Chapter 10

As Qualtan was incepted into the great tourney, Glaive had been led through myriad streets decorated with colored pieces of glass and stones towards the great treasury. They stopped at last before a great, white-domed building, so bright and intense Glaive could not look at it directly. Marbled steps reached a grand pair of golden doors that seemingly opened at a secret command by Escoch. Their feet echoed through a long hallway of paintings. Various vases, statues, and sculptures of jeweled design stood on pink-blue pillars, causing Glaive to pause at each interval.

“Are there not guards to protect this hoard?” Glaive asked, pouring over the items.

Escoch shrugged. “Why would we need guards to defend these trinkets from their own? We are all kindred here, and thus have no worry of theft. None save those given permission to take them would do so, and only those chosen by the caretaker may. You make the mistake of attesting value to such things from your standpoint. We elves care little of the avarice such decoratives cause to the outside world. Here we use them as objects of art to beautify and to admire. Little else of value we find in them, save as needed when dealing with other Kind.”

“All of this with no protection,” Glaive said, whistling at a display of golden plates caked with gems.

Escoch smiled, enjoying the game. “Save for a few attendants, this place serves more as a museum of sorts for our people to enjoy. There is but one caretaker to this place, and I will bring you to him now.”

Passing through curved arches of bright blue, they entered a rear area where rows of cases showed off objects of gold and silver. Stepping over a guarding rail, Escoch showed Glaive to a smaller chamber where Glaive had to stop and gasp. Heaps of coins, jewels, baubles, and more lay thrown about like some great dragon’s lair. Escoch bent over a table and grabbed a fistful of its riches, spilling them over Glaive’s shaking hands.

“Our artists and builders come here to take what they need for their decorative needs. Of course, as I said, they still need permission, as the caretaker must maintain some semblance of order here,” Escoch said, as Glaive licked his lips at the wealth around him.

“Ah, here he is now.” The elf pointed to a corner, drawing Glaive’s attention. A spherical object was bobbing about, fluttering like a bee with membranous wings that beat so fast they were nearly invisible. A huge, single eye started from its red-skinned center, with dozens of smaller eyes sprinkled throughout. Four skeletal arms jutted out form each side, ending in hands with long, slender fingers. In one hand it held a tablet; the other a pen. Its third held an inkwell, while the last held a purplish feather duster.

A small maw just beneath its center eye opened. “Greetings, lieutenant!” it said, rolling forward in what appeared to be a bow.

“Greetings, caretaker! I bring a friend to visit your wares!” Escoch bowed in return.

The eyes in unison rolled upwards. “I have no time for tours today. The inventories are due, and I am already behind in my work! I will be thrashing my workers if they don’t keep on their tasks!” The creature darted ‘round, dusting off the larger statues of gold and platinum that occupied the tiled floor.

“Surely a tour for but one visitor is simple task enough, especially for one from the outside?” Escoch asked.

“Work, work, work. I can never have time to do what must be done! Is this a special visitor?” the creature said with some annoyance. It lifted its four arms with exasperation, its color turning a darker shade of red.

“A friend to the King and Prince. Your understanding would be greatly appreciated by his Majesty!” Escoch said.

“Fine. Your kind request is merely an order, like they always are.” The creature floated towards Glaive, its wings barely emitting any noticeable sound save for a soft drumming.

“So who might you be, fellow?” it said curiously, circling around him.

Glaive was somewhat taken off-guard. He looked to Escoch who nodded, smiling.

“Er, I am Glaive.”

“Glaive? You are named after a weapon, how quaint. You are of orcne blood are you not?” the caretaker said. “I have never seen an orcne here before.” It looked towards Escoch.

“He is servant to a knight on his way to Turinthia. I spoke of your exemplary artistic skills as well as the immaculate order you keep in this place.”

“Flatterer!” the creature said with irritation, but with hidden pride.

“The knight’s blood is of Eucradus, he who won the sword,” Escoch added.

The creature’s eyes opened wider as one, then half-closed in dull resignation. “Ah,” it said with little interest. Satisfied, it hovered away from Glaive.

“What is it?” Glaive whispered to Escoch.

“I heard that,” the creature replied, the eyes on the back of its body maintaining vigil over the visitors.

“He has good reason to ask! That is Eunu, the caretaker and warden of this place. It is our treasury, but we call it such for different reasons than you. The font of our artistic masters, this place is where many of them study, work, and supply themselves with the stones and objects that create the beauty that is Hermloate. Eunu himself is a great master.”

“Hah!” Eunu said as he went about tallying objects on his notes.

“He teaches some of our greatest craftspeople. His own works adorn this place as well as our city.”

“I would have a lot less worry and more time to work if your students paid more attention,” Eunu said.

Escoch laughed. “The trials of a master artist!”

“I’ve never seen the like! Where does it … I mean, he … come from?” Glaive asked.

“He is not of our world. My father reached out to his Kind and he decided to stay here.”

“Until I see fit to leave!” Eunu said. “I entertain myself here and do so only at my discretion!” He waved a long finger in the air to accentuate his point.

“You will have to excuse him—he is quite temperamental. He actually agreed to stay here for some time, for his people owed my father a debt. He is rather prideful though, and does not wish to be seen as a servant. Like all artists, he likes to be left to his own devices.”

Glaive merely looked on at the floating creature as it hummed quietly to itself. “I … see. What are its powers? It must be a fearsome protector, surely!”

Escoch frowned. “As I said, he is a master artist and ‘tis all. He categorizes, tallies, orders, and buys what is needed. That is all.”

Glaive nodded, still taking in the bounty before him, still unbelieving the lack of guards or protection. Legions of thieves, burglars, and soldiers would kill each other to raid this place, he thought. For all of their knowledge and abilities, these elves are very naïve, even ignorant, he thought. They may not add monetary value to this place, but many indeed would.

“Well, Eunu?” Escoch said.

“Fine, fine! If I can at least be given the false courtesy of completing my tally of this room, I will begin the tour. Is that satisfactory?” Eunu placed his hands on what on another more anthropomorphic figure would have been his waist.

“Most satisfactory, thank you,” Escoch said, as the grumbling Eunu flew past them, his color changing to a yellow-orange.

Nudging Glaive, Escoch winked knowingly. “You will enjoy this!” he said.

“I already am! Ahem, did I forget to mention my own artistic abilities?” Glaive replied, a thousand thoughts rushing through his head.

