Deathsworn (Wattys 2018 Winner)

7 - The Flag of Lord Eran

A crashing roar went up from the lists; one that swept out and over the tourney grounds, wrapping itself around Bard and leeching him of mettle. Someone's been unhorsed.

He winced as Bodkin pulled on the lace to secure his gorget, then again as Weasel fastened his grieves. He was all sorts of jittery, hairs on end, focus as graspable as a writhing serpent. His mouth was dry, too, despite the water he supped.

'I've seen you do stupid things in all manner of ways before, Bard,' Taaj said, 'but this? This I wouldn't even expect in the Northern Territories.' He was rubbing his hand over the destrier's neck. The horse looked somehow larger now it was released from Oath and beside the pavilion, almost as hefty as the big black. Bodkin had transferred the livery of House Oak from the latter to the former, a thin silver chanfron protecting the destrier's face.

'If we withdraw, neither me nor anyone associated with me will get within one-hundred feet of Erikk. This is the way. This is the only way.' Or at least that was what he kept telling himself. A part of him wondered if he didn't have other driving motives. They didn't make themselves obvious, if he did.

'People die in the joust, Bard,' Bodkin said, tightening something else.

'You speak as though I entered it! If there was a way for that bag of piss to be up there with me, he would be.' Bard exhaled. The spindly fingers of regret pinched lightly on his shoulder. He didn't enjoy putting himself on the other end of an insult from Weasel. 'Does anyone have a shred of an idea about how to get near Erikk otherwise?'

Nothing was said. Bard could hear the tourney herald calling the names of the next to meet.

'Then this is what we have. We're in it together anyway, we might as well be on the same side.'

Taaj spat on the grass. 'I knew there was no way we'd outlive those ugly priests.'

'Don't suppose you know anything about jousting, Taaj?'

'Jousting? I'm from Amla. We're not like you mad Green Country bastards. No Zaffaarian is. Up there we have cummels. Try getting two of them to run at each other with big sticks. They'll spit on you.'

Bard didn't doubt it. He almost considered asking the same question of Tall Toyne, then he remembered the song about the Islander and the horse and spared wasted breath.

'Here, try your helmet.' Bard felt Bodkin slip the metal helm into his glove and he forced it down over his hair.

Bodkin stepped back. 'How is it?'

'I can't see a thing.' Bard's view had been closed down to a window, less than a half-inch wide. The helmet felt heavy, dead pressure on his neck. It wasn't a good fit at all, but it was the only one the Burned Priests had. "Your deception is your true protection," Brother Grief had said. What about when Weasel happens to our deception, Brother?

'Good. You don't need to. The less you see, the less chance of you getting a splinter in your eye.'

Weasel's alarm was more visible than Bard's. He'll never forgive himself if I die today. 'Weasel, go and see when we're due.' Bard had been counting tilts in his head. Is it one more, or two?

Weasel ran off, legs full of vigour, glad to be gone.

'How do you feel? You look the part, at least.' Bard saw Bodkin assessing him through his visor.

That's something. Maybe they'll bury me in the armour. Bard removed the helm and swung his hair free. 'I feel like I need you to go through it again. All of it.'