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***
270 A.D.
Time has a way of running away regardless of our desires. It seems that only yesterday I was quietly picking herbs in Chloe's cottage, and today I am already shaking in the cart, cursing our lord, who saves money on roads, and trying to put something under my aching heel. It's been five years since that day.
The next days, after my brother and I began our military training, were not very original. All the same waking up an hour before sunrise, jogging, warming up and running in full equipment. Then I went either to Chloe's training, who, after my study of all medicinal properties of plants known to her, began to teach me to create poisons and antidotes, or to hunting, where I practiced archery and the ability to set traps, while reducing the number of forest animals and increasing my purse. The only variety in this schedule was brought by my mother, when she asked me to try to get fish along with meat. Apparently my relatives were bored with the meat ration and wanted to diversify it. So I had a new entertainment - to stand on the rocks in the shallows of the river and try to shoot fish. At first I only spoiled my arrows, but soon the Cold family had fish days.
Six months went by quietly until my father decided that our endurance was enough and we were past that stage of training. A new hell began. Now every day we practiced hundreds of times different kicks from different stands with different weapons. And it would be all right just to swing a sword or an axe, so my father set a condition - all movements must be perfectly calibrated, with precision to the millimeter. According to him, his clan's fighting style consisted of relentless attacks. They were achieved through the use of inertia and its subsequent neutralization by muscle power. Each movement must flow into the next, constantly striking from the most different and unexpected positions, or stop abruptly to disrupt the rhythm of the opponent, striking him from an awkward, in his opinion, position. And if with a sword and dagger it was easy to do it, with the axe my father worked real miracles. His 10-kilogram battle axe, which was two-handed, he twirled it like a stick, holding it with one hand and forgetting about the existence of inertial forces. It was more like an art than a way to kill people, but all doubts about the power and danger of his technique disappeared when he playfully sliced a quarter-meter-diameter tree in half with a single blow. Bogatyr's strength, which, according to him, we also inherited and increased.
As my father told me later, this style of wielding an axe was invented by the past head of his clan, who lived a century and a half ago. Legend had it that he had once visited Meereen, one of the largest cities on another continent, Esossa. There was the local equivalent of the Colosseum, the fighting pits. According to stories passed down by word of mouth, there he watched two gladiators fight. One used a light sword like a needle, and the other used a giant battle axe, so big that its owner was rumored to have chopped off the head of an elephant with it. The battle eventually ended in victory for the gladiator with the light sword, who won thanks to his smooth and calm technique. The ancestor was amazed at the spectacle and wondered if the giant had the same technique and could strike smoothly with his weapon. The owner of such a fighting style would be very difficult to defeat.
The first humans, from whom the Northmen were descended, were always famous for their strength and height, and were not inferior in physical power to the losing gladiator, who was a giant to the locals. Thus was born a style of wielding heavy weapons based on all their advantages, but based on softness and technique, not on strength and weight.
I was impressed by this story because the ancestor of the clan my father came from had done the same thing that Sasaki Kojiro had done on Earth. He created a style of wielding heavy weapons that took away their main flaw - their wild inertia. With that motivation, I've been practicing with the axe a lot more. And Aerys. it's Aerys. His father couldn't get him to dislike axes and their derivatives, and he remained an avid sword lover, training with them most of the time. Though I must admit he had a talent for that particular weapon.
A year later, riding and studying the knight's code were added to these exercises. When asked why we needed this code, the ex-knight shrugged his shoulders and said that it was a kind of trigger, separating the noble from the common murderer. The questions stopped. The following years were no different, except for the end of my apprenticeship with Chloe at the age of 9 and the beginning of my apprenticeship with Berne, who took me in because of the solidarity of being half Nordic and long persuasion, backed by 3 silver moons. I had my doubts that he would be able to teach me anything with my knowledge, but it was hard to find a better place to practice.
