Tom took a deep breath of the cold air, thick with the scent of mud and the sea.
He whispered to his horse, and to himself:
"Don't panic."
At that moment, the old judge's raised hand dropped heavily:
"Second pass—Charge!"
Hooves thundered once more.
This time, Tom didn't let his gaze wander.
He leaned low, lance held steady, his eyes locked tight:
—On the center of his opponent's shield!
The two horses drew closer and closer.
The cold wind whistled in the knights' ears.
The roar of the crowd seemed to fade away.
In their vision, there was only the sound of hooves, the beat of their own hearts, and the increasingly clear silhouette of their opponent.
Cassius's lance pointed straight at him.
Tom didn't dodge.
He only twitched the reins slightly, guiding his warhorse a fraction to the side.
Bang!
His opponent's blunt wooden lance grazed his pauldron, numbing half his body.
Almost at the exact same instant.
The tip of Tom's lance struck the center of the oak shield.
Crack!
The wooden lance shattered, sending splinters flying.
The massive impact slammed into Cassius's shield.
The knight lurched violently, his center of gravity instantly gone.
Everyone watched him struggle on the horse's back for a moment before losing his balance completely.
Thud!
He crashed heavily into the mud.
The entire field went silent for a beat, then erupted into noise even louder than before.
"I won!"
Tom swayed in the saddle, then steadied himself.
He looked down at his opponent scrambling up from the mud, his hand still trembling as it gripped the broken lance—but not from fear.
The old judge slowly raised his hand, his voice clear:
"The unhorsed is the loser!
"The winner—Ser Tom of the Bloody Hand Mercenary Company!"
Pausing, the old judge looked at the grim-faced Cassius and added:
"The victor has the right to claim a ransom.
"Ser Cassius, you must pay Ser Tom a ransom to redeem your warhorse and armor."
Hearing this, Cassius's face darkened further, but he could only nod:
"I... I will pay."
The victor won not only fame but also prize money and the loser's ransom.
In knightly tourneys, the winner could typically take the loser's warhorse, armor, and shield.
The loser had to pay a ransom.
Otherwise, they would have to leave their warhorse or armor behind.
Tom could barely hide his smile.
By the fence.
The freelance knights hired to keep order cheered loudly, giving him plenty of face.
On the high platform, Rodney's eyes lit up. He turned to Don Quixote and smiled:
"That Cassius has some reputation, though he's nothing special in the grand scheme of White Harbor.
"But ordinary sailors and sellswords are no match for him."
Don Quixote nodded slightly and smiled:
"Tom has good knightly spirit too.
"If Lord Rodney wishes to hire freelance knights in the future, he would be an excellent choice!"
Tom was from the South.
He had once been a landed knight for a minor Southern noble, but after falling out with his lord, he was exiled.
Since then, he had been a landless, masterless freelance knight.
Compared to Shane and Warren, Tom was superior in both skill and adherence to chivalry.
————
Tom sat upright on his horse, taking in the gazes and chatter of the audience.
"This feels pretty good. No wonder so many knights dream of tourneys and fantasies of victory!"
After basking in the moment with satisfaction, he rested his blunt lance in the mud, placed his right hand on the forehead of his helmet, and leaned slightly forward.
He performed a proper knightly salute to the high platform and the audience.
Seeing this, the merchants on the platform smiled and nodded, acknowledging Tom's status as a knight.
Tom didn't linger. He wheeled his horse around and slowly left the field.
Before long, Cole respectfully handed Tom a small bag of Silver Stags, smiling hurriedly:
"Ser Tom, here is your prize money—30 Silver Stags!"
This prize money was provided by Don Quixote.
Tom took the small bag, blinked, and grinned:
"Kid, how was my performance just now?"
In front of people he knew, Tom finally couldn't hold back his excitement.
Cole immediately said:
"Ser Tom, your joust was even more spectacular than I imagined.
"Especially the second pass, you were as steady as an old Northern oak! I actually shouted out loud when I saw it!
"It was really amazing!"
Hearing Cole's words, Tom beamed.
He laughed heartily, clapped the boy on the shoulder, and was about to say more.
But the old judge's voice rang out again, drowning out the noise of the crowd:
"Second match—Ser Warren of the Bloody Hand Mercenary Company!
"Versus Ser Gore, guard to the merchant Gerald!"
————
The white banner with the bloody hand snapped in the wind.
Warren took a deep breath, settled into his saddle, and gripped his lance firmly.
Seeing both men ready, the old judge wasted no time. raising his arm high, his voice booming through the sea breeze:
"Listen up!
"Mounted lance, one on one. Unhorsing or shattering the shield wins.
"Three misses is a loss. Yielding stops the fight immediately! Witnessed by the Old Gods and the New—Charge!"
After the warm-up, Ser Gore spurred his horse first.
His lance pointed straight at Warren's chest, aiming to decide the match in one blow.
Many spectators held their breath, eyes glued to the center of the track.
Bang!
Warren's blunt lance struck empty air and slammed heavily into the mud, jarring his arm numb.
"Not good!"
His face changed, and he tried to adjust his posture.
But before Warren could react.
Ser Gore's lance struck heavily, slamming directly into the edge of Warren's oak shield.
Crack!
With a sharp sound, Warren's shield shook violently.
Warren lurched, barely managing to steady himself.
"You won't be so lucky next time!"
Gore scoffed, wheeled his horse around, and charged at Warren again.
Once, twice, three times...
The two sides exchanged blows for several rounds.
Every charge was full force.
The breathing of both knights grew heavier and heavier.
Smack!
Gore kicked his horse's flanks, sending the beast into a frenzied sprint.
Crack!
The next moment, his blunt lance shattered, wood chips flying, and the massive impact slammed into Warren's oak shield.
Hit by this sudden blow, Warren could no longer hold on.
His body tilted violently, and he rolled straight off his horse, crashing heavily into the mud and failing to get up for a long time.
The old judge slowly announced loudly:
"The unhorsed is the loser! The winner—Ser Gore, guard to the merchant Gerald!
"According to custom, Ser Warren must pay a ransom to redeem his warhorse and armor!"
Lying in the mud, Warren's face was pale, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. It took him a long time to grit his teeth and nod:
"I... I will pay."
Don Quixote hadn't forced anyone to participate in this tourney; it was entirely up to Tom and the others.
However, if they chose to participate.
Don Quixote was willing to lend them the money for the ransom, interest-free.
So they wouldn't lose their warhorses and weapons.
...