DARC AGES
(1999, Web serial) - a novel by A.R.Yngve
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Dohan Damon
Chapter 7
Trumpets sounded through the morning air, signaling to the citizens that this was the day of the Summer Joust. The Summer Festival was to take place the very same day and evening; with dancing, singing, and drinking lasting beyond midnight.
From five neighboring cities, prominent guests and competitors arrived to Damon City. Their sleek jet vessels painted the sky with lines of colored vapor, before they sank down onto the landing-space outside the castle. And the guests walked down from their ships, dressed in splendid colors and decorated with their most expensive electronic ornaments. A myriad tiny, multicolored lamps blinked in the metal braids and collars of the wealthy, beautiful noblewomen. When the ladies took off their traveling-cloaks, they exposed straight skirts reaching to their ankles, with gold- and silver-embroidered family patterns.
The Oriental-featured Yotas, one of the most powerful families of North Castilia, was accompanied by little glittering thin-legged robots.
The Paskos, though impeccably dressed, wore little jewelry and brought no servant machines - their resources were being directed elsewhere, which they kept silent about.
The minor, but highly admired Fache family was represented only by its champion Lord Azuch Fache and his servants. His absent wife was, as always, sick in bed.
And half an hour late as always, Lord Orbes and family landed on the field and came laughing down the ship ladder. They were the Damons' close allies, and it was expected that one of Orbes's sons would marry Bor's daughter Eveli in a few years.
Bor Damon and family arrived, bidding his esteemed visitors welcome with much good-hearted cheer. For this occasion, Bor wore the heavy electronic collar with his name inscribed, which worked as a portable computer and loudspeaker; it amplified his voice and carried shortwave commands to his robots. His beautiful and popular wife, Lady Osanna, escorted the noblewomen to the castle gardens for refreshments, while they waited for the men to prepare for the main event.
The young ladies-in-waiting tried to linger close to the young knights, as their mothers jokingly urged them onward. Tharlos tried to catch the eye of the graceful Lady Okono Yota, but she remained aloof. Several ladies eye-flirted with Sir Dohan as they strolled off, giggling.
The competitors of the five families greeted each other apart from the crowd, formally but with no visible hostility. Their elders, retired champions and noblemen, retreated to the castle with Bor Damon. Because they had trained armored combat since they were children, the knights had learned to control their body movements with the utmost calm. Their armored suits were more than just metal - they were exo-skeletons. Responsive, powerful, and natural extensions of the knight's fighting abilities. Through T'ai Chi and other arts, the knights had mastered harmonic body control.
This early in the day, a few hours before the actual duelling, the fighters wore light, loose-fitting clothes covered by tunics in their family colors. Like their fathers, they mostly had crew-cut hair.
Sir Dohan Damon wore blue, red, and black in large checkered patterns. His short beard was as ruddy as his stubby hair, his eyes pale blue. Dohan behaved in a relaxed and friendly way; he mostly knew his competitors from last year, and they knew him.
Still, Dohan kept a careful eye on his arch-rival Tharlos - wearing black, orange, and yellow - who remained silent as the others exchanged jokes and boasts. Tharlos' dye-yellow hair made an eerie contrast to his dark, intense eyes that promised no friendship.
Lord Azuch Fache - wearing white and green - was the oldest of the champions, having remained at the top to the impressive age of thirty-seven. Though he rarely won the first prize nowadays, the younger knights looked up to him for advice on techniques and weapons care. Azuch had several tiny scars on his dark face and hands, from battles and jousts in his glorious past. His black eyes sometimes seemed to bury themselves in some secret memory, especially when he heard the sound of jet engines. Rumor had it that the battle against the Lepers of 930 A.M. had scarred his soul as well as his skin.
The Orbes family had as many as two young competitors: the adult champion Sir Saburé and his younger brother, the contender Sir Kensaburé. They looked very much alike, though - both being squat and blond. Their colors were checkered blue and black. Of all the competitors, the Orbes's were ranked the least competent fighters, but compensated in good humor their lack of skill and control. The presence of the Orbes members was much appreciated at festivities and competitions - if not in battle.
Sir Kamo Yota, the shortest of the fighters, wore red and white. He was about Dohan's age, but was already regarded as a future joust champion in spite of his short experience. Lord Yota had personally trained him toward perfection. Vhustank, Dohan's personal servant robot, served the competitors non-alcoholic drinks as they sat chatting on the marble benches next to the parked ships. Only young Kamo refused to drink.
