A crashing roar went up from the lists; one that swept out and over the tourney grounds, wrapping itself around Bard and leeching him of mettle. Someone's been unhorsed.

He winced as Bodkin pulled on the lace to secure his gorget, then again as Weasel fastened his grieves. He was all sorts of jittery, hairs on end, focus as graspable as a writhing serpent. His mouth was dry, too, despite the water he supped.

'I've seen you do stupid things in all manner of ways before, Bard,' Taaj said, 'but this? This I wouldn't even expect in the Northern Territories.' He was rubbing his hand over the destrier's neck. The horse looked somehow larger now it was released from Oath and beside the pavilion, almost as hefty as the big black. Bodkin had transferred the livery of House Oak from the latter to the former, a thin silver chanfron protecting the destrier's face.

'If we withdraw, neither me nor anyone associated with me will get within one-hundred feet of Erikk. This is the way. This is the only way.' Or at least that was what he kept telling himself. A part of him wondered if he didn't have other driving motives. They didn't make themselves obvious, if he did.

'People die in the joust, Bard,' Bodkin said, tightening something else.

'You speak as though I entered it! If there was a way for that bag of piss to be up there with me, he would be.' Bard exhaled. The spindly fingers of regret pinched lightly on his shoulder. He didn't enjoy putting himself on the other end of an insult from Weasel. 'Does anyone have a shred of an idea about how to get near Erikk otherwise?'

Nothing was said. Bard could hear the tourney herald calling the names of the next to meet.

'Then this is what we have. We're in it together anyway, we might as well be on the same side.'

Taaj spat on the grass. 'I knew there was no way we'd outlive those ugly priests.'

'Don't suppose you know anything about jousting, Taaj?'

'Jousting? I'm from Amla. We're not like you mad Green Country bastards. No Zaffaarian is. Up there we have cummels. Try getting two of them to run at each other with big sticks. They'll spit on you.'

Bard didn't doubt it. He almost considered asking the same question of Tall Toyne, then he remembered the song about the Islander and the horse and spared wasted breath.

'Here, try your helmet.' Bard felt Bodkin slip the metal helm into his glove and he forced it down over his hair.

Bodkin stepped back. 'How is it?'

'I can't see a thing.' Bard's view had been closed down to a window, less than a half-inch wide. The helmet felt heavy, dead pressure on his neck. It wasn't a good fit at all, but it was the only one the Burned Priests had. "Your deception is your true protection," Brother Grief had said. What about when Weasel happens to our deception, Brother?

'Good. You don't need to. The less you see, the less chance of you getting a splinter in your eye.'

Weasel's alarm was more visible than Bard's. He'll never forgive himself if I die today. 'Weasel, go and see when we're due.' Bard had been counting tilts in his head. Is it one more, or two?

Weasel ran off, legs full of vigour, glad to be gone.

'How do you feel? You look the part, at least.' Bard saw Bodkin assessing him through his visor.

That's something. Maybe they'll bury me in the armour. Bard removed the helm and swung his hair free. 'I feel like I need you to go through it again. All of it.'

Bodkin's sigh was clearly audible. 'Elders know this is beyond the point of stupidity, but you're going to have to use the first tilt to take a fall. Wait until you feel his lance touch you, on shield or breastplate or wherever, then roll with the impact and let it take you off the horse. Just make sure your feet come clear of the stirrups and you don't hit the lists on your way down.'

'And if it's my face that meets his lance?'

Bodkin sighed. 'How did you break your nose? The first time, I mean?'

Bard took a wander, back more than ten years. 'My brother hit me with an axe shaft by accident.'

'I reckon this one'll make for a better story.'

A hard fall and possibly a broken nose. I've survived worse than both before. 'And you're sure I should be letting him win?'

'You're not "letting him win", you're "letting" him not stove your head in. Sir Claudo and his men are part of a diplomatic envoy from Battalon, he's won three tournaments this year already. Why do you think they call him the Blue Lance? You'll be ready to come off your horse if he breathes loudly in your direction, if you want to survive this. Roll with the hit, spread yourself out on the floor and stay there. Weasel will claim you sorely injured and you'll be taken, alive, to the physician's tent.'

Bard found himself reluctantly nodding. 'Sorry to disappoint, my lady, I was sorely injured. Oh yes, fine now.' 'And where do I aim my lance?'

