Bab 7: Chapter 7: A Song of Swords and Shields II
The knight stumbled forwards but refused to release his grip on the weapon. No surprise there; Two arms were stronger than a single arm with momentum.
My chances weren't looking so good.
So I improved my chances.
...
Continuing my rotation, I slammed my shield into the knight's gut. Whether it was due to the better pivot or the sudden impact, Ser Rykker's grip loosened. It was marginal, but it was enough for me to yank the sword free of his grasp. It landed in the dirt with a muffled thump, and I redirected my hammer's swing towards his head.
My foe unfortunately had experience on his side. His arms rose to stop my blow before it could crash into his head. Hands reached for the haft of my weapon in an attempt to disarm me, and I remembered something rather important: I still had a shield.
A shield which I wasted no time burying tip-first in the knight's stomach. The first blow stopped his grasping attempts to reach my weapon. The second brought his arms down. The third was stopped by an interfering arm.
There was no fourth strike with my shield.
Instead, my hammer crashed into my opponent's helm, knocking him to the ground. With the face, mind you. Using the spike to strike would earn me all the wrong kinds of attention.
A moment later, with a hammer leveled at his head, Ser Rykker stripped off a gauntlet and tossed it to me.
"I yield, ser." He said, voice muffled by the helmet. "Well fought."
"Well fought," I agreed, jamming the gauntlet into my belt. After the melee, when the time came to collect the ransom, I would need it. Until then, it was little more than a trophy gauging how skilled, or tired, an opponent was.
All of the action and reaction took no less than a few breaths, a minute at most. But then again, in combat, a second can be the crucial difference between victory and defeat. Standing still was tantamount to suicide.
Speaking of which, I had to get moving and get my head back in the game.
The knight of House Stokeworth was still busy trading blows with a knight whose heraldry showed a yellow crab on blue. It was an even fight from the look of things: sword and shield against sword and shield. An even fight that would go on for a while. No, I needed to find other opponents.
The white armored knights had met in the center of the tourney field, half a dozen knights lying on the ground around them as a warning not to interfere in their duel. Sword against spear. Hah, no!
Ah. there we go.
A knight with red chevrons on his shield was also without an opponent, standing with a gauntlet at his belt. He would serve. Banging my hammer against my shield to grab his attention, I approached my next opponent.
He, in turn, raised his sword in a silent salute, accepting my challenge.
Like many of the other knights competing, he was armed with sword and shield, though he kept the point of his shield turned towards his elbow. Preference for defensive shield usage, then. Since he used a sword, that left him with limited offensive potential against a heavily armored foe.
Heavy armor that most knights boasted.
Still, he was eager to fight and that worried me.
The knight, whose heraldry I belatedly recognized as that of House Rosby, wasted no time and began his offensive with a strike I easily caught on my shield's iron rim. Knocking the sword away, I retaliated with my hammer but struck only air as the knight retreated.
The retreat transitioned smoothly into a lunge that rang my head like a bell, leaving me reeling and subsequently missing an opportunity to repeat the disarming move I had used on the other knight. The follow-up strike to my neck, however, I was able to stop with my shield. Unfortunately, my next attack too fell short.
Did I just not have enough reach?
Or was I too slow?
No, I was just too inexperienced. Inexperience that could all too easily lead to a lack of confidence. And that would inevitably lead to my defeat.
The only solution? Fake it until I made it.
Backpedaling, I gained some distance from the Rosby knight, his blade cutting only air. He transitioned seamlessly into another cut, chopping at my shoulder. But this time, I did not idly let him strike me. No, I had a plan.
I lashed out with my shield, slamming the blade out of the way. Meanwhile, my hammer struck my foe's waiting shield. Practically worthless as far as hits went, but it was still a successful attack.
All that mattered was getting that next hit.
It was a pattern that repeated itself. One of us would begin to push the other, only to fail to land a decisive blow. A counter would force the other on the defensive, gaining breathing room to land an attack of their own. It would deteriorate into a barely felt series of blows until one of us broke away to reassess our plan of attack.
And through it all, with every blow that I landed, I felt new strength trickle into my limbs. The confidence I needed, the belief that I could beat the more experienced knight before me, slowly grew until I felt bold enough to try something that might let me win.
The next attack was aimed higher than usual, an attack which if not corrected would slide off the top of the helmet without leaving as much as a ringing in the ears. This being a hammer, it was simply a matter of flicking the wrist to change the trajectory and maintain momentum.
As a result, it was hardly something the knight could ignore, and he interposed his shield as he hammered my own shield with a powerful blow.
But it gave me the opportunity to make my own opening.
Sliding the hammer forwards, the head began to peek over the top of the shield as I took another blow to the side.
And then I turned the hammer to the spiked side.
Pulling hard on the hammer, I shifted the shield out of position. The knight realized what I was doing, of course, but not before giving me a gap of several inches. And, more importantly, a convenient pivot for my next strike.
The point of my shield hammered into his side, and I heard the distinctive sound of protesting metal. Unfortunately, I was unable to capitalize on the opportunity I had created because of one small factor I had failed to consider: the ground.
Churned dirt did not offer the greatest traction, as I learned to my chagrin.
My back foot lost all traction as I slid onto my knees against my will, my attack aborted as I was forced to catch myself. I did not lose my weapon, thankfully, but I did lose the best opportunity I was going to get to win this fight. Undone by the ground all things!
This could not stand. Literally.
I took a blow to the head that once again set my hearing ringing and nearly sent me sprawling, but it did little to dissuade me from desperate action.
I charged.
From my low starting position, I slammed into the knight's legs, sending him clattering to the ground, with me soon following suit. The difference was that I was on top of the pile, with a dangerous weapon in hand.
The spike on my hammer rested above the helmet's eye slit as I waited for him to see wisdom.
"I yield, ser." The words, though muffled, seemed to be delivered grudgingly. No further words left his helmet, but he offered his gauntlet to me, nonetheless. And thus, I had two jammed into my belt as I returned to my feet to see-
To see a field devoid of knights, save for the two knights of the Kingsguard still engaged in a duel at the center of it all, with a knight in the familiar heraldry of House Darklyn collapsed nearby. He must have tried to interfere, poor fool.
Was I all that was left? Whirling around to inspect the field, I saw only the rough dirt ringed by the stands, with the occasional unconscious knight in the process of being dragged away by the servants.
Were there only three knights remaining? Was I one of the three?
I did not want to fight either of the white knights.
Of course, judging by the burning within my arms and legs that I was no longer able to ignore, it would not be much of a fight. Thus, I stood off to the side and waited for the knights at least twice my age to finish their fight while I vainly hoped for the adrenaline to return and take away the ache in my limbs.
It did not happen of course.
By the time the throb in my sore legs advanced to a dull scream, Ser Pate made a mistake. His recovery on a thrust was just a moment too slow, and his spear was quickly snapped in two by Ser Ryam's blade, and the former chose that moment to yield to his younger sworn brother. Said sworn brother checked the arena for other challengers, finding nothing until his eyes settled on me.
Without a word, his blade saluted me, my hammer mirroring the motion to the delight of the crowd.
What else could I do?
Said delight grew deafening barely a moment later as my hand was contemptuously relieved of its weapon in a single blow from Ser Ryam.
"I yield, ser."
"Accepted," The young knight of the Kingsguard said without hesitation. "Remove your helm, ser. Show these fine people the face of the mystery knight."
Had I known that the crowd could get even louder the moment I took off my helm, I would have refused.
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