“Alaric. No house. I’m competing without heraldry.”
The scribe’s quill paused. His throat bobbed.
Alaric stared down at him, daring him to question further. This kind of thing happened, sometimes bastards seeking glory, disgraced knights chasing redemption, third sons with nothing to inherit and everything to prove. He could pretend to be any one of those men, and none of those roles would fit quite right. Except he was, today, one of the nameless knights. In its own way, that caste was as much a tradition at these tournaments as the great houses’ champions.
“A problem, scribe?” Alaric murmured.
The scribe hesitated. Finally, he shrugged.
“The Nameless Knight, then.” The scribe’s voice went high, brows dancing up his forehead as he made a mark in his ledger. Alaric’s gaze narrowed. Was that judgement, from the man who’d just happily accepted a bribe? The insolence made his jaw clench.
“You’ll be assigned to whatever bracket has a gap. No complaints if you draw the Upstart first round.”
Alaric’s expression remained impassive, but an excited jolt quickened his pulse. “Who?”
The scribe nodded toward the main lists, where a distant roar of approval was building. “See for yourself.”
The stands, meant for thrice today’s rabble, yawned half-empty beneath the blazing sun. A handful of self-important minor lords huddled under patched awnings; off-duty knights, pampered squires, and gentry milled below. No true powerbroker bothered to grace this spectacle— the province’s High Lord likely hadn’t even noticed the farce unfolding on his land.
The field north of the lists held the real audience, all crammed against the rail: filthy commoners whose stench rose like a miasma from the hot press of bodies. They were utterly uncaring about being doused in the dust rising from the field. Their hoots and vulgar taunts rattled the air, but their racket meant little to someone of quality. The knights preparing in the lists paid them no heed, either.
Alaric found a position at the edge of the field, just meters from the registration pavilion, where a weathered support beam offered something to lean against. Fromhere, the joust appeared in profile: the knights would charge parallel to his sight line, the point of their impact partially obscured by the corner of the stands and the dust that rose in clouds from the trampled earth. But if he craned just right, he could see both the knights perfectly.
The first contestant radiated noble polish–exemplar posture, his weight centred, lance angled precisely as he was no doubt taught by his expensive tutors. His immaculate armour caught the sunlight, heraldry rendered in crimson and gold—the trappings of a lesser noble house’s expendable son. House Pidon, Alaric thought it was. He’d serve as a tolerable exercise, but hardly a true challenge.
But the other man?—
Alaric studied him.
He rode with a rider’s instinct, not a pupil’s caution. Pale skin reddening at the neck, he moved as if born in the saddle. It was the easy familiarity of someone who’d learned to ride before he learned to read, if he’d learned to read at all. All that bobbing and swaying and moving with the horse was dangerous; you couldn’t let your mount think it had any control.
No master-at-arms worth his salt would permit such carefree sway.
His armour had seen more use than care, w. Which was more the squire’s fault, Alaric supposed—though some knights made it very difficult for their squires to do their jobs well. Dents in the cuirass had been beaten smooth rather than replaced, scratches left to gather their own history. The leather was dark with age and sweat, not the patina of fashion but of long service endured. It was service, Alaric thought, that explained the man’s face as well: he had a crooked nose, one that had been broken and set poorly. So many nobles wanted to preserve their faces,regardless of how pretty they were. This man didn’t mind appearing a brute.
His reddish-blond hair fell wild at his collar, defying all noble grooming. His ears protruded, and they were red, too, likely from time spent squashed beneath his helmet. But even at a glance, Alaric could tell he was well-muscled. Solid. Beneath every seam and plate, the man was coiled like a spring.
When his squire hefted a battered shield emblazoned in yellow and blue—the Upstart’s colours—Alaric felt something akin to anticipation. A house so minor he could barely recall its name had plucked him from obscurity. He would cling to this chance with everything he possessed.
A commoner, yes—but potentially the fiercest adversary in this sorry pageant. Far more alluring than any pampered scion in gilded plate.
Alaric adjusted my stance, shoulders squared. Let the real contest begin.
When they finished getting ready, and both knights were properly attired, the herald’s trumpet sounded. Both knights spurred their mounts, closing the distance between them in a thunder of hooves. Immediately, it didn’t go as Alaric had suspected—the polished knight’s lance, for all his training, wavered. He dropped his lance too low, then wobbled with the sudden change in his centre of balance.
The Upstart kept charging. His entire body moved as a single unit: arm, shoulder, seat, horse, all aligned along a trajectory as inevitable as Alaric’s next drawn breath.
Bang.
The polished knight left his saddle with a sound like a barrel breaking. He hit the barrier, bounced, and went still in the dust. His horse cantered on, confused, until a handler caught its reins.
The Upstart didn’t look back. He completed his pass, slowed to a walk, and raised his visor.
The crowd went wild for him, all of them chanting that strange epithet.Up-start! Up-start! Up-start!
The Upstart’s square jaw twinged as he offered them all a lopsided smile. He waved at the crowd, then began to beat his breast and hoot. The common folks went wild at this, and ah, no wonder he was a crowd favourite. He was one of their ilk. The Upstart had given them something to believe in: a man like them, risen through merit, defeating the sons of houses who’d never worked for anything. And he wasn’t particularly handsome, either, not in the courtly sense—not so unattainably pretty a lowborn schmuck couldn’t pretend to be him in his dreams. But certainly, the knight was compelling. And he had all his teeth, which put him far above plenty in that caste.
Interesting.