'At the sky? At Weasel? It doesn't matter where you aim it, because you're not going to use it. If you try and commit yourself to striking him, you'll end up taking as clean-a-hit as was ever given.' Bodkin took the reins of the destrier and walked him so that he towered above Bard, tan coat shimmering.

Tall Toyne helped Bard swing his armoured leg up and over, the horse whinnying with new responsibility. Bard didn't think he'd ever sat a creature so big, so powerful. Even Toyne looked fairly normal-sized from up there.

'The destrier, he needs a name,' Bard said. It's bad luck to ride a horse with no name.

'Fool?' Taaj suggested.

Toyne hefted him one of the smaller House Oak shields. Bard passed his left arm through the first band and wrapped his fist around the second. It was cumbersome and difficult, but at least it was crafted from genuine, solid oak wood. 'How about Fate?' the Islander proposed.

Fate ... I like that. It's Erikk at the other end of the lists. He just doesn't know it yet. 'Fate it is.'

Taaj's striking red and yellow robe shifted before him. 'Elders keep you, Bard. Our work isn't done yet.'

Bard would have answered. Up there, however, Fate pushing him higher than most of the pavilions, he could see Weasel haring back from the lists, a blur of green and brown in and out of tent ropes.

The boy didn't stop to catch his breath, he just tumbled out with the words. 'They're ready, Bard. They're waiting.'

#

Bard didn't think he had ever seen so many people in one place. The lists housed a sea of baying colours, men and women drunk on violence and already impatient for more. Weasel walked before Fate, the shaft of the acorn flag in his hands. He held a nervous gait, legs wobbling under the eyes of aristocratic judgement.

Bard couldn't find it in him to feel for the lad. Angst consumed him. Through the slit of his visor the world was a mess of lucid pigments and intense howls, like he'd fallen into a cauldron of flames, bound amongst the damned. Fate was the only thing that kept him going. He felt Tall Toyne and Taaj leave for the stands, Bodkin remained at his side.

They came to a stop at the near end of the lists. It was a good thing Bodkin still had hold of Fate's reins, Bard was so entranced by the crowd he had no hope of controlling him. His gaze was fixed on the main gallery. He assumed he could make out the figures of Orl Ejjar and his wife. Erikk, he guessed, was the larger form beside them. How he'd be laughing now. If only he knew. Try as he might, Bard could find no flicker of ice-white in the crowd.

A herald came to meet them. Bard recalled him as the one from the table, all long of face and tight, particular eyes.

'Which flag shall it be, my lord?' the herald asked.

Bard nodded to Weasel and the boy carried the acorn flag like he was born for it. The wind tossed it to-and-fro, creating ripples as Weasel forced it into its bracket on the gallery underneath Orl Ejjar. A huge cheer went up and Weasel returned to Bard, gripping the stirrup on his right side.

'Very well, my lord,' the herald said, 'Elders grant you swiftness.'

Swiftness? Fishes are swift. How many of them die every day?

For the first time, Bard aimed his view towards the lists themselves. At the far end he could just about make out Sir Claudo; a brilliant sheen of spectacular armour, a high, white plume of feathers sprouting from his helm. Bard could already see his flag resting in the other bracket under the main gallery, four golden towers underlined by a sword. The Towers of Battalon, Bard was familiar with the song.

Claudo's horse was a huge grey boasting a white mane. It snorted and nickered as it trotted side to side. Bard's own horse was still. He felt calm, did Fate. He was bred for this. He's more at home than I am. Bard scanned the crowd again as the trumpets sounded.

'Remember. Roll with the strike.' Bodkin's words brought him back to the task. 'If he breaks his lance on you it will look more realistic. Weasel, fetch the wood.'

The next thing Bard felt was a long and smooth handle being placed into his right hand. He stared down the lance's length, twelve-feet of ash, painted azure, an iron fist at its tip in place of the sharpened points he'd seen on lances of war. Across the field, Sir Claudo was similarly equipped.

'Here, cradle it in your arm,' Bodkin said.

Bard knew what to do. He'd never done it before, of course, but he understood the fundamentals well enough to avoid giving himself away before the horns had been blown to sound the charge. Even so, it was heavy. Heavier than he had been expecting. Can I keep this levelled while Fate has his head?