“These are precious materials, despite what the elves think. They are for use by the elves ONLY, artistic ability or not.” Eunu said, two eyes rotating back to stare at him.

Later in the evening, when Glaive returned from his tour, he found Qualtan sitting within an open garden area with two female elves. The elves were feeding various birds that had become so tame they would alight on their hands or amidst the robes of their laps to steal a fresh seed or kernel of crushed nut. The elves were instructing Qualtan on how to feed them, and as he emulated their actions, the birds would warily hop closer towards him, dashing at a snack in his open palm and quickly flying off to a nearby branch to eat while keeping a watchful eye on the newcomer. The elves clapped at his success, and he laughed, detailing the affinity his own uncle had with his feathered friends.

At Glaive’s approach, Qualtan rose, bowing to the two maidens.

“I see YOU have kept yourself occupied,” Glaive said with a knowing grin.

Qualtan merely frowned. “As ever, you tire me with your assumed words. How was your trip to see the treasury?”

Glaive looked away. “Eh, I have seen just as well within Lord Thule’s treasure holds. You’ve seen one pile of coins and trifles, you have seen them all. What of you and the elfin knights? Finished slapping each other on the backs, have you?”

Qualtan cleared his throat. “Well, I have been asked by Termenon to join in the Festival.”

Glaive started. “What?”

“Now, look, Glaive,” Qualtan said, already preparing for his friend’s withering response. “As guests we have no choice if given such a request and from their royal house, no less! They will inform Tringolm so we may keep our appointment, if somewhat late.”

“Somewhat?” Glaive blurted.

“My father had jousted in their tourney as you well know. This would be an honor for me indeed. As Termenon put it, it would be the Order of Turinthia against their own.”

“Is that how you would put it?”

Qualtan thought for a moment. “Yes. Termenon’s abilities are similar to mine. And yes, do not say it. I have seen how he covets this sword, despite attempts to hide it. He wishes to gauge himself against me, as I do him!”

“Good! Then we shall stay for it.”

“You yourself stated how rested you felt, so I don’t understand why … wait, what did you say?” Qualtan said, stopping himself.

“I said go for it, then! Rub a little mustard on the elf’s face if you can! I’ve enjoyed our little vacation here, and have no wish to rush off again just yet if we don’t have to.”

Qualtan looked at Glaive unconvinced. “Really? You have no issue with us staying for a few weeks more?”

“None.”

“Why?!” Qualtan demanded.

“Why not?”

“I thought you hated being around so many elves.”

“Aaah.” Glaive stretched out his arms. “I’ve warmed up to them a bit. They have shown me no harm. Indeed, the greatest respect I’ve been given. I may have to admit I was a little wrong on this one, but only just a little.”

“Truly?” Qualtan asked.

“Truly. Although I hope this doesn’t mean you will expect me to prepare your weapons and spurs, and all of that!” Glaive said.

Qualtan laughed, relieved. “You will have to, you know. It will be expected.”

“Blah! Seeing a bunch of idiot elves knocking each other silly is not my idea of a good time. There are other sights to see…” Glaive said, his voice trailing off as a female elf daintily walked past, smiling back at the staring visitors.

Qualtan shook his head. “Glaive, my friend, you hold hidden depths, only not so deep.”

Glaive laughed as they went together back to their chambers. However, once inside, he kept watch over Qualtan, until he was assured he had fallen fast asleep. Satisfied, he walked over to his room and quietly pulled free one crimson gem he had secretly kept from the handful Escoch had poured into his hands during his visit to the elf treasury. Looking around as if he expected Qualtan to suddenly awake, he played with the stone’s smooth edges, weighing it in his grip. He gauged its worth and rolled his eyes at the value perceived. He bit at its side, and walked to his balcony where he lifted it into the sky, reflecting the moon through it. Sighing, he quickly placed it into a small bag that he stuffed into the side of his boot.

“Such riches, Thule curse me for a fool,” he whispered to himself. He attempted to resist the ideas that began to well inside of him. An unguarded trove of fortune, beyond his wildest dreams, he thought wistfully. The elves were smitten with Qualtan, although Glaive had darker concerns about the Prince. The Festival would occupy all of them, and there would be fewer elves on the streets. He grew excited at the possibility. A few satchelfuls would be more than enough, and easy to slip away with undetected. They would leave shortly after that, and be on their way, with nary a problem. By the time that guardian caretaker would realize it, they would be too far gone to do anything about it. He could stay at Turinthia for a time and then leave to return home to the Woodworm Ports and live like a King, or better yet, plan and plot for a second attempt at his revenge that he could now easily afford! Glaive smiled inwardly.

“Live like a King!” he said aloud.

But thinking about Qualtan, he immediately felt a wave of guilt. If they were exposed they would surely blame the warrior as well. Would that be fair? The human had become a fast friend to him, and through their adventures had never once mistreated him or acted harshly towards him because of his orcne nature. Glaive had appreciated that and had become loyal to him, and he could not deny the earnest feelings he had for him. He had never met a human that had been so trusting or concerned over him. How many times had he saved his life by now? How could Glaive take advantage of their friendship, and ruin it just for the sake of the trove he had been witness to?

“You’d be the very same thing Qual said you weren’t. The very same thing you yourself have always hated. A liar, and a betrayer, like Thule and all the rest. You would be one of them now, wouldn’t you, with no more excuses for your own,” Glaive said to himself, cursing his newfound conscience.

Glaive crept back to where Qualtan lay. He was motionless, curled to one side, breathing deeply. You’d better think on this and think on this deeply. There’s more to you now at stake. You are responsible for him now, and his reputation, as surely as if it was your own. Think hard on what you risk if you follow these thoughts, you stupid orc! Glaive went back to his room. He sat in a corner chair and bent over, pulling at his pointed ears in thought.

Trumpets resounded throughout the city of Hermloate, heralding the beginning of the month-long pageant that was to come. Balloons of all color filled the air as a procession made its way throughout the city on a pre-selected route towards the tilt fields where the competition would begin. Musicians led the way as thirty-two knights on horseback slowly followed. Onlookers threw flower petals from windows above and cheers echoed from those on the street. Behind the selected knights rode the rest of the Order; the remaining two hundred and sixty nine members of the Order of the High Forest in beautifully designed parade armor, with sculptured griffons on their helmets, red streamers billowing from them in the rose-scented breeze.