I still kept in touch with the old herbalist, often visiting her and giving her herbs I had gathered during the hunt. At first she tried to give me money for it, but I was met with polite refusals and arguments that they don't take money from family, and I sincerely considered her my grandmother. The latter so moved her that she taught me a few "secret" recipes that were not part of the herbalist's "standard" kit. Attempts to repay the help stopped after that, but I could clearly see her handing the small purse to my mother, who set it aside to other savings.
We were now on our way to Ashmark, where a tournament and fair was being held in honor of the fifth birthday of Adam Marbrand, the heir to these lands. I have royal plans for this trip. First, I need to buy a thoroughbred foal that will be my horse in the future. I had planned to leave home at 14 years old, a sufficient age to travel alone and leave the care of my family. The sooner I did it, the better. A storm is coming. And it's clear even without my knowledge. Aerys II Targaryen, or Aerys the Voidbringer, as he has come to be known by the people for his empty statements, has already proven himself to be an obnoxious ruler. He began quarreling with the Keeper of the West, undid most of the reforms of his grandfather, Aegon the Incredible, sent the Iron Bank into the ground, imposed a giant list of duties that made trade across the continent very difficult, and finally fell in the eyes of the clergy. According to a septon who had recently traveled to Lannisport from King's Harbor and stayed at an inn near the farmhouse, it appeared that Aerys, who had previously shared his wife's grief at the loss of her children who had died in infancy, had begun to make ridiculous accusations against the queen, claiming that "the Seven do not allow bastards on the Iron Throne" - supposedly all the dead children were the fruit of Reila's adulterous affairs with some lovers, and the king himself had nothing to do with them. All of King's Landing knows that he imprisoned his wife in a dungeon, leaving several female nuns there as wardens. After that, respect for him as king plummeted. The people of the Westlands are more or less lucky - as long as the Great Lion of the West, Tywin Lannister, is Hand, he will not allow the king's men to plunder their lands. The rest of us, unfortunately, Fortune has not smiled that way.
The second reason is the tournament. It's too early for me to participate in general fights or tournament skirmishes, but I can take part in the archery competition. My father wanted to warm up in a general fight, proving to himself that he is not rusty for the time of peace and still "can give pompous knights".
The third reason was trivial - trade. The crops were still in season and the fall plowing was still a long way off, so most of the goods in our cart were my booty. Horns of giant deer, fangs of boars and wolves, dozens of dressed hides, several sacks of feathers and down, and finally, a whole centner of smoked meat of any game, from simple partridges to the leg of a giant boar. And not to forget my pride - a whole bag of expensive pelts of ermine, weasels and sables - a great rarity in our lands. They are usually found much further north, in the northern lands of the Riverlands or in the North itself. They are scarce in the Western Lands and the locals are not accustomed to hunting them due to the availability of other prey.
In Westeros, as in the Middle Ages, it is forbidden to hunt big game, as it is the property of the king and his vassals. But there's always an exception. Remembering how idiotic I felt when I found out that our family was allowed to hunt any beast in the Westlands for participating in the suppression of the Reyn and Tarbeck rebellion makes me want to hang myself from the nearest bitch.
"How much money did I miss out on because of my stupidity in missing so much prey?" my hand landed on my face in a classic gesture in my homeworld. I only found out about the interesting fact that my father was involved in the suppression of the rebellion and fought in both battles of Tarbuckhall six months ago, and that was by accident. He doesn't like to mention it because of his new nickname from the battle. Which, unfortunately, I don't know.
Our farmstead was not far from the River Road, equidistant from Ashmark, Sarsfield, and Golden Tooth, so it took only half a day to get there. After leaving home by wagon in the morning, the castle belonging to the Marbrand family appeared on the horizon in the evening. The Jasenevaya Frontier itself was located on a high cliff, which could only be reached by passing all three levels of fortifications, in the form of three rows of high walls and a deep moat. Only then could one enter the donjon and the main rooms of the castle.
