Grifford took a deep breath of cold morning air. Beside him, Tahlia pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders and shivered. It was still practically night; the moons were quite clear in the sky, and even though the sun had risen, it was yet to clear the curtain wall of the bailey. The crowds had been gathering since long before dawn, and the ragged slopes that ran up the side of the fortress hill were already crammed, the crowds eagerly awaiting the events of the day. Still more had gathered at the edge of the lower field, though the vast expanse of the arena-field's centre had been kept clear by the fortress guard.

Tahlia shivered again.

"Oh, keep still!" Grifford snapped.

"But I'm tired!" his sister replied as she pulled her cloak still tighter around her. "Why must we be up at this hour?"

"Because we have been told to be. Now be quiet!"

A whole day had passed since his fight with Tasker. His wounds were healing, but his anger still stung like an open cut as he stood amidst a crowd made up of the ladies of the Order and their children. Six of the ladies did not stand with the rest. They waited at the front of the wooden dais that had been erected beneath the slope of the hill, each of them positioned before one of its six chairs. They stood in silence beneath the banners of Klinberg's Chapters, their faces towards the avenue that opened from the arena-field and led north, through the Encampment, to the plains of the great-bailey beyond.

Grifford's anger had not been improved by the previous day's events either. Sir Gunthred's contest for the command of Jacob Chapter had been spectacular enough, and Sir Unsaethel's defence of his command similarly so, but he could not supress his disappointment at the rest of the day. He could still recall his anticipation as his father had ridden into the arena and faced the knights of Chapter Bannoc's third Echelon.

Not one had challenged him for command.

Grifford was proud of the testament to his father's prowess, but also frustrated by the fact that he would not get to see him fight.

The same thing happened with Sir Bevrik and the knights of Asquith, and then again with Sir Zembulla and his third Echelon.

Grifford's disappointment had grown.

Sir Galder, he was sure, would be challenged. He was old and unpopular, so surely one of his knights would stand against him.

"Why!" he had protested as he had watched the six knights as they stood immobile in the arena below, facing their Pride-commander and issuing no challenge, just as the knights of the other Chapters had done.

"They all know what hinges on tomorrow," said Master Tzarren, who had been sitting beside him. "They either share their Commander's desire for war, or they are too cautious of their esteem to bear the responsibility to prevent it."

Grifford looked over to the members of the Council, who were gathered at the far end of the dais. The High Lance-master was deep in conversation with Council-master Hepskil, while High Madriel-master Sprak stood beside them in grim scarred silence. There were many other Council members that Grifford recognised, but whose names he could not recall. The large figure of the fortress' Chief-engineer stood in the centre of the group, though he was only an honorary Council member and, in Grifford's view, should have had no say in the dealings of the fortress at all. Beside him stood a short, squat, ugly woman who was probably someone high up in the Growers. There were others; Head of the department of heralds, Chief Clerk, keeper of the books, or whatever he was called. Grifford didn't really care. He did recognise the tall figure of Chief-communicant Vennar standing in the centre of the group and leaning heavily on his ceremonial staff, staring happily into the sky.

* * *

Tahlia was also watching Klinberg's Chief-communicant.

"What is he staring at?"

Her brother ignored her so she huffed noisily, that outburst of her annoyance being similarly ignored.

It was not only her tiredness that caused her peevishness. Grifford was still being thick headed in refusing to help her discover what Tasker was up to, even though it was to his own benefit. Tahlia had therefore decided that it was up to her to handle things, but even that was proving bothersome. She had intended to spend the previous day at the Encampment, watching the merchant's tent for any sign of Tasker, but her mother had summoned her to her rooms. She had called her there to be fitted for her new dress, and the process had unbelievably taken the best part of the morning.

In the afternoon, she had been subjected to the tedious business of the third Echelon challenges. Even once they were done, and she had managed to get away, her efforts had ended up being futile. She had spent what remained of the afternoon in the avenue fronting the brightly coloured tent, watching the people come and go, and keeping a close eye out for anyone who could be Tasker. It had been impossible for her to see the entrance to the tent, with all the people passing up and down in front of her, and she could get no closer because of the strange two headed creature who guarded the door. The thing would fix her with one pair of eyes or another as soon as she stepped within three metres of the tent's entrance, and each time she had been forced to back innocently away.

She had waited pointlessly until the sky grew dark, when there was no other option but to return home. She decided she would spend the next day watching Tasker, but much to her annoyance, she had been woken before dawn that morning and ordered to the battle-grounds to watch the Commanders' challenges. She contented herself with the knowledge that Tasker would be similarly engaged, but her inability to discover the reasons behind his sneakiness, along with her brother's continued stupidity, was rankling her.

"How much longer?" she demanded of Grifford.

Her question was answered by the distant sound of a karabok horn, somewhere out in the great-bailey. A hush fell on the arena-field as a thousand conversations ended abruptly. All eyes turned in the horn's direction as it sounded again. A distant rumble could be heard; the heavy thrum of thousands of pounding paws on the earth, interspersed with the clank and grind of metal on metal. The rumble lifted to a distant thunder, and in the north a dust cloud was rising like a shadow in the blue sky.

The horn sounded for a third time, and the noise rang from the fortress walls, resonating around the amphitheatre of the arena-field. The sound had not faded before the thunder of the knights' approach rose to join its echo, and the knights of the Pride-order of Klinberg entered the arena-field.

* * *

On the dais, High Lance-master Tzarren's heart lifted at the sight of the knights' approach, and he could tell by the look on the face of Council-master Hepskil, who stood beside him, that the old man had not forgotten the joys of being a knight of Klinberg either. Nothing could match the powerful belief in oneself when clad in armour of plate, astride something as powerful as a madriel bedecked for war. Glorious Galanth was ten years dead, and though Master Tzarren had long since bridged the abyss of brooding memories, the power of his steed had not been forgotten. The memories still stirred as he watched the knights enter the arena-field.

