Within the Hollow Crown by Daniel Antoniazzi Page B

run would be a rout. But Sir Noble took it as seriously as anything. While he was getting help from his squire, Sam, to put on his chest plate, a small boy approached him on the lane.
    “Prince Anthony,” Noble said, seeing the boy, “What are you doing out here?”
    “I want to ride with you,” Anthony said, in a very excitable way.
    “I’m sorry, Little Prince, but your father would never allow it,” Noble said, looking at the clumsy horseman across the track. “That man over there is going to try and hurt me.”
    “But you won’t let him, will you?!”
    “No, of course not,” Noble leaned in and whispered, “I’m going to hurt him first.”
    Anthony giggled at this secret.
    “I’ll tell you what,” Noble said, after a moment, “As soon as I’m done with this gentleman, I’m going to do a victory lap. Do you want to join me for a victory lap?”
    “Yes, yes, yes!” Anthony said, jumping up and down like a little boy, which he was.
    “Good. Now, get out of the--”
    Sir Noble stopped mid-sentence. A bit of smoke was rising from the ground, only ten paces from the jousting track. The bit of smoke became more smoke, then even more. It didn’t rise up to the sky. It dissipated about three meters off the ground. And it didn’t expand, nor did anything catch fire. It just stood there, always billowing in the wind, but never moving. Like a smoke-shaped door.
    It actually was a door. A magical door. The creator of this spell was a firm believer in the idea that a door should always look like a door. He just didn’t take to the idea that one side of the door and the other had to be in the same building, or even in the same country.
    And to drive that rather alien thought home to Sir Noble, the smoke wavered as a man stepped out. Clad all in black, except for a red belt, a sword at his side. Maybe some would have noticed the mundane details about this man: his height, weight, eye color, the cut of his square jaw. But if you asked anyone, the only thing they would have told you is that he was a Turin.
    He held his sword in the air, shouting something that sounded like, “Ten Potter Inside!” It was actually, “Tempo Turin Sai!” which meant, roughly, “Now is the time of the Turin!” A moment later, a woman, also Turin, emerged. Similarly dressed, similarly armed. Once she was clear of the smoky door, it dissipated, whisked away in the wind.
    The two soldiers charged at the King’s Canopy. Noble should have laughed. He should have been cracking up. Two soldiers, with only swords, charging the King’s Canopy? It was worthy of a circus act. But he wasn’t laughing. He herded Prince Anthony and Sam behind him, backing them away from the jousting track.
    Somehow, he knew something was wrong. These weren’t any ordinary soldiers. He didn’t know their names. But they were Gerard and Sandora, the eldest of the Turin-Sen. Between them, they had more than forty years of training with swords. And that’s not counting the magic. They had arrived by means of a mystical door. The sort of thing Noble hadn’t heard about except in fairy tales.
    “Who’s that?” Anthony asked, pointing at Gerard and Sandora.
    “Never mind, Prince Anthony,” Noble said, “Just stay behind me,”
    The Royal Guards were no slackers. Half a dozen of them were already surrounding the King’s body, while another dozen notched arrows. These guys were crack shots. They could hit a target at two hundred yards, but they would wait. If the Turin attackers closed within a hundred and fifty yards, the archers would hit them with kill shots...
    Gerard and Sandora didn’t seem to notice or care about the archers. They were still racing to the King’s Canopy. Noble heard the reassuring twang of the bows singing over the field. The shots were hitting dead center. Gerard and Sandora would be pin cushions...
    But that’s not how it happened. And somehow, Noble knew it wouldn’t. The arrows were deflecting away from the Turin. Just