The Supreme Warrior *2014 ABNA Contest 2nd Round*

CHAPTER 2.1: The Fair Maiden

Cal retreated to his father’s stable after his humiliation in the practice yard. A tall, roan stallion strained against his stall and knickered his welcome when Cal entered the barn.The young man smiled. He grabbed an apple from a nearby barrel and fed it to the horse that had been his favorite since childhood.

Cal opened the stall without concern, knowing Thistle would be so busy greeting him that the friendly horse would not even try to break free. He grabbed a stiff brush and began to groom Thistle's long black mane.

“I'll bet you'd love to carry me into the lists, wouldn't you boy?”

The stallion whinnied as if he understood, desiring nothing more than to share another adventure with his companion.

Cal sadly patted him, knowing such glorious days to be behind his old friend. Thistle had borne him through his first knightly lessons. Though the warhorse had been old even when Cal was ten, he had been a loyal friend. He had learned to handle arms while seated on Thistle's back.

As he brushed the roan's short-haired coat, frustration overwhelmed the well-built squire. He simply could not tolerate another year re-arming the contestants on the Tourney field. Soon enough, he would be like his Uncle or old Thistle. The time had come for Cal to enter the lists—especially with Alynde's return to society.

I must talk to Father.

Cal immediately ordered a nearby boy to finish grooming Thistle. He hurried out of the stable, passing what seemed to be an endless row of wooden compartments, and skirted the edge of the still-crowded practice yard. He entered the Throne Room through the north entrance, blinking his eyes to adjust to the dim light after the brightness of the yard. After his vision cleared, he made out the imposing image of his father seated at the far end of the hall.

He could not help but recall a long-ago voyage across this same dark expanse. Three-year-old Cal had escaped from his former wet-nurse, and toddled toward his father. The Baron had looked up from his circle of advisers, and lifted his son onto his lap. Pulling out a book of heraldry, Grelig displayed a veritable menagerie of fantastic creatures to his enthralled son.

Somehow, Cal doubted his father would offer a similar welcome to an unbidden squire. Hardening himself to remain true to his purpose, eighteen-year-old Calidon strode toward the throne. He stopped about three paces from the High Seat.

“Father, I need to speak with you.”

“I am glad you are here, Calidon. I have a task for you.”

“Wait, Father. I must speak to you about the Tournament.”

Shafts of light shone through the windows high above and played across the headstones built into the wall behind the throne as a resigned Grelig glared down at his son.

“Say what you must.”

Cal suppressed a sudden jolt of fear. He knew his father had guessed his intent and was not pleased. Stung by his father’s attitude, Calidon spoke boldly. “I am no longer a child. It is time for me to take the field. I am ready.”

The Baron’s voice was mild. “Are you your own master now?”

Tension prickled his stomach as he recognized his father’s tactic. Grelig had enticed his second son into proud statements many times before, just to cut him down moments later. This time, Calidon refused to fall into the same trap.

“No Father, I am not,” he answered carefully. “I am Sir Aldon’s squire. And yet, I most humbly suggest that I would best serve you...”

The Baron rose to his feet and barked, “Silence! You are not fit to serve anyone until you learn to obey!”