“Stupid,” Wolf muttered darkly.
“No one I know of has ever accused Arends of brilliance,” Silk observed.
Mandorallen set his horn to his lips and blew a shattering blast. The battle paused as the soldiers and serfs all stopped to stare up at him. He sounded his horn again, and then again, each brassy note a challenge it itself. As the two opposing bodies of knights galloped through the kneehigh, winter-yellowed grass to investigate, Mandorallen turned to Barak. “If it please thee, my Lord,” he requested politely, “deliver my challenge as soon as they approach us.”
Barak shrugged. “It’s your skin,” he noted. He eyed the advancing knights and then lifted his voice in a great roar. “Sir Mandorallen, Baron of Vo Mandor, desires entertainment,” he declaimed. “It would amuse him if each of your parties would select a champion to joust with him. If, however, you are all such cowardly dogs that you have no stomach for such a contest, cease this brawling and stand aside so that your betters may pass.”
“Splendidly spoken, my Lord Barak,” Mandorallen said with admiration.
“I’ve always had a way with words,” Barak replied modestly. The two parties of knights warily rode closer.
“For shame, my Lords,” Mandorallen chided them. “Ye will gain no honor in this sorry war. Sir Derigen, what hath caused this contention?”
“An insult, Sir Mandorallen,” the noble replied. He was a large man, and his polished steel helmet had a golden circlet riveted above the visor. “An insult so vile that it may not go unpunished.”
“It was I who was insulted,” a noble on the other side contended hotly.
“What was the nature of this insult, Sir Oltorain?” Mandorallen inquired.
Both men looked away uneasily, and neither spoke.
“Ye have gone to war over an insult which cannot even be recalled?” Mandorallen said incredulously. “I had thought, my Lords, that ye were serious men, but I now perceive my error.”
“Don’t the nobles of Arendia have anything better to do?” Barak asked in a voice heavy with contempt.
“Of Sir Mandorallen the bastard we have all heard,” a swarthy knight in black enamelled armor sneered, “but who is this red-bearded ape who so maligns his betters?”
“You’re going to take that?” Barak asked Mandorallen.
“It’s more or less true,” Mandorallen admitted with a pained look, “since there was some temporary irregularity about my birth which still raises questions about my legitimacy. This knight is Sir Haldorin, my third cousin-twice removed. Since it’s considered unseemly in Arendia to spill the blood of kinsmen, he thus cheaply gains reputation for boldness by casting the matter in my teeth.”
“Stupid custom,” Barak grunted. “In Cherek kinsmen kill each other with more enthusiasm than they kill strangers.”
“Alas.” Mandorallen sighed. “This is not Cherek.”
“Would you be offended if I dealt with this?” Barak asked politely.
“Not at all.”
Barak moved closer to the swarthy knight. “I am Barak, Earl of Trellheim,” he announced in a loud voice, “kinsman to King Anheg of Cherek, and I see that certain nobles in Arendia have even fewer manners than they have brains.”
“The Lords of Arendia are not impressed by the self bestowed titles of the pig-sty kingdoms of the north,” Sir Haldorin retorted coldly.
“I find your words offensive, friend,” Barak said ominously.
“And I find thy ape face and scraggly beard amusing,” Sir Haldorin replied.
Barak did not even bother to draw his sword. He swung his huge arm in a wide circle and crashed his fist with stunning force against the side of the swarthy knight’s helmet. Sir Haldorin’s eyes glazed as he was swept from his saddle, and he made a vast clatter when he struck the ground.
“Would anyone else like to comment about my beard?” Barak demanded.
“Gently, my Lord,” Mandorallen advised. He glanced down with a certain satisfaction at the unconscious form of his senseless kinsman twitching in the tall grass.
“Will we docilely accept this attack on our brave companion?” one of the knights in Baron Derigen’s party demanded in a harshly accented voice. “Kill them all!” He reached for his sword.
“In the instant thy sword leaves its sheath thou art a dead man, Sir Knight,” Mandorallen coolly advised him.
The knight’s hand froze on his sword hilt.
