Otto woke to the endless sun, his head only slightly throbbing from last night's generous servings of wine. He groaned, but wasted no time pulling himself out of bed and dressing, leaving aside his feast finery for his simple linen tunic and trousers, his royal status marked only by his golden brooch and ornate stud earrings. Breakfast was light the day after the feast, rye bread and a stew made from last night's leftovers, with some cold smoked bream and fresh berries as well for the high table. Tegland was studded with lakes and rich with rivers, but Thunderhill's location was chosen for martial strategy, and the small river nearby wasn't enough to provide everyone with fish.
The hall looked empty compared to last night, with nomads taking their breakfasts in their own camps and most burghers making do with simple things at home. Even the high table was sparsely seated; Hald was nowhere to be found, probably sleeping off his own hangover.
After eating, Otto went out to the practice fields. Located behind the great hall and out past the robust earthen walls that marked the inner burg, they were within a large dirt square between the royal stables and the goat pens. The stink of both filled the air in the summer. Despite the early hour, many warriors were out getting their exercise before sign-ups for the tournament opened at midmorning. In the midst of pairs of sparring warriors, some with swords but most with axes, Petra was trading blows with Hertha, a brawny, middle-aged burgher woman with a sterling reputation in battle and tournaments alike. Sverre and Werner were practicing together, their swords singing as they clashed again and again. Watching the husbands spar, Otto still missed the days he spent on these fields practicing with Rasmus. The thought made his heart ache as he made his way through the field. The regular thunk of arrows against hide targets joined the noises of grunting, clanking weapons, and good-hearted taunts, as most of the archery range was filled as well.
Most of the fighters were too immersed to pay much attention to Otto as he worked his way through the groups, though those who did see him gave respectful nods or hearty calls. Otto spotted Werner near the other end of the field, leaning against the outer palisade and drinking from his horn. Judging by the sweat on his face, Werner had already been up practicing for some time.
"If you're looking for a match with me, wait until the tournament fields," Werner said to Otto as he approached.
"Don't fancy a defeat twice?" Otto joked. He and Werner had made it to the final round of swordfighting last year, and Otto had beaten him, but truthfully more by luck than skill. They were favorites for the last match again this year.
"You're cocky today, though I suppose no more so than usual," Werner replied. Still, he offered Otto a sip of his watered mead. "I've practiced more than you this year, and I look forward to knocking that smile off your face and into the hard ground. That is, if Sverre doesn't wipe you out in the semifinals."
"Your husband's a formidable opponent, but he can't compare with our brotherly bond." Otto contemplated downing the end of the drink, but opted to hand the horn back with some still left, so as to not drain all his brother's goodwill. "I'll see you on the tournament fields soon enough."
The tournament fields were on the other side of Thunderhill, adjacent to the large stables for the burgher warriors’ reindeer, including Otto’s own gelding, Leif. In the winter, the fields served as the pen for all of the rovers' reindeer, with the rovers residing in nearby longhouses. In the summer, however, both local and nomad reindeer roamed outside of the palisade for the most part, only herded into the fields for the few hours of twilight when hungry predators were most likely to strike. While the fences and three-tier stands for the tournament were set up, they were simply kept outside until it ended.
The yard was bustling when Otto arrived, a disorganized crowd of warriors already waiting to put their names on the lists for one of the four competitions: swordfighting, axfighting, archery, and reindeer racing. Though the first tournament, axfighting, wouldn't begin until the afternoon, many were already parading around in their fighting finery, freshly polished ax hilts and buffed shields, stiff leather armor and helmets decorated with iron studs and inked runes. Such runes were for superstition and show, not true magic, but Otto still wouldn't have gone without his own.
"Will your cousin be competing?" Otto asked, joining Petra to they waited for the kings to arrive and sign-ups to begin. A few merchants with skill in writing waited at the tables, parchment at the ready. While all men were expected to be warriors as well as craftsmen, farmers, or otherwise occupied, some with particularly soft jobs knew they stood no chance in tournaments and volunteered as record-keepers.
"She'll sign up for axes, like everyone and his brother," Petra replied.
"Not everyone and his sister, though—you're still only doing archery, aren't you?"