But we didn't need to go there. We were on our way to the Ash Village, an appendage to any castle, where the commoners lived, serving the lords and any visitors. The fair would last a week, culminating in a tournament that would draw all the surrounding knights and free riders.
We stayed the night at the house of my mother's relatives, who gave us a room in the inn for a token fee of a few groats, and began to prepare.
While the head of the household was now polishing and checking his armor in preparation for the tournament in 7 days, I was busy with more social things. I had to talk to the innkeepers - find out prices, the latest news, interesting rumors, recent events - in a word, everything that could help in tomorrow's fair. It is necessary to find out in advance to whom and for how much it is possible to sell our goods profitably.
Because of my constant training, together with my brother, and individual training, and my half-North origin, I already look like a fourteen-year-old boy to the locals. They wouldn't take me for a kid who could talk all he wanted. I had to spend the whole evening, enduring the inexpressible amber smell of dirty bodies, rotten teeth, cheap wine and alcohol fumes, asking the drunkards, i.e. traders and local peasants, about the prices of meat and furs. And if there was no problem with the former, the hides could be sold quite profitably. A new winter was approaching. News came from the north. The previous year had been very hot - the so-called "spirit summer". The winters following them were some of the harshest and the most people died during them. Prices for clothing and grain would soon skyrocket. The main thing is not to get too cheap and to sell everything that has already accumulated.
When I returned to our room at midnight, all I saw was my father snoring, asleep with his axe in his arms. A military habit. I went to bed only when I soaked the most expensive skins in a solution of apple juice, mandrake and apple petals. According to Chloe, the furs will acquire a slight apple odor, which women like very much. They can be sold to the lord's wife for good money.
***
"Habit is second nature," I thought, as always waking up an hour before dawn. I got out of bed and shook off the local fleas (brrr, I'd gotten them out of our house a long time ago) and went outside to the well. - "Wherever you are, you shouldn't stop practicing."
Going down to the yard, which had a well dug in the center of it, I embarked on a water routine and a light warm-up. In this form I was caught by a local waitress. Observing all the stamps of some second-rate movie, she first blushed, then turned pale, and then, blushing again, rushed into the house.
"What kind of girls have gone? Have you never seen undressed people in your life?" - I thought, pouring another bucket of cold water. And to think that this time I was wearing only pants. We're all human. We differ only in our primary and secondary sex characteristics. It's medieval, what can I say?
After half an hour, my father joined me in embarrassing the local peasant women. Then followed a light sparring on blunted swords, breakfast, which was not so good compared to my mother's food, and our departure to the fairgrounds.
If anyone was hoping that this fair was like the ones shown in cartoons and TV series, they were sorely mistaken. There were no neat and tidy rows of stalls welcoming the traders, no minstrels singing their songs about great heroes and princesses, no people dancing around the fire. In fact, it was just a huge wasteland, where a bunch of people, under the supervision of local guards, took a strictly designated place and began to trade. There was no dancing here, and the minstrels, if there were any, were sleeping off their last night's drinking. They were always alcoholics.
The gray, boring days dragged on. If someone thinks that the life of a merchant is a constant dispute with buyers, planning deals, talking to customers and trying to cheat them, he may be right, but not in my case. The first five days were very boring. Just sit around and make sure the petty thieves didn't steal anything. And the only islands of joy were the trading moments themselves, which didn't happen very often. Uh-oh. It was beautiful. I immediately remember my past life, when I used to haggle in the markets in Baghdad and Tehran, visiting those cities for work. That perpetual haggling, jacking up prices, playing the game of outraged innocence..... The Jew in my soul sang. And after all it is only necessary not to refuse directly, to make light and unobtrusive hints, carefully compare the goods with someone else's in favor of their own and give the buyer the illusion that he himself set the price. I loved it. On the locals this show worked one hundred percent. They left and did not understand how they managed to buy meat or fangs, used here in crafts or witchcraft, twice as expensive as the others. The difference of mentalities is decisive. But there were some hardy merchants. Merchants from Lannisport and the Riverlands didn't fall for my game. I had to bargain with them hard.
