Dragonlance Tales - The Reign Of Istar Part 8

AS IT SOMETIMES DOES TO MAKE AGING MEN FEEL.

YOUNG. HE LAY AWAKE FOR HOURS THE NIGHT.

LORAINE, LEAPING UP, KISSED HIS NOSE (HE.

CAUGHT HER, AS HE ALWAYS DID) AND SAID, "I.

HOPE YOUR HONOR IS NEVER AS SOFT AS YOUR.

TOUCH.".

IS IT, HE WONDERED? DO I WANT TO STAY A.

KNIGHT AND LIVE FOR A WAR THAT WILL NEVER.

COME, OR WOULD I RATHER GIVE MY WHOLE LIFE.

TO LORAINE?.

THAT WAS EIGHTEEN SUMMERS AGO, SHORTLY.

BEFORE TARLI WAS BORN.

In the afternoon breeze, the wooden saddle-mounts creaked on the ropes and pulleys. The squires looked from the mounts to the rack of s.h.i.+elds and metal-tipped lances,and stared uneasily at the suspicious-looking rust-brown stains on the courtyard stones. The stones had been scrubbed well, but the stains were too deep to come out.

Moran was proud of those stains; he'd spent much of last week painting them on and aging them. "Right."

All heads turned. He stood in the archway, a twelve- foot lance tucked under his arm as easily as if it were a riding whip.

He saluted with the lance, missing the arch top by inches. He flipped the lance over his right shoulder, then his left, then spun it around twice and tucked it under his arm, all without sc.r.a.ping the arch.

Tarli applauded. His clapping slowed, then stopped, under his cla.s.smates' cold stares.

"The lance," Moran said loudly, "is the knights' weapon of tradition. Huma consecrated one, called Huma's Grace, to Paladine. A single knight, with a single lance, defeated forty-two mounted enemies during the Siege of Tarsis."

He looked over the group with disdain. "Let me also mention that your lance may - just may - keep you alive while you are squires. Later you'll train with footmen's lances. For now - " He pointed the lance suddenly under Saliak's nose, then transferred the lance to his left hand and all but stabbed Tarli. "You and you, choose lances and mount up."

Saliak flinched. Tarli, to Moran's pleasure, did not even blink.

"On the barrels?" Tarli cried in excitement. He stared at the wooden mounts, whose reins ran through eyelets to join the pulley ropes.

"They're not barrels, runtlet," Saliak hissed.

Tarli shrugged. "They're not horses, either. What are they supposed to be?"

Saliak said, "Who cares," and pulled the first lance from the rack. He snapped it up, then down, in a clumsy salute. He was long-limbed and strong. Despite his inexperience, he could control the lance well.

Tarli lifted his own lance upright and staggered as the weight toppled him backward.

"It's too long," he complained. His cla.s.smates snickered.

Moran regarded him solemnly. "Grow into it."

Saliak laughed loudly.

Carrying his lance clumsily by the middle, Tarli walked over to his mount, which was scored with lance hits. A stubby board projected from under each side of the saddle. He studied them. "If these were bigger, I'd say they were wings."

He turned to face Moran, his face alight. "It's supposed to be a dragon, isn't it? You're training us to fight dragons, like in the cla.s.sroom tapestry."

Good guess, Moran thought. Once that was probably true; now the drill was kept to honor Huma and to make beginning squires feel clumsy and humble.

Aloud he said only, "Spotters," and pa.s.sed the ropes to the boys. "When I give the signal, raise the mounts into the air. Riders, mount up, take reins and s.h.i.+elds, and fasten your lances."

The two combatants straddled their mounts. Saliak sat easily and comfortably with bent knees, the unmistakablepose of someone who had owned and ridden horses. Tarli could only reach the stirrups by half-standing.

They set the lances in the saddle-mounted swivels. The greater weight of the lance was in front. Tarli kept his weapon upright by putting nearly his full weight on the b.u.t.t end. He swung the point up clumsily.

Saliak swung his sideways, up, down, and circled it. He smiled at Tarli. "Say good-bye."

Moran paused before signaling the start. "Yes?" he said to Steyan. "Did you want to say something?"

Steyan, who looked as if he hadn't slept in nights, glanced back at Saliak speculatively.

"Nothing," he mumbled finally. Several of the other novices looked relieved.

Moran turned to the riders, dropped his raised hand.

"Now." The spotters tugged on the ropes. The mounts swung into the air.

Tarli nearly dropped his lance when his mount jerked upward; his spotters had pulled too hard, possibly intentionally. He recovered, but his lance popped out of the swivel, and he was forced to bear its full weight. The tip dropped to where it couldn't threaten anyone except Tarli's own spotters.

Early days, thought Moran. Let him make his mistakes here, where he might survive.

On the riders' first pa.s.s, Saliak speared Tarli's s.h.i.+eld, knocked it to the ground. His cla.s.smates cheered.

Tarli stared down at the s.h.i.+eld, then, brus.h.i.+ng his hair out of his eyes, he looked up at the exultant Saliak. Tarli's expression was excited and confused, but unafraid.