"Of course. I keep my eye on the target—no distractions."
"Fair enough." Most warriors only competed in one tournament so as not to overexert themselves. Otto had tried both ax and sword once in his youth, trying to show off for Rasmus, but his performance had suffered. He felt hollow inside at the memory. This year, as last, he would be doing sword alone. Everyone's eyes would be on him, as prince of Thunderhill, but he would have no one to embrace once the matches were done.
"Listen all!" Johan's voice rang deep and loud even across the noise of the crowd. Everyone quieted, turning their attention to the arriving kings.
"As the Honored Warrior-Kings of Thunderhill," Isak said, "we join you today to announce the Quartet of Tournaments. Axes will begin one hour after highsun today, continuing through highsun tomorrow. After axes conclude, swords will begin. And on the third day, archery will be held in the morning, and reindeer racing in the afternoon."
A cheer rose up from the crowd, and the kings encouraged it, holding up their own weapons to the sun above, until it died down.
"Glory to the gods and the sun!" cried Johan. "Come give your name to the scribes so that you may compete. They will call you onto the field when it's time for your match, so be sure not to miss your call. All matches will conclude by supper—and supper will be delayed if matches require it. Now, come enter the lists to prove yourselves!"
"I shall!" Otto called out, as did most of those around him. Petra gave a wordless cry of assent, holding her bow high, then lowered it as chatter broke out around them again.
As the crowds shifted forward slowly, Petra and Otto were joined by a few other burgher warriors, all loyal, burly folks eager to gossip and best each other's boasts. Once they were close enough that Otto could see the scribes scribbling furiously as waiting would-be competitors yelled their names and desired events, he spotted Lukas and Britta ahead of them. Otto shifted forward in the crowd to hear them announce their choices.
"Britta Torson, entering for archery."
"Yes, just a moment," replied one of the writing burghers. Despite her lightweight attire, Otto could see sweat slicking her hair. "All right, now—archery, Britta Torson?"
"Aye," she replied.
"Lukas Matson, ax and sword."
Otto raised his eyebrows and turned to Petra, incredulous.
"He can't be much older than me—hasn't he learned his lesson about competing?"
"Maybe the tournaments in Hoartower are less intense," she said with a noncommittal shrug.
"Hoartower's a bunch of pansies," said Ulf, pushing past a pair of young warriors to join Otto and Petra. He shook his head with a mirthful grin, his stringy brown hair swishing back and forth as he did. He was a blacksmith, and had the striking, muscular build of one—an asset in his occupation, his position as a respected warrior, and his prospects at finding a husband. "That Lukas fellow will simply get to taste defeat twice as hard."
"He certainly underestimates the competition in Thunderhill," Otto agreed. He considered adding himself to the ax competition as well; after all, he was in the prime of his fighting years, and if this Lukas fellow thought he could do it, then why not Otto? But Otto was set on winning swords again this year, and wasn't going to let a silly burst of pride get in the way of that.
A couple of rover warriors Otto vaguely recognized from last year's ax competition added their names, and then moved around the table so Otto and his companions could enter.
Otto signed up for swords, Ulf for axfighting, and Petra for archery. As entertaining as it was, reindeer racing was the least distinguished and was more a show than a true test of battle skills in the eyes of burghers and nobles. Uncoincidentally, it was also the sport most popular with the nomads, and the only one where they routinely beat out permanent residents.
The ax tournament began that afternoon, running four matches at once with double elimination. As the largest event, it was also the most hectic, with nearly as many competitors as there were spectators. Otto watched the modest and mediocre fall quickly to more seasoned and skilled warriors, the field noisy with grunts and shouts, cheers and jeers, thwacks and clashes. Ulf and Hertha did well, neither losing a single match. Lukas did too; it seemed his pride in his skill wasn't entirely misplaced.
Only in the late evening, once the competitors had been narrowed to sixteen, did the event conclude. The feast that night was nearly as luxurious as the previous evening’s, tables bountiful with food and drink. Otto knew it would go long into the night, no setting of the sun to mark its end, but he wasn't going to get cocky; he needed to be well rested for tomorrow.
