashay up to the supervising elders outside the ring. What could she possibly want? Must she insist upon casting a dark cloud over my one admitted joy?
As she spoke, the entire group turned their gazes to me. Though I could not hear what they said, their conversation certainly looked interesting, for vigorous pointing and head shaking punctuated it.
“Sir?”
The voice of the young competitor beside me snapped me away from my ruminations.
“What?”
“I asked if you would compete on the morrow, sir.”
I nodded. “Of course. But if you will excuse me…” Sparing no glance to the novice, I marched for the railing of the arena.
As the elders saw me coming, three of them scattered to some pressing business. Lerendir, King Saransaeloth’s Chancellor of War and a retired officer by the name of Ryathos remained. And, of course, Veranna.
“Do you find the course well set, Captain?” Chancellor Lerendir asked.
“Verily,” I replied. “How go the other preparations? I am anxious for a prompt start at daybreak.”
Ryathos cast a raised eyebrow to the Chancellor, which he then volleyed to Veranna. A long, agitating silence hung over the group.
“Will you say nothing?” Veranna said, askance as she turned to the elders.
The Chancellor shook his head. “I know when I cast fuel into a fire, my lady, and I’ll not do so here. This decree belongs to you.”
Veranna climbed onto the white arena fence and perched on the top rail, a dainty cat poised to preen. “Very well. Captain Ecleriast, you shall not compete in the ensuing festivities.”
I guffawed. “No? Just why is that? Shall I spend the week in the library? I have already finished reading The Tree.”
My words hit Veranna and stuck. I smiled.
She blinked a few times, then cleared her throat. “Excellent, Captain. You are dedicated in your study.”
“So, with that settled,” I began, clapping the dirt from my hands as I turned toward the gate, “I have some practice ahead of me this evening.”
The Prophetess leveled her gaze at me. “No, Captain. You do not. You will not compete this year by the King’s order.”
“What?” No mirth laced my words this time. “Is not this tournament to determine his champion? Had battle not called me from the event last year, I would have secured the title then! Surely he does not intend to slight me by denying me my rightful chance to—”
“While I am sure he intends no slight, his order stands, Captain,” the Chancellor interjected, holding forth a parchment. At the bottom of the flowing script, I saw the undeniable gold seal, the mark of my liege.
I stabbed my burning glance at each of the elves before me, none of whom so much as flinched. “I shall address King Saransaeloth myself over it.”
Veranna hopped down from the fence and into my path. She took hold of both my wrists, her touch like the alighting of butterflies. “Vinyanel,” she said with a supple softness. “Try to understand. Yes, even without your trusted Solaris, you are the warrior who would win this contest. None deny it. But you cannot be everything at once.”
Her delicacy caught me off-guard. In her face, for the first time since I had met her, I saw tender sympathy, and it seared me like a brand. I cursed the lump that rose in my throat as she intoned the name of my lost mount. Setting my jaw, I rolled my eyes skyward. Welling tears? I forbade them.
In a whisper no louder than the evening breeze, Veranna said, “Do not cling to what is good and leave yourself no empty hand to accept that which is best, young Windrider.”
I wrenched my hands away from the Prophetess with greater force than the situation demanded. “Just because I have a duty to pursue this Command--a process which I assume will take months-- does that mean I should sit, untested, in the meantime?”
A desperate look swept over Veranna’s face. “Now, we did not say—”
“I heard enough of what you did say, Veranna! Good day.” I spun on my heel and stomped off.
Before I had gone a handful of paces, the Chancellor called, “Captain, halt. That is an order.”
I brought my feet together, but did not turn.
“Just because you shall not compete, that does not mean you are unneeded,” Chancellor Lerendir continued. “This year, you shall officiate.”
Officiate? The absurdity grew with every word the elder spoke. Officiating fell to old gray-pates like him. Elves whose sword arm lifted little more than a goblet with any regularity. I wanted to respond with another infuriated outburst, but instead I sucked my teeth.
I performed the crispest about-face of my lifetime to stare down Veranna and the Chancellor from beneath lowered brows. “Yes, sir. Is there anything else?”
“No, Captain. You are dismissed.”
After pounding my fists into more than one beam that supported the grandstands, I worked my way around the arena, my mere countenance clearing the path of other elves.
*
Only after I had endured more than enough idle gossip from officers’ wives and Veranna had plied me with every comfort available to the reveler, did teatime come to a close. I straightened my tabard for the sake of returning to the arena for today’s final round of jousting. From the tinkling that fluttered up behind me, I knew I had not passed through the tent flaps alone, but I did not slacken my pace. As I neared the grandstands, Veranna drew up beside me.
“You really are doing an excellent job, Captain,” she said. “You let the compliments roll off like rain upon oilskin, but I hope you can glean some sense of satisfaction from your contributions.”
I halted my step as a runner pushing a cart of rubbish cut across our path.
I shook my head. “I find no joy in administration. But I must serve my king, and this role is where he has placed me.”
Veranna clapped her hands together. “Exactly! Within that thought lies the very core truth that will draw elves to follow you, no matter what you command. You have proven your supremacy in arms. Perhaps the time has come for you to use your gifts for someone else’s benefit and glory.”
An air of earnestness and urgency swelled Veranna’s words, and something in her imploring tone strummed a chord deep within me.
“The servant shall lead them,” I said to the air. “His greatness shall lie in his abasement. The multitudes shall flock to his humble meekness.”
“There is hope for you yet, Captain.” Veranna smiled, and a ray of inner light lanced across her burdened countenance. She opened her mouth to speak again, but a strangled yelp from behind a nearby tent swept her words away. With a raised eyebrow, I turned from my path and rounded the tent.
Behind it, a growing pile of refuse loomed. Clearly, the runners deposited all the trappings of revelry here, and the fly-ridden heap had grown quite large in just a few days’ time. The runner who had passed us earlier stood in front of the pile, hand clapped over his mouth and eyes squeezed shut. His knuckles whitened around the rake he held in his other hand.
“You all right?” I asked. The rubbish did not smell that bad. Yet.
The runner pointed a shaky finger behind him.
I peered around the young elf. I saw nothing at first besides rinds of melons, crusts of bread, cast-off garnishes, and the bones of standing rib roasts. Then my eyes widened.
Out of the refuse dangled an arm, ash-gray and limp.
Veranna stepped up beside me. “What is it, Cap—” Her jaw fell open, incapable of forming any further words.
I snatched the rake from the runner. With several swipes of the tool, I exposed the shoulder, chest, then face of the unfortunate elf beneath the refuse. The obvious ravages of warm weather on a corpse dead several days distorted the features I saw, but even so, their likeness was unmistakable.
This elf was a dead copy of Mithveranon.
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