The Steel Queen (The Silk & Steel Saga Book 1)

  THE STEEL QUEEN

  BOOK ONE OF

  THE SILK & STEEL SAGA

  Karen L. Azinger

  Published by Kiralynn Epics L.P. 2011

  Copyright © Karen L. Azinger 2011

  First published in the United States of America by Kiralynn Epics 2011

  Front Cover Artwork Copyright Greg Bridges © 2010

  Celtic Lettering used with permission of Alfred M Graphics Art Studio

  The Author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Print version ISBN 978-0-9835160-0-2

  E-version ISBN 978-0-9835160-1-9

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2011906065

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

  The Silk & Steel Saga

  BOOK ONE: The Steel Queen

  BOOK TWO: The Flame Priest

  BOOK THREE: The Skeleton King

  BOOK FOUR: The Poison Priestess

  BOOK FIVE: The Knight Marshal

  BOOK SIX: The Prince Deceiver

  Forthcoming books

  BOOK SEVEN: The Battle Immortal

  ACKNOWEDGEMENTS

  It takes a lot of people to make the dream of a book come true. First and foremost, to my husband Rick, who is always keen for the next adventure and always believes no matter the odds. To my best friend, first reader and sword sister, Danae Powers, who listened from the very first chapter. To my writer friend, Peggy Lowe, a critique circle of one. To my first editor, Bill Johnson, a story really is a promise. To my alpha readers, Mike, Nick, Diane, Mary, John, Stewart, Tanya, Chris, Cheryl, Bob, and Gina, your enthusiasm kept me going through all the bleak times. To my beta readers, Christine, Ruthie, Lydia, and Mallory, for that very important final read. To Greg Bridges for the totally awesome front cover and the book spine. To Peggy Lowe, graphic artist extraordinaire, for the back cover, the map and the logo, well done! To Pat for the much needed help with formatting. To Violet Lowe for my author photo. To my Facebook friends for being so keen to read the book. And to my mom, for everything, I so hope you know.

  Prologue

  Jamis stood at attention before the Door. He hated this posting. None passed through the Door save the screaming and the damned…and those that dragged them to their fate. Casting a sideways glance at the rune-covered copper, turned green with age, he shuddered. All manner of beasts and humans had been dragged through that portal…but it was the things that crept back out that haunted his dreams. In truth, he did not know what lay beyond the Door, he never wanted to know. He would have prayed to all the gods to remain ignorant, but down here, who listened to prayers except the Dark Lord? Clutching his spear, Jamis fixed his gaze on the stairs and kept his prayers to himself. Time crawled. His back ached and he longed to lean against the cold stone wall, but he dared not. Just a fortnight ago, he’d watched Emmet flayed alive for sleeping at his post, a bloody reminder to stay vigilant.

  He touched the gorget at his throat, once a talisman of pride, now the collar that chained him to this subterranean post. Clad in silver and covered in runes, the gorget marked him as a guard of the Door. Six years ago, he’d endured a trial of questions from the priests and then watched as a temple seer cast his fortune on rune-carved bones. Most of the questions were lost to memory but the bones had declared him favored by the Dark. Having gained the silver gorget, he received better quarters in a higher tier, and more pay, but now it seemed a beggar’s bargain. So deep underground, in this god-forsaken place, Jamis felt watched…watched by something that bore him nothing but malice.

  Footsteps clattered down the stairs and Jamis lowered his spear to bar the Door.

  A young hatchet-faced man in black-and-gold armor appeared. Jamis smothered his surprise. He’d expected one of the guard captains, or a dark-robed priest, but not the general, not down here.

  General Haith barked an order over his left shoulder. “Hurry.”

  Behind him, two soldiers struggled down the stairs carrying a massive block of dark-stained wood between them. A barrel-chested man lumbered behind, his face masked in black, the head of his great silver axe gleaming in the torchlight. Another execution, Jamis wondered if the axe would claim a criminal, a sinner, or another sacrifice.

  The general halted in front of the Door. “Sion rasmathus.”

