The Kings of Clonmel

Chapter 40

'Now listen all people! Give silence for Sir Sean of Carrick, chief steward to the King and master at arms for these combats! Silence for Sir Sean!'

The herald's voice thundered the formally worded, rather stiff announcement across the market square, dominating the loud buzz of conversation in the stands. The herald was a thickset man, with a barrel-shaped chest and massive lung capacity. He had been specially selected and trained for his role.

Gradually, the chatter in the stands died away as people realised that it was almost time for the first combat to begin. They edged forward expectantly on their seats, those at the extreme ends of the bleachers craning to see Sean as he moved to the front of the royal enclosure. He held a rolled parchment in his hand. He unrolled it and began to read. His voice lacked the stentorian qualities of the herald's but it was strong and clear and it carried easily in the sudden silence.

`People of Dun Kilty! At issue today is the legitimacy or otherwise of the so-called god Alseiass, also known as the Golden God of Good Fortune.'

There was a moment of subdued muttering from the eastern stands as he said the words 'so-called god'. It stopped as he raised his eyes and directed a hard look across the combat ground.

`Ferris, High King of Clonmel, contends that Alseiass is a false god and that his prophet Tennyson is a false prophet.'

He paused, turned and looked at Ferris, who was sitting huddled in the throne-like chair at the back of the royal enclosure. A wave of cheers rang around the arena, mingled with cries of 'Hall Ferris!' and 'Long live the King!'. Sean waited till they died away and continued.

`His majesty also contends that the one true hope of deliverance for the Kingdom is the warrior known as the Sunrise Warrior. That under his guidance and protection, we shall restore the rule of law and order in the Kingdom.'

More cheers. And stony silence from the eastern stands.

`The prophet Tennyson, for his part, contends that Alseiass is a true god.'

Now cheering rose in the eastern stands. Tennyson leaned back in his chair, looked around him at his supporters, and smiled. Halt, watching from the opposite side of the field, thought the smile was a smug one. He frowned as he noticed three figures sitting behind Tennyson, all cloaked in dull purple. The Genovesans, he realised.

Sean was continuing. 'Tennyson has guaranteed the protection of his god to those who will follow him, and vows that Alseiass and Alseiass alone can restore order to the Kingdom.

`These matters having been under contention, and with no resolution attained, the parties have agreed to the ultimate resolution of differences: trial by combat.'

The thunderous cheering that rose now was all-embracing. Both townsfolk and Outsiders alike roared their approval. After some thirty seconds, Sean glanced at the herald behind him. The heavyset man stepped forward and his voice rang out above the crowd.

`Silence! Silence for Sean o' Carrick!'

Gradually, the cheering died away, like a mighty wave that crashes in upon a beach, then recedes until there is nothing of it left behind.

`Trial by combat is the sacred, unarguable method of judgement, the ultimate court against which there may be no appeal. It is the direct appeal to all gods to decide these matters. On behalf of King Ferris, I swear the crown's willingness to abide by the final judgement, absolutely and without further argument.

`Should the followers of Alseiass prove victorious, King Ferris will withdraw all claim of the powers of the Sunrise Warrior and submit utterly to the will of Alseiass.'

There were a few scattered cheers and catcalls from the bleachers opposite the King's enclosure. For the most part, however, there was silence as the true gravity of this contest and its result sank in. And the followers of Tennyson realised that a similar binding vow would be required of their prophet – and a similar pledge to deny the god Alseiass if Killeen and Gerard were to lose. For the first time, many began to examine their own impetuous actions in joining Tennyson's band. Swept along by a mixture of excitement, fear and blind hope, they hadfollowed Tennyson's lead without giving the matter too much rational thought. Now Sean showed them the other side of the coin – the risk Tennyson was running.

`Should the Sunrise Warrior prevail, Tennyson and his followers must give the same undertaking. The sacred trial by combat to take place here will determine whether or not Alseiass is truly a god – and whether Tennyson is a true prophet or a false pretender.'

