“Naturally, that as well,” Milord Gelmi replied, embarrassed. “Are you aware that today is the annual royal tournament? His Majesty has invited you to join him in the royal box.”
“Most certainly.”
“At the end of the tournament our bowmen will try their skill. They say you are a fine shot, Tresh Endargassa. Would you care to join the contest?”
“No, thank you,” said the prince, with his features set in a faint smile. “I think that would not be entirely honor—”
There was a sudden movement in the air, and an arrow struck Endargassa in the neck. The elf swayed, clutched at his throat, gasped, and fell from his steed onto the street.
The dark elves grabbed their s’kashes, the men clutched their swords, the crowd scattered wildly, trampling each other underfoot, someone dashed to the body, hoping to stop the blood, but it was already too late. Endargassa, the crown prince of the House of the Black Rose, was dead.
“The marksman’s on the roof,” someone shouted.
“Men will answer for the death of my lord!” roared Eroch, holding the body of his prince tight against himself.
Count Pelan Gelmi was pale-faced and frightened. He was surrounded by fifty grim and furious dark elves, who had just lost their noble kinsman.
We have to act, or swords will be drawn! he thought.
“Chuch! Cut off the street! Brakès, gallop to the king with the news. Darkness, find that marksman! Paru, summon the entire guard here! Don’t just stand there! Do something!”
The men went dashing off to carry out their orders; the count dismounted and leaned down over the dead elf. Eroch was kneeling in a puddle of blood, with his s’kash lying beside him. He had broken the arrow and pulled it out of Endargassa’s neck, and the two harmless pieces were lying in the blood.
“If you do not find the assassin, we shall take our own revenge for the death of Tresh Endargassa,” Eroch said with bitter hatred.
The count picked up the pieces of the arrow, getting bloodstains on his expensive formal gloves.
“Chuch!”
“Yes, milord.” One of the knight’s men rode up and reined in his horse.
“Do you recognize that?” the count asked the lieutenant of the guard, sticking a piece of the arrow under his nose.
“Ye-es…” Chuch was just as surprised as the count. “That arrow…”
“I think we shall catch your lord’s killer within the hour,” Lord Gelmi interrupted, turning to Eroch.
“We will wait … for an hour.”
* * * There was still at least an hour to go until the beginning of the royal tournament, but Djok was already hurrying on his way to the field where the main competitions were due to be held. For one thing, he was curious to find out who would compete in the general combat, and for another, he needed to prepare—check the wind and inspect the area where all the competitions would take place.
There was something wrong as he walked along the street leading to the field, but Djok couldn’t work out what it was. Then he realized—it was the people! There were far too few of them for the day of the royal tournament! For some reason there were no townsfolk hurrying to take their seats on the benches.
Everybody was discussing something that had happened near the Muddy Gates. Apparently one of the elves had been killed, but Djok didn’t give it a thought, he was completely focused on the victory he was going to win and not concerned about anything else. For the last hour all the bowman had seen in his mind’s eye was the red and white target with the bull’s-eye into which he had to plant at least eight arrows.
Djok walked the final hundred paces to the end of the street and the beginning of the tournament grounds completely alone. Everybody seemed to have vanished into thin air. There was not a soul to be seen, apart from some soldiers of the royal guard standing ahead of him. Djok frowned. Firstly, what were these guardsmen doing here, when usually the municipal guard was used? And secondly, there were far more soldiers than necessary.
There were at least twenty men on foot, half of them with lances and half with crossbows. And ten men on horseback, all in full armor and looking very belligerent. Djok assumed that the knight in white and green armor was in command; at least his armor was the most finely finished.
The men waited in silence as he approached without speaking and no one moved. Djok slowed down and gasped—the tournament flags and the blue and gray royal banner had been lowered to half- mast.
“Has the king died, then?” he muttered in amazement.
That certainly would explain why there had been no one hurrying to the tournament and why the people had looked so worried and frightened.
The guardsmen’s faces were dour and tense. Djok walked up to the men who were blocking his path and turned to one soldier with whom he had drunk beer a few times: “Tramur, what’s going on?”
“Well, just look, he’s come to us!” the soldier said with a crooked grin, taking a tighter grip on his lance. “Drop that bow, you vermin!”
“What?” said Djok, startled. He glanced at the knight in white and green, but the knight didn’t speak.
Tramur struck Djok in the stomach with the handle of his lance. The young man doubled over in pain and dropped his bow. Tears sprang to his eyes and he was completely winded.
The second blow landed on his neck, and the surface of the road swayed, then leapt up and hit him hard in the face. His mouth filled up with blood, his head was full of swirling fog, he tried to get up and ask why they were beating him, but someone kicked him under the ribs and he collapsed back onto the stones of the road.
They beat him for a long time in silence. He tried to protect his head with his hands and curled up like a baby in its mother’s womb, but he couldn’t get away from the blows, there was nowhere to hide. The blows just kept on showering down. Powerful, painful, desperate.
The archer could no longer taste the blood in his mouth, there was too much of it. The noise in his ears was turning thick and dull, like a muddy swamp. Eventually somebody’s voice roared: “That’s enough! Enough, I say! The elves don’t want a dead man.”
Djok didn’t hear any more after that. He dove into the shelter of oblivion.
* * * He spent the next few days in a foggy daze, waking up in a narrow cell, a genuine stone box, where three men with bored faces, wearing the emblem of the Royal Sandmen, asked him strange, frightening questions.
At first Djok tried to explain, to tell them that he was innocent, but then the beatings started again. Nobody wanted to listen to him.
All the Sandmen wanted was confession, otherwise the dark elves, who were insane with fury, would turn the kingdom into a bloodbath. And then the torture began. He broke down at the third session and confessed to all the outrages that they attributed to him. He no longer cared what happened to him, just as long as they left him in peace for at least a little while.
Djok’s face had been smashed into a bloody pulp, his nose was broken in several places, his fingers had been shattered and his ribs broken and he was covered all over in bruises and cuts. He could barely even move when they tossed him onto the urine-soaked straw in his cell; all he could do was breathe and whine and go to sleep
Sometimes the door of the cell would open and he would have visitors. At those moments he groaned quietly and pitifully, because they started beating him again. Then oblivion returned and for more than a week he was on the brink of death.