  The Door trembled and then swung open.

  Tendrils of icy air laden with the stench of rot eddied around Jamis’s boots. Sweat trickled down his back like frosty fingers. The general and his party passed through, but Jamis did not look. Curiosity killed down here and Jamis refused to be tempted. Alone in the antechamber, he distracted himself with thoughts of Marisa, and his two little ones, Janelle and Kayla, waiting for him in the city above. He couldn’t wait for his shift to end, to feel the warmth of their embrace, but time seemed to have frozen, shackling him to his duty.

  The two soldiers burst through the Door and ran for the stairs. Taking the stairs two at a time, they trailed a sour reek of fear.

  Unnerved, Jamis locked his gaze on the opposite stairway, but the rest of his senses remained fixed on the Door. His neck hairs bristled, a soldier’s sixth sense warning that danger lurked behind, yet there was nothing to fight but shadows. He gripped his spear, needing to feel the certainty of steel, knowing he dared not let rumors banish reason.

  An odd, slithering sound came from the stairs. A tall skeleton of a man leaning on an iron staff shuffled into view, his dark robes dragging behind. The cowl of his robe slipped back to reveal a shock of long white hair framing a ravaged face. Broken veins spider-webbed his ruined skin and his cheeks hung hollow like empty sacks, yet the dark eyes glared cold and keen.

  It was the Mordant, the lord of the citadel.

  Jamis fell prostrate, his face pressed to the floor, praying to avoid the chilling stare. Iron clicked on stone, drawing near, the staff stopping beside his face. “Rise.” The sibilant rasp froze the air. “Rise and follow.”

  The imperious voice jerked Jamis like a chain. Drenched in a sudden sweat, he staggered to his feet and bowed to the Mordant, before turning to face the Door. A veteran of a dozen battles, he told himself there was nothing to fear…but the lie coiled cold in his stomach. A rotten stench clogged the Doorway, making him gag as he followed the Mordant across the rune-carved threshold.

  Jamis stifled a gasp, his gaze skittering around a vast cavern carved from nightmares. Red stalactites hung from a vault of rough rock, as if the earth had wept blood that slowly petrified. Beneath the vault of weeping stone, a great golden pentacle stretched across a black marble floor like an altar awaiting an offering. Flaming braziers stood at the five points, filling the cavern with a flickering light. The light did little to dispel the menace. Power pulsed in the shadows, waiting to be summoned.

  The Darkness was alive.

  Mortals did not belong here, Jamis wanted to run. Needing a bulwark against his fears, he fixed his gaze on the two men standing beneath the pulsing shadows. General Haith stood at one of the braziers while the executioner cradled his axe above the dark-stained block of wood.

  The block stood empty, waiting for a sacrifice. Jamis wondered if it waited for him, but then a worse fear twisted his guts, remembering those things that had crawled from the Door. Death at the block would be a far cleaner fate. Struggling to keep his dignity, Jamis shambled
forward till he reached the edge of the golden pentacle. His footsteps slowed, somehow knowing if he crossed the Dark Lord’s symbol he’d be lost.

  “Stop.” the Mordant rasped.

  Jamis froze, clutching his spear, shocked by the reprieve.

  The Mordant began to circle the pentacle, his black robes fluttered behind like a windblown wraith…yet there was no wind. Muttering chants in a strange tongue, the Mordant woke the chamber. Flames roared from the braziers, licking the vaulted ceiling, releasing plumes of red sparks that fell like scorching cinders. The air crackled with power, the breath of a thunderstorm eager to strike. Shadows coalesced overhead, taking the form of gibbering demons. And then the braziers dimmed.

  Darkness pressed down, forcing Jamis to his knees. Crouching low, he held his breath lest the Darkness enter him.

  The Mordant handed his iron staff to the general and made his way to the center of the pentacle. Casting a shadow larger than legend, he stood before the executioner’s block. Throwing his head back, the Mordant thrust his hands up toward the red stalactites. His face flushed with ecstasy, he cried, “One lifetime is not enough! Let the bond between us be renewed. May the Dark Lord reign over all of Erdhe!”

