Book of Lore - Reginald's Chapter

The Steppes are a wide and flat land, exposed to the elements and too sparse to attract many visitors. That suits the equines who call it home just fine. Hardy and well-suited to long distance travel, they live in scattered villages and the small capital city of Trot. There, equines of all breeds—from the mighty Clydesdale Clan to the humble Ponies—gather for the only event worth talking about: the Grand Tournament. For Trot is home to the prestigious Knights of the Round Steppe, sworn defenders of all equine kind and anyone else stubborn enough to live there.

Joining as a squire is as simple as swearing an oath, but becoming a true knight requires proving oneself in the tournament. There, they joust with a unique weapon called a bludgeon banner: a flagpole attached to a muzzle strap with which they lower its weighted end. Equines of all kinds come hoping to see one of their own make the cut and to root for their favourite knights.

Today, the stands are more crowded than ever, for this will be a Grander Grand Tournament than has ever been seen—a tournament of selection for the Champion of the Steppes. The crowd is speckled with unusual faces: pegasi, sheeple, and even a longma can be spotted in the stands. All eager to see who would claim the title of Champion.

“Squire!” A shout calls out above the bustle of the stable.

A young light horse runs to a stall after it.

“My harness needs tightening.”

“Is thish good?” Reginald asks around the strap in his mouth.

The knight tests it with a turn, inadvertently pulling the squire with it.

“That will do.”

With a quick bow, he leaves to the din of other knights making requests for their perfect day as other squires scurry about to fulfil them.

“Squire! Bring more water.”

“Squire! My flag has a stain.”

“Squire! Do my feathers look right?”

Reginald’s thoughts are elsewhere as time flies by with work, until one particular voice snaps him out of it.

“Squire!”

He hesitates, then briskly trots down the hall to a large room with a far larger horse.

“Yes, Grandmaster Mortimer?”

“I am ready for my caparison.” The greying draught horse looks down on him. “And you do not need to be so formal with me in the stables.”

“Uh, right.” Reginald nods and retrieves the garment from the wall. He tries to stand on his hindlegs to drape it over, but loses his balance and touches a forehoof to the grandmaster’s side on instinct.

“Ach!” Mortimer flinches, depriving Reginald of his support as he falls flat on the hay with panic in his eyes.

“Sorry! Didn’t mean—”

“Calm down,” Mortimer orders, visibly suppressing pain. “Accidents happen, but be more careful next time.”

The donning continues without incident until Reginald works up the courage to speak, eyeing the claw marked scar.

“Are you sure this is healed enough?”

“That is not your concern, squire.”

“Sorry, sir.”

A strained silence passes as Reginald finishes the strapping, then Mortimer turns to him.

“These are dangerous times, and a knight does not flinch from danger. Remember that.”

Reginald forces himself to meet Mortimer's gaze.

“I just wish I could be out there with you.”

Mortimer offers a rare smile.

“Soon; I appreciate the enthusiasm. Now run along.”

Reginald leaves with a bow, but his mind lingers on the scar as he finishes his duties.

A speckled reindeer peeks out of her stand at the sound of hooves pounding on cobblestone, then ducks in with a quick instruction to her sprite.

Reginald stops himself in front of Cashmere’s shop, panting as she beckons him in.

“Thought you wouldn’t make it.”

“Well, I’m here, and I’ve got the salt.”

Reginald passes her the bag, which she promptly rifles through.

“Good, we’ll get started, then.” She points to an empty corner without looking up as she sits to double-check the salt. “Please, stand there.”

Reginald prances over and stands straight, nervous but excited, then loses all composure as her sprite dumps a bucket of water over his head.

“Why?!” he screeches, suddenly shivering.

“You were smelly and sweaty.” Cashmere sets the bag aside, getting a murmur and a nod from Cap. “Don’t worry, we’ll air-dry you. While you're modelling my work, I'd rather you look your best.”

He glares at her and grits his teeth as her winter wind does its work.

“...Thanks.”

With their customer dried, Cap pulls out a white caparison, crested with red diamonds and custom fit for his lean frame. A freshly polished banner pole follows shortly after.

She smiles as his annoyance melts away into awe.

“So, was it worth it?”

“Every lick! I wasn’t sure a deer could do it properly.”

“Please.” She rolls her eyes. “We’ve got better hooves and magic for it. On top of sprites.”

She nods at something unintelligible from Cap.

“Are you sure you know how to put it on?”

He looks up from inspecting it.

“Just hold still.”

Together they secure it in a fraction of the time it took him earlier that day, and complete their work with a hood covering his face.

