Chapter 3 Alaric #2
Their lances struck shields simultaneously. The ringing crash was like a blacksmith’s hammer on an anvil, the tolling of a bell.
The shock travelled up Alaric’s arm, through his shoulder, into his spine.
His lance had struck Halden’s shield dead centre, but the Upstart’s struck true as well.
For a moment, they were locked together—two forces meeting with equal violence—and then they were past, slowing at opposite ends of the lists.
Alaric slowed Fiona to a canter, then a walk.
He could feel his heart hammering against his ribs, taste copper at the back of his throat.
His shoulder throbbed where the impact had driven armour into flesh.
Real, he thought. This was real in a way court tournaments never were.
No pulling punches, no false courtesy. Halden had meant to unhorse him.
Good.
Across the field, Halden had turned his mount and was walking back to his starting position. Even through the narrow slit of his visor, Alaric could read frustration in the set of those shoulders. The Upstart had expected to win on the first pass. Cocky bastard.
Eighteen months undefeated was about to become history.
The marshal’s flag rose again.
Alaric adjusted his grip on the lance, feeling where the wood had splintered slightly from the first impact. He watched Halden settle into position, the subtle shift of weight that indicated readiness.
Then the flag dropped, and they were charging again.
This time, Alaric leaned fractionally forward, urging Fiona to an even faster charge.
The mare responded instantly, her stride lengthening.
The increased momentum would translate to greater impact force—a simple equation of mass and velocity that had decided tournaments since knights first lowered lances against one another.
The ground disappeared beneath Fiona’s hooves.
Wind whistled through the slit in Alaric’s visor.
Halden grew in his vision once more, but the knight’s shield had shifted slightly higher. His lance tip wavered almost imperceptibly. Fatigue? Or anticipation of a different strike?
Alaric took a calculated risk and aimed just below the shield’s centre, where the rim provided less protection. They converged, dust swirling around pounding hooves.
Alaric’s lance struck the shield’s upper edge with a crack that echoed across the field.
Both lance and rim shattered.
Halden’s horse staggered, the impact driving the creature sideways. For a moment—one glorious, terrible moment—Alaric thought he’d done it. The Upstart swayed in his saddle, shield hanging useless, and the crowd gasped as one foot slipped from its stirrup.
But Halden kept his seat.
With remarkable athleticism, he hooked his leg back into position and righted himself, finishing the pass upright if somewhat dishevelled. His lance had missed Alaric’s shield entirely during the chaos of near dismounting.
The crowd erupted in chaotic noise, part disappointment, part appreciation for the display. Alaric circled back to his starting position, noting the change in Halden’s demeanour. A thrill pulsed in him, but he had to stamp it down. Stay focused.
The Upstart’s body language had shifted from confident to furious, tension visible in every line of his posture.
They slowed. Turned. Separated to opposite ends of the lists once more.
Alaric’s breath came hard now, sawing in and out of his lungs. Sweat ran down his spine beneath the armour, pooling at the small of his back.
The borrowed squire handed him a fresh lance.
This one balanced differently, heavier in the haft, and Alaric took a moment to adjust his grip.
Across the field, Halden’s squire was replacing his knight’s ruined shield, the boy working with frantic efficiency.
When he stepped back, Halden reached down and touched his shoulder, and the squire straightened as if that casual touch had been a benediction.
The field was churned mud where their horses had torn it apart. The crowd was placing final bets, shouting over the drums, and Alaric heard none of it. He had one more pass. One more chance.
The flag rose. In the endless space between heartbeats, Alaric thought of his father, who would skin him alive if he discovered his whereabouts. His mother, who had wanted a scholarly son over a warrior.
The courtiers who’d asked, with polite condescension, why a man of his station would bother learning skills he’d never need to use.
Because, Alaric thought. Because I wanted to know if I could.
The flag dropped.
Alaric drove Fiona forward with everything they had left, lance levelled, aim unwavering. Halden charged to meet him.
Alaric made his decision in the final heartbeat before contact. Instead of aiming for the shield again, he shifted his target slightly to the left—where breastplate met shoulder. A difficult strike. But he could do it. He had to do it.
Their lances made contact simultaneously. Halden’s struck Alaric’s shield dead centre, but Alaric’s found its mark at the junction of plate and articulated shoulder.
He felt the connection through every bone in his body; the lance shattering, Halden’s armour buckling, the movement of mass.
Halden’s body twisted with the force, his centre of gravity shifting beyond recovery.
He buckled, torso folding over the point of impact, and tilted to the side.
A leg in the air, arms reaching for the reins—
And Halden left his saddle.
Alaric caught only a glimpse as he galloped past, but he spun in his saddle, eager to watch as Halden’s heavy body collapsed under the strain of gravity.
He plummeted, but at the last second, Halden managed to tuck his limbs.
He fell in a controlled tumble, hitting the ground with a practiced roll.
Dust erupted around him, briefly obscuring his landing.
Silence gripped the lists for a beat. Then two. Then the crowd exploded.
Alaric’s hands trembled on the reins. His breath came in shudders. He’d done it. He’d beaten the Upstart. It was only in that moment that he recognised the undercurrent emotion for what it was: relief. Had he truly doubted himself so enormously?
Alaric completed his pass and circled back to the fallen knight. Sweat plastered his hair to his forehead, and the chill air felt like a blessing against his overheated skin. He watched as Halden pushed himself to his feet, cursing as his squire tried to help him up.
The Upstart ripped open his visor, dust coating his reddened face. His eyes burned with something more complex than simple anger—humiliation, yes, but beneath it pulsed that deeper wound. Red faced and angry, he reminded Alaric of an angry cat. Ser Halden was all fluffed up.
“Lucky shot,” Halden spat, voice raw with emotion.
Alaric should have let it pass. Instead, he reached up and lifted his visor, just enough to expose his eyes. Adrenaline surged through him. Halden looked so furious, so adorable with his red-faced bravado, that Alaric couldn’t help but smile. “Or maybe,” he said, “your luck’s finally run out.”
The words hung between them as the wind picked up, snapping banners overhead like the crack of distant whips, muffling the crowd’s cheers. Halden’s expression cycled from surprise to anger, and in that moment, something passed between them.
Halden’s squire tried again, offering support his knight didn’t accept. “Ser—”
“I’m fine,” Halden snapped, but his eyes never left Alaric’s. “Who are you?”
“No one,” Alaric lied.
“Eighteen months,” Halden said, shaking his head in disbelief. “Eighteen months since anyone put me down.”
A thrum of pride pulsed in Alaric’s chest. “Yes. You were overdue.”
Halden spat over his shoulder at that, fists balling at his sides. “Beginner’s luck doesn’t survive the season.”
“Then I suppose, Ser Halden,” Alaric said, lowering his helm back into place, “we’ll see each other again.”