*~*~*
The second day of the tournament was marked by a brisk breeze, flapping the streamers on the fertility poles and the banners on the tournament fields. Butter yellow for Ulrik, forest green for Orvar, blood red for Noll, and owl gray for Volha flew beside the black and teal of Thunderhill, complete with stylized white lightning bolts and red axes. A small canvas tent was erected with the laurel-toned banner of Judit, the green sorcerers and herbwives within ready to tend to those injured in the course of the competitions.
During the morning's matches, Otto found himself paying close attention to Lukas, curious about the man who had been sure enough of himself to sign up for two competitions. Lukas had made it to the final sixteen in axfighting and his first match was against another nomad. Lukas fought nimbly, relying on agility and speed more than force, and dispatched his opponent with a bloody nick. He performed as smoothly in his second match before losing to Hertha in a drawn-out semifinals match. Given Hertha's unparalleled talent with an ax, and that she went on to handily defeat Ulf in the finals, Lukas was certainly a formidable opponent even with his defeat.
After a light midday meal, Otto took his place on the field for swords. The summer grass was already trampled and thin under his boots as he waited near the sidelines for his name to be called. The arbiters reminded the competitors of the rules briefly, though everyone knew them by heart: Victory went to the warrior who drew first blood, knocked out his opponent, or kept his opponent from rising.
Werner was one of the first match competitors, squaring off against an older man. While the other warrior was sure with his sword, Werner was larger, steadier, and fiercer. Every blow the man tried to land on Werner was met with the clank of Werner's sword blocking it, and after a few such failed attempts, Werner spotted his chance and lunged in. The man stepped back, but too late; the blade went right to his throat and nicked him.
"First blood—Werner Johanson!" called the arbiter, an old warrior woman with a decorative helmet. Covered in fur and topped with reindeer nubs, the hat marked her as accomplished, yet past her prime—honored, but not quite as honored as those who died in battle.
The other man wiped his throat and looked down at his hand, a sour expression on his face. But he nodded and shook Werner's hand before heading off the field.
The next match was called: a burgher warrior, and Lukas.
Lukas's opponent was strapping and nearly a head taller than him. Silver accents on the warrior's helm glinted in the sunlight, his leather armor decorated in the reddish- and black-dyed lightning bolts popular amongst Thunderhill's resident warriors. Lukas's armor looked positively plain beside it, free of any decorative accents or hints of customization.
As soon as the match began, the burgher charged at Lukas. Lukas sidestepped the charge easily, whirling around to swipe his sword at the burgher. The burgher parried it with a heavy clank and swung again, trying to keep on the offensive. But each attack was easily stopped by Lukas, mostly with his own sword, but occasionally just by dodging out of the way, keeping himself a moving target.
Lukas was remarkably quick on his feet, Otto had to give him that. It wasn't the proper way to fight, not by old traditions, but it was effective and certainly allowed. Lukas's opponent was clearly becoming frustrated by it, but his tries to force Lukas down by taking advantage of his height were unsuccessful. Just a few minutes into the match, Lukas hit the man's hand, leaving a nasty cut with indisputable blood.
"Bobbing and snaking around like a stoat's no way to fight," grumbled the burgher, sucking on the cut. Neither he nor Lukas offered a handshake, and there was a boo from the back of the stands.
"Next contestants, ready yourselves," called the arbiter, cutting off any further hassling.
*~*~*
Otto's first several matches, he won easily. By midevening, when supper would usually begin, the final eight was narrowing down to the final four, Hald losing to Werner in the quarterfinals. In the semifinals, Otto had a long but ultimately successful match against his aunt Mona. He sat on the sidelines with a drink, taking his rest while he watched the other semifinal match to see who he'd compete against. To the great surprise of the crowd, and the great annoyance of Werner, Lukas beat him.
Otto was surprised, but not shocked; Werner was an excellent combatant, but predictable in a way that Lukas wasn't. Still, Otto was annoyed that this newcomer had beaten his brother, denying him a chance to directly prove himself over Werner again, and so was determined not to let himself be bested by this sullen rover.