For just one "conversation" with a merchant from Staromest, happening now, at the end of the fifth day, who wanted to buy the horns of a giant deer, all ancestors up to the 7th knee, all sick and poor relatives, all conceivable and unthinkable kinds of offenses, all the most intricate curses and flattering compliments, carrying sweet molasses a mile away, were remembered. In the end we parted after two hours completely satisfied with each other - I with my five dragons, 138 stags and 27 groschen and he with giant horns, which, because of the prohibitions of most lords on hunting, very difficult to get.
«I should have taken you to these fairs sooner. - I was distracted from the euphoria of a good deal by my father's voice. He looked as dazed as all the other merchants in the wasteland. In front of their eyes, I was doing what they couldn't - haggling with merchants - people who, in everyday life, can make a peasant sell his crops for nothing with two words. - More money would have been made.
In local realities, peasants are not used to haggling. Not knowing such a thing as pricing and not knowing how to properly show their goods, ordinary people simply agreed to the prices offered by the traders. Those, of course, did not get too cocky, giving such a price, so that the peasant could survive and next year again supply them with goods, but they themselves sold "honestly" bought two or even three times more expensive. Speculation in its purest form. I'm sure these horns will go to the maesters of the Citadel for at least fifteen dragons.
«That's fine with me. - Putting the unsold hides into the cart, I said. Today was coming to an end, and I needed to clean up the counter. - But you always turned me down, saying I was no use to you.
«Who knew you had such a talent for verbiage? - Dad grinned into his mustache. He'd left the bidding to me the last few days, either practicing in the inn or sleeping. Drinking was not his word. My word, which I'm bound to tell my mother. And father doesn't want to reacquaint his face and a wooden rolling pin. With her hot temper Cersei is very similar to her famous in the future namesake, who is already four years old.
«You didn't ask. - He only smiled at my words. Tomorrow is the last day of the fair. The only day that the lord and his family come down from the castle and visit the fair themselves, hoping to find something unique and interesting. A glance at the castle only made me hum. - Judging from the rumors Lady Marbrand is a big fashionista.
«What's your point? - Looking at my father's puzzled look, I smiled, looking forward to a fun show tomorrow.
***
«How many?!
«Thirty dragons.
«That's a rip-off! These rags aren't worth one dragon! - Lord Damon Marbrand's roar echoed over the fairgrounds in waves, silencing all other sounds.
«Then don't buy them. - I answered, pretending I was more interested in my fingernails than in the Lannister bannerman's rage-red face. The lord himself had long black hair, an oval face with a large square nose, and gray colorless eyes that were now burning with rage. - These furs would be gladly bought by any lady in the Western Lands, and at a higher price.
These words were addressed not to the lord, but to the one who stood behind him - Lady Marbrand, holding by the shoulders a five-year-old boy - the cause of the "feast" - the heir of Ashford Adam Marbrand. Judging by the delight with which the lady was looking at the fox pelt, constantly bringing it to her face and inhaling its scent, Chloe was right.
«Do you know, boy, that for such money I can hire and equip two knights! Do you think your goods are worth that kind of money? - He seemed to have calmed down, and his anger was replaced by cold fury. It's unpleasant for a noble to be conditioned by a mere peddler with no origin.
«Worth it. - Damon's eyes bulged, and it was clear he hadn't expected such insolence. - Weasels and stoats are rare in the Western Lands. And these are unique. I found them in an old apple orchard, where they had been eating juicy and wild apples all their lives. Their fur was soaked with the scent of the fruit. Where else in these lands will you find such a thing? Who else can offer you such a unique fur that even the merchants of Essos would envy?