'My lords and ladies, Orl Ejjar is pleased to give you the next meet in his tourney of celebration. I give you the first son of Lord Clypeus Armis, heir to Battalon and all of its lands and estates. The Blue Lance, Sir Claudo Armis!' A vociferous appreciation ripped about the place. Sir Claudo led his big grey along the front of the gallery, lance held stylishly skyward. 'He meets the first son of Lord Ared Oak, the heir to the isle of Woodrock and its seat of Oakhold. Lords and ladies, Lord Eran Oak!' A courteous cheer was returned from the stands. Bard saw people turning to those stood beside them. 'The lord of where?'

The trumpets blared a second time and an excitable hush fell. Bard swallowed what little moisture he had and dug his heels into Fate. The destrier moved slowly forward, leaving Weasel and the others behind. Fear was his companion now, riding a horse none could outrun.

A flag with an azure snowflake hung before his face, the herald carrying it looking to Orl Ejjar. The world became still, a vacuum of silence that slowed Bard's senses and narrowed things down to the blinking myriad of colours visible through his slit.

Then, suddenly, the flag dropped. Before Bard knew what he was doing, Fate was shifting through his stages and rapidly approaching a full gallop. The raw strength sent a new wave of terror through him, the heavy thundering of shod hooves propelling him towards an inevitable end.

The stands became rivers rushing past. All that mattered was he and Sir Claudo. The big grey slowly became larger, Fate hit full speed and Bard clung to the world with his very finger tips. The idea of directing the lance anywhere was implausible, his shield the only comfort as Claudo came within distance.

He threw his head up at the last moment, not brave enough to face Sir Claudo's lance full-on. There was a mighty crack and needles of pain shot up Bard's left arm. Once more his body synced with Fate's rhythm and he realised, with an impossible relief, that he was still alive. Better than that, I took the hit and didn't go down.

The noise came back then, the crowd a delirious pack of hounds lost to their blood-fueled ecstasy. Then arrived the pain. Barbed tendrils had wrapped their way about Bard's arm above his left elbow. Did he strike my shield, or my shoulder?

Fate slowed to a trot and Bard threw his unbroken lance down before pulling the destrier entirely to a stop with his right hand alone. Bodkin and Weasel were making their way across the field, four-feet of ashen shaft lying splintered at the mid-point of the lists.

Bodkin got to him first. 'Herald! Herald!' he cried. 'I think my lord is injured. I'm not sure he can continue.'

'I'm fine, Bodkin. It glanced off, I can continue.' Bard saw the herald bow and back away.

'Bard,' Bodkin hissed, pretending to adjust a strap, 'don't push your luck.'

'If I stay on my horse and take another hit, he'll win on points. I can put it down to a bad day and we'll be drinking with the other lords by nightfall. We need to get to Erikk.'

Weasel reached them, panting and pale and worried. 'Are you hurt, my lord? Your arm is surely broken after the blow?'

'I'm fine, squire.' I can no longer feel anything on my left side, but I'm fine.

Sir Claudo was fetched up a new lance and repeated his meandering before the gallery.

'Lance,' Bard called.

Bodkin stayed where he was, defiant. It was Weasel who retrieved the ash from the floor. He used both hands and all his body weight to get it up to Bard. Fate moved forward again, reluctant to be refrained now he'd been set free. He has a taste for it.

'You're a fool, Bard. A damn fool.' Bodkin said his piece, careless for who might be listening.

Bard blocked him out. The azure snowflake swam before him again, the herald ready to signal the second tilt. Brace yourself, take the hit. There's a chance yet. The colours boiled down as they had before. Azure, silver, ice-white. Wait? Ice-white. She's here, she's ...

The flag dropped and Fate didn't pause for Bard. The destrier surged forward, eating up ground with a hunger that could only be sated by another terrible crescendo between metal, meat and wood.

Bard found his shield was too low, but his arm would not obey his command to lift it. I'm exposed. He'll destroy me if I can't protect myself. He efforted again, but in vain. His left arm was useless, the oak attached to it the very same as a result.

Instead, he swung his right arm up and locked the lance in the cradle. If I can't defend, there's only one thing for it. If I can just put him off his blow. Perhaps my armour can take what he gives ...

Sir Claudo and the big grey bore down upon him, the iron fist of truth angry for deliverance. Bard fought against the instinct to lift his head this time. If I can't see him, I can't strike him. There! His chest is unprotected! There!

At the very last moment Bard thrust his right side forward, eyes fixed on the detail of Sir Claudo's breastplate. He realised too late that Claudo's own lance was steered for his face. His right arm abandoned his lance and his left made a final attempt to lift his shield.

The last thing Bard saw was the iron fist. Then the earth came up to meet him. 

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