The Steel Queen (The Silk & Steel Saga Book 1) Page 3

  “Choose your weapon!” The one-eyed knight marshal unveiled the weapons arrayed on the altar stone. Flickering torchlight illumed the marshal’s empty eye socket and scar-crossed face, making him appear a demon, or a harbinger of doom, but Blaine refused to flinch from the wages of war. Answering the call, he climbed the stairs to the rough-hewn block of red granite, a fitting altar for the warrior god. A knight stood on either side; one held an ornate sand glass and the other a battle horn, the timekeepers for the trial. Blaine studied the weapons while the knight marshal whispered a warning, “Think first and choose well, for each warrior may bear but a single weapon within the octagon. May Valin, the god of warriors, guide your hand.”

  Weapons gleamed in the torchlight, death crafted into steel. A flanged mace, the spiked ball and chain of a morningstar, the half-moon blade of a war axe, a heavy cavalry saber, a hand-and-a-half claymore, and a two-handed great sword, he’d trained with them all, but his gaze was drawn to the great sword, the weapon of heroes. He reached for the five-foot great sword with its double-edged blade and sturdy cross-hilt. It felt good in his hands. Well balanced and honed to a fine, silk-cutting edge; the blade was as beautiful as it was deadly. For the fight of his life he could choose no other weapon.

  Under the gaze of the king and the night stars, he entered the octagon. Bowing to each knight, he used the time to assess his opponents. Trask would be his toughest fight but none would be easy. Taking a deep breath, he tightened his grip on the great sword and nodded to the knight marshal, prepared to claim his destiny.

  “The candidate has entered the octagon.” The voice of the one-eyed marshal rang with authority. “Let no man interfere.”

  A knight turned the sand glass and a trumpeter sounded the battle horn. The first maroon knight surged into the octagon, a blur of armor and sharpened steel. Blaine whirled to meet the attacker and the two great swords met with a fearsome clash. The first blow shuddered down Blaine’s arms, a warning of things to come. Disengaging, he counter-attacked, searching for an opening to the knight’s heart-rune. Stroke, parry, and evade, he plunged into the fight, hammering his opponent with a whirlwind of blows. I must finish him quickly; with eight against one time is my greatest enemy. A sword flashed toward his face but he parried the blow. Dancing away, he felt sweat drip down his back, a warning that the bout was taking too long. Remember, balance is the key! He feinted toward his opponent’s knees. The knight bought the feint, lowering his guard for the parry. Blaine’s great sword slipped into the opening to tag the maroon heart-rune. His sword struck true. Victory’s thrill rushed through him but the trial had just begun. He gulped air but he had no time to recover. As the defeated knight stepped out of the octagon, a second leapt to take his place.

  The trial became a blur of sweat and steel. Each round lasted only a few minutes, but to Blaine those minutes stretched to an eternity. With no time to recover, he faced a different challenge in every round: the brute strength of the mace, the sly finesse of the morningstar, the madness of the berserker’s battleaxe, the slashing quickness of the saber, and the disciplined strength of the great sword. After five grueling rounds, Blaine still held the octagon but the fight had taken its toll. His arms ached with strain and his breath turned ragged. Cuts on his forehead and sword arm wept blood. Sweat stung his eyes.

  A fresh knight wielding a great sword rushed in to take up the fight. Great sword against great sword, the weapons are equal, but he is fresh. Time to overplay fatigue. Blaine slipped sideways, letting his footwork drag. Slowing the speed of his sword till his parries were just in time, he let the point of his sword dip, as if the weight of it was too heavy. The maroon knight took the bait, pressing in with an overextended lunge. Blaine beat the great sword away and counterattacked. Swift as a snake, his sword tagged the maroon heart-rune.

  Six down, two to go, his heart pounded like thunder, his tunic drenched in sweat under his armor. Blaine moved to the center of the octagon. A cold finger of warning shivered down his spine. Footsteps rushed from behind. Raising his sword, he whirled. The gleam of a battleaxe sped toward his face. He jerked backwards but the axe followed, catching him just below the eyes. His nose-guard collapsed with a sickening crunch. Pain exploded across his face. He staggered backwards, reaching up to feel the wound. Blood gushed from his broken nose and a deep cut under his left eye…but he still had a face.

