The crowd fell silent as the two horsemen faced each other, each on one side of the balustrade. Both held long decorated lances pointing up at the blue and clear sky, both were armoured in plate and mail that shone in the sun. One was clad in emerald and white and the other in raven-black and gold.

A herald blew in a horn and the two horsemen sat out, charging at each other. The man in black and gold held his shield tight and sunk his lance. The two collided and their lances were broken against the shields, but no rider was thrown off his horse. They rode about and prepared to face each other again in the second round. They were given new lances which they weighed carefully in their hands.

The horn blew again, and they once again charged, except that the rider in black and gold leaned slightly aside a moment before the clash. A risky strategy, since if the opponent still managed to hit cleanly, he would be caught off-balance and thrown off his horse while his lance would miss.

The black horseman felt the opposing rider’s lance slide off his shield, though the glancing blow still shook his arm to the shoulder. He nevertheless succeeded in driving his lance forward, getting a straight hit and sending the azure rider crashing down from his horse.

He slowed down and came to a halt, staring back with concern. Gallivan, the knight in emerald and white, hadn’t risen from his fall yet. A few people assembled around him.

Suddenly trumpets and drums sounded all over the place, celebrating the glorious victory. He turned to the tribunes and brandished his lance high over his head, causing the crowds to erupt into cheers. The commoners cheered from all sides, while many noblemen clapped enthusiastically. The king, however, seemed indifferent. Arthan couldn’t help but feel mildly irritated, though he had expected such behaviour from him. They all had. King Arkansas only attended such “boring games” because it was expected of him.

It was of no matter. The important lords and ladies were all present, and his reputation was now solid. His name would be written down in history now. He couldn’t keep an ecstatic smile from showing on his face. Then he remembered that he was still wearing the helm, so there was no need to restrain himself.

His loyal squire, Canil, held his horses’ reins while he dismounted. He took the helm off, shaking his hair and enjoying the cool breeze on his skin covered in sweat. The helm was suffocating but necessary. A noble lady descended from the tribunes, one whose face he didn’t recognize. She handed him a golden clasp encrusted with rubies, an extremely valuable ornament. He accepted it with a gracious bow and a polite kiss to her hand. The lady was no beauty, and he felt no desire to get to know her, though her broad smile suggested her interest.

He left the field as soon as he could without being rude, with Canil following right behind along with his horse.

“You did well today, sir.” His squire said eagerly.

“The day is not over yet.” He replied with an excited smile. Canil seemed confused but did not question him.

While the young boy took care of his horse, he entered his spacious tent. To his surprise, his sister had preceded him.

“Stella. Shouldn't you be with the ladies?” He commented, though agreeably surprised.

The young woman smiled. “I couldn’t wait to congratulate you on your victory.” She said, jumping into his arms. His hulking armour of plate made the hug a bit awkward, but they were used to it.

She took a step away, and he couldn’t help but admire the young woman she had become. Her hair was long and golden, falling on her bare shoulders in soft waves. Gallivan had shared that he thought her to be a female version of him. There was a resemblance in the hair maybe, but his face had stronger angles while hers was softer and triangular. She wore an emerald-green dress which underlined her thin figure, too thin he sometimes thought. She seemed so fragile. Her eyes were two bright emeralds, shining with joy and optimism. 

“It is yet too early to celebrate, my sister. This afternoon, I shall win the melee too.” He said with a confident smile.

She frowned. “Brother, should you not rest? You must be tired, and you are already champion of the jousting tournament!”

“I can rest later. Stella, only one knight in memory has ever won both tournaments in one day. If I win, then my name will join his amongst the legends!” He said passionately. SHe didn't seem to share his enthusiasm though, instead, a look of concern showed on her face.

“Arthan… They told me of men who took injuries to their heads. They didn’t die, but they were never the same. If that happened to you, I…”

He lifted her chin, forcing her to look at him. “That will not happen. We’re richer than ever, Stella. All the knights I have defeated today, their armours and horses are my prizes, along with the priceless award for the champion. If I win the mêlée, we could buy real land. Imagine a castle near the western sea, as you have always dreamed of. It is within my reach!”

She shook her head, pulling away. “If you’re doing this for me, then I ask you to stop. I do not want this if it puts you in such danger. The king’s salary to you should be enough to live comfortably already. I need nothing more.” She said, almost in a begging tone. He was taken aback, surprised by her sudden discouragement. She had usually been supportive in the past.

“Have you no faith in me? Gallivan was injured earlier in our joust. He did not rise; either the fall was brutal or my lance got through to him. Lavance, the former champion, is away and so is Hector. Three of the best knights are out of the tournament, an occasion like this will not arise again.”

She nodded with resignation, seeing that she could not sway him. “I hope that you will not be too weary to attend this evening.”