“Okay, I may have underestimated hands,” he remarks as he looks over himself.

Cashmere stares at Cap over something he says, but Reginald didn’t understand or care.

“Thank you for this; it means a lot.”

“You paid for it.” She shrugs. “But it’s nice to be appreciated. Speaking of which, I think you have a tournament to catch.”

“Oh! Yeah!”

He turns and speeds out of the shop shouting a final “Thank you!”

…Leaving his saddle bag behind with what salt he had left and prompting a suggestion from Cap.

“No, we’re not keeping it. That’s bad for repeat business.”

Registration goes without incident with a fake name, “Sir Smith”, complete with a deepened voice.

Reginald makes an effort to keep his head raised as his name is called first, unable to drown out voices from the stands.

“Who’s that pony?”

“Don’t know, maybe they’re from the range?”

A horn blows for his first round, and his speed catches another light horse off guard as his lance strikes their head!

His second horn blows, and a pony is defeated by a banner parry and an exchange of hoof strikes!

The crowd cheers, and Reginald’s nervous gait is gone, replaced by a confident strut and a waving banner.

The third horn blows, and a pegasus is brought to the ground by a great leap!

“Smith!” “Smith!” “Smith!”

The crowd chants, and Reginald rears up with a loud neigh—but his confidence is shaken when he trots by the bracket; the grandmaster is in the grand finals, and he’s the next opponent!

The final horn blows, and Mortimer breaks into a run.

Reginald matches his speed, then accelerates midway, hoping to catch him off-guard. But a pivot turns his banner to catch Reginald as he tries to adjust at the last second.

BAM!

Reginald is sent tumbling as Mortimer gets back on his hooves from a glancing blow to his side.

It was a bad trade, and one he couldn’t afford to make again; but from the judge’s perspective, the score was even.

Reginald shakes the pain off, rises with a wince, and a last horn blows.

He begins his charge at his fastest pace, but stops himself short, catching the heavier banner with his own.

Mortimer is caught in a moment of surprise, not expecting the smaller opponent to challenge him in hoof to hoof combat, giving Reginald time to rear up for a one-two strike to his jaw!

The larger horse’s momentum amplifies the hit, and as he staggers back, Reginald slams his banner down on Mortimer’s head like a hammer, with all his weight behind it as his front hooves return to the ground.

Mortimer’s head hits the ground hard with gasps from the crowd, followed by shouts and applause!

Reginald stomps to the side to claim victory, then immediately checks on him.

“I’m fine.” Mortimer grunts, shakily getting to his feet as Reginald does what he can to nudge him up.

A team of horses run up with a wagon, but he waves them away with a nicker.

“I’m fine! It is time for the ceremony.”

Reginald freezes and his eyes widen at that word, but a nudge from the grandmaster starts him stumbling forward.

“This is your moment, Sir Smith.” Mortimer walks by his side. “Best not keep the crowd waiting.”

Before Reginald can think of something to say, the speech begins.

“Equines of the Steppes, it is with great pride that I present to you your champion!”

The crowd cheers, but a hoof and a whisper stop Reginald from approaching them.

“They should see you without your hood.”

Reginald pauses, then surprises Mortimer by turning to face him and pulling the hood off.

“Reginald?! What is the meaning of this?”

The crowd breaks into confused murmurs as he gathers his thoughts.

“Look, I only joined to show that I’m ready.”

“So you lied to us?” The larger horse leans in. “Claiming to be a knight?”

Reginald fights the urge to take a step back as he raises his voice for the crowd.

“I thought that beating a real knight would convince you. I'm only a year off, but the predators are here, now! I’m not going to wait on the sidelines while others get hurt for some dumb old rules.”

Reginald’s forced confidence evaporates as the grandmaster squints.

“Is that what you think of the code you swore an oath to?”

Mortimer somehow seems even taller to him.

“That’s not the important part.” Reginald’s voice pitches up involuntarily. “That’s just… details.”

“Honesty is not a detail.”

The grounds fall silent as Mortimer pauses and the longest seconds of Reginald’s life pass.

“I proclaimed you our champion, and I will stand by my word. But for breaking our code, I must cast you out of the order until your task is complete.”

“My— wait, until the predators are gone?!”

“Indeed. Tonight, you shall receive all the support we can provide, and then you must leave at first light tomorrow. I suggest that you rest while you can.”

Time passes in a daze until Reginald finds himself at the gate, with vague clues and an uncertain future.

But one thing is clear: the Key is his only way back.