Qualtan rode amongst the thirty-two, one knight having bowed out per the request of his Prince, to allow the human entry. Despite his being of Human-Kind the people of Hermstingle supported him, waving and urging him on. His appearance added a new layer of excitement and drama to the event. The watchers in the street quickly followed at the end of the parade until the entire crowd reached the open fields of challenge. The elves patiently took to their seats; rows upon rows of benches and seats beneath giant canopies of every color. Smaller tents dotted the grounds where the contesting knights broke off from the procession to be met by their attendants. A large, upraised platform stood surrounded by great banners where Lord Veltrus and Lady Marena sat, surrounded by their courtly retinue of assistants and advisors. Children ran about playing games of kick ball and tenpins. Long stretches of tables held stacks of food, served by grim-faced attendants who shooed away the hungry white/grey hounds that cavorted around them.

“It’s quite the excitement, eh, Glaive?” Qualtan asked as he stood before a yellow and black tent preparing for the first event.

“It’s wonderful. So what happens next?” Glaive replied, with little interest.

Qualtan sighed, ignoring his friend’s apathy. “The King and Queen will now begin to give various speeches to the crowds. Then we will be honored by the assembled people and the first contest will begin.”

“What is the first event?”

“Archery.” Qualtan was excited, absorbed in the moment. This was what he had been expecting when he had reached Turinthia and although not a knight as yet, he felt fully competent as one of the competitors. He had been trained well by the instructors Aurelus had chosen for him, especially by a human ranger of supposed elfin blood that had mentored him in the ways of bow and arrow. Not only was he contesting the other true knights, as well as Termenon, but in truth, he would be challenging his father as well, and the results he had achieved when he had participated.

Qualtan looked to the tents held by the competing knights, bearing ornate banners with the symbols of that elf’s family crest. Unlike his own, mobs of supporters, family, and friends surrounded each one, as every knight was given a small scarf that they tied to their arm or leg.

“What are those for, that you do not carry one?” Glaive said.

“Those are the favors of their chosen Lady, to carry in symbolic battle. They are for good luck,” Qualtan said.

Glaive laughed. The ridiculous rules used to pretend these matches were of more value than they really were, he thought. He was glad he was not a knight!

“I can give you mine,” he jested to which Qualtan laughed loudly.

Termenon suddenly appeared waving at them as he approached with five elf maidens in tow.

“Uh oh. What is this?” Glaive said, noticing the elf’s arrival first.

“Well met, my friends!” he said, happily patting them both on the shoulder. “I come to wish you luck, my sword brother! Truly your inclusion has made this one of the best Festivals ever!”

Qualtan bowed. “I’m truly honored by your offer. I do not know how else to show it.”

“Hah! Go deep into the rounds, my friend! That will show it! Perhaps you will even go farther than your father! The others already bet to see how quickly the human in our midst will fail! I told them to beware; you should at least make it to the third event if you do not bow out sooner!” Qualtan did not like his arrogance but said nothing, eager to prove himself and represent his Kind as well to these self-assured elves.

“I also bring you a gift!” Termenon motioned to the girls giggling behind him. At the urging of her friends, one stepped forward, eyes down, smiling shyly.

“As you do not have a Lady with you, it seems you have won over one of my serving girls! She would like you to carry her favor if you wish,” he said. She handed over a green-gold scarf to Qualtan and curtseyed before him. He knew her well; she had assisted him with feeding the birds outside of their chambers, and had awoken them each day with her soft playing of the morning bells. She had seemed gentle and kind and Qualtan felt honored indeed by the gesture.

Qualtan took her by the hands. “You honor me with your favor! I ask your permission to wear it!” Instantly, her eyes rose to meet his and she smiled with pleasure. She nodded happily and attached it to his arm, kissing him gently on the cheek before rejoining her friends. They raced off, laughing and teasing, as Termenon shook his head.

“Hah! Girls are the same regardless of Kind! You know her name do you not?”

“Yes. Ambraxia.” Qualtan remembered their conversations as her winged, feathered companions had danced and flitted about.

“Well, there you have it, then! You are now fully one of us! Come! We will be called before our Lady soon. We will meet again at the gathering following the end of the first round! Good luck to you, Qualtan! I look forward to seeing how well you do!” And with that, Termenon was gone, back to his own entourage.

Horns began to sound, and the contestants quickly saddled their horses to go before the raised dais of the King and Queen.

“Well, I am off!” Qualtan said, lifting himself onto his horse.

“Good luck, Qual. Give these uppity-nosed elves a one up!” Glaive said, patting the steed.

Qualtan nodded and joined the other elves as they made their way before the rulers of Hermstingle. The crowd roared as the knights’ individual names were called out, and blessings were given to each by the Queen. Glaive sat himself upon a small stool to wait out the event. He pulled out from his sock the small bag that contained the gemstone he had taken, and he patted it, rubbing its hidden occupant in his palm.

The contestants circled the Festival area with their horses, waving to the crowd. When the ritual was complete, they unsaddled and stood in a row, the impeccably trimmed grass crunching softly beneath their feet. A field of stretched skins stood before them patterned with concentric circles. The highest sixteen scores from the thirty-two archers would proceed to the next round. Each contestant would be given ten shafts, and would select the best five scores from their tally. Qualtan and the others were first given a sampling of red arrows for practice. The air was filled with their volleys as they tested their mettle. Some targets were pushed closer by attendants while others were pushed back on specially prepared tracks. Soon enough, a great curved metal horn that stood atop a tower was blown and the practice round was completed. Yellow arrows, ten each, were presented to each archer. Elves situated the targets at their closest approximation and quickly ran off the field.

The contestants hefted the feathered shafts and balanced their stance. Hoisting their crossbows, they notched their first arrows. Qualtan smiled to the elf closest to him, enjoying the test. He imagined himself as his father in the very same position. He breathed slowly, extending the tightly strung cord back as far as he could pull, and waited. Another blast from the horn resounded and the archers began to shoot. The elves were highly skilled, blessed with the ability to see far. Nearly all of them struck home, hitting their targets directly in their centers. Qualtan was one of them, hitting home his own bull’s eye. Judges raced to each target and raised a placard indicating the score. The majority of the entrants were nearly equal. The crowd cheered as the targets were pushed back by an additional twenty paces. Drums rumbled, adding suspense to the event. Another volley was fired, and again, the tallied points remained equal. The third pushback of the targets caused gasps of concern as some arrows fell short of their mark. Some of the archers cursed as the boards began to reflect the differences in score, as more points were given based upon the increased distance and difficulty. Qualtan’s arm remained true as the targets were pushed back further still.

