The Tournament Knight

  THE TOURNAMENT KNIGHT

  Jonathan Moeller

  Description

  Once banished by his father, Mazael Cravenlock is now a knight in the service of Malden, Lord of Knightcastle. When Lord Malden holds a tournament, Mazael expects to spend the day drinking, gambling, and wenching.

  Except the tournament knights have fallen ill, stricken by a mysterious poison.

  And unless Mazael discovers the poisoner, he might be next...

  The Tournament Knight

  Copyright 2013 by Jonathan Moeller

  Published by Azure Flame Media, LLC

  Cover image copyright Chris Doyle | Dreamstime.com & Alexander Chelmodeev | Dreamstime.com

  All Rights Reserved

  This ebook is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.

  The Tournament Knight

  “I intend to spend the day drinking and gambling,” said Mazael Cravenlock. “And after the tournament is complete, I shall drink and gamble some more.”

  His squire Gerald Roland frowned. “That is not seemly behavior for a knight, sir.”

  Mazael looked at Gerald. The boy was only twelve, but he already had the prim, disapproving expression of an elderly priest. He kept his tabard, dagger, and boots immaculately clean, which would have earned him the jibes of the other squires, if his father were not the Lord of Knightcastle and the liege lord of all Knightreach.

  Still, Gerald did have courage.

  “Seemly behavior, boy?” said Mazael, waving a hand. “Look about you. Nothing but knights engaged in unseemly behavior as far as the eye can see.”

  They strode through the mass of tents ringing the tournament field between the walls of Castle Town and the stern towers of Knightcastle itself. On Mazael’s right stood the tents of the lords and knights who had come to ride in the tournament. Each knight’s shield and banner stood on a pole outside the tent, guarded by squires.

  On Mazael’s left sprawled the tents raised by the various merchants and vendors who hoped to sell to the crowds watching the tournament…and the thieves who planned to take advantage of them. He saw tents and stands selling swords and cloaks and purses and shields, and from inside some of the larger pavilions came the sounds of laughter and drinking.

  “It is…inappropriate,” said Gerald. “A tournament provides a knight a chance to display his skill at arms, and perhaps to win the favor of a noble lady. Not to carouse.”

  “Carousing is the best part,” said Mazael. “Especially since your father has forbidden me from riding in the tournament.”

  That still irritated him, but not very much. He liked to fight, sometimes more than anything else in the world. But if he couldn’t fight, he was happy to drink and gamble. And given the number of noble ladies, merchants’ daughters from Castle Town, and peasant women from the nearby villages, Mazael was certain he could seduce a willing companion for the evening.

  Assuming, of course, he could find something to occupy his prudish squire.

  “You have been in my father’s service for a few months,” said Gerald, “and he only allows his household knights to ride in his tournaments after they have been in his service for a year. Especially in a tournament honoring my lady mother’s birthday.”

  Mazael opened his mouth, intending to point out that that Lady Rhea would likely spend the day drinking and the evening carousing. Lord Malden and Lady Rhea seemed fond enough of each other, but both took lovers on a regular basis. But Mazael stopped himself before he spoke. Gerald would view the truth about his lady mother as an insult.

  Perhaps Mazael was learning wisdom in his old age.

  “You should listen to me,” said Mazael, pushing aside the thought. “I am older than you.”

  “You’re only twenty-five,” said Gerald. “That’s just thirteen years older.”

  Mazael snorted. “Are you a bookkeeper or a squire? Let me put it a different way. You may not have to listen to me, but you are my squire, and you do have to obey me. Come along. I need to place some bets with the bookkeepers before the tournament begins tomorrow.”

  “My brother Sir Mandor rides,” said Gerald, “in honor of my mother. He will prevail, I am certain.”

  “Indeed,” said Mazael. He got along well with Mandor. Lord Malden’s third son (or second, Mazael could never remember which) enjoyed drinking and wenching and gambling, and made for a fine companion. Sadly, the man had all the wits of a mule. Still, he was good with a sword and better with a lance, and Mazael suspected Mandor could win the tournament.

