First Tilt (Broken Lances #0.5)

Chapter 1 Alaric

ALARIC

The tournament grounds were worn thin by the time Isembard Alaric Blackmere arrived.

What lush fields he had pictured in his daydreams lay pressed into mud; the banners, once bright with heraldry, now clung to their poles like sullied rags.

A week’s worth of tramping feet had sucked the life from this place, and even the promise of sport sagged beneath the weight of a season nearly spent.

Not exactly the fanfare of courtly lists he’d longed for, but what else could he expect from provincial entertainment? Still, Alaric had resolved to taste every rung of glory, even if it meant stooping to these backwater theatrics.

He dismounted at the fringe of merchants’ stalls, where greasy pies and sun-bleached leather vied for buyers.

No one spared him a glance, and that suited him fine.

Only Fiona, his prize mare, drew attention.

Even beneath the dust of travel, Fiona's noble breeding shone through her silver-grey coat, dappled elegantly at the haunches.

She stood a full hand taller than most warhorses, her silken mane cascading down her powerful neck.

Alaric caught a stable hand’s stare; the boy’s obvious surprise buckling beneath years of servitude until it settled into a more polite interest. Well. Bringing her had been a risk. She was a tell.

Still, he decided, let them look. So long as he was here, he was no one of importance.

He led the mare through the outer ring of activity, past vendors hawking dubious meat pies and leather goods of various quality.

A child darted past, clutching a wooden sword that Alaric judged to be poorly balanced even for a toy.

Two squires argued over a water bucket, their voices sharp with exhaustion—had their knights not taught them proper decorum?

Disorder pressed in from all sides. Alaric' s hand tightened on the reins, a reflex ingrained—a faintly haughty recoil from disorder, from the suggestion of squalor.

Late season always looked like this, with all the glamour stripped away.

But he' d wanted this challenge, hadn't he?

To prove himself where no one knew his name or bloodline.

He would simply have to endure the filth like a commoner.

The knights who lingered so late in the season fell into two kinds: those too successful to bother leaving, and those too desperate to afford quitting. The first would be complacent. The second would be reckless.

Both, Alaric decided, would make worthy opponents to fall before his lance.

The registration pavilion squatted near the main lists, its yellow canvas patched so many times it looked threadbare, the pennant hanging limp in the fetid heat.

The reek of horse dung clung to every beam, and mud caked the ground where rough knights had dragged their mounts.

For the gods’ sake, what a mess. Alaric had to school his breathing as he drew close.

Inside, a scribe sat slumped behind a wooden table, his ledger and quill shoved carelessly aside. He was gaunt and dark-eyed, worn down to the point that Alaric would scarcely have blinked if the man expired on the spot.

Alaric braced himself against the stink, fingers curled around the pommel of his sword in silent disgust. The scribe didn’t even glance up. When Alaric cleared his throat, the man’s lip curled as if the sight of polished armour and spotless surcoat nauseated him.

“Registration closed three days past,” the scribe drawled. “Brackets are set.”

Alaric stopped in front of the table and waited.

Alaric halted before the desk and waited. Silence stretched between them, broken only by the scribe’s fingers, drumming their irritation into the table. But Alaric was a creature of court, and waiting games were the least taxing of courtly melodrama. This miserable clerk would wilt first.

And indeed he did.

When the man glanced up, his anger immediately thawed into something more cautious as he took in Alaric’s polished armour and the high-bred mare stamping just outside.

“Closed…” the clerk repeated, the word trailing off as if he weren’t quite convinced.

Alaric forced a courteous smile and made sure his voice came out steady. Cordial, even. Just how he was raised.

“I’ve ridden since before dawn to compete here. I’d hate to see all that effort go to waste.”

“Rules are rules, ser. The marshal—”

“—Isn’t here,” Alaric interrupted, nodding at the vacant chair. “Unless he’s turned invisible. In which case, you’ve greater problems than late entries.”

The scribe’s lips twitched. No laughter followed. Provincial scum. Alaric’s jaw ached from maintaining his amicable smile. “Very well,” he said, inclining his head again. “If he’s merely not present, then you have discretion.”

