What amazed Dak the most, was the unbridled ferocity of the arenas, and she could understand why her mother had been reluctant to let her witness the contests for herself in previous years.
"I am glad that we are here," said her father, as though evaluating her thoughts. "It is time that you were seeing the tourney for yourself."
Dak and her father had both dined substantially at the Hammer and Flame, but that had not prevented him from acquiring a large bag of baked gem larakkos, which now sat, half empty, on the bench between them.
Though she could understand her mother's reluctance to expose her to them, Dak could also see why she had enjoyed the contests so much herself. Once she had got over the initial noise and brutality in the ring below, she found that, as she watched each of the bouts, she started to detect a certain satisfying rhythm in the contests. She began to view them as though each were a badly made machine, with poorly constructed parts, which could fail at any given moment. She even started to speculate if it were possible to detect the flaws before the machine broke in a cataclysmic fashion. Maybe an experienced Lance-master or Madriel-master would be able to, but the skill was beyond her.
Each bout she had watched that afternoon began with the usual charge across the ring, followed by the sliding of deflected metal as lance and rail-shield connected. After that, each fight would be unique. There was always a similarity in their rhythmic beating and grinding, but there was a subtle difference in their mechanics. Some bouts were short, others long and complex, but they all ended in a similar manner. Eventually, unforeseen and unexpected, some component would fail, a part would weaken or shift, and the badly made machine would break itself.
Her father would always applaud loudly and stamp his feet in approval when this happened, and Dak would join in out of politeness. One thing she began to consider was the fact that, in the breaking of the intricate machines, it was never the parts constructed by the Engineers that failed. Lances would break, of course, but that was what they had been designed to do, so the breakage was no failure. To Dak's mind, it was always the parts of bone and flesh within the machine that would cause its failure.
The karabok horn sounded once more, and the doors to the readying halls swung open.
"Here we are!" said her father, beaming as the first knight rode into the arena.
The crowd roared its approval of Sir Xanrath, who held his lance aloft to acknowledge them. His armour was fine, polished to a dull sheen. The knight who rode from the second readying hall received similar greeting, but Dak estimated that its level was not the equal of the adoration received by Sir Xanrath.
"Does Sir Draimar not have the popularity of Sir Xanrath, father?"
"He is popular enough, but he is not being Lord Morath's son."
Dak nodded.
"Now watch, daughter. This will be a splendid fight."
So Dak sat back to watch the workings of another machine as it prepared to destroy itself.
The horn sounded again, and the two madriel gouged the earth with their armoured claws, propelling themselves forward in a spatter of dampened earth. They passed each other once, twice and then three times. Lance thrusts were precisely deflected as each knight tested the other, and their madriel turned together like pinioned counterweights. As the two knights made their fourth pass, Dak heard the usual sliding squeal of metal as lance was deflected by rail-shield, but then that noise was followed by the crack of shattering metal. Sir Xanrath's lance exploded against Sir Draimar's shoulder-plate, rocking him backwards as their beasts slid by each other. He kept his saddle, but as his steed turned at the inner perimeter, she heard Sir Draimar bellow his fury at being struck. His steed also roared its rage across the arena and immediately bunched its hind legs and launched itself towards Sir Xanrath, power winding upwards with the sound of agitated metal.
Sir Xanrath drew his sword, and his steed sprang forward to counter the terrible roar and fury of their opponent. It seemed nothing could stand against such a charge, and that surely Sir Xanrath would suffer horrendously in the devastating collision, but the collision never came. As the beasts drew close, Sir Xanrath's steed changed its course, falling to the right and lying with its belly close to the ground. Sir Xanrath shifted in his saddle as the speed of the opposing beast carried it by, with Sir Draimar's lance passing close overhead. With a precision of movement, the younger knight brought his rail-shield in a sweep, which hooked his opponent's weapon and brought it into the ground. Metal shattered and wheeled, Sir Xanrath pulled himself upright, his steed rose and turned, Sir Draimar drew his sword, the riders closed, and the machine fell back into rhythm.
Now it fell to sword against sword, the beasts staying close together, turning about each other as their riders exchanged practiced blows.
"Do they feel no fear?" Dak asked her father as the swords continued to clash.
"I am supposing that they must, but it is not stopping them."
"I cannot be starting to imagine what it would be like to face someone who has the intention of doing me harm. I can only think that the experience would be terrible."
"It is never a thing I have had to face, and you should be thankful that, as an Engineer, it is not something that will ever be worrying you. Not unless you become a wandering rogue like Vlontell, at any ways."
The end came with surprising swiftness.
It seemed that neither knight could penetrate the other's clockwork defence, until Sir Draimar brought the superior strength of his steed to bear. With an echoing roar, the beast lowered its head and crashed its horns into the other's flank, twisting steed and rider about. Sir Xanrath struggled to keep the rhythm of his defence as one of Sir Draimar's blows caught him on the gorge-plate beneath his helm, forcing him back in his saddle, and he was only saved from tumbling by his steed's swift retreat across the ring. Apparently sensing victory close, Sir Draimar called for his steed to charge, and again they closed the gap in a fury, while his opponent still fought to recover.
At least that is how it seemed to Dak, but the fight was not finished.
Sir Xanrath's steed had fallen back to crouch at the ring's inner circle, but as Sir Draimar closed, the beast leapt obliquely away from the attack. The impetus of his opponent's charge carried knight and steed by without a blow being struck. The larger beast had gone barely a metre before Sir Xanrath turned in pursuit. Sir Draimar shouted for his own steed to turn, but they were too slow, their momentum too great. They were already close on the outer perimeter before the larger madriel had slowed enough to turn, and as it began to move, Sir Xanrath's steed crashed into its side. One horn grappled the other beast's neck, and metal sheathed claws gripped the wide armour of its shoulders, the sudden unexpected charge bearing the madriel sideways.
