spellsinger universe queen of sorcery 24

"Would anyone else like to comment about my beard?" Barak demanded.

"Gently, my Lord," Mandorallen advised. He glanced down with a

certain satisfaction at the unconscious form of his senseless kinsman

twitching in the tall grass.

"Will we docilely accept this attack on our brave companion?" one of

the knights in Baron Derigen's party demanded in a harshly accented

voice. "Kill them all!" He reached for his sword.

"In the instant thy sword leaves its sheath thou art a dead man, Sir Knight," Mandorallen coolly advised him.

The knight's hand froze on his sword hilt.

"For shame, my Lords," Mandorallen continued accusingly. "Surely ye

know that by courtesy and common usage my challenge, until it is

answered, guarantees my safety and that of my companions. Choose your

champions or withdraw. I tire of all this and presently will become

irritable."

The two parties of knights pulled back some distance to confer, and

several men-at-arms came to the hilltop to pick up Sir Haldorin.

"That one who was going to draw his sword was a Murgo," Garion said quietly.

"I noticed that," Hettar murmured, his dark eyes glittering.

"They're coming back," Durnik warned.

"I will joust with thee, Sir Mandorallen," Baron Derigen announced as

he approached. "I doubt not that thy reputation is well-deserved, but I

also have taken the prize in no small number of tourneys. I would be

honored to try a lance with thee."

"And I too will try my skill against throe, Sir Knight," Baron

Oltorain declared. "My arm is also feared in some parts of Arendia."

"Very well," Mandorallen replied. "Let us seek level ground and

proceed. The day wears on, and my companions and I have business to the

south."

They all rode down the hill to the field below where the two groups

of knights drew up on either side of a course which had been quickly

trampled out in the high, yellow grass. Derigen galloped to the far end,

turned and sat waiting, his blunted lance resting in his stirrup.

"Thy courage becomes thee, my Lord," Mandorallen called, taking up

one of the poles Durnik had cut. "I shall try not to injure thee too

greatly. Art thou prepared to meet my charge?"

"I am," the baron replied, lowering his visor.

Mandorallen clapped down his visor, lowered his lance, and set his spurs to his warhorse.

"It's probably inappropriate under the circumstances," Silk murmured,

"but I can't help wishing that our overbearing friend could suffer some

humiliating defeat."

Mister Wolf gave him a withering look. "Forget it!"

"Is he that good?" Silk asked wistfully.

"Watch," Wolf told him.

The two knights met in the center of the course with a resounding

crash, and their lances both shattered at the stunning impact, littering

the trampled grass with splinters. They thundered past each other,

turned and rode back, each to his original starting place. Derigen,

Garion noticed, swayed somewhat in the saddle as he rode.

The knights charged again, and their fresh lances also shattered. "I should have cut more poles," Durnik said thoughtfully.

But Baron Derigen swayed even more as he rode back this time, and on

the third charge his faltering lance glanced off Mandorallen's shield.

Mandorallen's lance, however, struck true, and the baron was hurled from

his saddle by the force of their meeting.

Mandorallen reined in his charger and looked down at him. "Art thou able to continue, my Lord?" he asked politely.

Derigen staggered to his feet. "I do not yield," he gasped, drawing his sword.

"Splendid," Mandorallen replied. "I feared that I might have done

thee harm." He slid out of his saddle, drew his sword and swung directly

at Derigen's head. The blow glanced off the baron's hastily raised

shield, and Mandorallen swung again without pause. Derigen managed one

or two feeble swings before Mandorallen's broadsword caught him full on

the side of the helmet. He spun once and collapsed facedown on the

earth.

"My Lord?" Mandorallen inquired solicitously. He reached down, rolled

over his fallen opponent and opened the dented visor of the baron's

helmet. "Art thou unwell, my Lord?" he asked. "Dost thou wish to

continue?"

Derigen did not reply. Blood ran freely from his nose, and his eyes

were rolled back in his head. His face was blue, and the right side of

his body quivered spasmodically.

"Since this brave knight is unable to speak for himself," Mandorallen

announced, "I declare him vanquished." He looked around, his broadsword

still in his hand. "Would any here gainsay my words?"

There was a vast silence.

"Will some few then remove him from the field?" Mandorallen

suggested. "His injuries do not appear grave. A few months in bed should

make him whole again." He turned to Baron Oltorain, whose face had

grown visibly pale. "Well, my Lord," he said cheerfully, "shall we

proceed? My companions and I are impatient to continue our journey."

Sir Oltorain was thrown to the ground on the first charge and broke his leg as he fell.

"Ill luck, my Lord," Mandorallen observed, approaching on foot with drawn sword. "Dost thou yield?"

"I cannot stand," Oltorain said from between clenched teeth. "I have no choice but to yield."

"And I and my companions may continue our journey?"

"Ye may freely depart," the man on the ground replied painfully.

"Not just yet," a harsh voice interrupted. The armored Murgo pushed

his horse through the crowd of other mounted knights until he was

directly in front of Mandorallen.

"I thought he might decide to interfere," Aunt Pol said quietly. She

dismounted and stepped out onto the hoof churned course. "Move out of

the way, Mandorallen," she told the knight.

"Nay, my Lady," Mandorallen protested.

Wolf barked sharply. "Move, Mandorallen!"

Mandorallen looked startled and stepped aside.

"Well, Grolim?" Aunt Pol challenged, pushing back her hood.

The mounted man's eyes widened as he saw the white lock in her hair,

and then he raised his hand almost despairingly, muttering rapidly under

his breath.

Once again Garion felt that strange surge, and the hollow roaring filled his mind.

For an instant Aunt Pol's figure seemed surrounded by a kind of

greenish light. She waved her hand indifferently, and the light

disappeared. "You must be out of practice," she told him. "Would you

like to try again?"

The Grolim raised both hands this time, but got no further.

Maneuvering his horse carefully behind the armored man, Durnik had

closed on him. With both hands he raised his axe and smashed it down

directly on top of the Grolim's helmet.