As he retrieved his arrows, he spotted Indulf, leaning against a tree, his arms crossed over his chest. One side of his mouth was drawn up in a smirk. He snickered as Tristan walked by. Fuming silently, his fury as taut as a bowstring, it was all Tristan could do to restrain himself. He joined Connor and Vaughan, who wisely said nothing as the trio returned to the tent.
That evening, huddled around the campfire, the competitors anxiously awaited the results of the archery event. Gorvenal finally posted the list of those who had advanced to the final competition.
Tristan, Vaughan, Connor, and Indulf had all qualified.
Twenty contestants now remained in theTournament of Champions, and the stakes were high.
Only the ten victors of the final event would be knighted by King Marke in the throne room of Tintagel to embark upon the journey to Camelot. Only the ten victors would earn the privilege of training under the legendary Sir Lancelot of the Lake, First Knight of King Arthur Pendragon. And only the ten victors would be dubbed Knights of the Round Table of Camelot.
Everyone fighting tomorrow seemed edgy and jumpy. Some competitors burned off steam with wooden swords on the dummies that had been set up on the practice field. Tristan, Vaughan, and Connor ran a few miles in the surrounding woods, and returned to enormous vats of steaming seafood and fresh fish cooked over an open fire.
Tristan ate his fill of haddock, crab, and scallops, then sat alone in quiet contemplation, mentally preparing for the final event. After a while, he and his companions retired to their tent, anxiously awaiting the dawn.
****
The salty tang of ocean spray and the pine scent of the surrounding forest perfumed the air as Tristan entered the field to compete. The sun blazed overhead, and under the heavy chainmail, he began to sweat. His muscles quivered with tension, begging for release.
He clutched his wooden sword and shield, his hands drenched inside the leather gloves. He shook out his legs to keep them limber. He had to win this fight. Too much was at stake.
His heart raced wildly. He was a child again, standing in the woods near his father’s castle in Lyonesse.
The enormous Viking with the horned helmet and the long red beard forced his bloodied, battered father to his knees. The massive arm raised the savage sword, ready to drop. He was too young, too weak to fight. He could do nothing to stop the lethal blade from slicing off his father’s head before his very eyes. Impotent rage and guilt were smothering him. His chest was too tight; he couldn’t breathe. His mouth was so dry…
A sharp, fierce croak rang out through the sky. Disoriented, Tristan looked up, momentarily blinded by the sun. A magnificent sea raven soared overhead, his wings unfurled in glorious grace.
Tristan remembered. He removed his glove, wiped the sweat from his brow, and kissed the brilliant blue eye of the sacredchoughon his ring. He took a deep breath, then blew it out from billowed cheeks, the bellows over a forge.
His opponent entered the field. Tristan was sorely disappointed to see that it was not Indulf, but a warrior named Donzel from the region of Camborne.
They circled each other, searching for weakness. Strategizing.
Tristan waited, tensely coiled, ready to attack. Donzel lunged; Tristan blocked and parried. His opponent lunged again wildly, and Tristan saw his opportunity.
He blocked the blow and reversed the attack, cutting upwards from his right. He brought his sword around in a tightcircle, launching a series of blows which disarmed and toppled Donzel to the ground.
Tristan held the tip of his wooden sword against his opponent’s exposed throat and placed his foot on Donzel’s stomach.
The crowd erupted in cheers.
Vaughan and Connor rushed to Tristan, congratulating him with slaps on the back, dragging him off the field to celebrate their combined victories.
“By the Goddess, Tristan, you’re a beast!” Vaughan roared, his arm wrapped tightly around Tristan’s neck.
They laughed and stumbled all the way back to their tent. With the help of their pages, they removed the heavy chain mail, then washed the sweat from their faces in buckets of icy water. Sporting fresh tunics and hearty grins, mugs of ale in hand, they proceeded to the area designated for thechampions.
Gorvenal and the masters-at-arms announced the names of the ten finalists who had qualified for the voyage to Camelot. Tristan was thrilled to hear the names of his friends and dismayed—but not surprised—to hear Indulf’s as well.
Cheers of victory resounded though the woods. The ten champions would soon be knighted by King Marke in an official dubbing ceremony, complete with a royal feast. They would embark on a journey to Camelot, to train with Sir Lancelot, and become Knights of the Round Table of King Arthur himself.
Holding up his mug of ale, Tristan proposed a toast to his two brothers in arms.
“To us, three champions from Cornwall! To King Marke, King Arthur, and Sir Lancelot!”
As the three friends gulped the ale from their goblets, wiping the foam from their lips, Vaughan shouted triumphantly,
“To Camelot!”
Chapter 5