As the two beasts struggled, Sir Xanrath struck with his own blade, and though Sir Draimar deflected the blow with his rail-shield, he was driven back in his saddle and was suddenly overbalanced. His steed's claws scrabbled at the perimeter line, and it was a testament to its strength that it kept itself within the ring. But there was no place to retreat to, and no margin for movement, and a second skilful blow from Sir Xanrath's sword sent Sir Draimar further off his balance. With a final snarl of effort, the lighter madriel heaved upwards, sending the opposing knight and steed crashing to the earth.
Another machine had broken.
The wild cheering of the crowd almost drowned the karabok horn's single long note. Sir Xanrath's steed disengaged and backed away into the inner circle, growling and snarling at his defeated foe, which had regained its feet and was crouched beside its fallen rider, a deep snarling echoing within its helm.
Dak's father applauded with the rest, but then he leant down to her ear.
"That could be bad," he bellowed over the noise in the arena.
Dak could not understand what her father could be meaning, but then she saw that Sir Draimar was struggling to rise. His right leg, which had been caught beneath the weight of his steed and its armour when it had fallen, hampered his movement. He did, finally, regain his feet, but his leg seemed to still give him trouble.
"No, it is good," her father shouted again. "See, his armour is undamaged. Engineer Rinchen's work is good."
Sir Xanrath urged his steed forward and approached Sir Draimar, who had his arm outstretched, his palm against his steed's charge-plate, though whether to support himself or to calm the beast, Dak could not tell.
"Do you yield, good Sir Draimar?" asked Sir Xanrath as he halted before them.
Sir Draimar pushed back the visor of his helm to reveal his face, filmed with sweat. His eyes were angry beneath his brows, but he forced a smile.
"It seems I have little choice."
He stooped to take his sword from where it had fallen, and held it aloft to salute his victorious opponent, then he brought it down and out to the side. With another smile, he released the hilt and the heavy blade crashed back to the ground.
"I yield to Sir Xanrath," he shouted above the crowd, who once more started cheering.
* * * * *
The scenes of jubilation were being echoed in the readying chamber beneath the stands. Sir Xanrath's Madriel-master had whooped with joy when Sir Draimar fell from his saddle, and his squire had punched at the air. The small deck overlooking the arena was more crowded than usual, Sir Xanrath's bout being so eagerly anticipated, and the arena so full, that many squires and Field-hands had slipped themselves into the readying chamber to watch. With the stamping feet of the crowds above, and the jostle of people on the deck, Maddock wondered why the whole thing didn't collapse.
The two Junior Engineers serving in the hall had to force their way through the crowd so they could climb down the stairs and haul the doors to the arena open. The throng of squires and Field-hands filed down after, the triviality of their usual animosity towards each other forgotten, to greet the victorious knight. Sir Xanrath rode through the open door, his back straight and his demeanour composed, but when he removed his helmet, his face had the unashamed smile of a child. The crowd that lined the room cheered and stamped their feet, but when Sir Xanrath's steed lowered its armoured head and roared, the declaration of its victory had drowned out their noise.
In the following quiet, Sir Xanrath grinned again and thew his helmet to his waiting squire.
"To the feast!" he called, drawing his sword and pointing it at the room's other set of heavy doors.
The Junior Engineers pushed their way through to open them to the outside, where a larger crowd was waiting, and as Sir Xanrath urged his steed through, the cheering rose once more. The knight's Madriel-master and squire followed after, and then the other squires and interloping Field-hands joined the throng outside.
The hubbub slowly faded. The Junior Engineers finished their duties in the ring and then took their hand-waggon, loaded with its debris of broken lances, and left, leaving Maddock alone to finish the business of tidying the place up.
He was interrupted by Master Dramut when he was halfway through.
"Well, that was a fine bout, don't you think, lad?" he said in greeting as he came through the open chamber doors.
"Sure was."
Maddock propped his shovel up against the service fence.
"You've enjoyed your time here, I take it?"
"Aye. It's a pity I can't be here for the last rounds."
"It is that, but I don't think Cirric and the lads would be too happy if I let you serve here any longer. Macus is already grumbling."
"Macus is always grumbling."
"Not to worry though," said Master Dramut. "I'll have another job for you tomorrow; something I think you might benefit from."
"What's that?"
"I want you over by the riding-grounds."
"Oh," said Maddock, trying to hide his disappointment.
"Don't worry; I'll not have you shovelling dung all day. How would you like to have a turn at being a distracter in the squires' contest?"
"I don't know."
"You mean you don't know if you would like it, or you don't know what a distracter is?"
"Both, I suppose."
"Good, honest answer, there," said Master Dramut, smiling. "Well you haven't been around long enough to know what the duty entails, or whether you'll take to it, but High Madriel-master Sprak wants to see what you're made of."
"Not literally, I hope."
Master Dramut laughed.
"No. Don't worry; the duty involves only a slight chance of evisceration. I reckon you'll be up to it."
"Up to what, exactly?"
"You'll see soon enough. Come over to the riding-grounds when you've finished up here and I'll give you a quick run through."
Master Dramut left, and Maddock set himself back to work.
It was a pity his day wasn't yet done. He'd been looking forward to getting back to the bunk house and arguing with the other Field-hands about the day's contests, but it was all right. There would be time later for that.