  An idea occurred to him.

  “Your brother would welcome your aid,” said Mazael, “and assisting a knight with tournament armor and lance is an important part of a squire’s duties. Perhaps we should see if Mandor needs your help.”

  “What you really want,” said Gerald, “is to get rid of me so you can indulge in debauchery with impunity.”

  “Precisely,” said Mazael. “Clever lad. Which means you’re clever enough to see that it’s a perfectly reasonable thing for me to do…and you do need to learn how to handle tournament lances, anyway. And since I can’t ride in any of your father’s tournaments until next year, you’ll have to assist Mandor.”

  He expected the boy to take offense at that, but Gerald laughed instead.

  “Father says you are as clever as the Old Demon,” said Gerald.

  “Rubbish,” said Mazael. “There’s no such thing as the Old Demon. It’s just a story the priests tell to justify their tithes. Now come along before I am forced to beat you for insolence…”

  “Mazael!”

  Mazael turned, his hand falling to the hilt of his sword.

  A man a few years Mazael’s senior strode towards them, a wide smile beneath his bushy brown beard. He wore a battered cuirass over rust-spotted chain mail, a longsword at his belt and a shield slung over his shoulder. His smile widened, but his black eyes remained hard and cold.

  When Mazael had visited Barellion, he had seen one of the fishermen display a captured shark at the docks. The man’s eyes reminded him of the dead shark’s eyes, black and beady and merciless.

  “Well, well,” said Mazael. “Sir Tomaric of the Whitewood. I’m surprised no one has hung you yet.”

  “And I am surprised,” said Tomaric, “that some irate father or husband hasn’t rammed a sword down your gullet.” He looked at Gerald. “Who’s this, then? Some poor brat to polish your boots?”

  “I,” said Gerald, with affronted hauteur, “am Gerald of the House of Roland, son of Lord Malden of Knightcastle.”

  Tomaric snorted. “And I am the Prince of Barellion.” He looked back at Mazael. “I suppose you’re riding in the tournament? You always enjoyed a good tournament. Though I’ll enjoy knocking you out of your saddle.”

  Mazael shrugged. “It’s Lord Malden’s tournament, and Lord Malden doesn’t let his household knights ride in their first year of service. So I’ll merely lay wagers on whoever your opponent is, and drink a toast in your name with all the coin I’ll win.”

  Tomaric sneered. “Gods, you’re serious? Lord Malden took you as a knight of his household? Is the old man so truly desperate?”

  Gerald bristled, but Mazael raised a hand. “He was when I rescued him from the bandit gangs outside Knightport.”

  “So you’re Malden’s tame dog now?” said Tomaric.

  “Perhaps,” said Mazael, “but I’m tired of s
leeping in ditches. If I do it right, when I’m an old man I’ll have a manor of my own, a pretty wife half my age, and peasants to feed me. You’ll still be riding from war to war, trying to find someone desperate enough to hire your rusty sword.”

  “Is that so?” said Tomaric. “You’ll see, Mazael. When I win this tournament, I’ll have all the gold and fame I want. Perhaps I’ll hire you to clean my sword.”

  “If you win this tournament,” said Mazael, “the hells will have frozen and winged pigs will be flying overhead, so I think we’ll have other things to worry about. Good fortune, Tomaric.”

  Tomaric scowled and stalked away without another word.

  “A friend of yours?” said Gerald.

  “Tomaric? Hardly,” said Mazael. “We know each other, aye. Ridden for a few of the same lords. But the man’s a brigand. When he can’t find an honest fight, he takes to robbing travelers.”

  Gerald’s eyes widened. “A robber knight?”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me if he started out as a robber, happened to waylay a knight and steal his armor, and decided that calling himself Sir Tomaric of the Whitewood would make for better business,” said Mazael.

  “We should speak to my father, or at least the herald in charge of the lists,” said Gerald. “Such a man should not ride in the tournament.”

  “Why bother?” said Mazael. “I have no proof, so it would be my word against his. Tomaric would challenge me to a duel, and then I would have to kill him. Killing a man hardly seems the ideal way to honor your lady mother’s birthday.”