First came Sir Unsaethel, the polished edges of his old armour shinning a flat blue from the half night sky. He rode, straight backed, his lance raised and his rail shield held firmly by his side, while around his neck hung the plaited necklace of plains grass that his wife had made for him at the tourney's beginning. His steed, Falsch, moved with a tread that belied his years, his armour as old as Sir Unsaethel's and as equally well polished.

Beside him rode his squire, Matzurra, on a steed that appeared small beside the might of Falsch, its horns slight and insignificant next to the mighty metal-clad curves of the older beast. Nevertheless, the young squire rode with a back as straight and as proud as any knight, the lance from which flew the standard of Katchewan Chapter held firmly in his hand.

Behind Sir Unsaethel, his lines of knights rode with equal dignity, their fine armour showing the skill of the Engineers, though many still bore the signs of recent combat, not yet beaten or polished out. The knights who rode directly behind Sir Unsaethel, those of his Chapter's third Echelon, were no exception in this. Three of them showed the scars from Sir Unsaethel's own lance and sword after their unsuccessful challenges to his command.

Master Tzarren had heard that the merchants in the betting tents had made good money on the contests for command of Katchewan Chapter. Many people believed that Sir Unsaethel could not hold the position of Pride-commander for another year; that he was too old and spent more time sleeping than practicing his arms. It was true, Master Tzarren would concede, that the old knight did spend a good deal of his time in sleep, or merely dozing, but he would happily liken him to a ramrok asleep in its mountain burrow. A creature benign in its slowly snoring state, but if anyone were foolish enough to wake it, that opinion would soon face a harsh correction, doubtless with the loss of a limb or, more probably, a face.

Sir Unsaethel's third Echelon knights had made similar underestimations of his abilities, and had paid for it heavily in coin of both honour and metal. So the old man would now hold his position as head of the Chapter of Katchewan for another year, and the crowds sitting on the hillside around the field showed their admiration for the feat with appreciative hollers.

Sir Unsaethel himself had not escaped the conflicts without damage. The repaired perfection of his armour was marred by fresh scores, and his right collar-guard was buckled. The visor of his helmet was also damaged, which strengthened the rumour that his successful defeat of his challengers had come at a price. Lance-master Tzarren knew there was more to it than rumour.

The old knight brought his steed to a halt some ten metres in front of the dais, and his knights stopped behind him, lined up in their ranks, their weapons held ready, hundreds of lances directed at the sky.

Next to enter the field was the Chapter of Vikas. As Sir Galder led his knights across the cropped grass, an audible whisper of appreciation ran around the crowd, but it was not for the knight that the admiration arose, but for his armour. The metal that encased both knight and steed was elaborate and savagely beautiful, but Master Tzarren knew, for he had seen it up close, that the intricate engravings that decorated parts of the armour, and would be unseen from a distance, were more beautiful still; the work of a true master armourer.

Sir Galder led his knights to stand beside those of Sir Unsaethel, their steeds growling and snorting at the proximity of a rival pride, but their training held their instincts steady and none broke their ranks.

Sir Galder's squire, Tasker, rode beside him, his posture as straight and haughty as always, and Master Tzarren grinned at the show of arrogance, though there was no mirth in his smile. The boy seemed to believe his punishment for his behaviour after the riding-contests was done, but Master Tzarren knew otherwise, though he had yet to decide on the form of punishment that he himself would issue once the Tourney was done.

The Chapter of Dolphus rode onto the field next, Sir Zembulla at their head, massive in his armour of burnished plate. His steed, Lakalla Sawak, was equally massive in scale, his movements deliberate and inexorable as he led his pride to a place beside the Chapter of Katchewan. All the madriel of the pride of Lakalla Sawak were famed for their size, though none could compare to the beast of Sir Zembulla, whose strength was legendary.

Each Pride-commander had received cheers as they had entered the Field, but when Sir Kralaford appeared at the head of the Chapter of Bannoc, the cheers resounded around the arena-field like nothing that had gone before. Though he was the youngest knight ever to rise to the position of Pride-commander, and the people gave him their admiration for that accomplishment, it was more than that feat that made him their favourite. The High Lance-master watched Sir Kralaford with approval as his former squire led the Chapter of Bannoc across the field to stand beside Dolphus Chapter.

Next on the field was Sir Bevrik, every aspect of his person perfectly turned out, his armour polished bright. The crowd cheered, and Master Tzarren could hear the murmured appreciation at the sight of the Commander of Asquith Chapter's newly constructed armour. Master Tzarren was not so appreciative. He softly swore under his breath when he noted the ornate design of the heart-plate at the armour's shoulder; frilled and almost flower-like. All of its flex-joints were similarly decorative, and the design was echoed in the armour of his steed. Master Tzarren looked across to where Master Sprak stood close by, and saw his old friend grimace and spit into the grass.

He returned his attention back to the field as Asquith Chapter halted beside that of Vikas. The heavy panting of so many beasts had become an audible rumble across the arena-field, and over a thousand lances were now raised to the sky, catching the light of the slowly rising sun.

The Chapter of Jacob was the last to enter the Field, the newly risen Pride-commander Gunthred proudly at its head. Though none had been able to beat the skill and strength of Lord Morath in previous years, the third Echelon knights of the Chapter of Jacob lacked nothing for skill, and Sir Gunthred's armour showed the battering scars he had suffered in his contests for its command.

Klinberg's six Chapters now filled the arena-field, and to all gathered there they made a magnificent sight. High Lance-master Tzarren raised his fist and applauded, along with the rest of the crowd.