“For shame, my Lords,” Mandorallen continued accusingly. “Surely ye know that by courtesy and common usage my challenge, until it is answered, guarantees my safety and that of my companions. Choose your champions or withdraw. I tire of all this and presently will become irritable.”
The two parties of knights pulled back some distance to confer, and several men-at-arms came to the hilltop to pick up Sir Haldorin.
“That one who was going to draw his sword was a Murgo,” Garion said quietly.
“I noticed that,” Hettar murmured, his dark eyes glittering.
“They’re coming back,” Durnik warned.
“I will joust with thee, Sir Mandorallen,” Baron Derigen announced as he approached. “I doubt not that thy reputation is well-deserved, but I also have taken the prize in no small number of tourneys. I would be honored to try a lance with thee.”
“And I too will try my skill against throe, Sir Knight,” Baron Oltorain declared. “My arm is also feared in some parts of Arendia.”
“Very well,” Mandorallen replied. “Let us seek level ground and proceed. The day wears on, and my companions and I have business to the south.”
They all rode down the hill to the field below where the two groups of knights drew up on either side of a course which had been quickly trampled out in the high, yellow grass. Derigen galloped to the far end, turned and sat waiting, his blunted lance resting in his stirrup.
“Thy courage becomes thee, my Lord,” Mandorallen called, taking up one of the poles Durnik had cut. “I shall try not to injure thee too greatly. Art thou prepared to meet my charge?”
“I am,” the baron replied, lowering his visor.
Mandorallen clapped down his visor, lowered his lance, and set his spurs to his warhorse.
“It’s probably inappropriate under the circumstances,” Silk murmured, “but I can’t help wishing that our overbearing friend could suffer some humiliating defeat.”
Mister Wolf gave him a withering look. “Forget it!”
“Is he that good?” Silk asked wistfully.
“Watch,” Wolf told him.
The two knights met in the center of the course with a resounding crash, and their lances both shattered at the stunning impact, littering the trampled grass with splinters. They thundered past each other, turned and rode back, each to his original starting place. Derigen, Garion noticed, swayed somewhat in the saddle as he rode.
The knights charged again, and their fresh lances also shattered. “I should have cut more poles,” Durnik said thoughtfully.
But Baron Derigen swayed even more as he rode back this time, and on the third charge his faltering lance glanced off Mandorallen’s shield. Mandorallen’s lance, however, struck true, and the baron was hurled from his saddle by the force of their meeting.
Mandorallen reined in his charger and looked down at him. “Art thou able to continue, my Lord?” he asked politely.
Derigen staggered to his feet. “I do not yield,” he gasped, drawing his sword.
“Splendid,” Mandorallen replied. “I feared that I might have done thee harm.” He slid out of his saddle, drew his sword and swung directly at Derigen’s head. The blow glanced off the baron’s hastily raised shield, and Mandorallen swung again without pause. Derigen managed one or two feeble swings before Mandorallen’s broadsword caught him full on the side of the helmet. He spun once and collapsed facedown on the earth.
“My Lord?” Mandorallen inquired solicitously. He reached down, rolled over his fallen opponent and opened the dented visor of the baron’s helmet. “Art thou unwell, my Lord?” he asked. “Dost thou wish to continue?”
Derigen did not reply. Blood ran freely from his nose, and his eyes were rolled back in his head. His face was blue, and the right side of his body quivered spasmodically.
“Since this brave knight is unable to speak for himself,” Mandorallen announced, “I declare him vanquished.” He looked around, his broadsword still in his hand. “Would any here gainsay my words?”
There was a vast silence.
“Will some few then remove him from the field?” Mandorallen suggested. “His injuries do not appear grave. A few months in bed should make him whole again.” He turned to Baron Oltorain, whose face had grown visibly pale. “Well, my Lord,” he said cheerfully, “shall we proceed? My companions and I are impatient to continue our journey.”
Sir Oltorain was thrown to the ground on the first charge and broke his leg as he fell.
“Ill luck, my Lord,” Mandorallen observed, approaching on foot with drawn sword. “Dost thou yield?”
“I cannot stand,” Oltorain said from between clenched teeth. “I have no choice but to yield.”
“And I and my companions may continue our journey?”
“Ye may freely depart,” the man on the ground replied painfully.