The Trial of Flags
The warming air had reduced the snow in the training yard to graying mounds that diminished each day. The air was brisk, but only a few icicles remained in the shadowed corners of the yard. Ransom gripped the blunted sword, breathing slowly to calm himself, his vision limited by the iron helmet. Even in a war game, he felt the urge for violence. He feared losing control of himself again.
“We need a strategy,” Devon said, standing shoulder to shoulder with him, watching as the rabble of knights began to approach.
“Aye, don’t let them take our flag,” said Sir Robert Tregoss.
There were four corners within the square training yard, and a flag was posted in each. The game ended when all four flags were in the possession of one band of knights. It was a game that left bruises, twisted ankles, and often concussed skulls. Duke Benedict’s team was edging toward them on the right. Prince Goff from the left. The Elder King’s knights stood directly across from them, although they were holding back. For now.
“Who should we attack first?” asked Devon.
“Benedict is the most determined to win,” said Ransom.
“Just call him Bennett like the rest of us. There’s something about being the second in line, isn’t there?” said Devon with a grunt. “What would you call it, Ransom? Jealousy?”
“Poverty,” Ransom replied. The Younger King was good at banter, and they had gotten to know each other well these last months.
A throb of warning touched his mind, and he felt the familiar stirring of the waters. Each of the princes wore a tunic identifying him as one of the Elder King’s sons. Yet as Ransom stared at the figure that should be Benedict, he had the sudden impression that the prince had switched tunics with one of his knights. With everyone wearing helmets, there was no way of seeing the faces.
“Eyes on Bennett’s men,” Ransom blurted out.
“What is it?” Devon said.
That was all the warning he had time to give. All five of Benedict’s knights charged them at once, leaving their flag undefended.
“On the ready!” Devon shouted. “Dex aie!”
It was the battle cry the Younger King had chosen. As one, his knights shouted it in response as they prepared for the onslaught. Ransom led the attack, feeling his heart thump in his chest, and confidence sing in his blood. It was like a dam bursting whenever he went into battle. But to his surprise, all five of Benedict’s knights singled him out. They weren’t trying to bludgeon past them to seize their flag—they wanted to take him out of the competition. He crossed swords with the first, deflecting a blow, and then kicked the knight in the chest, knocking him down on his back. Three more charged him, screaming in rage, trying to barrel him to the ground.
“They’re after Ransom!” shouted Simon.
Ransom spun around, bringing an elbow into the visor of one attacker, while using the length of his dulled blade to block a thrust aimed at his side. He clenched his blade with both gloved hands, then swung the hilt like a mace into the helmet of another attacker. Someone kicked at his leg, but Ransom didn’t flinch, even when he felt the pain. He swung his blade around again, knocking another man down before reversing it, bringing it down hilt first. A fourth knight charged at him, swinging like a man gone mad. Ransom sensed it was Benedict—even though he couldn’t see any visual indication of it, he knew it deep in his bones.
Benedict came at him like a reaper on a field, making long sweeps with his sword, trying to get close enough to deliver a stunning blow. Ransom blocked the first two and counterattacked, putting the prince on the defense. He advanced, swinging blow after blow, testing the prince’s defenses as he’d done throughout the winter months. One of Benedict’s knights, the one wearing his tunic, tried to hit him from the side, but he sensed it and ducked, countering with a slash that knocked the blade from the fake prince’s hand. The real prince tried to surprise him with a clubbing blow to the helmet, but Ransom caught Benedict’s forearm on his, kneeing him in the stomach as he did so. When the prince crumpled, he wrested the sword from his hands and, for good measure, shoved him down on his back.
He stood over the prostrate prince, holding two swords instead of one, then nodded to the young man before turning. Goff’s men had attacked them while Ransom was preoccupied, and Devon was nearly surrounded. Ransom rushed to him, kicking down a knight who had encircled behind the fight to strike the Younger King in the back. The kick sent the knight down on one knee before Ransom clubbed him on the helm with a pommel. He saw another knight trying to get back on his feet again and gave him a boot to the ribs to dissuade him from rejoining the fight.