Lukas's fighting prowess was admirable, Otto gave him that. Had Lukas been a more amenable sort, Otto would have considered him an excellent potential ally, perhaps even partner—he was handsome. Werner's romance with Sverre had been kindled on last year's tournament fields, with Sverre providing Werner with such a close and passionate match that Werner had gone from infatuated to certain Sverre was the man he was meant to wed.
The more Otto watched Lukas in the tournament, the more his wiry grace became clear, lacking the brute strength so many warriors had but displaying impeccable agility and tactics. His long fingers gripped his sword not with desperation or anger but with care, and his armor, ugly as it was, seemed particularly flexible, practical for his fighting style.
But the scowl Lukas wore was not endearing, nor was his begrudging attitude. Lukas had seen him shake hands with some of his competitors, but if any had insulted him as his first did, Lukas simply turned away. The lack of response—either jovial to move past it, or equally insulting to defend his own honor—was unusual. There were murmurs amongst a few burgher warriors on the sidelines, getting into their cups as they watched after their defeats, that Lukas thought he was too good for Thunderhill, or that he'd used sorcery to get as far as he did.
Otto knew the sorcery talk was nonsense; there was nothing supernatural about Lukas's skills, nothing beyond what other warriors could do, just honed to a sharper point. Outside of fanciful tales, sorcery was little use to a warrior who had a weapon in battle. Green sorcery healed, and red sorcery harmed, but neither worked in a way that would aid performance in a tournament. But there was no doubt Lukas thought himself too good for the town. While at times there was some wariness between permanent residents and the poorer nomads, Lukas's cold demeanor was unusual. If Lukas was so disdainful, Otto thought, eyeing the man as they both walked onto the field for the finals, he ought to rejoin his band from Hoartower.
"Ready… Fight!" called the arbiter.
Neither Otto nor Lukas lunged right away. Lukas began to walk around, his sword held up before him to ward off an attack, not taking his eyes off Otto. Otto circled as well, looking for an opening and thinking through previous fights he'd witnessed with Lukas.
"Well, what are you waiting for?" Otto called at Lukas as they continued for a minute, a boo ringing in from the crowd. He stepped in a bit closer, feinting to one side before coming in the other. Lukas flinched but didn't fall for it entirely, stepping backward instead. "If you're such a warrior, why the hesitation in making the first move?"
"You taunt me, and yet you're doing likewise," Lukas replied.
"Unlike some of your previous opponents, I've learned a bit of patience," Otto replied.
"So for you it's patience, and yet you intimate for me it's cowardice?"
It was a fair point, not one that Otto could easily dispute—especially with his mind on the match. And he was tired of waiting. He feinted again, then swung his sword around, trying to nick Lukas in the side. Lukas spun his sword easily, and their metal clashed together for the first time.
Lukas wasted no time on his counterattack, and the match immediately went from wary pacing to the whirlwind of combat. Otto had seen how fast Lukas was, but experiencing it was something else. It was exhilarating. Otto had had hundreds of matches with his brothers, dozens with most of Thunderhill's resident warriors, and was intimately familiar with their styles. Lukas was still an unknown in so many ways, requiring more attention, more flexibility of style than Otto was used to in such events. The match had all the terrifying uncertainty of a true battlefield, yet the relative safety of a tournament.
Every swing of Otto's sword was met by Lukas's own, a dance of blows and steps Otto could lose himself in. The cheers and yells of the crowd, the smells of grass and animals and people, the buildings and decorations, even the warm and constant evening sun all around him faded. He could only hear the sound of their swords, feel the sweat on his own skin, see Lukas's angular, proud face furrowed in martial concentration and his body moving as fluid as water. When Otto tried to use his greater strength and size to force Lukas down through their clashing swords, Lukas held his own again and again before pulling away for a new flurry of strikes.
Otto grew vaguely aware of a growing ache in his limbs, of his breathing becoming heavier. He was still far from true exhaustion, but after all his earlier matches, the fight was beginning to take a toll on him. Lukas's ability had not wavered, but he too was visibly sweating. More than once, Otto caught himself studying the details of Lukas's face: the thin eyebrows, the white scar that trailed from under his beard down his neck, the way his face creased in concentration. But such attention only made Otto more flustered by how much he found Lukas attractive, while giving no insight into Lukas’s next moves.
