Queen's Heart: An Arthurian Paranormal Romance (Arthurian Hearts Book 2) by Phoenix Sullivan Page B
Authors: Phoenix Sullivan
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needed to counter the disadvantage of his still mending shoulder.
The last six knights fought each of their matches separately for the pleasure of the crowd. What was not to love watching such skill and prowess on display? Whatever political and personal differences we had with Orkney, there was no denying King Lot’s sons deserved the acclaim they had won by right of arms. Precise, ruthless, powerful, each was magnificent on the field before an appreciative crowd, seeming to take strength and motivation from the world around them.
Only a handful of knights between Ireland’s blue oceans and the sands of Egypt’s deserts could best the brothers at their peaks in a game of swords. Sirs Lancelot and Tristan came first to mind. And today I could add two more—Sirs Palomides and Drustan.
At day’s end, in the long shadows of the setting sun, only three remained matchless this day—Gawain of Orkney, Drustan and Des.
By the drawing of lots, Gawain and Des would fight first while Drustan was granted the small advantage of resting out the match before going up against its winner.
It was a different Des who fought Gawain. Perhaps the Orkney champion’s style demanded it. Gone was much of Des’ grace and artistry. Not that every stroke wasn’t precise and calculated and masterful still, but there was an air of impatience to Des I hadn’t seen in his other rounds. A desire to end the match quickly despite the crowd so obviously ready for it to go on. Playing to them, Gawain tried to drag the fight out, delaying its end with useless circling and posturing tactics. Des, however, beat him back time after time, driving to an end that came far more quickly than the crowd was ready for.
A final blow from Des’ shield and a smashing from his sword staggered Gawain. A courteous act, though not required by the rules of this field, would have been to allow Gawain a moment to recover. Instead, pressing the advantage, Des inelegantly hooked a leg behind Gawain’s knees and toppled him, ripping the sword from his hand as he fell.
With a glower, the dark-haired visiting champion who’d been bested picked himself up and stalked off the field.
As the Orkney supporters grumbled and the rest of the throng cheered, the list marshal met Des in the middle of the field, obviously offering Des a few minutes to rest. Des shook his head, pointing to the fast-setting sun. Then he brushed the marshal brusquely away and waved Drustan to the list.
From the first swings exchanged it was clear how evenly matched these two very different knights were. I nudged Brangien proudly when, for a moment in the red light of the dying sun, their swords crossed high, pendant and ribbon dangling from their cross-guards.
This match, perhaps even more than the last, the crowd would have loved to see go on, the two champions battling like gods of old, their swords flaming in the sun’s last light.
Then, where before Des had seemed merely distracted and impatient, his strokes became frantic. I saw no change to Tris’ stance or his advantage, but clearly Des was worried. Perhaps he was flagging more swiftly than he anticipated. Perhaps he should have accepted the time to rest offered in courtesy and fairness.
Only a sliver of sun limned the western hills when Des, in a gesture of acknowledged defeat and respect, saluted Drustan the moment before they engaged one final time, shield pressing shield, swords wrapped behind one another as they wrestled for dominance. It was a foolish position for Des to allow himself in. Drustan had the advantage in size and weight. Though in the end it almost seemed Des wasn’t dragged down by Drustan but collapsed on his own. Even Drustan seemed startled by its suddenness. And from where I stood in the shadows at the edge of the pavilion, I could see the question in Drustan’s helmeted eyes as he clasped Des’ hand and raised him from the mud.
Briefly, Des covered Drustan’s hand with his other and they tipped their helms
The last six knights fought each of their matches separately for the pleasure of the crowd. What was not to love watching such skill and prowess on display? Whatever political and personal differences we had with Orkney, there was no denying King Lot’s sons deserved the acclaim they had won by right of arms. Precise, ruthless, powerful, each was magnificent on the field before an appreciative crowd, seeming to take strength and motivation from the world around them.
Only a handful of knights between Ireland’s blue oceans and the sands of Egypt’s deserts could best the brothers at their peaks in a game of swords. Sirs Lancelot and Tristan came first to mind. And today I could add two more—Sirs Palomides and Drustan.
At day’s end, in the long shadows of the setting sun, only three remained matchless this day—Gawain of Orkney, Drustan and Des.
By the drawing of lots, Gawain and Des would fight first while Drustan was granted the small advantage of resting out the match before going up against its winner.
It was a different Des who fought Gawain. Perhaps the Orkney champion’s style demanded it. Gone was much of Des’ grace and artistry. Not that every stroke wasn’t precise and calculated and masterful still, but there was an air of impatience to Des I hadn’t seen in his other rounds. A desire to end the match quickly despite the crowd so obviously ready for it to go on. Playing to them, Gawain tried to drag the fight out, delaying its end with useless circling and posturing tactics. Des, however, beat him back time after time, driving to an end that came far more quickly than the crowd was ready for.
A final blow from Des’ shield and a smashing from his sword staggered Gawain. A courteous act, though not required by the rules of this field, would have been to allow Gawain a moment to recover. Instead, pressing the advantage, Des inelegantly hooked a leg behind Gawain’s knees and toppled him, ripping the sword from his hand as he fell.
With a glower, the dark-haired visiting champion who’d been bested picked himself up and stalked off the field.
As the Orkney supporters grumbled and the rest of the throng cheered, the list marshal met Des in the middle of the field, obviously offering Des a few minutes to rest. Des shook his head, pointing to the fast-setting sun. Then he brushed the marshal brusquely away and waved Drustan to the list.
From the first swings exchanged it was clear how evenly matched these two very different knights were. I nudged Brangien proudly when, for a moment in the red light of the dying sun, their swords crossed high, pendant and ribbon dangling from their cross-guards.
This match, perhaps even more than the last, the crowd would have loved to see go on, the two champions battling like gods of old, their swords flaming in the sun’s last light.
Then, where before Des had seemed merely distracted and impatient, his strokes became frantic. I saw no change to Tris’ stance or his advantage, but clearly Des was worried. Perhaps he was flagging more swiftly than he anticipated. Perhaps he should have accepted the time to rest offered in courtesy and fairness.
Only a sliver of sun limned the western hills when Des, in a gesture of acknowledged defeat and respect, saluted Drustan the moment before they engaged one final time, shield pressing shield, swords wrapped behind one another as they wrestled for dominance. It was a foolish position for Des to allow himself in. Drustan had the advantage in size and weight. Though in the end it almost seemed Des wasn’t dragged down by Drustan but collapsed on his own. Even Drustan seemed startled by its suddenness. And from where I stood in the shadows at the edge of the pavilion, I could see the question in Drustan’s helmeted eyes as he clasped Des’ hand and raised him from the mud.
Briefly, Des covered Drustan’s hand with his other and they tipped their helms
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