“Do I now?” The scribe’s lips twitched. Alaric watched the man’s expression flicker: irritation, assessment, recognition that this stranger might be worth the trouble, and finally—there—the flicker of opportunity.

“Entry fee’s five silver. Non-negotiable.”

Five silver? Preposterous. Five silver could buy the entire pathetic pavilion and the scribe along with it, for all that knave was worth. The weasel thought himself clever. How quaint.

“Of course.” Alaric kept his voice level; it took far more to rankle him, after all. He upended his pouch, slowly counting out seven silver coins onto the desk, so the scribe might count along with each clink. “Five for entry. Two for your. . .discretion.”

The scribe’s hand covered the coins before the last one stopped spinning.

“Name and house?”

“Alaric. No house. I’m competing without heraldry.”

The scribe’s quill paused. His throat bobbed.

Alaric stared down at him, daring him to question further.

This kind of thing happened, sometimes bastards seeking glory, disgraced knights chasing redemption, third sons with nothing to inherit and everything to prove.

He could pretend to be any one of those men, and none of those roles would fit quite right.

Except he was, today, one of the nameless knights.

In its own way, that caste was as much a tradition at these tournaments as the great houses’ champions.

“A problem, scribe?” Alaric murmured.

The scribe hesitated. Finally, he shrugged.

“The Nameless Knight, then.” The scribe’s voice went high, brows dancing up his forehead as he made a mark in his ledger. Alaric’s gaze narrowed. Was that judgement, from the man who’d just happily accepted a bribe? The insolence made his jaw clench.

“You’ll be assigned to whatever bracket has a gap. No complaints if you draw the Upstart first round.”

Alaric’s expression remained impassive, but an excited jolt quickened his pulse. “Who?”

The scribe nodded toward the main lists, where a distant roar of approval was building. “See for yourself.”

The stands, meant for thrice today’s rabble, yawned half-empty beneath the blazing sun.

A handful of self-important minor lords huddled under patched awnings; off-duty knights, pampered squires, and gentry milled below.

No true powerbroker bothered to grace this spectacle— the province’s High Lord likely hadn’t even noticed the farce unfolding on his land.

The field north of the lists held the real audience, all crammed against the rail: filthy commoners whose stench rose like a miasma from the hot press of bodies.

They were utterly uncaring about being doused in the dust rising from the field.

Their hoots and vulgar taunts rattled the air, but their racket meant little to someone of quality.

The knights preparing in the lists paid them no heed, either.

Alaric found a position at the edge of the field, just meters from the registration pavilion, where a weathered support beam offered something to lean against. From here, the joust appeared in profile: the knights would charge parallel to his sight line, the point of their impact partially obscured by the corner of the stands and the dust that rose in clouds from the trampled earth.

But if he craned just right, he could see both the knights perfectly.

The first contestant radiated noble polish–exemplar posture, his weight centred, lance angled precisely as he was no doubt taught by his expensive tutors.

His immaculate armour caught the sunlight, heraldry rendered in crimson and gold—the trappings of a lesser noble house’s expendable son.

House Pidon, Alaric thought it was. He’d serve as a tolerable exercise, but hardly a true challenge.

But the other man—

Alaric studied him.

He rode with a rider’s instinct, not a pupil’s caution.

Pale skin reddening at the neck, he moved as if born in the saddle.

It was the easy familiarity of someone who’d learned to ride before he learned to read, if he’d learned to read at all.

All that bobbing and swaying and moving with the horse was dangerous; you couldn’t let your mount think it had any control.

No master-at-arms worth his salt would permit such carefree sway.

His armour had seen more use than care, w.

Which was more the squire’s fault, Alaric supposed—though some knights made it very difficult for their squires to do their jobs well.

Dents in the cuirass had been beaten smooth rather than replaced, scratches left to gather their own history.

The leather was dark with age and sweat, not the patina of fashion but of long service endured.

It was service, Alaric thought, that explained the man’s face as well: he had a crooked nose, one that had been broken and set poorly.

So many nobles wanted to preserve their faces, regardless of how pretty they were. This man didn’t mind appearing a brute.