The walls of Hammar were as formidable as Bard remembered. Raised in the Age of Magic, they were, unfathomably thick and protected by the steep bank that hugged their foundations. The city rose around a natural hill beyond the walls, wide and busy and structurally beautiful, as all works of the Mountainmen tended to be. The jagged black rock of the Hammar keep, high on the hilltop, was visible, a daunting blot of a fortress. This would not be a place to assault, Bard mulled.

Fortunately, they didn't have to assault it. We might not even have to enter the city itself, from the looks of things.

Where his sole trip to Hammar left him with hazy memory, Bard hadn't recalled the place being suitable to host a big tourney. Maybe the Wisp Wood had been cut back some, possibly cleared a few years ago. A grand sea of pavilions washed over the fields running out toward them from the walls. The ground was greener and more hospitable than in the more western areas of Scavania. Puppet shows, ale-tents, and pavilions bearing the marks of smiths and tailors and the like were aplenty. Bard thought he could make out the spread of the lists amongst the convoluted palette.

'There are so many men here,' Weasel chirped sullenly, from the back. He looked most ridiculous of all in an ugly patchwork doublet, quartered in green and brown. His hair had been lopped off around the edges and just above his ears so it bowled atop his head comically. It didn't help that the big black was dressed too, swathed in matching livery and hauling a wagon with the makings of their own pavilion.

'Aye, there are. And what are we, Weasel?' Bard led Oath out of the tree line and onto the field. His new destrier obeyed the tug on his reins and followed behind. He was a proud and muscled animal the colour of tan, cobwebbing throughout his coat. He made Oath seem ... less.

'We're Deathsworn,' Weasel replied. Bard assumed the lad cowed by the sight of so much wealth.

'Say that in there and we'll end up with our heads on spikes.' Taaj could have passed for a girl, a pretty one at that, what with his hair clipped and formed so it hung in two ornate loops. The men of status kept it like that in the Spice Port of Amla, Taaj claimed. Bard wondered if they truly wore such offensive colours as the dramatic red and yellow of the Zaffaarian's robes. He sat atop a tall and leggy sand steed that was comforting to the eye.

'What are we, Weasel?' Bard asked again. He was confident with the others. Weasel worried him. Weasel always worried him.

'We're here for the tourney to celebrate Orl Ejjar's fourth marriage. We've ridden a week to be here. You is Eran Oak, the son of Lord Ared Oak, heir to Oakhold on the small island of Woodrock, west of the Blue Hills in Green Country. Tall Toyne is the master-at-arms there, Bodkin is from your household-guard. Taaj is a rich merchant from the Spice Ports, with you cause he wants to see a southern winter.'

'And you?'

'... I'm your squire.'

Bard coughed.

'I'm your squire ... Lord.'

'Better. Our banner?'

Weasel struggled with that, so Bard tapped the kite-shield he had strapped to his back.

'Oh, an acorn on a green field.'

'Good. We may just survive this yet.' If Brother Grief's scrolls of heraldry hold up. If no one questions the fact they've never heard of Oakhold or Woodrock or Lord Ared Oak. If Weasel's memory doesn't fail us, or Taaj's temper, or Bodkin's stubbornness, or Toyne's brain.

Bard adjusted his breastplate and looked down at himself. He was decorated in some dead knight's war finery, Elders knew how old. He almost felt guilty for liking it, for being proud of the way the armour held blinking conversations with the sun, how the gold-leaf clasps sustained a cloak of deep green that draped over Oath's flanks. It was a suit his axe was in harmony with. If only I could announce myself on the destrier. It's not fair to use a horse so big and pretty just for show.

'Everyone set?' Bard asked.

The response was silence. Acknowledging its connotation, he gave Oath a squeeze. 'One more thing, Weasel. Who are we here for?'

'Erikk Orlson,' Weasel replied.

'Very good. Now lead on, squire.'