Now the challenge grew as the point totals began to wildly change. Some elves began to alter their hold or shuffled in their steps. Others began taking longer pauses between shots, circling about as they mumbled words of encouragement to themselves. The crowd grew respectfully quiet between attempts. A flag was raised as a great white dog suddenly broke free from its owner and ran across the field, eliciting laughter from the crowd and a sigh of relief for the unexpected break by the archers. The dog was quickly captured and the tourney began again. The targets were pushed out further still, forcing the knights to shoot their arrows higher and higher into the sky to increase their arc in order to meet the new distance. Some faltered as even Qualtan missed an intended shot. He stomped his feet at the blank score but realized his overall tally as shown on an opposing board was safe. With the targets locked into their furthest distance, the final attempts by the archers were fired, with few hitting their targets. At another blow from the great horn, the event came to a close. The winning contestants were named, and they were rewarded with thunderous applause. Qualtan reached out to congratulate an elf who had contested next to him, but he merely raised his nose and stepped away in anger. Qualtan shrugged in response, not letting the injury disturb him. Termenon of course had passed through the event successfully, his score being the highest. Qualtan was counted at the eighth highest out of sixteen, but he was satisfied, for few could go against the accuracy of an elf. All of the contestants bowed before the assemblage and raised their arms to show their lady’s favor to the clapping of the crowd. Termenon rushed over to Qualtan’s side, grabbing his arm tightly.

“Good show for a Human-Kind. I applaud your efforts!”

Qualtan bowed, barely being able to hear the elf’s words over the blast of drums and trumpets that signaled the end of the first event.

“So what happens now?” he yelled.

“Now? The revelry begins! Take your servant with you to the main hall once you have refreshed! Wine, music, and dance will occupy your sword arm tonight!” With a hearty pat he left Qualtan, losing himself amidst his fellow knights. Qualtan received a few congratulatory gestures as he passed through the throngs of elves to where Glaive sat.

“What do you think?” Qualtan asked. “Your eye is as keen as any elves’!”

Glaive yawned. “A good enough show. They should have put me in there! I would have given that Princeling a run!”

Qualtan laughed. “I know you would have. Perhaps, you too, should consider becoming a knight!”

Glaive raised his hands in defiance. “Hah! Not for me to risk my life at beck and call of some overstuffed porridge eater with a crown on his head! That lackeydom goes to you. You did quite well, by the way. I thought you’d place last for sure!”

“Many thanks for your support!” Qualtan mocked, as elves began to walk past them in increasing number towards the hall.

Glaive slapped his legs as he rose. “So the party begins, eh?”

“Yes. The next event is not for a few days hence. There will be gatherings and celebrations for weeks to come! Termenon, in fact, promised to show me writings and illustrations made from the time my father participated. I look forward to seeing that!”

“I think the Prince would rather see your sword in his hands!” Glaive said, as he helped Qualtan place his bow into their tent.

“I know it. That makes this event all the more interesting! I am happy we have stayed on for this.”

“Yes, I know. Just don’t forget your other obligation tonight.”

Qualtan started. “What obligation?”

“To return the favor of your lady fair.”

Qualtan smiled. “Yes, they will make quite a performance of it tonight.”

Glaive rolled his eyes. “Everything here is a performance.”

“I hope you are not bored with all of this,” Qualtan said.

“Boredom? Hardly! I have some bets on you which I hope will stand. You should make me quite a penny if you do it all right!”

Qualtan shook his head. “I should have known you would find a way to profit from this.”

Glaive gave a look of rebuke. “I’m a thief, remember?”

“So you keep reminding me. But a thief in the best of places! The way they view monies here, you can probably just ask for it and they will simply give it away to you.”

Glaive paused, looking away. His thoughts turned to the treasury and the gem he guarded in his boot. “Er, yes. I can probably just scoop gems off the boulevards, like pebbles from a beach!”

That evening, festivities were held throughout Hermstingle. Elven minstrels plucked at their lutes, as others danced in the streets. Younger elves held their own tourneys, emulating their elders. At the grand hall, the fields were surrounded by picnicking elves that could not fit inside the main celebratory chambers. Within the hall, Qualtan observed the elves’ long held tradition. The knights who had failed to advance returned the scarves of their chosen ladies, bowing before them humbly as the females vented false anger. Those that had won the opportunity to move into the second round did the same, but their favors were returned to them. A grand dance began, and all the contestants participated. At its end others joined in, and soon an intricate display of motion and movement enfolded. Glaive clapped along from one side as the dancers circled arm in arm, moving one way and then another. As they danced past the half-orcne, a female elf grabbed hold of him and pulled him into the first ring of dancers. Glaive grunted in surprise, spilling half of his drink upon himself as he danced along. Hours passed, and the dancers wearied. The night was lit with a thousand candles from those that sat outside. Termenon squeezed through the revelers and took hold of Escoch. He led his lieutenant into a corner where few others stood.

“Well?” he demanded.

Escoch nodded. “I arranged for all the guards not to be present, as you commanded. You should have seen him. His eyes nearly blew from their sockets.”

Termenon swelled with evil satisfaction. “Well done! Keep your vigil! He will go back soon enough. The tournament will keep them both here long enough for that. Make sure your elves follow his every footstep! You have not told the caretaker?”

“He has been kept unawares. He would not have entered into our plans, regardless.”

“Indeed, he would have sent it all to ruin.” Termenon nodded towards Glaive as both he and Qualtan strolled past their position. “Keep your eye on him. You must be ready when the moment comes.”

Escoch dared a thought. “My Prince, what if he does not succumb?”

Termenon merely scowled. “Of course he will. He is an orc! Have faith. The sword will at last be mine!” Patting Escoch’s shoulder, the Prince quickly changed his demeanor, stepping towards Qualtan and Glaive, spreading wide his arms. Escoch smiled inwardly as he observed the trio.

“Outsiders are such fools,” he said to himself. He raised his glass to them, and then quickly moved away.