  The wizard shrugged the robe from his bony shoulders. Bile rose in Jamis’s throat at the sight of the sagging, ruined flesh, the dark runes burned into the old man’s shriveled skin, but then the Mordant knelt. Understanding struck like a knife. Jamis realized he was not the one slated for sacrifice, but then why was he here?

  The Mordant set his head on the block. Jamis stared in shock, unable to believe the lord of the citadel would sacrifice his own life…unable to imagine what such a sacrifice would invoke. He longed to look away, but felt compelled to watch. The executioner swung the half-moon blade in a mighty arc. The silver axe flashed down. Blood spurted and the Mordant’s head toppled to the floor with a gruesome thud. The general strode forward, lifting the severed head by its long white hair; a trophy, a triumph, an offering.

  The dead eyes flew open.

  Two crimson beams of light speared from the Mordant’s eyes piercing Jamis. The severed head began to laugh, a terrible, mocking sound that thundered through the cavern. Jamis screamed, his soul seared by the red light. The sudden stink of urine flooded his nose.

  The red light slowly faded like two spent embers. The braziers dulled as if snuffed out by a giant hand. Absolute darkness prevailed.

  Something stirred overhead, a brooding menace unleashed by the sacrifice. Huddled on the floor, Jamis sought to hide within the darkness, but something found him. Pain pierced him, like a hundred frozen daggers stabbing at his heart, inserting slivers of darkness beneath his skin. He writhed across the cold marble floor, screaming in agony, but then it stopped. Gasping for breath, he waited.

  The braziers re-ignited.

  Squinting against the light, Jamis checked his body, but there was no blood and no gaping wounds. His stare raced around the cavern, seeking his attacker, but he found only shadows. Shuddering, he reclaimed his spear, and struggled to stand, wondering what fate awaited him.

  General Haith remained in the center of the pentacle, but the severed head he held aloft had changed. Withered and shrunken, the head had aged a century, as if death revealed the true age of the Mordant. The general stared at Jamis. “Bare your chest.”

  Afraid to obey, but too fearful to resist, Jamis dropped his spear and clawed his way out of his armor. Ripping his tunic in haste, he stared at his chest. A dark mark slowly appeared above his heart, like a rune tattooed from beneath his skin. “No!”

  The general laughed. “You have been marked by the Dark Lord. Remember what you have seen here this day. Now go!”

  Jamis fled.

  He didn’t remember running out of the chamber or climbing the long spiral of stairs to the surface. Bursting free of the subterranean staircase, he collapsed in the courtyard, gasping for breath. Crisp, clean night air flooded his lungs, but he couldn’t purge the taint he felt inside himself. He clawed at his chest, contorting to peer down at his bared flesh, but the rune remained, like a curse beneath his skin. Convulsing on the cold stones, he emptied his stomach, but he could not empty his mind. Twisting his head away from the sour stench, Jamis sought the light of the stars in the night sky. The stars were still there, but his world was forever changed. He’d learned a truth he never wanted to know. The Darkness was real and all the light in the world could not banish the nightmare from his soul.

  Thirty years later…

  1

  Katherine

  Kath took the steps two at a time, racing the light from the rising sun to the battlement at the top of Castlegard’s tallest tower. If she hurried she’d have time enough to work out the riddle. The question had been nagging her since dinner last night, but she needed the view to be sure. Rounding the last spiral, she stepped out onto the windswept battlement. A single knight stood watch alongside the brooding gargoyles, his maroon cloak billowing over a silver surcoat. Too old for the field of battle, Sir Bredon’s eyes were still keen enough for the lookout towers. Without turning he said, “Hello, Imp.”

  Kath smiled. To the knights and the candidates she was the “Imp”; to the ruined veterans she was “Little Sister”. No one saw her for what she really was. In some ways being invisible gave her an advantage; age was a trap for a girl and a curse for a woman. At fifteen, she wanted to avoid the trap for as long as possible. Crossing the battlement to stand next to the knight, she leaned on the wall, the crisp wind tugging at her unruly blonde hair. “Anything out there?”Sir Bredon pointed to the northern horizon. “A patrol returning from the north but otherwise it’s quiet.”

