Deathsworn (Wattys 2018 Winner)

6 - Lady Orel

In the year or so that Weasel had been with the Gallowmen, Bard had formed a bond with him. It wasn't that he overly liked the boy, nor did he feel duty-bound as Deathsworn to make the best of him. He was, simply, compelled, with an urge he wondered hadn't survived his old life, to learn the lad; to right the wrongs of the guiding hand Weasel had never been afforded.

In that moment, though, the five of them back in the pavilion after the close of the tourney's first day, Bard had never wanted to strangle something so much as the grisly excuse for a neck that propped up Weasel's head.

'I can stick him up that new horse's arse, if you like?' Taaj's jape failed to stir any laughs. 'But then, I suppose, you'd have to joust on Oath.'

Bard rubbed his chin and pondered glumly.

'Might be that you can withdraw,' Bodkin chipped in.

'We're supposed to be here without having unnecessary eyes knowing about it. Imagine the lord that withdraws before his first tilt? We'd attract even more attention to ourselves!'

'More attention than when you're knocked off a horse in front of three-hundred people?' Taaj asked.

'I don't even have a lance,' Bard realised, out loud.

'Orl Ejjar's supplying the tourney lances,' Weasel said, 'they said so at the lists.' He returned his gaze to his boots, sullenly. 'I'm sorry, Bard. You're good with an axe, maybe you'll be good with a lance as well?'

He's only a boy. A boy who knows no better. He's not a squire. He's never even seen a joust before. Even so, only a fool thought skill with axe and sword translated to success in the lists. Bard had never held a lance before, never taken a blow from a metal-clad knight on heavy horse while a crowd cried for blood. The idea chilled him to the bone.

'How do we withdraw honourably, Bodkin?'

'You get an injury,' the Greenman replied, 'or you make up some other excuse that doesn't give them the idea that there's fixing going on. Weasel, who was this knight you challenged?'

Weasel shrugged. 'He was quite big, brown hair. From Green Country, I think. That don't matter though. I didn't challenge him as such, more said that Bard would win the tourney.'

'In that case you could end up meeting anyone in the first tilt,' Bodkin told Bard.

'What do you suggest?'

'I suggest you go to the lists, first thing tomorrow. The joust doesn't start until a day after. It might be you can withdraw, no harm done.'

Withdraw. It was the only thing to do, if Bard wanted to keep his head on his shoulders. And yet, somehow, it left a bad taste in the back of his mouth. You'll withdraw, thick-head, or you'll be the corpse they take back to Brother Sorrow. "Sorry, Brother, he fell off his big horse." 'Did we find out anything today, at least?'

'That Orl Ejjar can't keep his breeches fastened,' Taaj said. 'He had nine children with his first three wives. Erikk's his eldest son.'

He has a small army, bound by blood, then. I wonder if Erikk's brothers are as big as he.

'I spoke with some of the other fighters.' Toyne's voice was a low rumble inside the closed tent. 'One of them said Orl Ejjar used to be able to fell a tree with three blows of his axe. Erikk's of the same cloth.'

Bodkin grunted in concurrence. 'This isn't one to be done loudly.'

'I heard something,' Weasel piped.

Taaj chortled. 'Before, or after, you sentenced Bard to death?'

Weasel accepted the jibe without retort. 'Some of them were talking about some big thing happening on the last day of the tourney, something about Orl Ejjar giving away one of his daughters. The Lover's Climb, they called it. Said they couldn't wait to watch. Sounds like the whole family'll be there, and a big crowd too.'