HARRY BOLTMORE

The breastplate, silver and all, fell with a clang, and little Wymar growled at Harry before the clanging even made an attempt to cease. “Hey, careful with ‘em plates! Yer dent ‘em, yer make a new one.” They were already dented enough, alright, just like he was.

Wymar was a scrawny boy of one-and-four, with a gaunt blemished face topped by an always wet mossy hair that made him look like a water leaf, but his mouth had the sharpness and the rudeness of a man grown, and his body was half-filled with scars wherever the eyes had the leeway to see. This was how King’s City worked, and Harry knew he’d better sooner apologise to this boy two years younger than he was, or he’d never get to fastening his breastplate and he’d have to head into the tourney’s finale with his grey tunic for protection against swords and shields… and Drustan Gararic.

That’s right. He was to fight Drustan. The two peasants from Oldtown had somehow made it to the finale of the Kingsknights tourney, one glad that he did, the other irritated that he was not the only one from Oldtown who had made it to the finale. The latter no doubt being Drustan. And what made it even worse was that of all the people to be the former, it was Harry. That much Harry saw when he had managed a glance at the face of his bane of Oldtown after the jousting had ended… and they were to fight. Fight for a spot beside the king. He had to win, Harry knew, he could take Drustan on, Pyp and Walder had not come with him, he was alone, and even if they were here, he could take them all on… but why was he keyed up now? Now of all times. He was at least glad they did not cross paths, he wanted nothing to rile him up more than he already was.

“Pardon,” Harry begged, “I’m just a bit tensed.”

“Yer’ll be more than tensed if a’other dent finds a way on ‘em plates.” The boy scoffed. There was no end to little Wymar’s tongue-spitting and Harry had no choice but to deal with whatever the scrawny plain-as-a-pikestaff boy threw his way.

Everyone that had come to the tourney had come with a squire. It was a necessity as no one could hope to put on their armour themselves, unless they had been born with more hands than which were befitting for a human, which they were not, and Harry was no exception, but he had not known where he would have gotten one, he had not even thought of a squire until big Wymar, the burly moss-head armourer he rented his armours from and little Wymar’s father, had mentioned it to him. “Twenty silvers and yer can have my son as yer squire for them tourney,” he had proposed with his palms outstretched. Coins, coins, coins, that was all they knew in this huge city. “He’s scrawny but he’s good, a’right, I promise yer, and he buckles well.”

He buckled well, no doubt, but he was not good with his tongue, any other person might have sent him flying across the sand a few times, but Harry had dealt with worse, little Wymar could not hold a candle to Drustan, that boy was the embodiment of a spittle. Still he was glad he had been able to get a squire, and despite little Wymar’s ferocious yappers, his hands were good with armour, and it was all thanks to the comely knight that had tossed him a pouch of coins. The comely knight that he had thought too plain for a knight at the gates which ended up being the queen’s nephew. That comely knight was the one he might end up fighting soon enough after he’s defeated Drustan. He owed him a great debt, after all, he would not have been here if not for that knight, but he had to win it all, even against someone that had helped him. Even against the queen’s nephew. He had to defeat him as well. He had to no matter what.

“Hear ‘em clamour? Crowd’s gathered a’ready, fight’s gonna start anytime now,” little Wymar said to Harry. The boy was seated on a low whetstone, raising Harry’s rented backplate to the sun to see how much good of a polishing job he had done to the fading silver. Perfect, the crooked smile little Wymar had storm his face as the sun’s fingers spread over the backplate and made it glisten, told Harry, but he would sooner tell little Wymar to stop smiling than adore the bosting job the boy had done on his backplate. Smiles were not for little Wymar, Harry thought, it made him look more ugly than he already was.

“Get up.” The moss-head boy’s smile faded as quick as it came. “Time to put yer armour on, time’s on our side no longer.” The boy jumped to his feet.

Harry took to his feet from the ground as well, and little Wymar got to fastening his armour over his grey tunic. Harry held the breastplate in place to prevent it from falling off his chest, his hands feeling the dents that were layered all over it from the blows its past bearers had allowed on it. He, somehow, had managed to keep any blow from falling on it during his jousting, no lance had touched his breastplate, they all went to his shield instead, luck he might have called it if only he did not recall the makeshift jousting trainings he had done within the forest trees, a branch his lance and a wooden lid his shield, as he rode forward with his legs he termed his horse against a straw quintain he had somehow managed to put together through days of hard work.

They had proven fruitful and now he was in the finale, but he could not seem to get over the sudden chill that had come to cloud his body since the past night. Goosepimples arose all over his arms and neck and he had begun to wonder if he could actually win the tourney and become a Kingsknight. It was no Drustan he feared, he had never feared that wannabe lord, it was the knights he feared.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Ser Wayne of House Sarsfield. The knight of dragonfly he called himself when he had paraded the grounds with his lance held high up, and just like a dragonfly he was swift, striking down his jousting opponents with a steady toy of his lance. He almost fell once when he faced one Ser Phineas of House Greenwood, his helmet and shield had fallen off with a strike of the Greenwood knight’s lance, but with a smile he had grabbed his stallion’s rein and swung back firmly onto his saddle, brushing the bangs of his dark-glossy hair off his eyes as he took another lance from his squire at the end of the lists.