Sean paused, staring across the open ground at the white-robed figure seated opposite him. Tennyson showed no sign of responding.

`Tennyson! So-called prophet of Alseiass! Do you swear to be bound by these proceedings? Do you swear to agree to the result of trial by combat, whatever that result may be?'

Tennyson, remaining seated, glanced around at his followers. Their eyes were on him. He nodded curtly. But that wasn't enough for Sean.

`Stand, Tennyson!' he demanded, 'And swear to it in the presence and hearing of all here!'

Still Tennyson remained seated. He was unwilling to commit to such a definite course of action. Who knew what could go wrong in a trial by combat? But as he remained seated, he began to hear muttering from his own followers. Not the hard-core fifty or so who were his inner circle. They, after all, were under no delusions that there was a god Alseiass. But his new converts, the crowds of people swept up from Mountshannon and half a dozen other villages along the way, were beginning to look at him suspiciously and doubt the level of his conviction and the truth of his teaching. In another few seconds, he realised, he could lose them. Reluctantly, he stood.

`I swear it,' he said.

Sean, opposite him, allowed himself a small, grim smile.

`Then let all here witness that fact. These matters will be settled this day by combat. All parties have agreed. All parties will be bound by the result.'

Slowly, Sean began to roll up the parchment from which he had read the ritualistic formulas setting out the parameters of the day. He glanced to the pavilions, one at either end of the field.

`Let the combatants come forward! Horace of Araluen, known as the Sunrise Warrior. Killeen of the Isles, disciple of Alseiass! Step forward and receive your weapons for this sacred trial.'

And the cheering began to build again as Horace and Killeen emerged from their respective pavilions. Somewhere, a drumbeat began, giving them a cadence by which to march. Each warrior was fully armoured. Killeen wore a shirt of scale armour – brass plates shaped like fish scales that were fastened onto an inner leather garment. Like fish scales, the brass leaves overlapped each other. Horace had small links of closely knit chainmail under his white surcoat and covering his arms. Killeen wore a full helmet that concealed his face, with only his eyes glittering through the vision slit. Horace wore his familiar conical helmet with its dependent fringe of mail hanging to his shoulders as a neck guard.

Both carried their shields on their left arms. Horace's was circular, made of steel fastened over toughened wood, painted white with the emblem of the sunrise depicted on it. Killeen's was kite shaped, with a rounded top. It bore the double circle emblem of Alseiass. Beside each strode anattendant. A white-robed acolyte flanked Killeen, and Will strode beside Horace, desperately trying to keep up. Compared to Horace and the huge figure of Killeen, he looked almost child-like.

The drumbeat came to a stop with one final ruffle as Killeen and Horace, flanked by their attendants, stopped in front of the royal enclosure, where Sean stood waiting for them. Below him, at ground level, a simple table held their chosen weapons. Horace's long-bladed, unadorned cavalry sword. Brass hilted and with a matching crosspiece, it was an unremarkable weapon. But it was perfectly balanced and razor sharp.

Beside it, massive and ugly, was Killeen's mace and chain. A thick oak handle some half a metre long, bound every ten centimetres with iron strips to reinforce it. Then the long iron chain, heavy and thick, attached to the fearsome spiked ball at its end.

It was a brutal weapon, lacking in all grace and finesse. But deadly. Horace pursed his lips thoughtfully as he studied it.

Halt's right. I'll need to stay away from that, he thought.

`Take your weapons,' Sean told them.

Horace took hold of his sword, spun it experimentally to make sure there had been no tampering with it. But its balance and weight were true. Killeen sneered at the graceful blade and took his own weapon, the chain clanking on the table as he picked it up. He hefted it, setting the cruel spiked ball swinging back and forth.

`Attendants, leave the arena,' Sean said quietly. Will ducked under the railing that marked the fighting area and joined Halt on the first row of benches. The two exchanged nervous looks. Killeen's attendant hurried across the field and took his place among Tennyson's group.

