"Die, you mangy bastard!"
David ignored the curse but winced as his opponent caught him with a vicious sword blow aimed at the rib cage, which David only just managed to deflect with his shield. That's what he got for letting his mind wander for a moment during a battle. Had David been even a nanosecond slower, this fight would be over. The impact jarred the shoulder behind his shield. The hot muggy weather was making every old injury he possessed ache like the devil as well as turning the dirt beneath them to a slick, muddy mess. Maybe his sister was right. Maybe he was getting too old for this and should leave the fighting to younger men.
But he was in this battle now and he was damn sure going to win it. Attention now fully focused on his opponent, David defended while he watched the younger, taller man's flashy moves. Ah. That would be his weakness, then. The youngster was faster and had the advantage of reach but his movements were just a little too dramatic and flashy. He'd probably never been in a real fight in his life.
David waited for his opening then struck during one of his opponent's overly long follow-throughs. His sword sliced cleanly up under the other man's sword arm, with a solid blow to center mass. A killing shot. Finally. His opponent crumpled to his knees at the force of the blow, shock in his eyes, which was all David could really see through the visor of the other man's full-face helmet. David waited until the other man acknowledged the defeat with a nod, then David turned to the stands and bowed to his liege lord and lady. Finally this stupid contest was over.
"Victory for Sir David." There was a smattering of applause and a chorus of catcalls as the herald bellowed out the result. The younger combatant, tall, blond and handsome, had been the crowd favorite. Oh well.
David leaned over and held out a hand to help his opponent to his feet. "Nice moves," he muttered as the two bowed to the crowd once more. "But get someone to teach you about street fighting one of these days. The dramatic flourishes might get you a few more wenches but down and dirty wins the fight almost every time." David had learned that the hard way, at a very young age. It was a skill that had saved his life more than once.
"Thanks, man." Both men tossed their rattan blades to their squires and pulled off their helms as they strode off the tourney field. Dave shook the sweat out of his longish curly hair. The muggy heat made wearing padded armor a pain in the ass but that beat getting the shit kicked out of you without it.
A serving wench in a low-cut chemise and tightly laced corset scurried up with two foaming mugs and eyed the younger knight suggestively. "Come on over to the tavern, Sir Brendan."
Brendan cast David a questioning look. David took his mug then laughed, barely remembering what it was like to be that young. "Go." He shook his head.
"Good job."
Dave smiled as a pair of friends strolled up from the stands.
"Hey, Dave. Wasn't sure you'd make it this year." He set his beer on a stump then stripped of his gauntlets to shake hands with two other regulars on the tournament circuit.
"Me miss a tourney? Not if I can help it."
"I had to miss the last one," one of the men groused. "The wife said I was spending too much time on fighting and not enough on her. We spent the entire week at her parents' house." He shuddered dramatically.
"In-laws." David chuckled. "Reason number one why it's good to be single."
An exotically dressed dancer walked by, her black curls tumbling to her thighs and the bells on the hem of her garment jingling in time with the sultry sway of her hips. She flashed David a come-hither smile and he saw that her eyes weren't dark as he'd imagined but a striking lavender color that had to be contacts. Oh yeah, he wouldn't mind seeing what she had to offer. He finished his beer in one long swallow, then set the mug on a bench. He clapped his buddies on the shoulders.
"And that, my friends, is reason number two. See you at the bonfire tonight."
His friends headed back to the stands and David set off toward the merchant tents to find the dancer.
An hour later, he still hadn't found her. He'd even gone and watched the belly dancers' show, hoping to catch a glimpse of the violet-eyed beauty but to no avail.
He leaned against an oak tree with another mug of ale and wondered what to do. He didn't have another bout scheduled until the following day, since today was filled with the first-round eliminations. While he should go watch and study the competition, he just wasn't in the mood.
He could probably find a woman to keep him company. He was no great shakes to look at, average height and sturdy with curly reddish brown hair that hadn't been cut since his friend Eric's wedding in May and a beard that sorely needed a trim. Still, in this crowd, his status as a winning combatant usually carried some weight. One of the thirty-something barmaids had been giving him the look but her buxom blonde charms just didn't appeal. Not today. He wanted the dark-haired dancer and she was nowhere to be found.
If he couldn't have her, then what he really wanted to do was check his email. It was too hot to go sit in his tent with the flaps down and the authenticity fanatics would have a shit fit if they caught him using his cell phone anywhere out in the open. David loved these medieval reenactments but some of the crowd took themselves way too seriously.
Maybe he should head into town. He'd been camping out at the tourney site for two days already. Maybe it was time to put on some modern clothes and go grab a burger. Air conditioning would be a bonus.
He ducked into his tent to grab clean clothes, then hiked up to the one set of showers the campground provided. Then, dressed in clean cargo shorts and a t-shirt that read Sarcasm, just one more service we offer, he grabbed his laptop, climbed into his camo-painted Jeep and headed for town.
