Lair of Beasts [Book I in the Curse Of Blood Saga]

Chapter XVIII - Wolf Moon

January 1370

"A man is not fit for battle unless he has witnessed his own life's blood rushing from his wounds or heard his teeth cracking from a mighty blow." 

I compressed my lips in distaste as Warwick continued his enlightening tutelage — with regard to the general rules and objectives of the jousting tournament. Anne and Carac's father was neither as large as his son nor as terrifying, albeit he exuded an unmistakable air of command and assertiveness that was tempered by an easy disposition that was quick to favor humor. He also did not seem old enough to be Lucian's grandfather — he was still so lively and strong and it was almost inconceivable that he was old enough to be a grown man's grandfather.

Howbeit, Carac too was young, no more than two years Lucian's senior, and yet he was uncle to Caine and Lucian — the youngest of Warwick's brood of four.

Warwick had taken it upon himself to educate me on all things jousting. Having never attended a tournament, I appreciated this immensely and absorbed all that he would impart with greedy ears, although I did find myself cringing in horror ever and anon as he took pleasure in the telling of each graphic detail.

Fendrel had, almost as soon as he'd arrived, decided — nay, decreed — that Nørrdragor would sponsor a jousting tournament, albeit on a minor scale, in honor of the New Year and to celebrate my impending marriage into the Greyback Clan; which would take place in no less than three short days!

I watched, eyes wide and riveted to the lists, as my betrothed and one of Fendrel's senior knights — each mounted on their respective, fierce-looking destriers — ambled out casually from opposite ends of the tilting yard on opposing sides of the partition wall. We were in a clearing, not far from the castle, and the air was crisp and unusually sunny for a winter morning.

No snow had fallen since Christmas, which fortunately suited the day's activities, and yet the air was no less biting as I sat with Godwin, Fendrel, Rose, Warwick and Anne in the grandstand which was raised a level higher than the tilting field. The tents and pavilions around the field were brimming with spectators — nobility and commoners alike, all gathered in enthusiastic celebration of this momentous day for there had not been a joust at Nørrdragor in many years.

"The wall is there to reduce injury to the knight's mount." Warwick pointed enthusiastically at the partition. He then indicated the fourteen foot weapon in Lucian's right hand before he added, "And the lance he holds is hollowed out soft wood, possibly ash, tipped with a crown-shaped coronal that is made up of three prongs and, although blunt, is used to catch on the opponent's shield..." His smile became rather bloodthirsty of a sudden. "The better to unhorse the other rider." I shuddered, imagining the bone-crunching sounds that might shortly ensue.

Lucian wore an impressive plate armor of skillfully hammered metal sheets that were rounded beautifully then strapped on over his mail hauberk to fit the shape of his powerful limbs and frame. I recognized him easily by his size and colors: the crest on his helm was the ever-present, ferocious-looking, silver wolf — fangs bared grimly at his opponent — signifying the Greyback heraldry; even his breast plate was engraved with a large wolf's head.

Cadeyrn, Lucian's blackhearted, obsidian charger, was also decorated in the distinct familial coat of arms and colors. His sumptuous barding, the traditional armor of all fine war horses, was mostly black and the ornamental caparison, that was like to cover all horses during tournaments, was hued in the usual Greyback vermillion and gold that, although the horse was adorned lavishly, did not at all detract from his dreadful mien. Had he, Lucian, been adorned in naught but plain black, I would yet have known him anywhere — such was his formidable bearing.