Elyn took up her place beside the lad. Each was given four arrows. Elyn stood straight as a reed, nocking missile to string, peering through the uncertain light at the distant target.
“Surely you cannot object to this, Madam,” murmured Aranor, glancing at Mala, who held a delicate lace kerchief, to her nose and mouth as protection against the drifting vapors. “Ladies have ever cast arrows at the mark.”
“Sire, you jest,” hissed Mala. “The target is hideous-not genteel. And ’tis not e’en a Court Lady’s bow she holds, but rather one more brutal, meant for warriors-a killing weapon.”
“’Tis not the ugly bow that kills the foe, Madam, but the slender arrow instead,” responded Aranor curtly.
The two fell silent, the air between them thick with Mala’s disapproval and Aranor’s vexation, their attention now focused on the two archers in the field, watching as Ardon and Elyn winged deadly bolts toward the silhouette.
Shkkk! Sssthock! Thk! Thock! Swiftly the arrows slammed into the target, and all four judges strode forward, Ruric accompanying them.
“All are killing strikes, Sire!” called Agnor, eldest of the judges. “Three of Ardon’s are more tightly bunched than Princess Elyn’s, yet his fourth lies outside her pattern! Sire, I ween ’tis a draw!”
Annoyed by the call, Ruric snorted and spun on his heel, striding away from the target.
“Four more!” called Aranor, ignoring Mala’s hiss of exasperation.
As Ardon and Elyn prepared once more to let fly at the silhouette, Ruric stepped to the Princess. “Steady, lass. Clear yer mind o’ all distractions. Think only o’ that which ye were taught. And think o’ seeing yer missile strike into the heart o’ yer aim.”
Again eight arrows ssthocked into the target, and once more the judges strode forward and stared at the intermingled patterns.
“All are killing blows again, Sire!” called Agnor. “A warrior’s hand would cover Ardon’s four”-Elyn’s heart sank-“but a child’s palm would cover the Princess’s! She is the winner!”
Casting a great wide grin at Elyn, Ruric took her bow and handed her a quarterstaff.
On the pages’ bench, as Ardon came to sit, there was a low grumbling among the other lads about him letting a girl defeat him.
And Elgo struggled to remain unseen.
In the pavilion, King Aranor smiled at Lady Mala, but she refused to glance his way.
Twelve-year-old Bruth was to be Elyn’s opponent in the staves. Again the Princess faced a larger adversary, for he, as did Ardon, stood half a head taller than she. Yet whereas size was not a factor in archery, Bruth’s greater bulk in the quarterstaff would weigh in his favor.
The judges stood four square ’round the combatants, their eyes alert; the square would move with the battle.
At a signal from Agnor, Bruth rushed at Elyn, bearing her backward with the fury of his charge. Bok! Nok! Clak! Dok! The staves knocked against one another violently, Elyn yielding back and back, her wrists jolting with the hammering of Bruth’s stave. Yet in her mind whispered Ruric’s voice: “Fall back before a stronger foe, lass. Let his own attack weary him. Look for his weaknesses, and wait for the due moment; when it comes, strike like a viper: swift and deadly!”
And so the princess fell back before his onslaught, fending Bruth’s sledge-like blows with her own staff, slipping his strikes down and aside, or up and away, all the time seeking a vital chink through which she could strike.
In the pavilion, Mala turned in outrage to the King. “Aranor,” she hissed, “stop this at once! That lout is whelming upon a Princess!”
“Madam,” Aranor’s voice grated with exasperation, “on a field of battle there be no rank between combatants. Strife does not stop because one warrior be highborn while the other be not. ’Tis the same ’mongst fighters upon these training grounds. Here there be no Royalty. Here there be only Vanadurin!”
Mala ground her teeth in fury, but noting the jut of the King’s jaw, said nought further.
In spite of his words, however, the knuckles of Aranor’s hands were clenched white.
Long did Bruth whelm stave on stave, yet he could not batter past Elyn’s defense, as his hammering noks were deftly deflected, and slowly the fury of his strikes ebbed. And tentatively the Princess brought into play her own offensive skills, testing, gauging the degree of his arm-weariness. Suddenly, swiftly, Elyn’s staff flashed over Bruth’s, and he was felled by a blow to his helm, his stave lost to his grip as he crashed heavily to the hard earth.
As Agnor’s stentorian voice called out Elyn’s victory, angry shouts erupted from the pages’ bench, the bitter words directed at Bruth for failure. But in the pavilion Aranor smiled in triumph, while Mala did not deign to notice.
After a short rest period, Elyn stood before Hrut, a lad of thirteen summers, the youth a full head taller than she. In his right hand he held a blunt-edged wooden saber, and there was a faint sneer on his face.
Ruric stepped up to the Princess and placed a like blade in her hand. “This be yer third and final test, lass”-his voice was low, carrying to her ears alone-“and heed me, ye need not win it, for ye’ve already taken two o’ the three.” At the faint shake of Elyn’s head, her gaze clear but resolute: “Ah me, girl, I ken ye be as determined in this as ye were in that. So list to me, for he be stronger and perhaps e’en swifter than ye, yet cunning will out: he favors his right, lass, he favors his right.” With no more instruction than that, Ruric stepped back, leaving Elyn small and alone.
Again the judges stood four square ’round the combatants, the square to move with this battle as well.
At Agnor’s “Begin!” Hrut saluted Elyn with his weapon, and she did likewise. The lad extended the saber, its tip circling, and he warily engaged her blade.
Tik! Tak! Wood tapping on wood sounded across the field as each felt out the other, Hrut’s confidence growing as he saw what his swift probes revealed about her skilclass="underline" he was clearly her superior. Yet he was no fool as was Bruth, to charge in and arm-weary himself with wild blows. Nay! No fool he. Instead, he would wear her down with his superior skill and greater strength.
Clik! Klak! Clack! Hrut’s swift saber darted this way and that, barely fended by Elyn’s blade, her native quickness all that stood between her and defeat.
Clik! Klick! Klak! Clak! Now the field rattled with the clitter-clatter of wooden blade on blade. Shouts came from the lads upon the pages’ bench, encouragement for Hrut, derision for Elyn, for they could see that Hrut was winning, was defeating this girl. At last! She was to be put in her place.
Elgo was silent, his lips pressed into a thin white line.
Back and back Hrut forced her, with stamp and lunge and parry and running flèche. Back and back fell Elyn, desperately fending Hrut’s brutal skill, knowing that she was defeated, yet refusing to yield.
And she could not abide the prideful sneer growing upon his face.
“. . cunning will out. .” Ruric’s words echoed in her mind. “. . he favors his right, lass, he favors his right.”
Hrut threw a swift overhand stroke, barely fended by Elyn, followed by a lunging stab at her midsection.
Frantically twisting aside to Hrut’s left, Elyn skidded on wet turf, and with a helpless cry she fell to her knees, the tip of her sword to the earth, her eyes wide, the back of her hand to her mouth, stifling a gasp.
Exultation flushed across Hrut’s leering features, and he stepped forward for the sudden killing blow. Yet just as suddenly the wounded quail became the cat-a-stalk, a move she had planned all along, as Elyn, still on her knees, thrust upward into the foe’s unguarded underbelly, replacing Hrut’s sneer with a mouthed O! of surprise and pain, the lad dropping his sword and clutching his gut, falling to earth next to his conqueror, gasping for air and retching.