The following event began with words of praise from Lady Marena. A powerful wizardress in her own right, she raised her hands and created a kaleidoscopic display of bright colors and wild patterns over the crowds that sat in attendance. The contest was simple: the entrant would ride their horse through a twisting course of obstacles and barriers that held at various points a vertical shaft topped by two smaller horizontal ones that bore a golden ring between them; ten in all. The deeper one traveled through the course, the smaller the rings became. The contestant would attempt to catch the rings on a specially made lance, securing as many as possible within a given allotment of time. The smaller the rings, the more points could be earned, but their size and arrangement made this difficult. From the sixteen riders, the eight highest scores would qualify for the third event. The scores would be a tally of both the number of rings secured, the value of the rings based on size, and the time made. The contestant’s order in the trial was randomly selected, as each took their turn upon the course-way. As the other knights waited their chance, the selected riders charged through one at a time.

The elves were masters of the horse, easily balancing themselves as they strained their horses to leap over fences or swerve past obstructions, all the while bearing the slender lances with which to pluck and poke at the brightly colored posts that held the rings. Each knight had his own strategy; to either concentrate on the largest rings and attempt to grab one or two of the most smallest, or vice versa. Some of the elves missed their intended targets, while others lunged too deeply or too slowly. Others missed the rings but trapped their lances between the post arms, losing their lances. Some were thrown off their saddles by the impact. The time factor forced riders not to dally too long in attempting a retry. One elf, extending his body nearly in its entirety to one side of his horse, barely holding on to its reins, missed his strike, catching his lance in the post arms, shattering both with such force he and his horse were thrown down from the impact. The crowd rose up in distress as his unmoving form was quickly pulled free from beneath his stunned horse by attendants. Other knights rushed out to take stock of his injury. Even the King and Queen looked on with grave concern.

“Oooh, that must have hurt!” Glaive said, wincing at the sight of the bloodied form that was quickly taken off the field by a host of worried elves. “Let that be a lesson to you! Don’t try for anything flashy!”

“Indeed, I shall not!” Qualtan replied as he prepared for his attempt.

“Focus on the bigger rings first, and keep your lance up! The posts come quickly, and you must fight the impulse to lower your lance after you secure a prize! Keep your eyes looking ahead and plan for the next one!”

“More bets to win?” Qualtan said as he looked down from atop his stallion.

“Nay! Merely worry over you! Strength or no strength, if you snap your neck, I’ll have lost my chance at a better position in this life!”

Qualtan smiled, seeing past the jest. “Joke as you wish. I appreciate your true concern! I will be careful.”

Glaive nodded. “Just keep it to yourself!”

Breathing rapidly with excitement, Qualtan stood at the beginning of the track. An elf waited patiently nearby as the human warrior readied himself. He nodded to the elf, who nodded back. The elf blew into a large horn and the time trial began. Qualtan urged his horse forward. They sped through the first stage easily enough, as both horse and rider developed a feel for the course. The first fence was hurtled and then another. Ahead loomed the first post to one side of the path. Qualtan aimed his lance, catching the ring squarely on its sharpened tip. Qualtan breathed a sigh of relief as he achieved his first score. The next two rings were similar in difficulty and he caught both as well. Qualtan’s thoughts harkened back to the many horse races he had won against his fellows in Littlebig, and the many trials Aurelus had placed him under. The next pair of rings was noticeably smaller, as the obstacles on the course-way began to grow more numerous. His attention was now split between avoiding the barriers of carefully clipped hedges and steering his horse. He captured one ring but missed the second when he nearly lost control of his steed at a sharp turn after jumping another fence. Barreling through a hedge, Qualtan’s horse whinnied in wild-eyed fear. He raised his left arm to protect his face from the onslaught of leaves and twigs that clouded his vision. Loosened branches scraped across his forearm and face. Cursing, he continued, righting his horse.

The following two rings were smaller still, and again he lost one due to mismanagement of his steed. The next two rings were barely the width of the end of his lance, requiring a keen sense of focus, for the targets were more felt then truly aimed at. A highly placed post just above a hurdle held the rings. Steady aim at the high point of the jump would be required. Qualtan missed the first but gained the second, his lance slapping against the post so violently his arm was jarred from the impact, but he held firm. The final ring was smallest of all, barely visible save as a faint circle of reflected light from the sun. This ring was posted low, making the last attempt a matter of best guess. Qualtan stretched out to one side, nearly adjacent to his horse. He held to the reins which he wrapped tightly around his forearm while keeping his lance straight with the other. One leg was extended atop his saddle, while the other was bent low, his foot struggling to retain its place within the stirrup. In this position his horse leapt over a fence, splashing into a pool of water that followed it. The post came quickly and he coiled like a cobra ready to spring.

In a moment the object was before him, and he pulled the lance back tightly against his side to maintain as much control over it as possible. He struck the post hard, but with a loud thump the lance bit and the tiny ring bobbled onto its head. It fell off but held long enough to count. The crowd roared at the victory. Qualtan repositioned himself atop his frothing horse, throwing the lance down to one side, raising his arms above him in jubilation.

His final tally was seven rings caught out of ten, which, including the final ring, pushed Qualtan’s score ahead of the prior contestants. He was mobbed by the knights and Glaive jumped up and down in glee. The remaining riders took their turns, and when the event was completed, Qualtan’s score was third out of the highest eight. Termenon again placed first, securing all but one ring, beating a fellow knight who tied his tally but had taken more time to score.

Again, celebrations followed the contest, and again, the winners were given back their ladies’ favor. Qualtan was truly enjoying himself now, as his entry became more legitimate in the eyes of both the knights and elfin observers and less noble gesture. As the hall became alive once more with dance, Glaive excused himself, citing throbbing temples and wearied eyes from “all this elvish nonsense.” As he left the great hall, walking past the circles of elves that lounged or cavorted around maypoles, he entered the streets of the city proper, pressing himself against the side of a darkened alleyway. Most of the streets were empty for nearly all of Hermloate was in attendance about the open fields and the hall, but some still frolicked about, smiling and bowing to Glaive as they passed by. His apprehension increased as he navigated this way and that, towards the grand treasury of the elves.