  Gerald grunted. “You may be right, sir.”

  “Of course I am,” said Mazael. “Meanwhile, you need to learn how to handle tournament lances.”

  He led Gerald through the more disorderly section of the camp and into one of the pavilions that Castle Town’s brewers had raised to sell beer to the spectators. A long plank table ran the length of the pavilion’s interior, and inside a group of harried journeymen brewers and serving maids sold beer to minor knights, wandering mercenaries, and spectators from Castle Town.

  Sir Mandor Roland stood at one end of the table, holding court with an overflowing mug in one hand. He was a tall, vigorous man of about thirty, with blue eyes, a ruddy face, and the beginnings of a paunch held only in check by his love of fighting. Several knights and armsmen surrounded him, most in various states of inebriation.

  “Mazael!” roared Mandor as they approached. “Pity you cannot ride in the tournament.” He clapped Mazael on the shoulder. “I would enjoy knocking you into the mud.”

  Mazael grinned. “Just as well for you that I am not. Now you’ll have a chance to win.”

  Mandor roared with laughter, the others following suit.

  “I thought Gerald could assist your squires,” said Mazael. “The boy needs to learn to handle tournament armor and lances.”

  “Truly!” said Mandor. “A proper knight rides in a tournament. Though it is best, my boy, to maintain the sacred traditions of knighthood before taking up lance and riding to the lists.”

  Gerald brightened. “What traditions are those, brother?”

  “Getting completely drunk the night before,” said Mandor.

  Again the knights and armsmen laughed.

  “Though you might be a little young for that, yet,” said Mandor. “Mother would never let me hear the end of it if I…if I…”

  Mandor staggered, dropped his mug, and fell face-first on the ground.

  “Gods!” said one of the knights. “He hadn’t even drunk that much yet…”

  Mazael pushed them aside, knelt, and flipped Mandor onto his back. Mandor’s eyes were closed, his face flushed, his breathing slow and shallow. His breath…

  Mazael frowned.

  His breath stank like rotting eggs. Mazael knew what a drunk man’s breath smelled like, and that wasn’t it.

  He looked at Gerald. “Run to the castle and get Brother Trocend. Sir Mandor has fallen ill.”

  He did not want to say in front of so many witnesses that Mandor had been poisoned.

  ###

  Mazael did not like wizards.

  They made too much trouble. The brotherhood of wizards, of course, claimed to govern all wielders of magic, but Mazael had encountered more than his share of renegades. And even some members of the wizards’ brotherhood liked to work mischief.

  Still, troublesome as they were, they could be useful.

  “You did well to summon me, Sir Mazael,” said Brother Trocend Castleson.

  Trocend was a man in late middle years with wispy gray hair, his thin form draped in a voluminous brown monk’s robe. Of course, Trocend was no more a monk than Sir Tomaric was the Prince of Barellion. He was Lord Malden’s court wizard, but Lord Malden was an ally of the Justiciar Order, and the Grand Master of the Justiciar Order detested wizards. So Trocend claimed to be a monk, though anyone with half a brain could see the truth.

  “Your approval,” said Mazael, “means so very much to me.”

  Trocend offered a thin smile. “It ought to.”

  They stood in Mandor’s tent, Mandor himself lying sprawled on his cot, his mouth hanging open. The unfortunate stench coming from his mouth had only grown stronger.

  “Is…is he going to die, Brother Trocend?” said Gerald.

  “I do not believe so,” said Trocend. “He did not ingest enough of the substance to kill him. He’ll sleep for a week or so, and then awaken with a nasty headache.”

  “So he was poisoned,” said Mazael.

  “Beyond a doubt,” said Trocend. He pointed at Mandor’s mouth. “You have noted the stench, I trust? It’s caused by a poison derived from the leaves of the moldleaf bush, a plant that grows one the edge of the Great Northern Waste. In sufficient quantities, it is quickly fatal. In smaller doses, it causes stupor and long periods of unconsciousness. The Skulls use it for certain kinds of killings, as do independent assassins.”