`Take your positions. Combat will begin upon the signal trumpet,' Sean told them. He glanced sideways at the trumpeter below him, making sure the man was ready. The trumpeter nodded, moistening his lips nervously. It was difficult not to get caught up in the drama of the moment.

Horace and Killeen marched to the centre of the field, where a lime-washed circle marked out their starting point. Instantly, Killeen tried to sidle to the western edge of the circle, so that the early afternoon sun would be in Horace's eyes. Sean, however, was awake to that trick. The combat would start with no advantage to either.

`Killeen!' his voice rang out. 'Move to the south side! Now!'

The massive helmet swung towards him and he imagined he could see the eyes through that slit, glaring maliciously at him. But the giant obeyed. Horace took up a position facing him.

Seeing the islander's ploy, Halt had come to his feet, his hand reaching to the quiver at his back. But as Killeen complied with Sean's command, he sat, a little reluctantly.

`Just let him breach the rules once,' he muttered to Will. `Let him look like breaching them, and I'll put an arrow in him.'

`That'll make two of us,' Will replied. He was half hoping that the islander would try some underhand trick. That would give him and Halt clearance to shoot him down.

Anyone who broke the rules of trial by combat automatically forfeited the bout and his right to life.

Horace and Killeen faced each other now. Killeen crouched, knees bent. Horace stood upright, balanced lightly on the balls of his feet. The mace and chain swung heavily and ponderously between them. Horace's sword moved as well, the point describing small circles in the air.

Suddenly, shatteringly in the stillness, the signal trumpet brayed its single note.

Killeen was big and clumsy. But he was fast, faster than Horace had anticipated. And his thick wrist had the huge strength necessary to flick the mace and chain up and over, so the spiked ball came arcing down in an overhead blow. As he did so, he stepped into Horace, forcing the young warrior to spring backwards, as he brought his shield up to ward off the blow.

Halt had suggested that the mace and chain would hit like a battering ram. To Horace, it felt as if a house had fallen on his shield. Never before had he felt such massive, crushing force behind a blow. Not even when he had faced Morgarath's huge broadsword, many years ago.

He grunted in surprise and was nearly caught by Killeen's follow-up, a flailing sideways attack that slammed into his shield again, as he managed to lower it just in time. Again, Horace backed away. Only his speed had saved him from those first two strokes and as he sought the eyes behind the vision slit in the helmet, he sensed that Killeen had hoped that his unexpected lightning attack would finish matters before they really got started. Killeen shuffled after him, wary himself now that he had seen the speed of his opponent's reactions. He swung again, this time another overhead blow. But now Horace was ready and he stepped lightly to the side so that the iron ball slammed into the turf.

He cut quickly at Killeen's forearm. The mace and chain had one disadvantage. Unlike a sword, there was no crosspiece to catch blows aimed at the hand and lower arm. But Killeen wore heavy brass-plated gauntlets and solid brass cuffs. The sword cut bruised him and made him jerk back hurriedly. But his armour held and it was far from a telling blow.

Horace began circling now, moving to Killeen's right to cut off the arc of the mace and chain. He frowned to himself. He could avoid Killeen's blows, or block them with his shield. But he could see no way at the moment that he could strike back. He had to keep away from the giant, to avoid having the chain hit the rim of his shield and whip over. Had he been facing a swordsman or an axeman, he could have moved in, crowding him and cramping his weapon. But the mace and chain was a different prospect and he had to avoid that whiplash effect at all costs.

Killeen stepped in with another overhead blow. Horace took it on the shield again, feeling the shock of the blow up to his shoulder. Before he could retaliate, Killeen whipped the heavy weapon back and in again, slamming into the shield a second time.

Horace heard something crack in his shield. He danced back to give himself room and looked down at the shield. It was rapidly becoming bent out of recognisable shape. The edges were crumpled and ragged and in the centre there was a crack where the steel had fractured, exposing the wood lining underneath. Much more of this and the shield would be destroyed, he realised. His mouth wentdry at the thought of facing that horrific mace with only his sword. For the first time, he considered the possibility of defeat.

