Part 100 (1/2)
Following the rules, he challenged only the dwarfish or humansized Firvulag. And he always won.
”We think he's the King,” Ayfa stated. ”Look what a runt he is. And who else would have the effrontery to come onto the field in such an outlandish getup?”
”Aargh!” Finoderee groaned. ”He's taken out Shopiltee Bloodguzzler!”
”He doesn't fight fair,” Lady Mabino whined. ”He should be cutting off the crests with a sword-not unhorsing our lads and la.s.ses and yanking the crests out by the roots!”
”There's nothing in the rules against it,” Sharn growled through gritted teeth.
”Look at that scoreboard,” Ayfa wailed. ”We're ahead in the stalwart category, But that little puke-ort's killing us in the lightweight division. And since we fielded twice as many gnomes as ogres-”
”Yaaak!” mourned Finoderee.
”He got Mimee of Famorel.”
”Sweet Te on toast,” cried the disgusted Sharn. Gla.s.s carnices blew a musical blast, ending the match. The Tanu grandstand exploded as the semifinal totals were posted on Yosh Watanabe's huge electronic display board.
”Close,” Queen Ayfa muttered. ”Too d.a.m.n close. The Foe have a whisker's worth of an advantage, but they're sure to run away with the game in the a.s.sent Encounters.”
”What are those?” Marc inquired.
Sugoll said, ”Bravura performances by the champions of the previous matches. They may be challenged individually by any fighter in the appropriate category.”
”They're carrying Mimee off,” the Queen moaned. ”That wretched Lowlife mountebank snapped poor Famorel's left clavicle like a lark's wishbone. None of our other gnomes will dare face the Bottle Knight.”
”May only full-blooded Firvulag enter the lists under your banner?” Marc asked.
The King and Queen stared at him.
Sugoll said, ”Technically, any human subject of my city, Nionel, also qualifies as a Little Person. However we are a peaceable folk-both Howler and human citizens alike-and as hosts of the Grand Tourney we have refrained from most of the contests in order to attend to the duties of hospitality.”
Marc stood with hands on hips, looking down on the pageantry in the arena with a rakeh.e.l.ly grin. ”I don't suppose you'd nominate me an honorary citizen of Nionel, would you, Lord Sugoll?”
”d.a.m.n right he will!” Sharn cried. Then his enthusiasm faltered like a half-inflated balloon. ”Do you think you could lick him? No metapsychic powers allowed. But you do look pretty well built-”
”Big-game fis.h.i.+ng. And this jousting seems fairly simple. One merely calculates the appropriate vectors and kinetic reactions.
I presume the contestants may mind-control their mounts.”
”Oh, yes,” said Sugoll. ”That's permissible.” He indicated a neat stack of translucent gla.s.s, l.u.s.trous as moonstone and silverchased. ”If you wish, you may use my armour and steed.”
Still smiling, Marc bowed. ”A la bonne heure.”
”And I'll be your squire!” the Firvulag King enthused. ”Let's go sign you up! You'll need a fict.i.tious name, of course.”
”Jack Diamond will do,” said the Adversary.
Marc dismounted from his blowing, foam-stained charger, threw down his buckler and lance, and pulled the brave tuft of broomstraw from the ridiculous helmet of the fallen Bottle Knight.