Chapter 9 Hal
HAL
Hal’s shoulder screamed when Perrin lifted the pauldron into place.
He’d managed three hours of sleep, maybe less.
His eyes felt gritty, his mouth tasted like copper and regret, and every muscle in his body had opinions about the previous night’s activities.
The ribs on his right side ached where Alaric’s lance had caught him days ago, and his hip had decided it was very unhappy about the fall, but he focused on feeling these deep bruises of impact over the mess of emotion in his gut.
Physical pain was familiar, a constant presence.
He’d been foolish to think other sensations were better than this. Pain, at least, he could trust.
Perrin’s hands moved with their usual efficiency, buckling and adjusting, but the squire was unusually quiet this morning.
His touch was careful in a new way, tentative where it had always been certain, if overly attentive.
Hal hoped that would pass; he didn’t want to speak on the previous night.
What good would words do? It had happened, and perhaps Hal would like it to happen again.
But only if it didn’t prevent his bloody squire from doing his job.
“Tighter,” Hal said when Perrin hesitated on the chest straps.
His voice came out rough. The squire obeyed without comment, cinching the buckles until the breastplate sat properly.
His thin fingers checked each fastening twice, but his eyes wouldn’t quite meet Hal’s.
There was a mark on his neck—just visible above his collar—where Hal’s mouth had been after. After Perrin had knelt for him.
Hal looked away. Focused on his breathing, on the weight of armour settling onto his frame.
The cuirass felt heavier than usual, or maybe he was just tired.
His legs trembled slightly when he stood, too.
If it was exhaustion, it was catching up with him at exactly the wrong moment.
No, damn it, his body would obey him. He forced his legs to steady through sheer will.
The morning sun had burned off the night’s chill, leaving the tournament grounds sticky with heat.
Sweat already gathered under Hal’s gambeson, and he hadn’t even mounted yet.
Around them, the crowd was building—larger than any day previous, drawn by the promise of a final match between the Upstart and the mysterious Nameless Knight.
Hal knew they wanted to know if the first bout had been a fluke.
He needed to confirm that for them; he needed to reclaim his title and his glory.
“Your lance, Ser.”
Hal took the freshly balanced lance from Perrin and tested the weight.
Thirteen feet of ash wood tipped with a blunted crown, capable of delivering enough force to crack ribs or shatter shoulders or end a man’s tournament career.
Or reclaim one. But as he held it, he thought of the lance that had unseated him days ago.
Had it felt like this in Alaric’s grip, perfectly balanced, an extension of the rider rather than a separate tool?
He shook the thought away. Couldn’t afford to think about Alaric’s hands, about where they’d been, about what they’d done. Couldn’t afford to remember silver eyes or that cruel smile or a humiliation more bitter than any loss in the lists.
Focus.
His mount waited at the edge of the field.
Hal heaved himself into the saddle, his shoulder protesting the motion.
Perrin handed up his shield, and Hal settled it against his left arm, feeling the familiar weight distribute across his forearm and shoulder.
The yellow-and-blue of Lady Kerran’s colours looked faded in the morning light, sun-bleached from too many tournaments.
He’d need to request new livery soon. If he won today, she’d probably grant it. If he lost—
No. What was he thinking? He was not losing. He wouldn’t give Alaric that satisfaction.
The herald’s voice cut across the grounds, announcing the final match.
Hal barely heard the words over the hammer of his pulse, which pounded against his throat, his wrists, the hollow behind his knees.
Every injury from the past weeks made itself known.
His body was a map of small damages, and today he was asking his body for more.
Just one more bout. Then you can rest. Give me this one last bout.
He walked his horse toward the lists’ northern end and tuned out the crowd’s noise. At the opposite end, Alaric emerged from the staging area.
Even across the field’s length, Hal could read the easy confidence in how he sat his saddle.
That damned mare stepped high and precise, showing off her breeding with every stride.
Alaric’s armour caught the sun and threw that glare back, polished as it was to a mirror shine.
Everything about him looked fresh and rested and ready, while Hal felt like he’d spent the night being dragged behind a cart for ten miles.
Their eyes met across the churned earth.
That rutting bastard. Hal’s grip tightened on his lance.
His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.
Forget the ceremony and the herald’s signal!
He wanted to charge right now and drive his lance through that smug bastard’s chest. Wanted to make him hurt the way Hal hurt, wanted to wipe that knowing smile off his face permanently.
But discipline held. He’d trained to strip his body of the rage, to channel it into precision. He’d beaten better knights than Alaric, whoever he really was. Their first bout had been a mistake.
It wouldn’t happen again.
The herald raised his flag as drums quickened to match Hal’s pulse. He lowered his visor. The world narrowed, sounds muffled beyond the steel, and there was only this: a rectangle of world where he might change his fortune for good.
The flag dropped.
Hal spurred his mount into motion, driving the heels of his boots against the flank until the destrier surged forward. The lance levelled almost of its own accord, and the wooden barrier blurred past at his left as Alaric thundered up to meet him, his mare covering ground with lithe grace.
In an instant, the distance between them vanished. Hal’s mare was slower, but he could use Alaric’s speed against him. His lance slid onto its line, aimed squarely at the centre of Alaric’s shield, where the blow would transfer cleanly.
Impact.