Otto struck again, Lukas meeting his swing close, and Otto put an extra burst of energy toward trying to force Lukas down. This near to Lukas, Otto could smell his musty sweat tinged with the lanolin of his soap. Otto shifted his left foot forward, leaning in and trying to force Lukas's sword in close enough to his body that Lukas would be forced to move it or retreat, giving Otto a chance to move in and strike the winning blow.
Instead, Lukas pressed back, clearly straining—until he sidestepped out of the way with such quickness that Otto, caught off guard, stumbled onto one knee. Lukas took the opportunity to lift his blade high and bring the point right down to the back of Otto's neck, preventing him from straightening.
"Victory to Lukas Matson!"
Otto's face burned with humiliation and anger. He'd made a straightforward mistake by not anticipating that tactic. While he hadn't been so proud as to assume future victory when he'd entered the tournament, he'd expected that if he experienced defeat, it would be by the sword of Werner, or maybe Mona or Hald—some well-established warrior, not an unknown nomad. And to stumble on the battlefield… if it had been true combat, Otto would be dead.
Gritting his teeth, Otto righted himself quickly. He swallowed back a scowl—he couldn't change his loss, but he wasn't going to look sour on top of it—and forced himself to grin as he brushed the dirt off his trousers and straightened to face Lukas. The arbiter stood a few steps back, watching them carefully, even as the crowd kept up its ruckus, some displeased and others entertained by the results.
"I guess you are a more formidable opponent than I was initially willing to admit," Otto said, doing his best to shrug off his humiliation. He offered Lukas his hand.
"I guess you've learned something about underestimating nomads," replied Lukas. He accepted the handshake and shook once. Otto's grip was hearty, but Lukas released him quickly enough that it bordered on rude.
"I've no quarrel with nomads, only with your attitude," Otto said, smile brittle. He meant it half as a joke, half truth, but Lukas didn't look to receive it well.
"My attitude is none of your business. I will respect you when you respect me," Lukas said as he turned away and strode off the field. Otto watched him go, tangled with conflicting emotions, clenching his sword until his knuckles ached. He didn't think himself easily goaded, but Lukas’s words stung.
With the competition now officially over, the audience descended onto the yard again.
"You fought well," Werner said, clapping Otto on the back. It was rare praise, but felt hollow.
"Up until a simple blunder," replied Otto, his voice low so as not to carry. Other warriors were headed over to speak to him as well, but he didn't want their ribbing right now, nor their empty though well-meaning platitudes.
Reaching the finals was an accomplishment, not something to be dismissed. But the worst part of it was that for all of Otto's disappointment in himself, his looping thoughts about the match kept returning to Lukas himself—his face, how he moved his body, his smell. It was a fascination the likes of which Otto had not felt in years, and fixated on perhaps the most regrettable man possible.
*~*~*
Hald teased Otto mercilessly through supper, while Werner, apparently twice as upset now that Lukas had beaten his brother as well as him, sulked.
"Weak footing, though, I suppose," Hald laughed, his face already rosy from his drinks.
"Your eldest brother doesn't have weak footing," snapped Werner. "And that's the third time you've said that exact phrase since we sat down to eat. I've half a mind the rumors of Lukas's sorcery are true, though I won't muse further without evidence."
"So your defeats are not evidence enough?" replied Hald mockingly. "You think really think yourselves invincible, if you're clinging to that as a possibility."
"You didn't even reach quarterfinals this year because you don't work hard enough," Werner retorted. "It's easy to boast and wheedle, but you are an embarrassment on the battlefield."
Hald's cheer darkened as quickly as fields under a flash storm, and he slammed a fist upon the table.
"An embarrassment, eh?" he replied. "And you're not, for your mealy-mouthed talk of magic because you lost, and for always speaking so ill of those around you?"
"You're both going to be an embarrassment to our fathers if you don't settle down," Otto interrupted. Hald and Werner both glared at Otto, but neither contradicted him. "We're no longer teen boys, and we're not wrestling or dueling on the practice field. Save your jabs for the next time you two practice together."