“Of course not, even a hundred bruises to the head would not keep me from seeing you perform.” He said with a smile, patting her head teasingly. Another privilege of the champion, to attend a ball thrown by the king himself. It was ordinarily reserved for only the most important of nobles. “Now go to your friends. They must be lamenting your absence.”

She giggled and tried futilely to straighten her hair again. “I wish.”

“I look forward to meeting them. They treat you well, I hope?”

“I shall present you to them this evening. I must admit that they are eager to see you.”

“Oh?” He let out with a raised brow. “Why so?”

She blushed. “I might have been… talking a bit about your many exploits.”

“Right.” He said softly as he turned her around and pushed her out of the tent. “Off you go.” He wasn’t sure about how he felt towards her not so subtle attempts at setting him up with some ladies from the court. She was adorable, but her judgement of character had never been the best.

“Good luck!” She shouted as she left. And she couldn’t help but glance back with concern, though she tried to hide it behind a smile. He sighed. He could not resent her for her worry.

“Canil!” He shouted while beginning to pull his armour off. The break would last at least three hours, while the nobles stuffed their bellies with food and the last-minute preparations were made. He needed to breathe a little out of this encumbering armour. It was always a hassle to get it off, especially when his page wouldn’t show. He promised himself to give the boy a good disciplining later.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Once free, he stretched out and sat down with a grateful sigh. Canil soon came back with a mug of mead and his earlier resentment disappeared like snow in the sun.

A while after, there was another visitor who entered the tent. With auburn hair and brown eyes that showed earnestness, the man was wide and strong, though his left arm was hanging in a newly made sling.

Arthan stood up, welcoming him. “Gallivan, you’re quickly up! I assume the injury was not too grave?”

Gallivan shrugged and the movement caused him to wince. “I’ve had worse.” They both took seats.

“So, I suppose you’re here to praise me for my victory?” Arthan said with a crooked smile.

He chuckled. “You strike was perfectly timed, you deserve the title.”

“Thank you,” Arthan said genuinely, surprised by the admission.

“Also, my armour was custom made, so I would appreciate it if I could buy them back immediately.” He said sheepishly.

Arthan nodded. “I have no objections, though it will be expensive.”

“I did win everything before encountering you. I think I’ll manage.”

“That’s all settled then,” Arthan said.

“Also, I meant to congratulate you. With this victory, no one can question your place amongst the Silvered Knights.”

Arthan bowed his head respectfully. The Silvered Knights were an order founded by prince Hadrian, the illegitimate son of the old king and the highest commander of the royal armies. Normally that was the role of the king, but he had delegated the role due to his disinterest. Arkansas himself had been adopted by the king in his late years.

 “If you don’t mind, I’ll need to prepare myself for the melee.”

Gallivan laughed. “You’re ambitious, Arthan. I wish you the best of luck.”

Arthan thanked him again and the wounded knight left the tent. Gallivan was an exemplary knight, the third son of his family, and he fought mostly for glory and personal achievements. Money wasn’t much of a problem for him, he could always fall back on his house’s considerable wealth.

When the time finally came, Arthan reequipped his armour. He chose a mace and a shield as his first weapons while hanging a sword in his belt, safely sheathed in a scabbard. The mace was easy to handle and quick to use, and especially efficient against plated and heavy armour. It was impractical on the defensive, however, and a shield was thus needed. The sword was excellent all around; its thrust could find gaps in the armour while its swing was no joke either. It could also be used to parry or divert attacks of all kind. A good weapon to fall back on.

The melee was a competition between two teams and Arthan found himself in the red team, facing the blue team. The team colours showed by the cloths wrapped around their arm. Arthan found himself in the centre-right. He was flanked by two knights a bit shorter than himself, one carrying the crest of a serpent and a sword and the other one that of a bull. Scanning the opponents, he saw Tristan, a Silvered Knight, amongst them. Tristan was recognizable by the blue swan on his chest and shield as well as his white tunic passed over his armour.

Arthan looked to his right and saw the king and his court. He couldn’t find Stella, but he saw Hadrian, sitting at the king’s right. A tall and powerful man with a proud manner, his back was always straight as an arrow and his eyes vigilant. He looked like a true warrior-king of old. Trumpets blew and then the two groups began advancing towards each other, shoulder-to-shoulder. Most wielded maces like Arthan, though a couple had opted for war-hammers or morningstars. They were positioned on the far sides, so they had the space to use their weapons. A direct hit to the head with a Morningstar could be fatal.

Thus there was little space between the armour-clad men, as they tried to protect their sides. Though it was in their interest to have as few victors as possible in their team, as to face fewer in the next rounds, they still needed to be sure to defeat the other team.

The two groups hesitantly clashed, no one too eager to get into the fighting this early.