After such a rant, the bulging eyes were joined by a sagging jaw. It took the lord about ten seconds to get his bearings and come to his senses. Having promised me with his eyes all the punishments of heaven, he was about to turn around and leave, as he ran into a look that promised him the same. Judging by the sharp turn of his head and the understanding in his gaze, Marbrand realized that the whole monologue was addressed not to him, but to his wife. And if he did not buy those furs, it would be easier to drown himself in the nearest well than to return to the castle. And three things prevent him from using his right as a lord and simply taking away my goods - his own pride, his reputation, which will be shattered after such a prank in front of all the people present, and my father, quietly sharpening his battle axe. More specifically the fibula hanging on his cloak, in the form of a large gold and small red lion. Such jewelry can only be worn by those who have done well during the Rebellion of the Rhines and Tarbeks, and thus only those favored by the Great Lion. A "measly" 30 dragons is not worth the slightest bit of displeasure to the Lion of the West.
«All right, then. Give me those hides. - Said Marbrand as he began counting out 30 gold rounds from his purse. - But if a single pelt is spoiled or odorless, I'll hang you from the nearest bitch for cheating the lord. - He said that last part to restore his reputation. Thirty dragons aren't worth an enemy among the nobility.
«I'll vouch for my goods. - Putting my hand on my heart and bowing slightly at the waist, I said. Such a posture reflexively makes a person relax a little. The main thing to remember is to keep a soft but not fawning tone. - Let me congratulate you. Soon, once your craftsmen have worked on this fine fur, all of Westeros will know of your love for your wife and your willingness to go to such great lengths for her.
Well, I'm not sure about the entire continent, but the entire Western Lands, at the expense of the local merchants and minstrels who are the local world gossipers, will know about it for sure. Judging by the fleeting smile that appeared, Lord Damon understood my hint perfectly. Lady Marbrand's maiden name was a Lannister from Lannisport. The Lannisters there will respond very well to such a gesture from the master of Ashmark. An improved reputation is worth far more than a measly 30 gold pieces.
The local lords left happy beyond measure - one had improved his reputation with his wife's family almost for free, the second had acquired unique goods that are very hard to get, and the third - the birthday boy - was just glad to leave this place, where the stench had become almost unbearable after 6 days of parking.
For the rest of the observers a miracle happened now - the lord, not only did not kill the insolent man who dared to demand something from him, but also paid the established fee, which for ordinary people was a fortune.
After that, the few remaining goods were sold like hotcakes. Most people bought without even haggling, instantly agreeing to the set price. After all. If the lord himself bought the furs here at such a high price, then the goods here were of high quality and would last much longer. And the fact that they didn't differ much from others on the market... the lord would know better. On Earth, such things happened when celebrities advertised some device, becoming a guarantor of quality and popularity.
After a couple hours, the fair was over. According to the results, my father and I became the owners of 36 golden dragons, 408 reindeer and 812 groschen. Provided that for a copper groschen you can buy the cheapest sausage and a horn of ale, for a silver stag you can have a good dinner in a roadside inn, and still have a handful of coppers as change, it's very good money. A new full set of knight's armor - a long chain mail, collar, gauntlets and helmet - costs the same Bern 800 deer, or even more. Although at the fair, the old worn-out armor of a sword knight was sold for only 200 deer. So thirty dragons for a poor person, such as a singer, is a fortune, with this money you can sail to the Free Cities and lead a life full of pleasures there.
Even ten dragons could be called "a fortune", which were instantly gone, after one important purchase. But a good thoroughbred colt that would grow into a strong and powerful war horse (I had seen his parents - monsters, not horses) was worth the money. He was of the Northern Shire breed, the largest horses in Westeros, reaching nearly two meters in withers, like a hybrid of Spanish Anduez and English Shire. The only suppliers of these beautiful horses were the Ryswells, some of the oldest horse breeders on the continent. Their horses are said to be the best for the heavy rider, on par with Brackens and Florents. The other breeds won't suit me. Judging by my growth rate, I'll soon surpass my father's size, and he's six feet tall.