“Urgsh curse me for a greedy fool!” he said to himself, pausing to avoid a large grouping of elves that passed waving pennants and streamers, laughing and enjoying the night. “Just to see it all again, that’s all I need. Mayhap to touch some of it, nothing more. A poor, thieving half-orcne can be excused for that! No harm is meant!” Calming his own doubts, he proceeded. When at last he reached those fabled golden doors once more, he hesitated, looking about. The streets were clear and silent. He slowly crept up the marbled steps. Standing before the entranceway, his hands shook as he quickly felt about, darting his eyes to the left and right, looking for a lock or keyhole. For a moment his hopes were quashed by his lack of egress, but suddenly the doors began to slide open. Glaive jumped back to one side, waiting to see what occupant was coming out, but the doors remained apart, inviting entrance. He stepped back further and the doors resealed. Hands on hips, he studied the puzzle, smiling to himself. Looking about to ensure he had not been noticed, he stepped forward once more. The doors again responded, opening and then closing when he retreated. He stood for a moment, assessing his options. Looking up at the building, he sighed.

“Oh what’s the point?! Go back and sleep your thoughts away,” he said. Keeping to the shadows, he nimbly leapt off the stairs and left. From an adjacent structure, Escoch observed his departure. Unbeknownst to Glaive, it was Escoch who had opened and closed the doors from afar. He motioned to a group of hidden elf soldiers to return to their regular duties. The elf lieutenant smiled. He had followed the half-orcne and had prepared the trap. He was sure he would return once more. The Prince had been right.

The tourney now became more personal. The eight remaining contestants were randomly matched against each other for the next event: the Joust. Three wins out of five would decide the victory. Termenon had hoped to be pitted against Qualtan, but he was instead paired off with another. The names were pulled and read from an ornate pot by the King and Queen as the knights positioned themselves accordingly.

“A shame we will not meet on this field of battle!” Termenon said to Qualtan.

“The tournament is not over yet,” Qualtan replied. Termenon laughed, saluting him as he joined his entourage by a pointed tent decorated by the royal house’s coat of arms; a tree and a hawk. Bright, ornamental cloths were placed on each of the rider’s horses, and a metal protectant was placed upon their heads as music and fanfare played. A red fence divided the field for protection, so that each knight would be riding on opposing sides without the fear of crashing into each other. The lances themselves were blunt rather than sharp, with a knobby head to reduce as much injury as possible. The knights wore a heavy harness of plate-laden armor, with a massive, shielded helmet for further safety. The narrow slits afforded just enough frontal vision for the knight to see. Assisted by their squires, the elves were placed on horseback, and given their shield and special lance.

“Three out of five, eh?” Glaive said, as he and a volunteer elf struggled to raise Qualtan onto his horse. “You can barely see in that thing, much less breathe!”

“I am fine,” Qualtan said, raising his arms as he tested his limited flexibility. “I have jousted before under my uncle’s watchful eye. I’m not unfamiliar with this.”

“Oh? When was the last time you jousted then?”

Qualtan fumbled with his visor, lifting it open. “It was a few years ago…”

“That’s enough! I don’t want to hear the rest of it! Just go to it then!” Glaive said, slapping the rump of Qualtan’s horse.

Qualtan shrugged, closing back his visor as he joined a waiting line of knights. Clouds of dirt blew as horses charged towards each other. Lances were raised, secured to a lance-rest on their chest, while those in observance shouted in frenzy as the first rounds began. The knights aimed towards dislodging their opponents, knocking them off balance with a quick blow to the side of the breast plate. Because of this, the heavy jousting armor carried a cape-like plate of added protection that was bolted to the free arm that held onto the reins. The first passes were done to quickly view and appraise the opponent knight. Following this, lances were aimed and the first impact was made. Armor was dented, and knights staggered, but they remained on their steeds and quickly wheeled for another attempt. A knight’s lance bounced above that of his fellow and ricocheted towards the upper shoulder, slamming the knight off his horse and stunning him as he rolled onto the ground. The fallen knight was tended to by his assistants but he could not rise to his feet, and was quickly eliminated. Limping off the field, he hurled his helmet to the ground in frustration, wincing in pain at his wounded arm. Thus it continued, with some bouts more vigorously defended than others, until it was Qualtan’s turn upon the tilting field.

His opponent’s horse was decorated in colors of blue and yellow, and the knight’s helmet held large adornments from which ribbons streamed. Both launched their horses, racing past one another on opposite sides of the jousting fence, sizing each other up as they turned around at opposite ends. Breathing hard under the helmet that completely hid his face, Qualtan urged his horse for a second rally. Despite the heavy padding beneath the armor, he strained to maintain focus from the bouncing of his helmet as his opponent raged closer. He lifted his lance and took aim. In an instant the flash of the other knight’s lance was before him. Qualtan deflected the blow, striking the knight’s outer arm as he galloped past. A crumpling noise was heard and shards of metal flew into the air. The crowd hurrahed as both riders once again paused and readied another charge. They advanced towards each other and again their lances struck.

This time, both had impact, but Qualtan’s strength allowed him to endure the blow. His protecting cape-like extension snapped off and he was jarred back but held on. His opponent was not so fortunate as with splintered lance, the impact tossed the elfin knight off his horse. He rolled off its back to crash behind it as other elves stopped the horse’s advance. Qualtan raised his arm in triumph as he whirled his own horse about. The elf struggled to his feet waving for aid. He called for his horse and was given a new lance. Qualtan was given the same and again both contestants charged. This time the knight was better prepared. He feigned upwards with his lance and then quickly lowered its head, striking Qualtan’s lance-hand, ripping the weapon out of it and causing him to nearly lose control of his horse. A hot pain went through Qualtan’s wrist and he shook his hand violently to reduce it. Glaive quickly ran to his side, a new lance in his arms, as Qualtan hurried past, snatching it along the way. His hand felt numb and he used his forearm to balance the lance as he prepared for another round. Again, the horses charged and again, the crowd roared. Qualtan was ready. He kept his lance low and as it scraped against his opponent’s, he nudged it beneath the elf’s lance, striking him under the arm and twisting him to one side. The elf struggled but could not right himself and he slid off the side of his horse, nearly being trampled in the process. With two falls there was yet need for another, but the hapless elf, blood dotting his side, signaled his unwillingness to continue. The victory went to Qualtan who took a final lap in celebration. As he cleared the field, he tore off his helmet, gasping for breath.

“Good work! I thought the elf had taken off your bloody hand at the wrist that second time round!” Glaive said as he took Qualtan by the hand to assist him. Qualtan immediately gasped in pain, snapping his arm back, clutching his wrist.