#

They'd had a week from Fara Mordova to come to terms with their new faces. It troubled Bard, as Oath took him past Green Country sigils he was familiar with, between pelt-covered tents bearing markings from Scavania and exotic greens and blues and yellows from the Island Kingdoms. It troubled him that they needed more time. The enormity of the task would give consideration for the hardiest of knights. Despite the fancy armour and the fancier destrier, Bard was no knight. None of them were. We get the ones they can't get.

He caught men-at-arms watching him as Oath passed them. Here a scratch of a head, there an unsure look.

'Pssst, raise the fucking flag. Weasel, lift up the ...'

Weasel toiled immensely to keep control of the big black, steer the wagon and support the acorn-adorned flag with enough steel to ensure it shifted and rippled in the breeze. Bard had to give it to him though, he was unperturbed to anyone who didn't know he was born in a village called Foul Brown.

The smell of roasted meat hounded them as they steered through the tents. Their meager provisions from the Burned Priests had ran out the day previous. Between them, they had two gold coins from the last two men they'd handed to Brother Grief. That had to last them until they brought him Erikk Orlson. If. If we bring him Erikk Orlson. Bard knew it wouldn't be long before Tall Toyne and Weasel were asking for coin to buy leg o' lamb and boar tongues in place of stale biscuits and sateweed.

The Gallowmen wound through until they drew close to the lists. A huge wooden structure had been raised to enclose the jousting, an arena embellished in the azure snowflakes Orl Ejjar took for his mark. Bard could see through into the field. The stands were as yet empty, men sweeping either side of the barriers in readiness for the Invocation.

'Here,' Bard called, tossing his head to a muddy patch at the foot of a shallow bank. A small canvas tent was to the right, a far larger pavilion, possibly from the Island Kingdoms, to the left. Here's right. Close and in the mix of things. We certainly won't miss a happening.

Weasel took his time getting safely off the big black. When his boots hit the ground he conducted himself properly, did all the things Bard and Bodkin had talked him through each night on their way from Fara Mordova. He hefted the acorn flag high, slammed it into the damp earth and hauled in as much air as his tiny frame would allow. 'My lords, my ladies, I present Eran Oak, son of Lord Ared Oak, heir to Oakhold and the island of Woodrock.'

Bard lifted a mailed hand to the two people who were paying attention. It's important to do, he reminded himself. Then he realised Weasel was still talking.

'... Be there any challengers who wish to strike him? If so come, ye, come and-'

Bodkin wrapped his hand around Weasel's mouth and dragged him behind the wagon. Fortunately, the two listeners had moved on and Weasel had been preaching solely to the wind.

'What now?' Taaj asked, hopping down from his sand steed and tying his reins to the wagon's side.

'Now we take a look around, see what's what and what isn't,' Bard told him. 'Weasel, it's your job to put up our tent. Any funny business and you're getting Toyne's boot.'

Weasel came into view rubbing the back of his head where Bodkin had roughed him. 'Yeah, yeah. Have fun, my lord.'

#

The first place they went was to get Toyne a leg o' lamb. Would that Bard could have refused him, but Toyne with a hunger on him didn't end quietly for anyone. When the Islander's lips were awash with grease they ventured further into the expanse of the tourney camp. There were more Green Country tents closer to the centre, the people similar in colour to Bard and Bodkin. He saw the giant eye of House Kyro and the red drake's head of House Emal, amongst the other, more western, houses he recognised. He thought the Gallowmen fitted in quite well; him in his plate, Tall Toyne in padded gambeson and chainmail, that vicious trident on his back; Bodkin in his leathers and his tunic bearing the acorn. Even Taaj, all fiery robe and vivid tassels.

'We all know what we're doing?' Bard liked the heightened presence he had while suited in armour. A grunt from Bodkin was all he received in return. He took that to be a good thing.

A while later, they arrived at the melee arena. It was another timber structure, three spacious galleries overlooking a courtyard of sand. Two long tables had been set up before the entrance, four of Orl Ejjar's men sitting below a tree of shields bearing his snowflakes. Toyne peeled away from the group and lumbered over, groups of men halting mid-conversation as he passed them by.

