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A.R.Yngve DARC AGES _________________________ |
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![]() Damon's armor |
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Chapter 7 (continued)
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 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 awaiting 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 in 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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