  Kath spotted the dust cloud on the valley floor. She held her breath; half hoping an enemy pursued the patrol. Peace was boring.

  “No cause for alarm.” Sir Bredon walked a lazy circuit around the parapet, keeping his gaze on the countryside below. “Aren’t you supposed to be somewhere?”

  Kath scowled. “It’s too early to be at the healery. And besides, I have a riddle to solve.”

  “A riddle?”

  “Last night at dinner, Father said that Castlegard could almost defend itself, that any attacking force would have to overcome eleven defenses created by the ancient builders.” The riddle challenged Kath, giving her the chance to prove she knew the castle better than anyone. “I think I’ve worked them out, but I need the view to be sure.”

  The tower gave her a perfect eagle-eye view of the great concentric castle and the broad saddle-shaped valley below. The valley breached the east-west range of mountains that separated the southern kingdoms from the lands of the Mordant. The castle guarded the valley, holding the Mordant’s hordes in check. It made sense, but Kath thought the explanation was too simple for a castle raised by the ancient mages. In many ways, Castlegard was itself a riddle; the construction of the inner walls so seamless they looked as if they’d been molded from molten granite.

  Running her hand along the impossibly smooth mage-stone, Kath could easily believe the ballads the bards sang about the making of the castle in the days of high magic. The mage-stone walls showed no sign of wear despite more than thirty generations of use. Magic used to raise such a castle was long since gone from the land, destroyed during the War of Wizards, but Castlegard remained as a marvel of older times. Whatever the truth behind the castle’s origins, legends agreed that Castlegard was invincible and no army had so far proved the claim false.

  “Eleven you said?”

  “Some of them are easy.” Buffeted by the chilly wind, Kath tucked her hair behind her ears and wished that she’d worn a cloak. “The greensward makes approaching enemies vulnerable to arrows, and the moat looks peaceful enough but I know it’s deep.” Last summer, she’d probed the murky depths with a broken lance, never finding the bottom. “Three has to be the drawbridges and four the gatehouses protecting the bridge mechanisms. Then there’s the iron gate and the first curtain wall but they probably count as one. It gets t
ricky inside the first wall.” The eight-sided castle was a series of fortified walls, separated by traps and tricks. The outer walls, raised by the sweat of ordinary stonemasons, were challenging, but the soaring inner castle, raised by the magic of ancient wizards, was surely impregnable. “I’ve heard the knight marshal say there’s nothing but traps between the two walls.”

  Sir Bredon nodded. “Mage-stone’s not the only reason the castle’s never fallen.”

  Mentally mapping a pathway through the gauntlet of defenses, Kath had to agree. “Between the two walls, I count two portcullises, a gated pass-through, an archery cross-fire yard, and a dead-end corridor.” She frowned. “But that only makes nine.”

  “Don’t forget the murder holes over the pass-through.”

  “Ah yes!” She’d heard tales about the murder holes which allowed defenders to rain boiling pitch on invaders trapped within the walls. “That makes ten, but we’re still short by one.” She leaned farther out. It was probably something sneaky, crafted into the pass-through or one of the gates. Her gaze roamed the castle walls, but the last defense remained a mystery. “Do you know what we’ve missed?”

  “No, but if the king says there’s eleven then there has to be one more.”

  “Perhaps the last defense can’t be seen from above, like a trapdoor or a pit of spikes.”

  The knight shrugged, “Makes sense.”

  Kath resolved to explore the walls and ferret out the answer. Setting aside the riddle, her mind turned to a deeper problem. Perhaps Sir Bredon could help since he served on the Council of Candidates. Reaching into the pocket of her squire’s tunic, she closed her hand around her good luck charm and tried to make her voice sound casual. “Sir Bredon, do you know the knight-candidate, Blaine?”