A bolt of force exploded up his arm. His tip struck true, dead centre, and Alaric pitched backward in the saddle.
Yet Alaric’s own lance grazed Hal’s shield at a glancing angle.
It skewed off, force carrying its splinters into the air beside Hal’s head, but the strength still wrenched back Hal’s shoulder.
They thundered past one another, both keeping their seats, yet a thrill pulsed in Hal’s chest. He knew Alaric had come perilously close to slipping out of his saddle.
That was Hal’s first point.
The crowd’s roar crashed in his ears, but all he registered was the steady ringing and the fierce throb in his shoulder. He circled back to his end of the lists, where Perrin waited with a fresh lance. The squire’s face was pale but resolved; his dark eyes locked onto Hal’s, and he nodded stiffly.
“Good angle,” Perrin murmured. “But he adjusted quicker than I’d thought. Watch his left side. He favours it ever so slightly.”
Hal smiled. Perrin offered his throat and his insight with the same seriousness. What better squire could a knight ask for?
“Thank you,” Hal said, and repositioned himself.
On the opposite side, Alaric accepted his fresh lance with calm assurance. He looked entirely unbothered. Fucking bastard.
The flag rose again. Hal inhaled carefully, counting four heartbeats—five, six—and urged his exhaustion into a taut readiness. This was his element. No one had laboured harder or desired victory more.
The flag fell.
Again. He rode the destrier hard and tracked Alaric’s approach, eyes fixed for the slightest tell, and there it was—just as Perrin said, a fleeting hitch in the knight’s left arm as he brought his weapon to bear. Instantly, Hal adjusted his grip, angling the tip of his lance out by mere inches.
His lance struck and splintered against the rim of Alaric’s shield, levering it back to expose Alaric’s torso.
The impact was savage and precise. Shield arm splayed, the knight’s balance ruptured.
He tipped back. For a heartbeat, Hal dared to believe he’d unseated his rival and avenged the days-old slight.
But Alaric’s left hand shot out, seizing the saddle horn, and with brutal will, he hauled himself upright. The feat was crude but breathtakingly effective; his mare danced aside under the transmitted shock, but her rider remained.
Alright. Fine. That was still Hal’s second point.
That awareness kindled a fire in Hal’s chest: he was winning. Two passes, two solid strikes, and at last, Alaric looked vulnerable. The crowd sensed it too, their roar shifting pitch. A frenzy brewed in the stands.
Finally. Things were returning to their proper order, and Alaric’s cruelty had failed to rankle him.
He steered back to Perrin, breathing easier despite the pain in his flesh. Perrin’s hands trembled as he pressed the third lance into Hal’s grip.
“One more,” the squire murmured, hope naked in his voice. “One more good strike.”
“One more,” Hal echoed. A day earlier, and he might have heard Lady Kerran’s eagerness in the young man’s voice. Now, he heard only true encouragement.
Perrin really was a good squire. Perhaps one day he might be a friend.
Across the lists, Alaric conferred with his borrowed attendant. Even at a distance, tension coiled in the knight’s shoulders. Good. Uncertainty was the least of what he deserved. Trickery meant nothing when lances met; the best knight would win in the end.
The herald raised his flag. This constituted the pivotal moment: either Hal would strike again, unseating Alaric to prove that his first loss had been a fluke, or the other knight would rally, extending the duel until fortune turned.
Hal’s grip was unwavering. His breath fell into a measured rhythm. Time suspended. Hal felt his heartbeat slow, the world contracting to the stretch of ground between the horses. Now, or never.
The flag fell.
He surged forward.
His horse thundered forward in powerful strides.
The lance seemed weightless, and Alaric was positioning himself for failure—the gap between pauldron and cuirass was ripe and exposed.
It was the area Alaric had struck to unseat Hal and that irony had him shifting away from the shield to that tender spot. This would be enough to unseat him.
But at the last moment, Alaric moved.
A subtle lean, a breath’s imperceptible shift, and the window closed. Hal’s lance struck iron. The clang drove through Alaric’s breastplate, shaking him but not unseating him.
Alaric had anticipated it. No. Alaric had—baited him!
Then came Hal’s own undoing. Alaric’s lance plunged beneath Hal’s right arm, angling upward with cruel leverage. He heard something splinter with the hollow crack of green wood and realised only when agony blossomed that the sound was the shattering of his own ribs.
His vision seared white. The lance slipped from his grasp. Reins tumbled through numb fingers. He fell.
It happened in shards of awareness: sky, earth, sky again. The final impact felt detached, as if he viewed another man’s ruin. Muffled voices drifted. The armour that once protected now crushed him. Every inhale summoned fresh torment.
At the periphery of his sight, a figure resolved: Alaric, circling back. The knight loomed above, visor lifted to reveal that pale, impassive face. Their eyes met—green and silver, victor and vanquished.
Alaric’s lips parted, speaking words Hal could not hear. But no triumph shone in his gaze. What was that he said? What was. . .
Pain rolled over Hal. The grisly landscape of the lists receded as darkness crept inward. Hal’s mind drifted to Perrin’s trembling hands, to Lady Kerran’s impending disappointment.
In that final breath of consciousness, Hal realised he ought to worry about death, not reputation, but he lacked the will.
The darkness felt gentle, welcoming like cool water after a fever. He surrendered to it.
And the world went black.