The sand was flowing the other way around!

Lukerda gasped and closed her mouth with her palm.

Together with the crazy sand Time itself was turning back, returning on its circuits, casting away generously once gathered stones, giving the possibility to step twice in the same river – to improve, to change, to play again... The last grain of sand dived into the narrow orifice. Time stopped, hanging like an axe over a victim’s neck – and Martzin raised his face, stiffened, pale as a wax mask. “Hurry on, chieftain!”

“Chieftain?!” grinned in response Jendrich Dry Storm. “Hell no! This time – a knight! Lubina Rava, the noble commander of the prince of Opolie! Hold on, Siegfried, you dog, I’m coming!”

The strong fingers, more used to the hilt of a sword, closed on the piece. The next moment the “Triple Nornscoll” disappeared. In its place a window was flung wide open, and one could see distinctly how...

...Clang, a thump on the ground. Enthusiastic cries of spectators. The spear of Siegfried, heir to the crown of Maintz, has unhorsed another rival. A good stroke. It seems that of the fighters that have dared to oppose the initiator remained two: Henric Labendz and himself, Lubina Rava. The rest are already beaten by the young bully. At first, though, Lubina wasn’t going to participate in the jousting. But to reject the invitation of the margrave Dietrich would have been an insult. And then again, the commander loved tournaments. Many were unhorsed by his strong hand, but rivals wouldn’t take offence at one another. Strong was the spirit of the knightly brotherhood, not as it is now...

“I’m getting old. I start grumbling. In our time, that is, the grass was greener, and the girls were prettier, and cows had four horns... Is your sun approaching the sunset, knight?! Come on! There's life in the old dog yet! And the boy is good, really good. Which means you must knock the stuffing out of this blockhead while you still can...”

“The knight Henric Labendz from Boleslavez!”

That’s it, he’s next. Lubina jumped slightly, checking the tourney armour, clenched and unclenched his fingers in the gauntlets. No, everything fitted well. A helm on the head, a spear and a shield in the hands – and he might go out to the field. What a pity that the joy had gone. He remembered sensation of holiday that had filled the tournaments of old. And here, in Maintz, everything seemed as it must be: banners, plumes, armours glittering in the sun, trumpets, heralds, ladies waving their handkerchiefs – yet the holiday was gone. Jealousy, envy... As if a cloud hung over the field, putting out smiles, penetrating souls with streams of darkness.

The commander knew the name of the cloud hanging over the Maintz Mark and threatening to shower its rain onto the neighbouring lands.

War was its name.

And its heart was the heart of young Siegfried.

Why was he so sure? The commander wondered at himself. Only yesterday the skies of the future had still shone with pure azure, and today Lubina was awake because of the sulphuric smell of trouble. In his time the margrave Dietrich von Maintz, Siegfried’s father, had been as belligerent and indomitable as his son was now. Not once and not twice had he tried to widen his borders, but at last, after he was beaten by the powerful duke of Henning, he calmed down. Became peaceful and hospitable. Only that Dietrich is old, and his heir longs for revenge. Clever enough to have learnt from his father’s bitter experience and not go west, to Henning, once again, Siegfried will move his troops east as soon as his hands are untied. Holne will fall quickly, only to whet his appetite; Opolie will stand for some more time. But without reliable allies the principality won’t withstand before powerful and rich Maintz. Making alliances requires time.

A secret guest that had settled inside Lubina was prompting: there was no time.

“A-a-ah!..”

Look at him! Henric Labendz proved to be strong – withheld the blow with his shield, remained in the saddle. Now the knights are departing for the next attack... Lubina felt in his bones: the tournament in Maintz would decide everything. Young Siegfried is trying his strength. When you are twenty two, your blood is up in your veins and your head is full of grandiose plans – victory in the tournament can be accepted for an omen from Heaven. And the flame of war will rage across the land, until the predator breaks his fangs fighting a stronger enemy.

So why not calm down the lad here and now?

“A-a-ah!..”

It’s over. Henric Labendz from Boleslavez is defeated.

Now it’s time.

“The knight Lubina Rava from Wrozlav!”

His hands are accepting the habitual weight of the shield and the spear brought by the squires. His eyes are looking at the world through the visor grid. While riding to the field pitted by hoofs, while listening to the welcoming roar of the crowd, the commander thought: “It’s not enough to simply unhorse the pup. It would be nice to send him to hell. Oh, how nice it would be...”

The thought flashed and disappeared. The weird, evil, foreign thought.

Trumpets.

The opposite tribunes rushed towards him in the usual way, in his ears sounded the victorious rumble of hoofs. But faster than the tribunes, in front of him there emerges a rider in glittering armour. On the azure field of his shield the griffon of Maintz claws a snake. Only a fool would fight a griffon face to face – above it, over the shield’s edge, aslant and up...

A stroke. Crash. For a moment everything goes dark before the commander’s eyes.

Hold on! Remain in the saddle at any cost!..

He made it. The horse stops obediently, turning around in its place. Here he is, Siegfried von Maintz – prostrate on the ground. The commander’s favourite stroke – a spear in a head – had reached its aim one more time. The boy is defeated. Alive or dead?

The lying knight is trying to grope for the hilt of his sword. That means he’s alive. All the same, from Lubina’s stroke he will not recover soon.

One of the tournament marshals runs up to him. His words are making their way through the hum of the tribunes: “Congratulations to the valiant knight on his victory! According to the tournament tradition the winner has the right for a trophy. What detail of the armour would the noble knight wish to take? The spur? The gauntlet? The belt?..”

Lubina Rava looks at Siegfried. Excellent armour. Gorgeous. A cuirass of Milanese steel – the “goose chest”! – a Burgonet helmet in the latest fashion, with a triple visor, lamellar armour surpasses leather one in flexibility. And gold all over: the image of the griffon, the decoration of the vambraces and the spaulders... At any fair such armour would cost oodles of money. While Rava’s lands don’t bring decent income, and the prince Razimir is a skinflint...

“A spur? A gauntlet?!” laughs Lubina with the foreign, stolen laughter. “Hell no! According to the ancient rules I take for myself all the armour of my rival! Order to deliver it into my tent!”

He pulls his helm off, grinning victoriously in the face of the bewildered marshal.

It’s over.

The boy has learnt a proper lesson.

“...victory! I beat him! There’ll be no war!”

“Jendrus! You’re a hero! Let me kiss you!”

“Lukerda, remember about decencies! I can’t allow...”

“No, he’s a hero! He’s a hero all the same! Only... why are we still sitting in this cellar?!”

“Because our most respected chieftain made a mistake. The real commander Rava would never do it.”

“Do what?”

Jendrich was blinking, dumbfounded, looking around him. He was still there, in the tournament field, looking at the defeated Siegfried, grinning in the marshal’s face...

Giacomo Seingalt’s voice sounded surprisingly simple; neither mocking nor the habitual old man’s sarcasm. Only sincere regret: “The knight Lubina would not set his eyes upon Siegfried’s personal armour. Of course, how would you know that the tradition of taking the armour of defeated rivals doesn’t actually exist for at least forty years? Now the winner is satisfied with only an honourable trophy. To act in a different way means humiliating a defeated rival in public...”