Bard and the others continued. 'What do you see?' he asked Bodkin.

'I see a lot of men very good at killing other men. So good, in fact, that they have tournaments to celebrate how good they are. I see them all gathered in one place. That's what I see.'

'And when, exactly, will we see him?' Taaj asked.

'He'll be at the Invocation, I suppose. Not that it helps us kill him none,' Bard explained.

'The what?'

Bloody Zaffaarians. 'It's the start of the tourney, Taaj. Chance for Orl Ejjar to say a few words to everyone.'

'Why'd they give us him at a tourney? Why when it's this difficult?'

'We don't ask questions. You know that. Your life is you-'

'-Yeah, I know, I know.' Taaj understood the way of things, even if he could be heard griping under his breath.

Bodkin left the party when the archery range became visible, slightly down the hill and closer to the boundary of the Wisp Wood. Thick eyebrows jumped once underneath an iron half-helm. His bow would attract plenty of attention down there, that was for sure.

'They going to beat people and shoot arrows until we get our man?' Taaj was nothing if not persistent. 'What happens if they win?'

'No one turns up to a tourney of this size and doesn't compete, Taaj, no one. Besides, it can get them into circles we can't get into. We still need to judge him, remember. We still need to confirm his guilt.' And they won't win. Toyne and Bodkin weren't made for castle games, they were made for the real thing. Give Toyne his trident and room to swing it and he'll kill ten men. Give him a blunted sword, a set of rules and a baying crowd and he'll be put on his arse by the village squire. Bodkin, too. Could hit a riding man through the eye from fifty-yards on a battlefield. Couldn't hit a stationery bale of hay with a bright red spot from twenty.

Bard and Taaj pursued something of a woven path through more tents and strings. The pavilions soon adhered to regimented ruling, being marshalled into straight lines that created lengthy walkways at regular intervals.

It took Taaj three steps to realise Bard had stopped. His attention was arrested by one such interval, a blurring commotion gripping him.

'What is it?' Taaj enquired.

Bard moved down the line and towards the tussle.

'Bard, the list. Remember the list, trunk-head.'

Bard distinguished them as a man and a boy as he approached. The man had his arm raised as if to serve a strike with the back of his hand. He was elderly enough, thick greying moustache, circular ring of thinning hair and a pock-riddled face. Armour protected him from the neck down, his portly bulk making up for his lack of height.

'Hey,' Bard shouted.

The knight paused, one hand poised to give the smack and the other full of the boy's tunic.

'This your boy?' the man asked, gripping tight as the lad kicked and struggled. He was no more than six winters old.

'No. But it's a boy. What're you doing?'

'I think he's a thief, creeping around my tent like a hound.' His accent confirmed him as a Greenman.

'I was playing sneak,' the boy protested, wriggling for all his worth.

'Best to let him go,' Bard said in earnest, 'if he's not yours it could cause trouble.'

'He can be mine, if I so wish,' the man said, lowering his hand and instead shoving the boy onto his breeches.

'By that law, no one's safe.' Taaj moved silently to Bard's side, a smirk on his lips.

The knight glowered. Outrage was written into his lines, but there was doubt there too.

'There you are! What did I say about leaving the pavilion?' A troubled girl burst into view, ice-white hair entwining itself both sides of her shoulders. Bard was spell-bound by a pale face of salt-sea eyes, aquiline nose and thin, firm lips. She was twenty winters, no older. About her was a comely Green Country dress of azure, though Bard reckoned her of mountain stock.

'This boy yours?' The knight quizzed abruptly.

'He is, and he's sorry for any grievances.' The girl grabbed the boy from the dirt and clipped his ear once.

'What's your name?'

'Lady Orel,' the woman said. Maybe she is Green Country. Married into it, at least.

'Lady? That is a shame. Be gone, and take your runt with you.' The man turned to Bard. 'It doesn't always do to play hero.' He disappeared between two tents and the white-haired Lady Orel gave Bard a smile to light a fire.