The next time they rode at each other, the Greenfield knight fell with a whirlwind thrust from the dragonfly knight, and the smile that never left his face widened when his horse trotted spankingly. Harry had thought the knight not to be much older than he was, with his fair skin and youthful eyes, he was at most three years from his age, but that did not stop him from fearing the smiling dragonfly, if anything it even fostered his fear. A man good enough to be knighted at or before one-and-nine was a man to be feared undoubtedly.

Then there was the other, the one that had tossed him a pouch of coins, Ser Maurin, the queen’s nephew. One thrust each he had given all he faced, and not once did he shift to fall from his saddle nor turn around at the end of the lists to face the same person twice. He wished not to fight this one the most, not because of the fear he had for his skills, but because he could not bring himself to fight and maybe crush the dreams of someone who had helped him, that was if he could even crush those dreams. It was his own dreams he saw being crushed, not the dragonfly knight’s nor Ser Maurin’s, it was his. His own dream he had carried for years… the one he carried for his mother… and father.

“Time’s up, you rustics. Get your ass onto the grounds, boy. You’re up.” A voice bellowed from behind them, angry and scornful as it had been on the yester. It was the voice of the stick-framed man that had been given the job to call them out onto the tourney grounds whenever it was deemed necessary. From his tone, Harry knew he did not like this job, but he did it nevertheless. Anything for a few coins. Harry had learnt that was what ruled men here, and he would sooner let it rule him too than continue to live the way he lived.

But that was a thought for later. His chest had tightened harder now that it was time. “Done yet?” He asked little Wymar.

That one buckled the buckles quickly and joined breastplate and backplate. “Too tight for yer?” Little Wymar asked back.

“Good enough,” Harry huffed.

“Good. Now get yerself outta here… and win the damn thing.” Little Wymar shoved Harry gently from behind, pushing him forward with a slight tumble.

If that was some sort of encouragement, you failed miserably at it, Harry thought as he scooped up his shield, but he hesitated to do the same for Ser Gale’s longsword, the crescent moon, he stood and watched it for a second before he smiled and finally shovelled it up by the hanger of its sable skin scabbard. He turned to little Wymar and smiled. “Might you help me fasten it? My hand holds the shield.” He outstretched it at the scrawny boy who took it from his hand with a tch and helped him fasten it tightly and deftly and quickly.

Harry heard the crowd scream boos and cheers, and it dawned on him that Drustan must have made his way from the eastern corner onto the grounds and before the king and his court. He was next now. It was time. His chest tightened more.

He gave a light pat to little Wymar’s shoulder as soon as that one was done fastening the belt, and then there was a deep exhale, one that might have calmed him any other time, but did little to help his cause now. His hand slowly dropped from his squire’s shoulder, and before he knew it, his quivering legs had begun to take steps further and further away from the corner of the western gallery he had taken as his own armoury booth. One, two, three, he counted as he walked… and then he lost count.

Harry looked up at the gallery, and his eyes pinched, the sun had grown brighter and the cheers and boos had grown louder. They were for him, he knew, he had made it onto the grounds. His leg quivers intensified and he almost fell to the ground but he managed to stand on his feets. The cheers and boos turned into laughs as they saw, and when he glanced at Drustan who stood ways away from him, he could see a stupid grin on his face, the one he always had. Drustan’s armour was far superior in quality to his own. He wore mail atop boiled leather, and his shield had no dents, it was polished cleanly. Where could he have gotten the money? Did his father really give him so much? Harry wondered, but a soft smile crept on his face as he took a look at Drustan’s sword. He held a round shield in one hand and an arming sword in the other, an arming sword, while his was a longsword, the crescent moon, a knight’s sword. For a moment then, his quivering completely stopped and the laughter of the throng mattered not to him.

He walked briskly to the centre of the grounds and turned to look up at the terrace where the king and his court sat. He had not the time to grace his eyes with their magnificent attires before he bowed, as low as his rented armour could let his head go, the crescent pommel of the sword at his waist hiding behind his shield.

“Ready your swords!” A voice cried, and he sharply rose from his bow, turning around quickly to face Drustan. He sighed a deep breath and tightly gripped the hilt of his longsword, and with a heavy grunt, he pulled the blade out of its scabbard, pointing it forward aslant while he took a middle stance, his shield on his left and his longsword on his right, the sun sending a dazzling shimmer through the unstained steel and leaving the crowd in silence as they all stared astoundedly at his blade.

He almost smiled at himself, at his brilliance. With just a draw he had taken the throng from taunts to awe.

“Begin!”