At a tug on the reins, Saliak's spotters dragged him backward, then launched him straight at Tarli.

Saliak swung his lance sideways. Tarli crouched against the saddle, avoided being slashed.

By intention or by accident, Saliak sliced through Tarli's reins. Tarli's spotters, given no signals, tugged wildly.

Tarli lurched from side to side, trying to avoid being smashed against the courtyard walls. He glanced at Moran, the boy's eyes asking for help or advice.

Moran watched silently.

Saliak pulled back on his reins and hung motionless, watching Tarli's flight. Drying his palms on his legs, Saliak grasped the lance firmly. His spotters slowly pulled him backward, preparing for his forward arc.

Tarli glared in frustration at the lance he could barely hold. Suddenly, he took the reins in his mouth. Holding the lance crosswise, like a balance pole, he smashed it against the saddle pommel. The lance broke in two.

The watchers gasped. Tarli threw down the lance point, tied the broken reins hastily around the b.u.t.t, and whirled the stick over his head by the leather thong. The stick whirred like a living thing. Tarli's mount swung crazily.

Saliak dove toward him.

Saliak aimed the lance straight for Tarli's unguarded chest.

Tarli leaned away, brought the whirling lance end down on Saliak's lance, breaking it. The pieces bounced over Saliak's s.h.i.+eld, struck him in the forehead.

Stunned, Saliak dropped his reins. Tarli s.h.i.+fted hissmall body to the center of the saddle, whirled the lance b.u.t.t faster.

The mounts, both out of control, swung past each other.

Tarli got in four more good hits before Saliak fell off into the arms of his spotters.

Tarli slid off his mount easily, catching the footrest and lowering himself to the ground to shorten his fall. He ran to where Saliak sat, dazedly rubbing his eyes.

Tarli bent down and patted the bigger boy. "Don't cry."

Moran had seen one man look at another as Saliak did at Tarli. It was in a seaside tavern in Tarsis. The ensuing fight involved marlinespikes, and the memory made Moran queasy still.

Saliak staggered to his feet, turned away. Tarli shrugged and went to join the others, but they edged over to Saliak. Even the tall, thin one and the fat one, possibly fearing their cla.s.smates, shunned Tarli.

Moran looked impa.s.sively at them all. "Drill is over until we can repair the mounts." The other boys looked more relieved than disappointed. "Go to your barracks."

Tarli stayed behind to pick up the thonged stick he had made. He looked up and noticed the knight standing over him.

"I've made an enemy," the boy said.

Moran nodded. "Only one?"

A grin flickered across Tarli's tired face. "Saliak is the best-liked boy in Xak Tsaroth. Maybe in the world. His father hosts his own festival in autumn. His father and grandfather were both knights."

For just a moment, Tarli sagged. "I wonder what that feels like, to have a father so important that everyone respects you before you even do anything."

He left the courtyard, swinging the stick on the thong.

Moran stared after him, aching inside.

THEY WALKED THROUGH THE MARKET BY.

EVENING, LORAINE TUGGING ON HIS HAND. THEY.

LOOKED MORE LIKE FATHER AND DAUGHTER THAN.

LOVERS. FROM TIME TO TIME, A BREEZE WOULD.

SWEEP THE MARKETPLACE, AND SHE WOULD.

CAREFULLY, ALMOST PRIMLY, PAT HER BEAUTIFUL.

HAIR IN PLACE OVER HER EARS. MORAN LOVED.

WATCHING HER.

HE ENJOYED TELLING HER ABOUT THE MARKET'S.

VARIOUS WARES. "THAT GADGET, THAT'S.

GNOMEWARE FROM MOUNT NEVERMIND... IT'S.

PROBABLY ILLEGAL TO SELL IT, AND IT'S CERTAINLY.

DANGEROUS. THAT AXE, THE DWARVES USE THOSE.

UP NORTH TO CUT FIREWOOD. THE BLADES'LL.

LAST A DWARFS LIFETIME, LET ALONE OURS. THAT.

HAMMOCK, THAT'S MADE BY NET WEAVERS FROM.

Tarsis. TALISIN AND I WENT THERE ONCE, WHEN I WAS YOUNG...." HE STOPPED.

LORAINE REACHED UP AND TOUCHED HIS ARM.

"YOU MISS HIM ALL THE TIME.".

"WHEN I WAS YOUNG, HE WAS EVERYTHING TO.

ME. HE TOOK ME EVERYWHERE, AND PEOPLE WERE.

GOOD TO ME JUST BECAUSE I WAS WITH HIM. ILEARNED ALL I KNOW OF THE WORLD FROM HIM.".

"HE WAS LIKE A FATHER TO YOU. EVERYONE.

NEEDS SOMEONE LIKE THAT." SHE REGARDED HIM.

CRITICALLY. "YOU'D MAKE A WONDERFUL.

FATHER.".

HE LOOKED DOWN AT HER NERVOUSLY. "WHAT.

MAKES YOU SAY THAT?".