Arthan played it safe, keeping his opponent at distance with his shield while holding his mace prepared to strike should he find an opening. In the first minutes, it would be the flanks which would be the deciding factor. He felt his opponent grow frustrated, and he succeeded in drawing him into their formation. The knight to his right saw the opportunity and kicked him in the side of the knee. The enemy staggered and his shield sunk. Arthan’s mace immediately smashed into his shoulder, heavily denting the plate. He had aimed for the head, but the man had moved in time. His opponent groaned and lifted his shield to parry the next hit. He was too slow, however; Arthan's mace connected with his helm in a clean hit and the man was sent to the ground, not to rise again.

At the same time, their right flank had been swept away, several knights lying still in the dirt with others crawling out with grave injuries. The sound of steel against steel and groans and gasps filled the air, as the knights clashed. The fight had lost its form and order, dissolving into each man fighting for his own life. Arthan had engaged a crimson knight with a black ironclad fist on his chest. He stepped on an abandoned mace and lost his balance, which made him miss the opponent’s sword. It hammered into his wrist, throwing the mace out of his numb hand.  He managed to smash his shield into the crimson knight’s elbow to cover his retreat.

He clutched his hand a few times to test it and then drew his sword. The hand seemed to be doing fine still. The crimson knight came back on the charge, letting a rain of blows fall over Arthan’s shield, slowly chipping away at it. He decided to part with it, throwing it in the knight’s face. He used the split-second of blindness to grab his sword with both hands and swing it into the back of the knight’s knee.

The crimson knight’s leg collapsed under him and Arthan quickly finished him off, taking care not to wound him fatally. He then took a moment to gauge the situation. Two knights of the other team were still on their feet, facing the man of the bull. Arthan moved in to help him but was too late. The knight of the blue swan defeated him in an impressive feat of swordplay and turned to Arthan, flanked by the other one, whom Arthan didn’t recognize. He was a knight of many colours, of which green seemed to be the most dominant.

Arthan stood his ground, preparing himself mentally to fight a difficult battle against the two of them. The green knight was equipped with a mace and a shield, While Tristan wielded a sword instead. He would need to use either one of them to shield against the other, to only face one at a time. The key was to keep moving as much as possible. Suddenly he regretted his heavy armour.

Tristan and the green knight were no fools though, they approached him from two widely different angles. Wherever he moved, they corrected their positions accordingly until he was trapped against the corner.

At this point, the only option left was to attack. He decided to charge the green knight, whom he figured would be the easiest to defeat. If only he could swiftly deal with him before Tristan came to his aid…

Bolting forward as quickly as his armour allowed him to, taking the green knight by surprise. In a furious onslaught of swings and thrusts, he pushed the man back a series of steps using his superior reach, even landing a couple of hits on the shoulders and arms. He was too slow however, Tristan interrupted their fight with a swing straight to Arthan’s head.

He tried to pull himself out of Tristan’s reach, but he was once again too slow. The tip of the mace glanced off against his helmet, and he fell to the ground with his head ringing and his sight blurring. Although disoriented, he prepared himself for the finishing blow, but it never came. The green knight had suddenly turned against Tristan, landing a brutal hit on his upper arm. The man probably couldn’t see himself win in a one on one with the knight of the blue swan, so he had made a quick decision. Tristan quickly had retreated away and was now gauging his new opponent. The attack had been heavy, but not decisive. And he had been too early too, Arthan thought, as he felt himself regain his faculties slowly.

While the two of them duked it out, Arthan dragged himself out of their range, still with his sword in hand. He pulled himself up on his feet and watched as Tristan dispatched the green knight masterfully, throwing him to the ground in another display of excellent skill. There would be no more rounds then.

Tristan then faced Arthan, pushing his visor up and revealing his fair features.

“Are you still able to fight, Arthan?” He asked in an unperturbed voice. He had many dents in his armours though, and probably just as many bruises. But Arthan had never seen anything faze these cold traits of his.

“Of course, Tristan,” Arthan responded, letting his guard down. The distance between them was large enough, or so he judged.

“My compliments on your defeat of Gallivan,” Tristan said.  “But I’m afraid you will not be champion twice on this day.”

“You will do your best, and so will I.” Arthan retorted. "Then we shall see who stands victor today."

Tristan nodded and pulled his visor down again.

Then there was silence, the calm before the storm, for before long the two knights were clashing in a thunderous battle. There was no interest in holding back now and Arthan threw everything he had against Tristan.

A blow glanced off Arthan’s armour, giving him a window to attack. He went for Tristan’s throat, his thrust coming dangerously close, but Tristan pushed it away and batted a second attack away in a blow that shook Arthan’s arm up to the shoulder. Arthan was thrown on the defensive again. But as he shook off each attack, he felt his arms getting heavier and his legs refusing to move as fast as before. The fight was dragging out, and they were getting tired.

And then there was a mistake. The crowd held their breath as the knight lost his balance for a moment, trying to avoid stepping on a treacherous half-broken shield. The other immediately exploited the opening with a well-executed swing to the hand, ripping the sword out it.

Arthan fell to his knees, clutching his bruised wrist. He inclined his head. “It is your victory, Tristan.”