  “The Skulls?” said Gerald.

  “Assassins’ brotherhood,” said Mazael. “Based in Barellion. Unpleasant fellows. So why use moldleaf as a poison, Brother? Especially one so obvious. The whole point of poison is that it looks like a natural death.”

  Trocend’s thin smile returned. “Because moldleaf has a very specific antidote. The antidote can only be derived from the same moldleaf used to brew the poison.”

  Mazael blinked. “You mean…we would have to find the exact same leaf?”

  Trocend nodded. “They very same. The Skulls use it in assassinations where they don’t particularly care that it was obvious the victim was murdered.”

  “Plainly,” said Mazael, waving his hand before his face in hopes of clearing away some of the smell. “Best we speak with those brewers, then. Someone put poison in their beer.”

  “Oh, it wouldn’t have been at that pavilion,” said Trocend. “The amount of poison he consumed would not have taken effect for at least a day, if not longer.”

  “So, not the brewer,” said Mazael, thinking. A disturbing notion occurred to him. “What is the best way to take the poison? Food? Drink?”

  “Food, usually,” said Trocend. “Any form of alcohol would be a poor choice, as it drastically weakens the poison. The best form is to sprinkle it on a dry food. Moldleaf is tasteless, so the victim will never know.” He emitted a dry chuckle. “Amusing, isn’t it, it given the stench the poison produces?”

  “Yes, hilarious,” said Mazael, his mind turning over his suspicion. “You’ll watch over Mandor?”

  “Of course,” said Trocend. “Lord Malden would take it amiss if one of his sons was slain.” His thin smile returned. “You might recall how angry he was when Lord Richard Mandragon slew Sir Belifane Roland during the fighting in the Grim Marches six years past.”

  Mazael shrugged. “That is no longer my concern. I will never return to the Grim Marches. Brother Trocend, thank you for your assistance.”

  He strode from the tent, Gerald following. It was late afternoon, and the setting sun threw long black shadows be
hind the tents. The sounds of revels and singing from the merchants’ tents had only grown louder.

  “You have an idea, don’t you?” said Gerald.

  “Aye,” said Mazael. “Who did you think was going to win the tournament?”

  “Sir Mandor, of course,” said Gerald.

  “And if not him?” said Mazael.

  “Then…Sir Abelar Castagenet of Cadlyn, most likely,” said Gerald. “And if not him, Sir Commander Aeternis of the Dominiar Order. Assuming Father simply doesn’t throw the Dominiars out. He’s been rather tense with them.” The boy frowned. “You think one of them poisoned Mandor to win the tournament?”

  Gerald was prim, but he wasn’t stupid.

  “Maybe,” said Mazael.

  “That is most unknightly behavior!” said Gerald.

  “It doesn’t have to be one of them,” said Mazael, striding through the knights’ camp and scanning the rows of shields. “Maybe someone has a personal grudge against Mandor. Maybe someone placed bets on Sir Abelar, and took steps to recoup his investment. Maybe Mandor cheated a whore on her fee.”

  “My brother would not lie with whores!” said Gerald.

  Mazael looked at his squire.

  Gerald shrugged. “Well…he wouldn’t cheat them, at least.”

  “No,” said Mazael. He stopped before a tent showing the shield and arms of the House of Castagenet of Cadlyn. “And…”

  A faint hint of sulfur touched his nostrils.

  Mazael cursed and pushed open the tent flap. Inside a half-dressed knight, presumably Sir Abelar Castagenet, lay sprawled upon a cot, his mouth hanging open.

  The sulfur stench was considerable.

  “Well,” said Gerald after a moment, “I think we can be sure that Sir Abelar did not poison my brother.”

  ###

  “You have a knack for finding trouble, Sir Mazael,” murmured Trocend.

  Mazael shrugged. “It’s a gift.”

  Trocend’s servants had raised a tent at one end of the tournament field, equipping it with cots. Seven unconscious knights, Mandor and Abelar among them, lay motionless upon those cots.