Then Killeen was attacking again and Horace had no choice but to block with his shield. This time, the rent in the steel split further under the assault and the spiked ball bit deeply into the wood. For several seconds, it stuck there and there was a desperate tug of war between the two warriors. Then Killeen jerked it free and swung again.

This time, Horace ducked low and the iron ball whistled close over his head. But an idea was forming in his mind now. It was a last-ditch, desperate idea but it was the only one he could come up with. He laughed grimly to himself as he realised it was similar to the moment when he had faced Morgarath and hurled himself under the hooves of the warlord's charging horse.

Why do I always come up with low percentage ideas? he asked himself.

Killeen swung overhead again and Horace skipped lightly backwards, watching the mace head thud deeply into the turf. The Outsiders' supporters were beginning to jeer as he danced and ducked away from their champion. So far, he had been totally ineffectual in attack.

I'd jeer myself if I were with them, he thought. The other side of the field had gone noticeably silent, apart from anguished groans or gasps as the thunderous mace and chain strokes found their target.

He danced lightly to his left again, backing away a few more metres to give himself a few seconds' respite. As Killeen began to shuffle slowly after him, he glanced down at the leather strap that held his shield to his upper arm.

He had a few seconds. He slammed the sword point down into the turf and hurriedly adjusted the retaining strap, loosening it a few notches. Then he just had time to recover his sword and dance away again. This time, however, he moved to his right, surprising Killeen, who had expected him to continue to circle left.

That gave him a few more metres but now he stood and waited for Killeen. As the islander came at him, he swayed to one side to avoid the mace, then stepped quickly in and lunged the point of his sword at the vision slit in the helmet. Killeen, by now used to attacking without retaliation, was caught by surprise and only just brought his own shield up in time. The moment he was blinded by the raised shield, Horace darted to his left and hacked again at Killeen's weapon hand, then leapt back again.

Neither the thrust nor the hand strike were ' telling blows. But they served the purpose he had set. They infuriated the huge man facing him. Killeen stepped forward with a snarl of rage. The mace and chain whirred in giant circles over his head as he gathered momentum for one crushing, final stroke.

Eyes narrowed, Horace watched for him to release his wrist and unleash the blow. He knew he would have to judge timing and distance perfectly if his plan were to succeed.

Here it came!

Judging centimetres with the uncanny natural skill that set him apart from the normal run of warriors, Horace took a half pace forward and brought his shield up to take the blow. He grunted as the mace slammed into the weakened metal and the spiked ball bit deep into the shattered steel and wood. Bit and held.

In that same instant, he released his hold on the handgrip and slipped his arm out of the loosened restraining strap. A fraction of a second later, when Killeen jerked the mace and chain back to free it, the battered, crumpled shield went with it, firmly attached to the end of the chain. It soared high and wide in an arc behind the islander, the unexpected extra weight on the end of his weapon jerking him momentarily off balance.

It was only natural that he would turn his head in surprise to see what had happened, exposing his neck below the full face helmet for just a second or two.

Which was all Horace ever needed. Holding his sword two-handed, he stepped in and swung a lightning side stroke at the exposed two centimetres of neck.

There was a roar of surprise from both sides of the arena as Killeen's helmet went spinning away to land on 'the turf with a dull thud. The roar dropped to silence as the spectators realised that his head had gone with it. Killeen's giant torso slowly buckled at the knees and seemed to fold into itself as it collapsed to the ground.

Then the western stands began to cheer as they realised Horace, who had essayed only one serious attacking stroke in the entire conflict, had won.

Will and Halt were under the railing in a flash. They ran to the centre of the field, where Horace stood, his sword hanging loosely at his side. He looked at them and smiled tiredly.

`I think I'm going to need another shield,' he said.