The Final Joust

A Tale of Ace Gallagher Short from Book #4
by Jill D'Entremont

“And now: the final match of this tournament,” Havar proclaimed from atop his dusty friesian. “The two knights who have fought with the most skill, prowess–and even some cunning–will take to the ring one last time and prove who is, indeed, the best of all knights in the realm!”

Despite some booing left over from the outcome of the previous joust, the crowd, as a whole, was feeding right into the hype the grandmaster was giving them.

“One knight, seasoned with experience and adeptly skilled; the other, a young challenger who has proven his worth with ruthless determination. These knights: Sir Lucas Santiago of Daethos, and Sir Michael Gallagher of Northaven!”

Ed blinked. “Gallagher? You’ve got to be kidding me…”

The crowd burst into a lively cheer around him.

Havar turned his horse and began to pace her slowly across the field. “As these knights suit up one last time, let us recall the daring feats we have witnessed today.”

While the grandmaster began to recall the first joust, Ed took his chance to slip out of the arena. He staggered to a stop, noting the number of patrolmen stationed at the door had doubled since he had entered. They glanced at him for only a moment, but soon turned their attention back to the field. His brows lowered, he continued past them without another look.

He hurried around the hill, finding a worn path that led into the knights’ courtyard. He scanned the canvas tents, each decorated in the colors of each knight, looking for any sign of Ace among them. He stepped into the camp and immediately crossed the open tent of Sir Santiago. He was turned away as his squire fastened his breastplate. His black and white tunic was stained with mud, sharply contrasted by the brighter colors of the banners hanging around him.

Beside it, Ed found another tent bearing Daethos’ colors and crest–along with a second crest with a golden lion on a field of red. The tent was closed, but there was clearly activity going on behind the canvas. The next two tents were empty, bearing the green coat of arms for Weiva, the lavender shades of Valiant. The next tent was closed and only had a few red and black banners tied to the posts.

At last, Ed approached the tent with the coat of arms of Northaven, but he found the tent flap closed. He frowned, debating bursting into the tent to catch Ace off guard.

“Here you are, sir.”

Ed abruptly turned around to face the stables across from the circle of tents to find an older man adjusting the pauldron on a young man’s right shoulder.

“Holy mother of dracleons: that is Ace Gallagher in a jousting tournament…” Ed whispered under his breath.

He discreetly slipped into an empty stall, blending into the shadows as both Ace and his armor-bearer were facing away from him. He held his breath, watching the man tighten the straps of the knight’s armor one last time.

“Ow–careful,” Ace winced, grasping the sleeve of his red and black tunic.

“My apologies, Sir. That shoulder’s taken quite a beating,” Wayland mentioned gently. “You would do well to not fall from your horse another time.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” he puffed air through his lips. He then squared up with Wayland as the man lifted the silver helmet from the rack. As it was held in the air between them, Ace’s lips tugged to a smile. “Thanks for all your help, Wayland,” he said.

The older gentleman simply slipped the helmet onto the knight’s head and offered, “I am here to serve.” When he stepped back to survey his work, he caught Ace’s green eyes–barely visible beneath the shadow of the helmet.

“You show great promise, Sir Gallagher,” Wayland nodded, crossing his wrists as his arms hung at his middle. “Keep up your training, and I wouldn’t doubt this land will one day be filled with your tales.”

He let out a short laugh. “I’m not sure I want that anymore, to be honest.”

Wayland’s half-grin stretched beneath his gray mustache, and he turned to retrieve Lady from her stable. He assisted Ace into the high-backed jousting saddle, then adjusted the red and black caparison beneath it that covered the mare’s white and brown fur. Lastly, he carefully attached the shield to Ace’s already tender shoulder.

“Are you ready, sir?” he asked.

“As I’ll ever be,” Ace quipped, gathering the reins in his hand.

The hired armor bearer nodded and followed silently behind the Knight of Northaven as they entered the tiltyard. The clouds were continuing to thicken in the air, dulling the once vibrantly sunny day. It seemed even the weather knew the end of the tournament was near.

Back in the shadows, Ed’s lips were skewed. He was shocked no one had bothered to check Ace’s true pedigree; stunned no one realized Ace was only a knight in honor, not in skill. He, on the other hand, had worked up the ranks and trained daily to earn his position as a knight in order to join the Daethen Patrol–although it had all been stripped upon his departure from the program. How could Ace simply slip through and gain a position in one of Daethos’ most prestigious games without doing any of the work to get there?

Cheers wafted into the stables as Sir Gallagher waved his hand to the crowded stands. 

Ed took a step into the middle of the room, watching the spectacle unfold.

And yet, somehow, the former thief and gambler had advanced to the final round.

“It has to be luck,” Ed muttered under his breath. “That’s all that kid has going for him.”

“Excuse me,” a voice came from behind him.

Ed scooted aside to find the black and white knight and his armor bearer entering the stable. He watched the armor bearer take the golden-colored mare from her stall and hold her reins as the knight climbed into the saddle. They then entered the field to a similar cacophony of cheers.

A bellowing voice was quickly approaching from the opposite direction. He slid back into the stall moments before a bearded knight in red and gold entered the stable with a purpose. His squire was running to keep up.

“Fetch my horse!” Sir Laude growled, adjusting the pieces of his armor as he stood in the center of the room.

The squire, however, was heaving to catch his breath with wide eyes. “Sir–I don’t–”

“Don’t what?” The knight roared to the squire, “Are you getting cold feet, Ratlin?”

The squire shook, raising up his hands as his eyes darted between the cries from the field, the snorting of the horse, and Rei’s seething breath.

“Well?”

"I just don’t–what if it doesn’t work?"

The squire could not move fast enough by the time he noticed the knight’s hands were on the golden hilt of his sword. He was slashed across the arm as he rolled away, shrieking as blood began staining the gray sleeves of his tabard.

“If you’re not on my side, I have no need for you!” Rei gripped the draconic sword with a tight fist. “Get out of here!!”

The squire staggered over his own feet and bolted out of the stables.

“You! Stablehand!”

Ed jumped, finding the knight glaring at him through the dim light.

“Fetch my horse, will you?” He slid the sword into its sheath. “The black stallion.”

The man swallowed and ran to the stall of the black stallion. He flinched when the horse pawed at the ground and snorted when he opened the stall, but he took the reins in his hand and led it out with a firm hand. The horse tried to back away more than once, but each time, Ed regained control.

Sir Laude watched the man work. “You have a good hand with horses,” he commented.

“Thank you, sir.” Ed nodded as the knight climbed onto his horse.

The knight turned toward the camp. “Attend, ho!”

Out of habit, Ed stood straight and fell in line behind Sir Laude–as a handful of other men rushed in and joined him.

Rei’s stance perked up at Ed’s gesture. “Are you a knight?”

Ed remained still under Rei’s scrutiny. “I was,” he emphasized the past tense.

Rei fingered his beard. “Daethos?”

“Northaven.”

“That will do.” The Knight of Daethos shifted in his saddle. “You lot–stay behind me and wait for my signal. My plan will not fail because of the men currently on this field.”

Ed swallowed again, glancing to the field before him as Sir Gallagher lined up for his final joust.