GoMB Chapter Thirty (Patreon)

Aenar sighed in relief as the jousts closed for the day. His last opponent had not been particularly skilled, but Aenar was already running on fumes. By the time Ser Emmett fell from his horse, Aenar had only ten hit points left.

Yet for all the bruises and injuries Aenar had suffered, he felt confident in one thing: the juice was worth the squeeze. The last joust had tipped him over the edge. Aenar was now proudly eighth level (Noble 1/Fighter 7). And while the advancement came with few benefits practical benefits, the same could not be said for the level that followed. Two feats, one as an 8th-level fighter and one for having nine levels in total. Aenar already knew which ones he wanted. While neither would help him in the tourney, they were sure to prove invaluable in any real conflict.

The first feat Aenar planned on getting was Great Cleave. An extension of Cleave, Great Cleave allowed Aenar to follow up on a killing blow an unlimited number of times, so long as his foes were in range. With his halberd, that range was length indeed. The second feat complemented the first: Weapon Specialization, again for his halberd. With this feat each of Aenar’s halberd blows would deal an extra two points of damage. His total damage (once Aenar actually got the feat) would be 1d10+14, more than enough to render the average bandit or mercenary a former threat rather than a present one. And that was without taking his already-present feat Power Attack into account.

Yes, Aenar thought as he felt the healing surge of his new level, things were well and truly looking up.

*

The joust resumed at the break of dawn the next day. His matte black armor covered by the sun’s rosy hue, Aenar felt confident. His two trusty mares were ready to ride. His health was entirely recovered. He was stronger than ever. Surely, there were none left who could oppose him.

At first this seemed to be the case. Save for a single lucky, critical, hit by Lord Lefford, Aenar won his first three jousts unmolested. Aenar was certain the fourth joust would follow suit.

“Facing Ser Aenar Fyre, Lord Jason Whitehead!” the Master of Ceremonies declared. At once Aenar felt his hopes of an easy victory slipping through his fingers.

Lord Whitehead emerged from his tent. Clad in shining steel armor the veteran of a hundred raids mounted his pitch-black steed. He raised his lance, and Aenar did the same.

The first pass without incident. Lord Whitehead’s lance struck Aenar’s shield, while Aenar’s lance was deflected by the lord’s breastplate. On the second pass Lord Whitehead struck Aenar thoroughly on the chest, rocking him back in the saddle. On the third pass Aenar returned the favor, but Lord Whitehead proved durable, barely shifting in his seat. The fourth pass, and Aenar winced as another blow nearly sent him tumbling.

12 non-lethal damage (8 hp)

Aenar breathed heavily. He resorted to defense on the fifth pass, where neither contestant landed a blow. On the sixth Aenar struck out. Lord Whitehead, though a fearsome veteran, was an aging one as well. By the seven pass, when Aenar abandoned his defense to land a potent blow, Lord Whitehead’s response was unable to push through Aenar’s armor and scales.

Lord Whitehead (CR 9) defeated

Tournament [Joust] deduction applied

+1,200 exp

Aenar had won a Pyrrhic victory. Still far from gaining another level, he had no choice but to push through the day’s ten remaining jousts with only eight hit points.

The wait was agonizing, but Aenar could not distract himself. He could not even pace. An hour of rest would heal one hit point of the non-lethal damage, and that hit point could mean the difference between success and failure.

At last the bugle cried. Aenar, still clad in his black plate, leapt from his seat. He mounted Josie and rode into the lanes. Opposite him sat the Knight of Silver Spurs. Aenar had never heard of the man before, but he sat his horse well. Either a nobleman hiding his identity or an experienced hedge knight trying to win the crowd’s favor. Neither option boded well for Aenar.

The bugle sounded again. Aenar’s vision narrowed. Gone were the cheering commoners, the hungry-eyed nobles, and the merchant’s calls. All that remained was the narrow lanes, divided by a thin wooden rail. The dirt beneath them was thick and muddy, torn up by the pounding of horses’ hooves. The steeds themselves were eager, charging forward with paralleled speed and momentum. The knights themselves were but part of the spectacle, their agency gone the moment the bugle sounded.

They came together in a crash of wood and steel. A cloud of splinters rose from the place of their collision. The knights rode through, their armor undamaged.

They turned, and charged again. The lances shattered. Aenar stayed mounted. The Knight of Silver Spurs did not.

Ser Merrick of Westerbrooke rode next. He too fell, his blue-tinted armor gaining a muddy sheen after the first pass. Then came Ser Emmett Waxley, Ser Garlan Norcross, Ser Tyland Bancroft . . . one by one the hedge knights and noble scions fell. The clink of coins filled the stands and bets were won and lost. The crowds cheered for their new favorite, his unseemly visage no longer a hindrance to his population as it was hidden beneath his helmet.

At long last the final foe emerged. Ser Cor of Haddock’s Pond, a household knight in the service of Lord Tarly. He was well-equipped, his armor plain but complete and his shield bearing a simple pond with a single tree, upon a field of white. He rode his mount with deadly precision, each movement of his legs leading the destrier to its exact destination. His lance arm was steady. Perhaps most importantly, his hit points were undoubtedly full.

It did not matter. A single Critical Hit threw the vaunted knight of Lord Tarly from his saddle, ending the last bout of the day with a distinctive thud.