  The maroon knight towered over him. “Taste my axe, farmer-boy!”

  “Trask!” Blaine spat the name like a curse.

  Passing the battleaxe back and forth between massive hands, the huge knight growled a taunt. “You’re not worthy.”

  “You’re wrong.” Blaine tore the ruined half-helm from his head and hurled it aside. Wiping the blood from his face, he retreated to the far side of the octagon, buying time to gather his strength, but the ploy failed. With a roar, Trask crossed the arena with surprising speed. Blaine raised his sword just in time. Struggling for breath, he retreated under the onslaught, but the half-moon blade pursued with a vengeance, a wicked blur in the torchlight. Clang! His sword parried a ferocious blow. The force nearly drove Blaine to his knees. Twisting away, he disengaged and dodged a second blow. But the silver axe gave chase, always aiming for his head or neck, persistent as an executioner’s blade. An icy fear ripped through Blaine; Trask seeks my life instead of the heart-rune! He flicked a desperate glance toward the iron throne but the king sat stern and impassive.

  Steel whistled toward Blaine’s face. He jerked backwards, avoiding the killing blow. Desperate to end the bout, he feinted to the left and then risked falling to his knees. Ducking under the head-high swing of the axe, he gained an opening. When the axe whispered overhead, Blaine thrust his sword up inside Trask’s guard. His sword tagged the heart-rune. Relief flooded through him. Breathing hard, he sagged back on his heels, flushed with victory.

  Above him, Trask snarled, converting the horizontal axe swing into a downward slash. Time slowed to a heartbeat. The silver axe loomed overhead. Blaine froze, shocked by the dishonor of the blow. He dodged at the last moment…but not quick enough. Steel struck steel and the armor on his left shoulder crumpled under the blow. Blaine slammed to the floor, pain surging through him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the silver axe raised for the killing stroke. He tried to lift his sword but his left hand wouldn’t obey. Gripping the hilt with his right, he rolled away.

  The axe struck stone, scarring the octagon. Blaine staggered to his feet. Blood flowed from his broken nose, his left arm hung useless, and his shoulder throbbed. One-handed, he struggled to raise the point of the great sword, but the tip wavered like a rum-soaked drunk.

  Trask flicked up the visor of his helmet and Blaine met the cold stare of the maroon knight. Death was coming. Even so, he held his ground; dreams did not die easily.

  “Run, peasant. Show yourself a craven.” Trask raised the battleaxe in a two-handed executioner’s grip. Torchlight glittered on the half-moon blade.

  Blaine refused to move, bracing himself for the blow.

  The call of a battle horn split the night, signaling that the sands of the glass had run out. Trask hesitated, held frozen by the sound of the horn. Then bound by ritual if not by honor, he snarled a string of curses and stalked away. Blaine sagged with relief; death had passed. He sent a fervent prayer to Valin, the god of warriors, and stumbled to the center of the octagon. Needles danced up and down his useless left arm. Grinding his teeth against the pain, he sought to find the strength for one more round.

  The final knight entered the arena. The spiked ball of the morningstar whirled through the air, carving a circle of destruction. Blaine lurched away, bitterly regretting his choice of weapon. Unable to lift the great sword, he wondered if pride would be his downfall, but then the knight of the morningstar did something unexpected. He lowered his weapon and raised the visor of his helm, revealing a sun-creased face and an auburn mustache. Sir Bearhart nodded to Blaine, then turned his gaze to the king, his voice ringing against the ma
ge-stone walls. “For the honor of the Octagon.” Saluting the king, the veteran knight remained statue-still.

  Half in a daze, Blaine gasped for breath. Pride swelled within him: honor still lived in the brotherhood of the maroon.

  The horn sounded a triumphant blare, announcing the final turn of the sand glass. With his heart-rune untouched, Blaine had survived the trial.

  Sir Bearhart bowed and retreated to his original station. Blaine leaned on his sword, staring up at the king. Silence descended like a fog, wrapping him in a cocoon of stillness. Bone-weary, he swayed, dizzy on his feet, afraid to believe it was over. The warrior-king pounded his mailed fist against the arm of the iron throne, shattering the silence. “Let the candidate approach!”