«I didn't think we had enough money for such a luxury. - Said my father, watching me playing with a small foal, which was only two years old, and he was already the size of a large adult dog. What he will grow up to be with good nutrition and training, I'm afraid to imagine. This is where my modest knowledge, gained from a friend who keeps horses and his own racetrack, fails. I can name a couple horse breeds and that's it. The head of the family will educate me in taming and education, along with my brother, who was also bought a foal, though not so good - "only" for 5 dragons. - You've been a good trader. Money is never too much. But remember son, when you travel, keep your identity as a knight and a merchant separate. They mutually hate each other, because knights' lives are built on noble traditions and honor, while merchants' lives are built on profit, for which they can sell those traditions and honor.
«Are you a father? - I asked as we walked to the front desk, leaving the foals in the care of the stable boy. They'd erected the tournament grounds yesterday, near the castle, and today was the last day to sign up for the tournament. - You're a knight, aren't you?
«I'm a warrior, son. Like all Northerners. - With a serious look at me, he spoke. - When you live on the edge of the blade every day, and you don't know if you'll be alive tomorrow, you don't care about the principles of knights. The main thing is to survive and return home. At any cost.
«I see... We're here. - The entry point for the tournament was a small stand with three wooden shields, with the image of a spear, sword and bow. Sitting behind it was a small, fat man, constantly yawning and waving papers around like a fan.
«Greetings to the esteemed tournament director. - Even our appearance did not distract him from his thoughts, judging by his glance around the tavern, directed at the choice of wine he would drink in the evening. It was only his father's voice that caused him to look away and look at us more meaningfully.
«Greetings to the future participants of the tournament! - His face instantly became smiling and ingratiating as he noticed the fibula hanging on his father's cloak. There are only 500 of these pieces of jewelry, and they were given to the most prominent participants in the suppression of the rebellion. This immediately tells you that you are facing a strong warrior who can easily blow your head off. - Let me know your names and what stages do you want to sign up for? Surely you, sire, would like to participate in the clash, showing your strength, power and nobility.
«Enough, enough. - His father interrupted him when he realized that this steward would describe every contest like that. - My name is Alexander Cold. I'd like to sign up for the general bout. This is my son Felix. Sign him up for the archery contest.
«Of course, sire. - If every steward is like that, I don't really want to compete in tournaments. His sweet smile made me very uneasy, associating me with little boy lovers. At least I'm not in danger of that. I'll kill him first. - So, Ser Alexander Cold is in the general bout, and young Felix Cold....
«Not Cold. He's my second son and not yet knighted. - His father corrected him. - He doesn't have a last name yet.
«Good. - If he was annoyed that we interrupted him, he was skillful not to show it. - Young Felix will compete in the archery competition. Is that correct?
«Yes.
«Then congratulations on your entry into the Ashford Tournament, the fifth anniversary of Lord Damon Marbrand's heir, Adam Marbrand. - He uttered a phrase said dozens of times to all the knights participating in this tournament.
Having said goodbye to the steward, and mentally wishing not to meet him again, my father and I went to the hotel. It was necessary to sleep and wake up early, fully stretching the body and spirit.
The next day greeted us with a bright warm sun, gently warming everyone around us. If we add to it the rich red and yellow color of leaves, which had been hanging on the trees for half a year already, we had an illusion that the world was blazing in bright yellow colors. Pushkin would have loved it in this world - here you can admire his favorite autumn for a whole year.
In the morning, having warmed up and had a good breakfast with not too heavy food, my father and I went to the tournament. At the beginning of the day there is a horse race, where knights knock each other out with their lances at full gallop. Then there is a general fight - a kind of wrestling, where everyone for himself. At the same time there is an archery competition, where local craftsmen show off their shooting skills.
