Book One (CH 04): Avtandil's Quest
Chapter 04 - A Contest of Kings
The day of their challenge dawned bright and sunny, without a cloud in the sky. Avtandil arrived early to meet Rostevan and his armies, wearing crimson armor and riding a white steed. He wore a veil of gold links over his eyes, and his cheeks shone like cut ruby. He was accompanied by his most trusted advisor, Shermadin, who had been his best friend since childhood. Like his Lord, he was also skilled in the art of war.
A cheer went up from the army when their General arrived. He raised his hand high in answer, saluting them and inviting the King to begin.
Rostevan rode up, shouting commands to those arrayed on the field.
“Let twelve servants tend to my needs and give me arrows. Avtandil will be supported by Shermadin alone, for he is the equal of my retinue.”
“Those who attend me will faithfully count the shots and the hits between us. Then, when the contest is finished, they will give us an unerring report of the results!”
He turned then and addressed the huntsmen and soldiers.
“Ride to the end of the plains and drive all manner of beast and bird you find towards us. Ring the fields so nothing can get away. For everyone else gathered here, we invite you to bear witness to our contest. May the best man be victorious!”
When he finished speaking, his hunters rode away, disappearing into the distance. The troops broke rank and moved to encircle the plain so no creature might escape the hunt. Boisterous and full of joy, they cheered as their King and his challenger came forward. Soldiers placed bets on who would be the victor.
Avtandil and Shermadin joined Rostevan as he gave orders to his servants.
“Come to us! Bring our best bows and prepare yourselves. Do not be shy in keeping count! We will learn who prevails this day!”
No sooner had they readied themselves than countless animals broke forth from the far edge of the field. Herds of antelope, goats, stags, and wild asses charged towards them. The Lord and his vassal immediately set to pursuing game, and their bowstrings sang as untiring arms endlessly fired.
Hunters and hunted stirred up so much dust it cast a pall over the sun, yet they did not stop. The two challengers rode on, sending arrows speeding into the animals. Every shot found its mark, and no beast struck took another step. Each time one or the other exhausted his ammunition, servants brought more.
Their horses galloped back and forth across the plain, moving with the grace of dancers as they drove their quarry before them. The herd ran before Rostevan like waves before a storm. Avtandil bent and twisted as he fired one arrow after another, supple and graceful as a spruce tree. They dyed the fields crimson from the blood of their kills, slaying so many creatures it made God wroth.
Those who witnessed the prowess of the two champions stared in amazement. They spoke among themselves, comparing the contestants to legendary heroes from the old world. But their praise was lost to the hunters. The victor was yet to be decided, and they were focused on besting one another.
They rode down game for hours, leaving a wake of fallen creatures stretching out behind them. However, when they neared the far edge of the plains, they came to a broad stream. Its bed was laden with rocks, and a dense wood crowded the opposite side of its banks. The beasts they chased fled into the woods and beyond their reach, for neither horse nor rider was able to give chase there.
Seeing their game flee, Avtandil and the King ceased their pursuit. They laughed and called to one another, each proclaiming himself as champion. They joked and played like children as they waited to hear who won.
When the judges arrived, everyone crowded around, eager to learn the results. They counted who had slain what and how the shots fell. Meanwhile, the soldiers murmured and muttered of bets and hopeful wagers.
Rostevan raised his hands when the count finished, silencing the crowds, and commanding his servants to provide the total.
“Come and tell us who is victorious. Be direct, as we do not desire flattery!”
The judges bowed before their King and the mighty Avtandil before speaking.
“Do not think we seek to deceive you. You commanded us to speak the truth, and this is what you will receive. Though you may slay us, it will not change the result in any way.”
“As ordered, we counted every creature brought down between you both. You killed more than two hundred animals, yet the Knight struck twenty more than you. He did not miss one which he aimed his bow at, and the beasts he slew did not move another step.”
“Though of those shot by you, we finished many ourselves, leaving the earth bloodied. While the two of you are beyond the might of us gathered here, we cannot compare you to him. Avtandil is the victor and our champion!”
The King listened to the results with no more concern than if they recounted a backgammon or chess game. Then, when they finished speaking, a cheer went up from the crowd. Soldiers shouted, throwing their helmets into the air, and banging fists on their shields. Yet none cheered louder than Rostevan.
He rejoiced at Avtandil’s victory. The young Knight was a foster-son to him, and he loved the youth as a rose loves the nightingale. The two embraced as a father to a cherished son, and sorrow fled from the King’s heart like melted spring snow. All signs of grief vanished from his face.
Though weary from the hunt, they celebrated with the soldiers, resting under the trees to cool themselves. They broke bread together and made merry. Meanwhile, the twelve servants waited nearby, and the armies ringed them all, countless as chaff.
As they laughed and retold the events of their contest, Shermadin stepped away and let his eyes wander to the stream and forests beyond. His gaze followed the water as it wound off to the farthest edges of the glens. In the distance, he saw a strange Knight, seemingly lost to sorrow. Concerned at the appearance of a stranger, he called out to Avtandil.