'Thank you, Greenman. From where do you hail?'

Bard felt Taaj pinch his side. He ignored it and stepped away. 'Oakhold, on Woodrock island, my lady.'

'I'm no lady,' she laughed. 'The Greenmen seem to listen to me when they think I am, though.'

'You are here with your husband? Perhaps we can escort you to him.' Bard was ever a fool of the heart.

'I have no husband, my lord. What brings you to Hammar? Do you simply wish to save children and dazzle women with those eyes?'

Her sureness put him on the back foot. For once Taaj failed to fill the void, he, too, lost for words.

A horn blowing, off in the distance, spared him further blushes. It trumpeted loud and clear in the direction of the lists. Bard couldn't disregard Taaj's second pinch.

'It was nice to have made your acquaintance, lord. What sigil does your house take?'

'An acorn, my lady. We are famed for our oak trees.'

'Then I shall look out for your acorn in the lists.' The girl smiled again and took the boy by the hand.

When they had disappeared, Taaj's eagerness was palpable. 'What was it you were going to say earlier, Bard? About life and lists and lists and life?'

#

Bard thought it impressive that Weasel had managed to erect their pavilion so that it didn't seem amiss amongst the others. The acorn flag stood in the ground close to the horses, by the empty cart. What wasn't so impressive was that he was in conversation with the knight from the little tent next to theirs. There was no sign of Tall Toyne or Bodkin.

'Ba-Lord Eran,' Weasel said, upon spotting Bard. 'I have prepared your, err ... chambers.'

Bard overlooked him and tipped his head to the knight. 'Well met, sir, how fare you?'

'Very well, my lord, I was just enquiring after you with your squire. He tells such funny tales.'

'Does he?' Bard's eyes caught Weasel backing away into the pavilion.

'They call me Sir Wrent the Mouth, my lord, they say my tongue is as sharp as my dirk. I am of the Steeps of Maladrom.'

Bard considered him a peculiar fellow, Sir Wrent. He had pointy features, like Weasel, but a facial structure that made him appear more trustworthy. His striking outfit and flowing hair made up for the fact that he looked altogether green with inexperience.

'I am Eran Oak, heir to Oakhold and Woodrock.'

'So your squire told me. I'm afraid I've never heard of it, my lord.'

There was another toot from the lists, this one far louder now that Bard was close by. A herald with brown hair, slicked back with resin, approached the tent on his way towards the arena. His blue doublet had padded shoulders of white that paid his frame false compliments.

'My lords, I missed you both of my first way through. I am one of the tourney heralds. This afternoon you may send your squires if you wish to participate in the joust. Or I can take your shields for you now, if you would prefer, for a nail fee? Is it the joust for you?' He eyed Sir Wrent.

'Not I, my good chap. My arm is for the melee, my shield already there.'

'And you? I must say, that is a dashing mount, my lord.'

Bard turned to regard the destrier, then came back to the herald. 'I shall send my squire if I wish to enter.' Almost a shame the horse is only for show. Not that I'd survive a joust.

'Very well, my lord. I should think Orl Ejjar shall make his address soon. Best of fortunes.'

#

Sir Wrent earned his name while Bard and the others waited for Tall Toyne and Bodkin. When the pair returned, the crowds were streaming into the arena. The Gallowmen joined the flow and ended up resting on the barriers of the lists, their feet on the arena floor itself. Weasel clambered onto Toyne's shoulders so he could see the main gallery, the one with three thrones of varnished wood.

Bard skimmed them. Orl Ejjar was in the central seat in his blue and white furs, a man past his best but stiffened enough to wage a hopeless war with time itself. He had a thick, white beard and a wooden circlet upon his brow. On his right sat his new wife. At least twenty winters younger than he and golden of hair, she guarded a petite innocence that Orl Ejjar would surely steal.

The horns sounded a third time and the crowd hushed. The three figures in the gallery rose and Bard got a proper view of them. The Orl, his young wife and, dwarfing them both, Erikk. 

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