Wren Tallow's Arc

Chapter 1 of 2

Wren Tallow signed the tournament roster with a false name and watched the ink dry before anyone could stop him. He wrote Wren of the North Reach. He was the third son of a king, and no one at Mistral Peak knew his face this far from the capital. That was the point. He had trained sixteen years in the practice yard, and every bout he ever won had been given to him. He rented a pine cabin on the ridge above the tournament grounds, half-buried in snow, the chimney leaking thin smoke. Inside, his armor sat on the table in a riveted tin box he had carried up the mountain himself. He counted the coins in the box twice. Enough for the entry fee, a week of oats for the horse, and nothing else. If he lost the first round, he would ride home in disgrace under his real name, and his father would know he had run. He walked down to the lists at dawn. The bracket was posted on a driftwood windbreak lashed with rope, the parchment nailed at the corners. He found his name in the third column. His first opponent was a man called Bryn Halloran. Wren asked the marshal who that was. The marshal laughed. Halloran had unhorsed six men at the summer meet in the lowlands. He fought without a shield. Wren went back up to the cabin and vomited into the snow behind the woodpile. A silver fox watched him from the treeline, ears sharp, unafraid. He wiped his mouth and stared at the animal until it turned and slipped into the pines. Then he pulled on his armor, mounted, and rode down to the field. He lasted four seconds. Halloran's lance took him square in the chest on the first pass. Wren felt the saddle leave him before he understood he had been hit. He hit the frozen ground on his shoulder and slid. The crowd made a sound like a single held breath, then laughter. His helmet had turned around on his head. He crawled to his knees blind and heard a boy shout that the northerner fought like a bride. He walked his horse off the field himself. No squire came. In the staging tent he pulled off the helmet and sat on an overturned bucket with his hands shaking. A stranger sat down beside him, an older man with a broken nose and a seal-fur collar. The man said he had watched Wren mount up. He said Wren gripped the lance like a torch at a wedding. He said he trained fighters for coin, and for the right price he could teach Wren to survive a second round. Wren opened the tin box. He counted the coins again. He had enough to pay the man, or enough to feed the horse. Not both. He handed over the money.