  Bloody and battered, Blaine dropped to one knee, waiting to hear the words he’d yearned for all his life.

  “A new candidate has passed the trial of combat and proven himself worthy. As king of Castlegard, I welcome you to the knights of the Octagon!” King Ursus smiled, his voice a mixture of pride and compassion. “Arise, Sir Blaine, and greet your brothers in arms!”

  Joy and pride rushed through Blaine; the son of a farmer had gained the title of knight.

  4

  Katherine

  Kath watched from the tower top as the king embraced Blaine. He’d done it! Blaine’s trial had been difficult, nigh on deadly, but he’d done it, he’d gained his maroon cloak. Elation thrummed through Kath, knowing her dream was one step closer to reality.

  Ducking low, she hid behind the battlement, lest she be seen. Sitting beneath the stars, her back pressed to the cold mage-stone of the forbidden tower, her dreams ran rampant. She longed to hold a sword in her hands, but more than that, she felt the call to lead. Her older brothers all had their places in the octagon. One of them would eventually earn the right to rule, but never a daughter, never a girl. The octagon trial offered her best chance to change her fate.

  But everything would be for naught if she was caught. She dared not think what would happen if the knights caught her defiling their secret trials.

  As the sounds of celebration faded and the knights made their way from the tower, Kath forced herself to wait, counting to one hundred, and then to two hundred. Finally satisfied it was safe, she crept to the well of stairs that honeycombed the outer wall of the tower. The staircase gaped open, dark and empty.

  Kath slipped down the stairs two at a time, one hand trailing along the inner wall. At the bottom of the fifth spiral, darkness gave way to torchlight. Muffled voices brought her to an abrupt halt. Keeping to the shadows, she peered around the curved inner wall, shocked to find a pair of maroon cloaks blocking the stairwell. Her breath caught. Except for the tower guards, all the knights should be celebrating in the great hall.

  The two men stood abnormally close, furtive whispers swirling between them. Kath thought she heard Trask’s name mentioned among the whispers. Blaine’s fight with the battleaxe had been fearsome to behold. Kath was still shocked by the dishonor of Trask’s blow…and the king had said nothing; that shocked her almost as much. Something foul festered in the maroon, something brought to light by the trial. Kath crept towards the two knights, tempted to eavesdrop, but time was against her. With the trial over, the guards would soon resume their rounds; she had to find her way out. Crouched in the shadows, Kath studied the two knights as if they were enemies. She’d often heard the knight marshal say that the key to an enemy’s weakness lay in his motives. The two knights acted as if they did not want to be overheard. Perhaps they’d move if they thought someone was coming. Kath ransacked her pockets for an agate-colored pebble she’d found earlier that morning. Leaning into the torchlight, she flicked her wrist, aiming low. The pebble skittered into the far hallway, a clatter of stone on stone.

  Startled, the two knights stilled. Kath held her breath and at last they moved off down the hallway, but she forced herself to wait. When the retreating footsteps fell silent, she bolted, her soft doeskin boots whispering down the stairs. Her heart hammering, she peered into the torch-lit hallway, relieved to find it empty. Dashing to the opposite wall, she counted three torches to the left and then pressed the raised octagon on the bottom of the metal bracket. A low rumble came from behind the stone wall. A hidden door clicked open, releasing a breath of stale air. Anxious to be gone, she plunged into the narrow opening. Ignoring the spiders and the strands of broken webs, she reached for another raised octagon and pressed it. The door closed behind her, cloaking her in darkness.

  Silence surrounded her, but to Kath it seemed welcoming. The musty stillness of the lower tunnels beckoned. The underground passageways provided a sanctuary, her secret retreat. Fumbling in the dark, she found her flint waiting on the top step and struck a flame to a candle stub. Pale light illuminated the ancient walls. Here within these forgotten halls she could be herself, practicing with rusty swords and ferreting out the secrets of the past. But soon she’d have the chance to do more. Running her hand along the impossibly smooth mage-stone walls, she descended the stairs to the underground passage, dreaming of a future full of swords.

