Tale of Four

The cheers of the crowd drowned out the heavy swing of a mace colliding with a shield. Oliver took a step back, digging the back of his foot into the dirt. His shield held strong against the heavy strike of his opponent. Despite the cries of the crowd who cheered, all Oliver could hear was his own breathing alongside the sound of the wind being split by his own weapon. The thin crack in his helmet that allowed him to see was solely focused on the armoured knight before him.

Both were filthy, littered with mud. Oliver was in pain, able to tell that at least one of his ribs had been broken, but when watching his opponent, seeing his chest bounce up and down with laboured breaths, his shield slightly shaking, he could tell he wasn’t much better.

The mace flew down once again, and Oliver decided to risk everything. Swinging his sword and aiming for the chain, the mace wrapped itself around the blade. Within a split second, Oliver pulled as hard as he could, throwing his head forward as he did. The knight before him fell forward at the sudden counter he had not expected.

A warm liquid rolled down Olvier’s forehead, but he pushed aside the new wound he suffered and threw blow after blow into the knight’s head before he could recollect himself, his wooden shield breaking with the final one. Splitners fell into the other knights’ visors, and not wishing to humiliate his opponent anymore, Oliver loosened his sword free of the mace and pointed it towards the man’s throat.

The knight looked up in his daze and sighed, collapsing backwards, seeing the duel over. The crowd’s cheers erupted, finally bringing him back to the real world, the outside noise finally overshadowing his own breathing. At a raised platform, a fat man with brown hair stood up and slowly clapped, his robes covered in thin gold lining, behind him, a sigil of a stone hammer on a white background.

Oliver ripped his helmet off, showing his square face, the blood running down his nose along his cheek, dripping to the ground. "Ser Oliver Devon." Lord Stoneheart said with a joyful voice as he looked down at Oliver. "Do you accept my offer to become one of my knights. Will you swear fealty to me?"

Oliver took a deep breath and stared at Lord Stoneheart. Dropping his sheild he fell onto one knee and stabbed his sword in the ground. This entire tournament, other than to show off his wealth, was also a way for Stoneheart to entice unclaimed knights of the realm to serve under his banner. Despite his skill, Oliver had yet to be graced with such a luxury. After seventeen years, he finally had the chance and was happy to pounce on it.

’He may be a minor Lord, but it at least will get me closer to others.’

"I swear..." Grunting in pain, he took a deep breath and fell into his sword quickly, forcing the words out before he couldn’t speak, "Before the Lord of Chivalry and Repentance, to become your sword, to serve faithfully, to heed your call to war and defend the honour of the Stoneheart family." Oliver lowered his head deeper, remembering the words of the incomprehensible being before he was born.

’Serve the one who will be the light in darkness. Defend the Dove of Salvation.’

Those words had become an oath long before he could wield a weapon. Soemthing he had strived to accomplish. He had searched tirelessly for who that Dove was, and finally realised the truth. He could never find out as a lordless Knight. He needed his way into the noble world to climb and achieve more for himself; to make his name known to the entire realm. Once he did that, the Dove would be the one to seek him out.

’How many families’ sigils are Doves? Unlikely to be those within the Valley’s, but these guys are the only ones who host a tourney like this often.’

Telling himself, he lifted his head at Lord Stoneheart’s command. Given a nod to rise, Oliver took to his feet and sheathed his sword. Looking towards the crowd that had their bloodlust sated with the duel, Oliver suppressed the urge to click his tongue. He loved the sword, loved the dedication it took to master it, the idealised version of it told in stories, but when it came to battle, he couldn’t think of anything worse. It was painful, dirty and terrifying. Maybe if he found the person he was destined to serve, it would be different.

"Get Ser Oliver a doctor." Lord Stoneheart called out, and eventually, two men ran onto the dirty arena, one tending to the knight Oliver fought, the other helping carry Oliver away. Sitting in the doctor’s quarters, the door peeped open and a young boy, no older than thirteen, stood staring at him with worry.

"Don’t just watch. Get the ale." Oliver said to his squire, Jeremy, with a warm tone as the young boy with brown hair ran out of the room, quickly returning with a mug. Snatching it off him, Oliver brought it to his lips, the doctor resting a hand above before he could sip.

"I would advise against it until treatment is finished." Oliver looked him in the eyes and sighed, resting the wooden mug to the side.

"Your orders." The doctors thankfully smiled, seeing Oliver wasn’t like the hardheaded men of the Valley’s and quickly worked so the man could drink. "Ser." Jeremy walked over with a rag and slowly cleaned the filth that had wormed its way through Oliver’s helmet, removing it from Oliver’s dirty grey hair.

"Don’t worry, kid. Just make sure my armour is clean. The doctor will do good to me." Despite his words, Jeremy didn’t stop looking at him with worry. Sighing, Oliver rested a hand on the young boy’s head, ruffing it up. Jeremy backed up quickly, rubbing his hair clean, getting the dirt out that he had just put in. "If you don’t like dirt, you can’t be a knight, stupid boy."