“I think he nearly did!” Qualtan said, bowling over at the smarting of his forearm. “It was absolutely wonderful!” he said, smiling between surges of hot pain.

Glaive frowned, tossing his hands up. “Insane is what all of you are! Your head must be filled with rocks to enjoy that! Here, let me look at that.” Gently he assisted Qualtan back into their tent as the remaining jousts continued. At its end, there were now four contestants, including Qualtan, moving to the next engagement. The excitement increased as the tourney neared its end. The next two events would be the most physical and the most direct: sword to sword combat, again, won by winning three out of five rounds against a fully armored opponent. The swords would be blunted to minimize injury, but they were deadly still.

Hours later, Termenon and a group of other knights and their companions came to pick Qualtan up from his chambers. Although his injured arm was dressed in wrappings, he was eager to join them and not miss the revelry. The fact that none had been seriously injured was enough cause for additional celebration this night.

“Termenon will surely hold court tonight—he won easily during his joust,” Qualtan said. “Are you sure you do not wish to come?”

Glaive shook his head, yawning deeply. “As I said before, this madness you knights have of knocking your heads about and raising beers afterwards goes beyond my sense of rationality. Don’t go being tricked into competing with early swordplay before the next event begins!”

Qualtan beamed at his friend. Glaive observed him, taking in his joy and his release of exuberance. “You are like a boy unwrapping new toys to play with at the time of winter festival.”

“This is a taste of what I will experience when we reach Turinthia! This is what I had hoped for, a chance to prove myself against fellow knights, to prove myself against the legacy of my father!”

“Yes, yes, I’ve heard this all before. Go play your silly games, and leave me be!” Glaive said.

Qualtan grew serious. “I will make it up to you when we leave. You’ve been a true friend to be so patient.”

Glaive scowled, as guilty thoughts once more plagued his mind. “Will you go already? With luck, you’ll win the final two rounds and I will come out of this rich!”

Qualtan bowed, playing with Glaive. “A more noble half-orcne I have never known.”

“Out!” Glaive said, hurling a pillow. Laughing, Qualtan left to join the throng awaiting him in the courtyard below.

As Glaive watched them depart from the balcony, a wave of relief overwhelmed him. He flopped onto a chair, removing the stolen gem from his boot once more. He let the lights of the waning sun play against it.

“A more noble half-orcne…” he repeated to himself, laughing at the irony of the words, spinning the stone between his fingers. He let it sit on his open palm as he stared off into the coming night. Finally, he came upon a decision. With a grunt of satisfaction he closed his hand tightly around the jewel and jumped from the chair. That evening, Glaive crept and snuck through the streets and alleys, taking in all the avenues around the great-domed treasury. He studied all options of entrance and escape, and once more tested the doors, gaining confidence at his decision. He was unaware of the elves that followed him and of their lieutenant who orchestrated the access Glaive felt was now his.

The duel that followed days later was heralded by even more pomp and spectacle as the games neared their end. Costumed elves jumped and leapt in acrobatic twists and turns. Griffon riders held mock battles in the sky. Elves dressed up as orcne fought against the knights in buffoonish, exaggerated play.

Now three elfin knights and one human warrior stood before a pavilion honored by the people of Hermloate. Termenon stood by Qualtan, holding his shoulder tightly.

“Your father was bested at this event. A good swordsman I’m sure by your Kind’s standards, but he fell to one of my captains. With your injured wrist, do not feel it is unworthy to decline at this juncture!” he said, a large smile upon his face. Qualtan smiled back, refusing to listen.

“I look forward to meeting the challenge of a foe as well respected as an elfin knight in hand to hand combat.”

Termenon shrugged. “You had your opportunity, my friend! Do not injure yourself further! The knight you face now is a good commander of mine. Junior to my ability, of course, but he should give you a fine test for your level.”

The four entrants were paired off. The armor the elfin knights wore was slimmer than what they had carried during the joust. Qualtan wore the armor he had come with to Hermstingle, sparkling gold in the light. Each of the four was given similar swords, their sharpened edges rounded and smoothed. Glaive watched from nearby, his arms tightly folded. Yet another horn blasted into the sky, and Termenon and his opponent were selected first. They circled one another, baiting each other with familiar taunts and jargon. They tested each other, feinting blows, landing gentle thrusts and parries as they judged each other’s abilities, looking for weaknesses to exploit. Eventually, their blows took on weight and the battle began in earnest.

Qualtan marveled at their fluid movement, as they struck with unnatural speed and grace, dancing through their attacks and defenses. They spun, leapt and twirled in a flurry of swords, and ballet of stance. Termenon seized the initiative and struck hard, stunning his foe with a blow to the arm followed by a kick to the knee, felling his opponent. After a brief moment his opponent rose, and following a short break engaged the elf Prince once more. Qualtan could see why he was called the Sword of Eagles, for his liquid motion, his deadly speed was like a creature that was not grounded upon the earth. He virtually flew through the air, and again he brought his brother knight to the floor. The third attempt was desperate, for Termenon’s opponent was near to defeat if he fell yet again. This time he pressed and battled as one possessed. He struck Termenon’s sword from his grasp, surprising the Prince and angering him at the same. The Prince nodded, saluting his brother knight, granting him his due. Picking up his sword from where it landed, they circled once more. This time, Termenon gave no mercy and he savagely struck out at his opponent, battering him with such intensity his eyes glowed red with the magicks within him. Using his strength, he hurled a vicious elbow to the other knight’s neck when they closed in combat, yanking his head around. He followed with a hard blow with the blunt end of his sword over the knight’s helmeted head, snapping the sword in two and crushing the elf to his knees, causing his helmet to fly off. The elf’s eyes rolled and he collapsed unconscious. The Prince gave a cry of victory as the red glare in his eyes abated. Qualtan was struck at how fierce the elf had been in his contest, more so than he needed to be. As the elf stared at Qualtan directly, he wondered if this had been more of a display for him rather than merely an act of besting his opponent.

Qualtan girded himself and stepped forward. His opponent awaited him, swaying his sword. He was a captain of Termenon’s and led eight battalions of elves in battle. His features were thinner than the Prince’s, with a sharp-edged face and hair of blossomy white. He looked youthful, even more so than Qualtan, but he knew that guessing an elf’s age by his or her appearance was an exercise in self-deception. The captain’s eyes were stern and cold as he nodded quickly to Qualtan. Both contestants were handed light helmets to wear for protection. The elf raised his sword’s pommel directly before his face as a salute before stepping back into a fighter’s stance. Qualtan did the same. Termenon sat with Escoch, looking forward to this match up. At last he would be able to see the human’s mettle, he thought eagerly.