He smiled courteously at his host and said: "Excuse me for not drinking, Sir Dohan. I am in need of deepest physical concentration, and must not disturb my body with foreign substances."
"You are excused," Dohan replied casually.
He decided, out of politeness, to change subject. Scanning the Yotas's sleek black aircraft, Dohan nodded thoughtfully. It had a very low profile, and a long rear flap instead of the standard snub-tailed rear ports of the other vessels. In length, it measured about fifteen meters. The craft also had three instead of the customary two jet tubes.
"Say, Kamo, that is an impressive new ship your family has built this year. How fast does it go?"
Kamo smiled again and bowed his head slightly, his half-shut eyes revealing little of his swelling pride.
"I should ask my esteemed father," Kamo said humbly. "He recently took it for a test flight, and when the ship reached maximum speed, the sound bang could be heard from miles away. Thus he named our ship 'The Roaring Wind'."
Murmurs of approval came from the impressed guests: reaching the speed of sound was very rare, even for the best jet ships.
Kensaburé Orbes wanted to save his friend's face, and intervened: "But your Sunray is no snail of a vessel either, eh, Dohan?"
Dohan suppressed a grin and said, as if to himself: "Well... it may not reach the speed of sound, but it navigates well and has a range of -" - he stood up, pointing south - "- from here to North Awrica and back.
"With a light load and spare fuel," he added self-effacingly.
A rich, ponderous voice sounded in the silence: "Word has it that Lord Damon has invited a special guest today..." The others turned to Azuch Fache, who stood up - it was he who had asked the question. Azuch continued: "A guest from the past, or possibly the future. A white-haired man who is said to be immortal. Is this to be held as truth?"
Dohan hesitated. He yet knew next to nothing about Darc, and what little he had seen of him was hardly impressive. Clearly, his father's guest was an odd stranger - he could barely speak their language properly. But Dohan sensed that Darc was part of some sly scheme to make his rivals nervous. It smelled of foul play, and Dohan did not want any part of it. He was going to prove himself like last year, without his father backing him up more than necessary.
"Do not believe everything you hear," he told them. "That stranger is no one in particular - perhaps a fool or jester, who is here to entertain us with jokes and music."
Sir Tharlos Pasko glanced at Dohan and Azuch with a contemptuous face, saying nothing - his nostrils widened, while not sniffing at his company, since he was too well trained at controlling his breath. But his mind was aflame with hateful thoughts: Just as I thought - a trick to undermine my confidence. Did you think I would fall for such children's stories, you red-haired scum! Koban-Jem spits upon your mother's face.
The senior champion gave Dohan an inscrutable, grave look.
"You may think I am but an old man full of old wives' tales," Azuch said in his dark, slow baritone. "But tonight my wife dreamed of the return of the King." Everyone stopped breathing, even Kamo - even Tharlos, who went pale white. It was widely known that Azuch's wife was something of an oracle. Mean tongues called her a witch in disguise... but all Castilians took her rare moments of vision deeply seriously. "I should not say more," Azuch excused himself when he saw their faces. "Forgive me."
The Orbes brothers both eagerly asked him to continue; like their father, they were superstitious to a fault.
Azuch held up his hands to call for silence, and granted them a full story.
"This is what my wife told me. 'In my dream,' she said, 'I saw two dueling knights, fully armored. One wore yellow stripes, the other wore blue. The blue knight fought bravely, but the yellow knight was stronger. The yellow knight pressed on, and the blue knight lost his foothold.
"'Then, as it seemed that the blue knight would die, a tall man with white hair and clothes stepped forward. He struck with his silver sceptre and stopped the yellow knight's deathblow. The blue fighter rose to his feet and struck down the yellow fiend with all his might. The man in white raised his sceptre, opened his mouth, and sang - but I could not hear the sound of his voice. Then my dream ended.' Those were her words."
The young men looked at Azuch - the Orbes brothers were staring. Most of them, including Dohan, did not know what to think. But Azuch suddenly grinned, laughing at them.
"Calm yourselves, you hotheads! We do not know the ways of the Goddess... so live and see. Now stop trembling like toothless old folk, and prepare for manly combat!"
Laughing with released tension, the party split up and went to their respective tents. Their servants were already polishing their armor, charging the battery cells and testing the mechanisms. From the armory tents, the sounds of metal against metal mixed with the snaps of lasers and the whining of miniature jet engines.
***
Darc sneaked up into the back of the main spectator lodge.