"It's a shame I won't get to see my father fight. I was looking forward to it," I thought as I walked to my competition. I didn't really like the horse race. It's a very specific kind of competition. Originally, tournaments were created to train and demonstrate the skills of knights in peacetime. The essence of mounted duels was that mounted knights fight each other with special blunt lances. Their goal is to bring the opponent to the ground by hitting him as successfully as possible. The one who can stay in the saddle the longest is declared the winner. In real battles, this happens only at the moment of collision of knights' cavalry. The ability to keep yourself in the saddle is the main condition for survival in such moments. The rest of the real battle at tournaments is represented by skirmishing. In itself, it's just a chopping contest where mounted or foot soldiers fight each other until there is one winner. In my opinion, the ability to nail your neighbor in battle should be valued above the ability to poke your enemy with a spear at the beginning of the fight. But here it's the other way around.
The archery contest is different. It is organized for commoners, because for them the bow, according to the aristocracy, which is a weapon of the nobility, is much closer than an expensive spear or sword. Most often it is simple target shooting, but exceptions are sometimes made. In Dorne, tournaments are most often held in the format of the solar spear, a test where one must hit a vertical rather than horizontal target. Not to forget moving target shooting and ring shooting, which are held in the case of large tournaments, when almost all those present are landowners who are not interested in watching a "traditional" competition.
But now it's all boilerplate.
***
«And today's winner of our archery tournament is a young archer named Felix, son of Alexander! - the tournament director loudly announced after my last shot.
"Could have been better" - I thought, looking at my target, where ten arrows in a row hit the center of the target, the size of the phalanx of my little finger, and the last one repeated the old legend of Robin Hood - split one of the arrows in half. The rest of the participants, who were more hunters from the surrounding lands or free shooters, managed to hit a maximum of eight arrows out of 10. The specifics of their craft played a role. It is important for mercenaries to be able to shoot in large groups, during battles. Of course, there are professional shooters among them, but they have long occupied good places in mercenary units and they are not interested in such local competitions. Hunters have another problem - distance and training. Usually they shoot beasts from 50 paces, while the minimum distance for tournaments is 70. And they rarely shoot, only when hunting, where most of their time is spent tracking game or setting traps. Whereas I train at least 4 hours a day with just a bow. According to my father, I am already an excellent marksman, but it is not enough.
"Many people elevate bow wielding to an art, but it's not" - Such thoughts swirled in my head as I helped my father remove my armor in our tent. - "Art is something that people don't understand and can't explain with their current capabilities, and something that can be trained, perfected and explained is a skill that one should strive to bring to unattainable perfection"
Father, too, won the overall battle. According to the cupbearer, whom I managed to catch and question, under the threat of a fist under his nose, he scattered all his opponents by simply dealing blows right and left with his giant axe. The boy, though he was my age in fact, said it was like a dance, where every blow was honed and measured, and with each swing one of the knights fell to the ground a broken puppet.
"In two words - my dad had fun."
The awards ceremony was held on the same ristalis. The awards were average for a tournament of this level. The wandering knight from Prostor who won the knights' clash received a hundred golden dragons and a bottle of golden Arbor wine. Judging by the fact that he was more excited about the wine than the money, a good amount of money would soon be drunk in the tavern of Ash Village. Father received 50 dragons and a good steel sword worth at least a few hundred deer for his victory. This is a good gift - only one out of 10 blacksmiths can forge weapons and finding them is a problem. We were lucky in this respect - Bern was a very good all-rounder, able to forge weapons and armor.
My reward was the most modest - 30 gold dragons and a good birch bow made from wood brought from the North. Just to avoid seeing my smiling face, Lord Marbrand made his son give out my reward, which did not make the boy, torn from his mother's skirt, feel any better.
After listening to the lord's final speech, which boiled down to thanking me for attending his son's birthday party and inviting the visiting noble lords to a table in the castle, my father and I headed for the inn. We had to pack, and tomorrow we would depart for home, to a family awaiting our return.
That was the end of my first, but by no means the last tournament in this world.
***
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