He was snapped away from the thought when he saw Lyim charging directly at him. Before Guerrand could move, Lyim swung the broom around. The austritch lurched a little past Guerrand, and Lyim's broom connected with Guerrand's back. The blow to the kidneys nearly knocked Guerrand from his bird and chased the wind from his lungs. Struggling for breath, he wrapped his fingers around the bird's neck and hung on.
Laughing, Lyim pranced away to his end of the field, rousing his section of the crowd. He turned his bird and charged again, broom held tight to his side.
Guerrand grasped the ends of the blue ribbon like reins. Instinct kicked in. He dug his heels into the austritch as he would a horse, then yanked the stunned bird's head around at the last moment to dodge the blow from
Lyim's broom-lance. Squawking, the austritch could only comply with Guerrand's confident commands.
Lyim's broom swept over Guerrand's ducked head, causing the crowd to hiss and cheer. Guerrand straightened in the saddle and waved.
Lyim pulled his charging bird around and gave Guerrand a grudging nod of respect through the opening cut in his bucket. Whooping, Lyim drove his heels into his bird's ribs and charged again. Guerrand was ready for him and raised his own lance, parrying Lyim's blow easily. Instead of the usual loud ting of metal against metal, the long broom handles collided with a dull thwack. The recoil sent both apprentices shaking. Guerrand let the tremors run through him without resisting and recovered more quickly than Lyim, who was obviously still shaking in the corner to which he'd withdrawn.
Lyim's look of cocky overconfidence dimmed to grim determination when he began the next charge. Guerrand's cavalier training, however ineffective against a true knight, allowed him to easily parry Lyim's attempts to reach him with the broom. Belize's frustrated apprentice dashed by him again, red-faced, weapon flailing. Guerrand's retainers led his section in a riotous cheer.
Guerrand surprised himself with how much he remembered about jousting, when he'd never really paid much attention to the lessons. For his part, Lyim had demonstrated more determination than skill. Guerrand was certain he could continue to dodge Lyim's ill-timed blows all day, eventually wearing him out. While he had no interest in defeating and humiliating his friend, he knew Lyim would never be satisfied with anything less than total victory. Guerrand was hard-pressed to visualize a happy ending to this for both of them.
Guerrand wasn't the only one surprised by his knowledge. Lyim was regarding Guerrand with what could only be interpreted as a look of betrayal, as if Guerrand, and not Lyim, had somehow instigated the situation. It was obvious things weren't going as Lyim had expected.
In that instant, Guerrand finally understood what he should have realized from the start. Lyim had pulled him from the crowd, not because he believed he offered a true challenge, or even to teach Guerrand to take himself less seriously. The truth was, Lyim had seen his friend as an easy mark, someone he could easily defeat. Strangely, Guerrand felt more anger at himself for being so naive, than at Lyim, who made no pretense of what he was.
The crowd was beginning to turn against Lyim, and both apprentices knew it. A half-chewed apple core sailed through the air and bounced off Lyim's bucket. The proud apprentice felt it and watched the core fall to the sand beneath his feathered mount. He looked first to Esme at the edge of the field, who gave him a pitying stare. Lyim's gaze traveled to Guerrand, and his expression changed in a blink from humiliation to hate.
The atmosphere in the ring altered in that instant. It became still, deathly still, as if no one in the crowd even dared breathe. A lone locust buzzed in a nearby treetop. Time seemed to stop. Guerrand could see Lyim exchanging glances with Belize, who looked greatly displeased with his apprentice. The tension vibrating between them appeared to give off a visual heat wave.
Knowing Lyim's need for approval from his revered master, Guerrand felt his first flicker of pity for the friend he had envied so often. Guerrand waited, unsure how to draw this display to an end without simply falling from his bird. What was he waiting for? A sign of resignation from Lyim? Perhaps, Guerrand told himself, the ever-resourceful young mage would find a way to joke them both out of this.
Guerrand didn't have long to wait. The crowd erupted again as Lyim launched another charge, his expression anything but humorous. His handsome lips were drawn back in a feral grimace. There was no light of recognition, no light at all, behind his eyes. Hunkered over the austritch, with his long, dark hair escaping the confines of the bucket, Lyim looked like a charging bull.
He reached Guerrand, who parried with his broom-lance and easily fended off Lyim's attack. This time, the blows packed a much greater punch. Instead of riding past, he stopped his bird in front of Guerrand's and began to feverishly pummel Guerrand with the broom. Front, back, shoulders, he moved twice as swiftly, though not more skillfully, than before. Lyim seemed to have found an overlooked store of strength and was drawing heavily on it.
Stunned by the viciousness of the attack, Guerrand bent low and clung to the austritch's neck, just trying to stay on the creature. One well-placed blow landed square on his right shoulder and knocked him halfway off the austritch, but Guerrand's determination kept him clinging by his heels. Between swings, he slithered back into the saddle, yanked the bird's head to the right with the blue scarf, and managed to spur his mount beyond the reach of Lyim's broom-lance.
"Now who's taking this too seriously?" gasped Guerrand, his breathing ragged from his efforts to stay on the austritch. "This is supposed to be a game, not a fight to the death!"
Lyim considered Guerrand through narrowed, unfocused eyes. Spurring his animal, he reached out with the broom and deliberately swatted Guerrand's bird on the thigh. Feathers flying, squawking wildly, the austritch ran off like a beheaded chicken. It took all of Guerrand's riding skill to stay on the beast and calm it down.
Even the attendants seemed concerned by Lyim's unscrupulous action. One hastened over to within earshot of Belize's apprentice. "This is a friendly contest of honor, sir. Please refrain from blows to the birds, if you will."
Lyim's answer was to swing out with his long-handled broom and smash the attendant in the side of his unprotected head, dropping him, unconscious, to the sand.
"Lyim!" gasped Guerrand, "what's the matter with you?" His friend's expression was blank, totally devoid of emotion or recognition. He simply sat, as if waiting for instructions.
A horrified gasp rose from the crowd. The other attendant scrambled out on his haunches and dragged his fallen comrade to the sidelines, anxiously watching the motionless Lyim all the while.
Looking at his friend's face, Guerrand concluded that Lyim's excessive pride had robbed him of self-control. Guerrand was past pleading or compromise; he had to stop the other apprentice before anyone else was hurt.
Guerrand nudged his austritch backward, his face set as grimly as his opponent's. Couching the broom under his right arm the way he'd been taught to use a lance, Guerrand lowered his head, leaned forward, and charged straight at Lyim. Unfazed, Lyim urged his own mount toward Guerrand, swinging his broom wildly. Guerrand dipped his broom beneath Lyim's and rammed it squarely into his opponent's right shoulder. The broom splintered, sending Lyim to the ground.
Guerrand stopped his austritch immediately and yanked off the bucket helm. Throwing it and the broken broom far away, he slid from the bird and ran to where Lyim lay, moaning and rolling in the sand. The noise of the crowd had raised to a fever pitch.