Aldric hadn't even finished speaking when Ser Tucker Ward interrupted, his voice trembling with a desperate hope. "Commander Aldric! I saw what you did for the Blount guards. Forgive my boldness, but... can you do the same for my men? I cannot offer much silver—the Mummers took my coin—but I have grain, timber, and iron. I will pay whatever it takes."
Unlike Houses Blount and Costa, who had taken Tywin Lannister's gold to stay neutral, House Ward had been marked from the start. Ser Wery Ward's participation in Catelyn Stark's kidnapping of the Imp had turned his family into targets for the Lions. Had Tucker not fled to the woods, his kin would be hanging from the manor gates by now. They were "land-rich" but "gold-poor," having spent their last stags reclaiming their scorched home from squatters.
Aldric didn't care for the metal. He motioned for Tucker to lead the way.
As the Light flared under Aldric's hands, the Ward guards stood up one by one, their faces blooming with shock and joy. Ser Dean Blount nudged Tucker in the ribs, a wet-eyed grin on his face. "Luck is with us, Tucker. We've found a messenger of the gods. Don't let this chance slip through your fingers."
Tucker didn't answer. He was already calculating how to bind Aldric closer to his house. If only I had a daughter of age, he thought bitterly. He watched Charles Costa, who was standing off to the side with a smug, knowing look. He finally understood why Charles hadn't cared about the alliance command—with a neighbor who could perform miracles, traditional defense was irrelevant.
The "miracle" was no longer a secret. As the Sunwalkers' Light pulsed in the shadow of the manor walls, every servant and soldier in the courtyard stopped watching the tourney. They crowded around Aldric, gasping with every pulse of golden energy. The more pious among them dropped to their knees, murmuring prayers to the Father and Mother, their eyes fixed on Aldric's glowing palms.
Even the guards currently in the arena—the men of House Sharp and House Bennett—stopped mid-swing. They lowered their practice swords, staring at the sideline where their broken comrades were rising like the resurrected.
Ser Karlo Schmidt, acting as herald, bellowed for order. "What is this? Why have you stopped? This is a sacred melee! Fight on!"
Karlo was as curious as any man, but his duty was to the arena. Besides, he wanted to see how Aldric would handle a fresh wave of broken bodies.
Under the Lords' promises that they, too, would receive the Light, the Bennett and Sharp guards threw themselves back into the fray with a suicidal intensity. Knowing they wouldn't be crippled for life removed the last shred of caution. They hacked and slammed until House Bennett stood alone over a field of groaning men.
But the victors didn't cheer. They helped the Ward servants carry the injured to Aldric's feet, their eyes full of silent plea.
Young Dane Bennett approached, bowing low. "Commander Aldric. Please. Heal my men. I will pay exactly what Dean paid—not a copper less."
"And mine," Ser Malin Sharp added, his hand over his heart. "Divine Grace cannot be measured in gold, but I offer it as a sign of my devotion."
Aldric shook his head, a performance of weary regret. "I am sorry, my Lords. My strength is not infinite. To heal the men of House Blount and House Ward has drained me. I must rest for two hours before I can summon the Light again."
In truth, Aldric's mana pool had expanded significantly, but he followed his own doctrine: That which is given freely is worthless. He had no more "Heart-Sap" potions on him, having given them to Jon Snow, so he let them believe he was spent.
The Lords were disappointed but relieved. If Aldric truly had no limit, there would be no reason for the tourney at all—he would already be their king.
But then Aldric looked at the pile of fresh casualties. "These men have grave injuries. If we wait two hours, the Stranger may take them." He stood and called out to his retinue. "Aldebaran! Morse! Sunwalkers, to me!"
The Sunwalkers, who had been preparing for their match against House Schmidt, jogged over. Morse, acting as the senior officer, saluted. "Lightbringer?"
"My Grace is spent," Aldric lied smoothly. "These men need the Light. Treat the lethal wounds first. Ten Silver Moons for every Light-Flash. Record the tallies for Ser Dane and Ser Malin."
Morse nodded. "By your command."
For Morse and the others, these injuries were trivial. They practiced on one another with more intensity than these petty guards. Within minutes, the seven Sunwalkers had "mended" the casualties of the second round. As they stood up, they saluted Aldric and returned to the arena's edge, waiting for the final match.
The next bout: The Golden Dawn versus House Schmidt. Ser Charles Costa, having sat out the first round, took up the herald's mantle.
As Charles prepared to drop his hand, Ser Karlo Schmidt stepped forward, stopping the match. He walked over to Aldric, his eyes full of a rare, genuine hesitation.
"Commander Aldric. I did not know you held the favor of the gods so closely. Had I known, this tourney would be a farce. Who among us is more fit to lead than a man who can defy death?"
The other Lords murmured their agreement. "Why fight?" they asked.
Aldric shook his head. "Ser Karlo, Divine favor is given for service, not for power. The tourney is a fair test of your men's discipline, and we swore our oaths before the Father. I will not break a vow, nor should you." He pointed to the scorched sept. "We gave our word. Let the steel speak."
Aldric's refusal to "take" the command only elevated him in their eyes. They settled back, eager to see if the "Miracle-Men" could fight as well as they healed.
Karlo, ever the tactician, noted one more thing. "Will your men be at full strength? They just spent their Light on our behalf. Is that not an unfair disadvantage?"
Aldric smiled. He liked Karlo; the man had a general's eye. "Do not worry, Ser Karlo. In a fair fight of ten against ten, my brothers rarely need the Light."
Karlo's eyes narrowed. The pride of a Gold Cloak rose within him. He had trained his sixteen guards personally, turning them into a lethal wedge. He intended to show this "Lightbringer" that while magic was fine, it was no match for a City Watch drill.
"As you wish," Karlo said. "Begin!"
Charles Costa dropped his hand. "Go!"
The Schmidt guards snapped into a perfect Arrow-Formation, three massive men with heavy poles at the point, intended to shatter the center of any line.
But the Golden Dawn didn't charge. They held.
Two Sunwalkers with massive tower-shields locked together, sheltering their brothers. Behind them, pike-men held blunt-tipped shafts over the shields, creating a wall of wood that forced the Schmidt charge to grind to a halt three paces away.
The Schmidt guards tried to flank, but the Dawn shifted with a mechanical precision. As the Schmidt men moved, two Sunwalkers with blunted bows fired "sting-arrows"—weighted shafts that struck the knees and ankles of the attackers. As the Schmidt men faltered, the Dawn split their line like a closing mouth.
In five minutes, the match was over. The Golden Dawn stood in perfect formation, not a single man on the ground. The Schmidt guards were a pile of groaning men, defeated by a superior system.
Silence smothered the plaza.
Ser Charles Costa, watching from the sidelines, felt a surge of pure, petty joy. Finally, he thought, the rest of you look like the idiots I was weeks ago. Welcome to the Dawn.
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