Three wins out of five, Qualtan thought. If an opponent was disarmed, as Termenon had briefly been, it counted as a victory. The elf circled about, swirling his sword in quick, successive movements to confuse his opponent. Qualtan kept his eyes on the elf’s wrist and hand, rather than on the weapon; they would indicate its true direction. They slowly inched closer to one another keeping their knees slightly bent for better balance. At last the elf captain, sparkling in his greenish armor, yelled out a battle cry and struck first. His thrusts were quick and controlled, no wild attempts or off balance lunges were made. Qualtan was immediately put on the defensive for the elf held back no fear of his strength. He blocked and parried the flashing sword, which, though blunted, was still deadly. Remembering his training with the warriors of Turinthia Aurelus had paced him against, he kept calm, and confident in his defensive ability. When the moment came, he took advantage of it. The elf made a rather long attempt at striking, stretching his arm forward. Off balance for only a second, Qualtan struck back at the elf, striking his opponent’s blade, keeping the elf outstretched in motion. As he attempted to right himself, it was Qualtan’s turn to push him back. His strength allowed him better control of his weapon, but he dared not strike with it fully, at least not yet, as such a power move would give his quick opponent an opportunity to exploit the ponderous play. The elf struck out with all points of his body, a savage kick and a blow with a sharpened elbow. He smiled devilishly, as his attacks showed he could penetrate his opponent’s defense. They did little to affect Qualtan, and he allowed them, focusing on the elf’s swift sword. Eventually the elf began to tire, unable to maintain the intensity of his assault. At last, Qualtan could bear down upon the elf, weakening his opponent’s wrist with stronger blows. Termenon observed with increased interest, inching forward. At last, with a final hit, Qualtan smacked the elf’s sword from his hand, causing it to spiral away. The elf stared at his sword with sudden surprise, and then back at Qualtan who raised his arm in victory. The elf bent down and reclaimed his weapon. He looked over to Termenon who stared back with disappointment. The elf rose and walked about, testing his arm.

“A fair play. I commend you,” the elf said to Qualtan who bowed at the compliment. “Let us continue!”

Again, the two fighters danced around each other, and again they closed. The elf attempted to protect his wrist, glancing his sword against Qualtan’s to prevent further direct impact. He struck home with a blow to Qualtan’s thigh; though the sword was blunted its sides were still sharp, and the speed and direction of the strike was enough to pop off a protective plate and cause blood to gently drip. Another daring move and the elf was airborne, leaping towards Qualtan, striking his arm as he landed. A red line formed on Qualtan’s arm and began to dribble. The crowd applauded his bold actions and he raised his arm in salute. Termenon sat back, folding his arms in satisfaction as he nodded to Escoch. The elf, his confidence renewed, parried a thrust from Qualtan, quickly spinning round to kick at Qualtan’s sword arm, leaving him open for a strike at his head. Qualtan barely avoided the blow as it slapped his helmet off with a loud clang. The elf continued his attack, although some of the elves watching the event felt it was in bad taste as Qualtan was not allowed a chance to retrieve his helmet. It did not matter, for the elf’s surgical strikes mounted and with a sharp strike to Qualtan’s wrist bone, his sword fell to the ground. The crowd rose in appreciation, as the elf excitedly waved his arms high in success. Glaive cursed, spitting on the field.

“You see? I have seen through your tricks, human,” the elf taunted. “It is skill, not strength, that matters.”

“You are correct,” Qualtan replied, shaking his hand. He had just recently recovered from the injury done his arm during the jousting event, and the additional attacks to his wrist and forearm had quickly weakened it once more. Still, he did not wish to show any excuse and nodded in continuation of their battle.

“This will be the final round,” the elf said, laughing at Qualtan. Qualtan merely smiled. The elf had thought he had found vulnerability in Qualtan’s sword play. He continued to strike at Qualtan’s arm, using it as his prime target. Qualtan began to feel difficulty in even wielding the sword as his hand stiffened and his forearm grew numb. However, he was not yet done. As the elf captain struck again at his forearm, in one deft movement, Qualtan switched the blade to his other hand and struck at the elf’s elbow, landing a smarting blow. Surprised, the elf hesitated, as he discovered Qualtan’s skill with his non-sword arm was near equal to his injured one. The elf had to quickly adjust to his opponent’s new position and again he used his fist and foot to add to his arsenal of attacks. Qualtan seemed to falter and the elf increased his onslaught using these weapons. Qualtan was nearly brought to his knees from the barrage. The elf however, grew somewhat overconfident in his physical attack and drew close. Termenon saw through Qualtan’s plan and rose up, screaming through the hands he placed around his lips.

“Don’t engage him closer!!”

It was too late. Qualtan, having given his injured wrist a brief respite, changed hands to his sword in mid-parry and as the elf dove towards where he thought the sword should have been, he failed to notice it in its new location behind him. Before he could arc his sword back in defense, Qualtan slammed it against his neck. The elf was nearly driven into the ground, his helmet bouncing off. Qualtan struck again, rotating his sword in a narrow downward arc towards the elf’s ankles. The elf was flipped off his feet, hitting the ground hard with the back of his head.

The crowd grew silent awaiting their elf captain to rise. When he did not, a judge quickly rushed into the match to examine him. The judge raised his arm, declaring the elf could not continue and awarding Qualtan the victory. Other attendants came onto the field to help lift the still unmoving elf, waking him with herbs placed under his nose. Qualtan smiled as they passed him by, carrying the stupefied captain.

“Our final round, indeed!” Qualtan teased as the elf looked at him dully en route to additional assistance. Similar to Termenon, his contest was won by default, and did not extend past three rounds. Glaive whooped and hollered, slapping the back of a surprised elf who sat next to him.

The crowd had remained silent, unsure of how to react. Termenon briskly walked across the field to stand by Qualtan. He raised the warrior’s arm in his to the wild exuberance of the assembled throng. “Termenon and ‘Kind!” they said, with increasing volume, until the cry was so loud nothing else could be heard. Now the final stage had been set: the last event would be a similar match, but this time, held between the final two victors of the tourney—Qualtan and Prince Termenon, the Sword of Eagles.