He looked across the jousting area, which was located in the south wing of the castle gardens. He could smell sweat, smoked meat and hot metal. The din of musical instruments and voices filled the air.
A food vendor ambled by, calling through a large paper horn: "Sweeeet wine, ice-cold cakes! Get'em before the game!"
A few meters in front of the roofed spectator platform, a rectangular dirt pit had been dug out and smoothed out; it was almost eighty meters long, twenty meters wide, and four meters deep. This was the jousting ground. But... No horses? No lances? Darc sensed that he had missed some important detail. He stepped down the way he came, and walked over to a nearby cluster of armory tents. The Damons' tent, checkered red-blue-black, was being guarded by Surabot and Vhustank. As Darc approached the tent, the polished brass figure of Lachtfot turned a corner and caught sight of him.
"Please do not stray from my sight again, master Darc," the thin-legged robot stated as it joined his rapid walk.
Darc gave Lachtfot a sly grin and paced onward.
"Too fast for you, eh?"
"Just a moment - what is too fast for me, master Darc?"
"Nothing," Darc sighed. "Only my spinning head."
Lachtfot's electronic brain interpreted Darc's last remark as meaningless.
***
Wasting no more time outdoors, Darc entered the Damons' armory tent - Bor had ordered his robots to allow Darc inside - and hardly found any room to squeeze in.
Technicians and pages were swarming around the large suit of battle armor, which was hanging from a set of chains in a wooden frame. In a corner, three pages were helping Dohan into a white padded suit that covered everything except his face. As Darc watched, he thought of men in spacesuits, walking on the moon. Was this all that was left of those lofty aspirations - medieval fighting?
Dohan's white suit was rapidly inflated with air from a hose. He was then outfitted with an intricate set of girdles and metal railings. He lumbered heavily over to the waiting metal suit, and stepped into its huge stubby legs. The upper armor pieces were slid into the railings on his limbs, and screwed together. Finally, the huge backpack was lifted up by three men and fastened to Dohan's armor. To Darc, the backpack resembled a miniaturized jetfighter-plane - complete with tiny exhausts and swing-wings. Could that heap of metal really fly?
As Dohan stood in the frame, only his head free now, he seemed unable even to walk - if the chains were untied, thought Darc, he and his armor would surely collapse.
"We begin testing," Dohan said formally. "First, the arms."
A technician detached a humming power-cable from the backpack, and turned a switch on its side with a monkey wrench. The whole armor jolted with a burst of power, and the young knight lifted one huge, gleaming metal arm. The arm moved smoothly up, whirring deeply from its joints, and stopped with a click and a short hiss. Dohan nodded at the technicians. He tried the next arm.
It worked similarly, but he was not satisfied: "Open it. I feel a cable that needs tightening."
The craftsmen obeyed, and adjusted the arm's insides until it was just right. Dohan opened and closed his metal-clad hands, then gestured for his weapons. The armorer rolled over a tray, containing an impressive arsenal: A tall, rectangular mirror-blank shield; an oversized broadsword with a rapier-hilt that covered the hand's outside - and a huge laser-gun with an unconnected power-cable dangling from its butt. Dohan took the shield, and weighed it in both his armored hands without visible effort.
He held the shield in his left hand, then grabbed the laser-gun and said: "Fasten it."
The craftsmen slid the weapon onto his right arm rack, until Dohan uttered a "Stop" - he hit a switch with his shield, and the laser-gun locked into place. A technician screwed the gun's power-cable to a port on the backpack's side, and stepped back. All except Darc closed their eyes and covered their ears. Dohan looked curiously to the cart standing on the far side of the tent; on it rested a block of concrete with a polished steel plate bolted onto the front. Dohan aimed the gun at the plate, at his own mirror image, and squeezed the trigger.
The loud, sharp crack of the pulse surprised Darc. A brightly red laser-beam blinked for about half a second - and pierced a tiny hole through the test plate. The plate buckled with a metallic "POP!" The concrete block cracked - a deafening bang, followed by a spurt of gray dust. Darc eyelids flickered, and he saw bright dots dance before his eyes. He stepped forward, staring at the blackened hole in the test plate.
"Say! Are you going to kill your opponent with that thing?"
Dohan turned his head to smile at the white-haired intruder who stood at the entrance - in his concentration, the young knight had not noticed Darc until now.
"Hello, Darc! Kill? Why, that hasn't happened in years! Knights' armor is much sturdier than that piece of tin."
"But the spectators? They might get hit."