  5

  The Knight Marshal

  The knight marshal swung his one-eyed gaze across the faces of the nine captains, finally settling on the king. “We dare not drop our guard.”

  On the far side of the council table, Sir Rannock argued. “But there’s been no sign of the enemy. The north is quiet despite the Painted Warrior’s warning.”

  The marshal parried the argument. “Peace is often a delusion, a way for the Mordant to lull his enemies into the trap of complacency. Battle-readiness must be the standing order for each keep, wall, and outpost within the domain of Castlegard.” He watched their faces, seeing more than one nod of agreement, but the decision rested with the king.

  King Ursus tugged on his silver beard, his face thoughtful. “We’ve had no reports of movement in the steppes, yet the marshal has the truth of it. The Mordant is a clever opponent, full of deceit. The Octagon must remain vigilant. Let the order stand.”

  The marshal eased back in his chair and watched as the knight-captains made their reports. King Ursus took and gave counsel, but when it came to the review of the ledgers by the quartermaster, the king cut the meeting short. The warrior-king had little patience for the coin-counters endless litany of silvers owed, golds spent, and coppers collected. Trusting the quartermaster to see to it that the ledgers balanced, the king dismissed them all with a wave of his hand.

  The marshal stood to leave, but the king’s voice pulled him back. “Not you, Osbourne.”

  Changing directions, the marshal moved to stand with his back to the roaring fireplace. Heat beat against him, easing the ache of old war wounds. Overhead, faded battle banners hung from the rafters, a proud testament to the long history of the Octagon Knights. So much history, so much blood shed, the marshal tallied the cost of battles won and lost.

  The door closed and he was alone with his king.

  King Ursus contemplated a goblet of wine, the maps, messages, and ledgers strewn across the table seemingly forgotten. Age was clearly upon the king, yet he still cut an imposing figure with the broad shoulders and thick arms of a seasoned warrior. Even at council, the king dressed in battle-scarred fighting leathers, his great blue sword, Honor’s Edge, never far from his hand.

  The king sent a baleful glare toward his marshal. “You saw did you not? You saw, you were the judge of the trials, and yet you said nothing.”

  Osbourne considered his words. The marshal only had one eye left to him, yet it was his king who had a blind spot for honor. “Yes, sire, I saw. Blaine struck a clean blow to the heart rune yet Trask ignored it. Not honorable combat for the octagon, but not without precedent either.”

  “Sir Bearhart preserved the honor of the Octagon, while you did nothing.”

  “But sire, it is a trial by combat.”

  “There are rules,” the king’s voice held a dangerous edge.

  Osbourne decided, no matter the cost
, to say what he thought. “Sire, there are some who say we place too much emphasis on honor. They argue that our enemies, nay even our allies, will not fight with honor. That honor is nothing more than a shroud for dead heroes.” He took a deep breath and forced the words out. “What Trask did in the Octagon was dishonorable yet it represents the truth of battle, especially against the Mordant.”

  “Truth! I’ll give you truth!” The king roared in anger, his metal goblet smashing against the stone fireplace, narrowly missing the marshal’s head. Red wine dripped down the stone like an open wound. “Take a good look at this room, Osbourne. The Octagon is built on honor!”

  The marshal endured the king’s wrath, knowing that reason always supplanted anger.

  A sullen silence settled between them. The king reached for a fresh goblet, filling it to the brim. Taking a long swallow, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and growled, “How deep is the rot?”

  “A minority of knights, but one that is not silent. Noblemen all, the faction seems to be gaining strength. Trask is one of the leaders. To these men, a candidate like Blaine, a commoner, is a weak link. They’d rather see him die in the trials than have a peasant take the maroon.”

  “And you, Osbourne? Does your silence at the trial indicate you side with this faction?”

  The marshal shook his head. “Blaine will make a fine addition.”

  “Then why did you not interfere?”

  The truth tasted sour in his mouth. “There is little honor outside of these walls. What Trask did in the trial is a lesson worth teaching. We can expect no honor from our enemies.”

  “And thus you said nothing.”