Part 8 (1/2)
AS IT SOMETIMES DOES TO MAKE AGING MEN FEEL.
YOUNG. HE LAY AWAKE FOR HOURS THE NIGHT.
LORAINE, LEAPING UP, KISSED HIS NOSE (HE.
CAUGHT HER, AS HE ALWAYS DID) AND SAID, ”I.
HOPE YOUR HONOR IS NEVER AS SOFT AS YOUR.
TOUCH.”.
IS IT, HE WONDERED? DO I WANT TO STAY A.
KNIGHT AND LIVE FOR A WAR THAT WILL NEVER.
COME, OR WOULD I RATHER GIVE MY WHOLE LIFE.
TO LORAINE?.
THAT WAS EIGHTEEN SUMMERS AGO, SHORTLY.
BEFORE TARLI WAS BORN.
In the afternoon breeze, the wooden saddle-mounts creaked on the ropes and pulleys. The squires looked from the mounts to the rack of s.h.i.+elds and metal-tipped lances,and stared uneasily at the suspicious-looking rust-brown stains on the courtyard stones. The stones had been scrubbed well, but the stains were too deep to come out.
Moran was proud of those stains; he'd spent much of last week painting them on and aging them. ”Right.”
All heads turned. He stood in the archway, a twelve- foot lance tucked under his arm as easily as if it were a riding whip.
He saluted with the lance, missing the arch top by inches. He flipped the lance over his right shoulder, then his left, then spun it around twice and tucked it under his arm, all without sc.r.a.ping the arch.
Tarli applauded. His clapping slowed, then stopped, under his cla.s.smates' cold stares.
”The lance,” Moran said loudly, ”is the knights' weapon of tradition. Huma consecrated one, called Huma's Grace, to Paladine. A single knight, with a single lance, defeated forty-two mounted enemies during the Siege of Tarsis.”
He looked over the group with disdain. ”Let me also mention that your lance may - just may - keep you alive while you are squires. Later you'll train with footmen's lances. For now - ” He pointed the lance suddenly under Saliak's nose, then transferred the lance to his left hand and all but stabbed Tarli. ”You and you, choose lances and mount up.”
Saliak flinched. Tarli, to Moran's pleasure, did not even blink.
”On the barrels?” Tarli cried in excitement. He stared at the wooden mounts, whose reins ran through eyelets to join the pulley ropes.
”They're not barrels, runtlet,” Saliak hissed.
Tarli shrugged. ”They're not horses, either. What are they supposed to be?”
Saliak said, ”Who cares,” and pulled the first lance from the rack. He snapped it up, then down, in a clumsy salute. He was long-limbed and strong. Despite his inexperience, he could control the lance well.
Tarli lifted his own lance upright and staggered as the weight toppled him backward.
”It's too long,” he complained. His cla.s.smates snickered.
Moran regarded him solemnly. ”Grow into it.”
Saliak laughed loudly.
Carrying his lance clumsily by the middle, Tarli walked over to his mount, which was scored with lance hits. A stubby board projected from under each side of the saddle. He studied them. ”If these were bigger, I'd say they were wings.”
He turned to face Moran, his face alight. ”It's supposed to be a dragon, isn't it? You're training us to fight dragons, like in the cla.s.sroom tapestry.”
Good guess, Moran thought. Once that was probably true; now the drill was kept to honor Huma and to make beginning squires feel clumsy and humble.
Aloud he said only, ”Spotters,” and pa.s.sed the ropes to the boys. ”When I give the signal, raise the mounts into the air. Riders, mount up, take reins and s.h.i.+elds, and fasten your lances.”
The two combatants straddled their mounts. Saliak sat easily and comfortably with bent knees, the unmistakablepose of someone who had owned and ridden horses. Tarli could only reach the stirrups by half-standing.
They set the lances in the saddle-mounted swivels. The greater weight of the lance was in front. Tarli kept his weapon upright by putting nearly his full weight on the b.u.t.t end. He swung the point up clumsily.
Saliak swung his sideways, up, down, and circled it. He smiled at Tarli. ”Say good-bye.”
Moran paused before signaling the start. ”Yes?” he said to Steyan. ”Did you want to say something?”
Steyan, who looked as if he hadn't slept in nights, glanced back at Saliak speculatively.
”Nothing,” he mumbled finally. Several of the other novices looked relieved.
Moran turned to the riders, dropped his raised hand.
”Now.” The spotters tugged on the ropes. The mounts swung into the air.
Tarli nearly dropped his lance when his mount jerked upward; his spotters had pulled too hard, possibly intentionally. He recovered, but his lance popped out of the swivel, and he was forced to bear its full weight. The tip dropped to where it couldn't threaten anyone except Tarli's own spotters.
Early days, thought Moran. Let him make his mistakes here, where he might survive.
On the riders' first pa.s.s, Saliak speared Tarli's s.h.i.+eld, knocked it to the ground. His cla.s.smates cheered.
Tarli stared down at the s.h.i.+eld, then, brus.h.i.+ng his hair out of his eyes, he looked up at the exultant Saliak. Tarli's expression was excited and confused, but unafraid.
At a tug on the reins, Saliak's spotters dragged him backward, then launched him straight at Tarli.
Saliak swung his lance sideways. Tarli crouched against the saddle, avoided being slashed.
By intention or by accident, Saliak sliced through Tarli's reins. Tarli's spotters, given no signals, tugged wildly.
Tarli lurched from side to side, trying to avoid being smashed against the courtyard walls. He glanced at Moran, the boy's eyes asking for help or advice.
Moran watched silently.
Saliak pulled back on his reins and hung motionless, watching Tarli's flight. Drying his palms on his legs, Saliak grasped the lance firmly. His spotters slowly pulled him backward, preparing for his forward arc.