"Part of the game. We use only a few such rounds in a duel." Dohan's attention immediately focused back on the test. "Now, the legs," he said.
The servants loosened the chains that held his armored frame in place. He took a careful step forward - the oversized, clawed foot stomped into the rough carpet, letting out little motor noise. Then he tried the other foot - another stomp followed, but surprisingly fluid in its movement. Dohan walked a few large steps, then paused for further adjustments. In his suit, he was well over two meters tall. He reached for the broadsword; everyone backed off.
"Sword test. Watch this, Darc!"
Dohan took the sword in one hand, lifted it high above his head and hacked downward, just slightly bending his torso. Half of the blade sliced through the carpet and was stuck deep into the dirt. Dohan released his grip.
"Now try to pull the sword up," he asked Darc.
Darc grabbed the sword-hilt with both hands, and pulled with all his strength. He turned red in the face - his strength was now as good as normal, but he was no athlete, Darc groaned and strained; the blade moved an inch, but no more.
"It's too heavy, and too deeply stuck," he gasped.
Dohan raised a metal-clad finger and gave Darc a proud look. Darc stepped back, and Dohan reached for the sword. With his arm fully outstretched, he grabbed the hilt - and pulled the sword free in one single movement. The motors and hydraulic mechanisms of his suit made a considerable noise, but Dohan did not even break into a sweat - nor did he bend his knees more than a fraction of an inch. His heavy metal feet gave him a rock-solid foothold. Dohan made a few swipes in the air with the blade, and slid it into the tin sheath on his metal hip.
"I would like to try on that kind of armor one day," Darc told him. He was envious, and he knew it showed.
Dohan shook his head: "Only the born noblemen can wear mechanized armor. And the suit must be fitted to the owner's body. Since I am still growing, the suit is often changed. And you must begin training early, at eleven or twelve years."
In that moment, Bor Damon marched into the tent. He was dressed in his finest outdoor clothes, and wore a purple cloak wrapped around his shoulder and chest. He nodded at Darc, then grinned heartily at his son; he had to bend his neck back to look him in the eye.
"Are you ready to show them what a Damon is made of, my son?"
Dohan responded in a serious, confident mood: "I spent all winter preparing for this, father. I will not disappoint you."
"Good." Bor turned to face Darc. "Now let us not disturb Dohan's concentration, Darc. The guests await us!"
The two men walked briskly to the main spectator lodge. Darc asked: "Lord Damon... why would you not let me say hello to your guests and the other knights?"
Bor seemed irritated at Darc's inquiry into his motives. "Just stay calm and do as I advise," he grumbled. "At the banquet tonight, you will have all the time in the world for courting the ladies. Do not think word of you and that maid missed my ears - I know everything that goes on at the castle." He blinked both eyes at Darc, then added with a more concerned expression: "Remember that you are not a nobleman. Not yet. We must proceed with delicacy, so as not to offend my guests with your presence. Have you understood what your presence here means to the people? No, I think not."
Darc smelled a rat. As they took their seats with the rest of the Damon family, he in a half-obscured corner, it dawned on him what function he was serving. By just being there, Darc would arouse the guests' suspicions and superstitions. What did they think he was? A mystery man? An advisor? A bad omen for the knights? Darc felt the furtive stares he was receiving - from the other families, from passing vendors, from the commoners standing on the other side of the wide pit.
Suddenly it struck him. Now I wish I'd dyed my hair, he thought glumly. He looked for something to cover his white scalp - a cap left by the guests, anything. Nothing was to be found. He sank down on his chair and folded his arms. Relax, Darc told himself. What could happen? Probably anything I won't expect.
There was no time for Darc to further consider his position; the proceedings of the day cut off his thoughts. Bor stood up, and raised his arms. The people standing on the far side of the pit cheered long and loud for their ruler and protector. The musicians blew a fanfare in their horns, ended by a short, sharp drum roll. The crowd fell silent.
Lord Damon pressed a button on his electronic collar, and the built-in bullhorn carried his ritual speech echoing across the pit: "I, Bor Wyan The Third Damon, chief City Lord of Damon City, greet my loyal and loving subjects, allies, and friends. I welcome the invited families of Orbes, Yota, Fache, and Pasko.
"I hereby declare the three-hundred and sixteenth Summer Joust open. May the best man win!"
The crowd roared with enthusiasm, waving little red-blue-black flags in the air. Hot-air paper balloons were launched. The musicians joined in with another fanfare. Darc could feel the temperature in the air go up one or two degrees...
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