Sky of Swords

by Dave Duncan

  At plank tables stretching out on either hand stood the students, or candidates, as the Order called them. First the youngest boys, cheering shrilly, pushing and jostling one another; then progressively older and taller, but also progressively fewer. The first two tables were crowded to discomfort, while at the far end stood only six solemn young seniors, proudly wearing swords. Last was the vacant high table and Grand Master’s throne.

  “The solitary blade on the end wall,” Grand Master remarked, “is Nightfall, Durendal’s sword.” He meant the legendary founder, not Lord Roland. “As you can see, it is broken. He died in his sleep, in bed, and his sword was found like that beside him. A mystery never solved.”

  “Perhaps it had been broken for years and he’d carried it around in its scabbard like that without telling anyone.”

  “Perhaps,” her host conceded sullenly.

  He brought her to the high table and the cushioned throne, for royalty had its privileges and one of them was always the best seat in the house. She sat down gently and tried not to think of the long ride home awaiting her in a couple of days. On her left sat Sir Lothaire, Master of Rituals, a scholarly, vaguely absentminded man with glasses. Piers and Dian were at high table also, and the rest of her escort had joined the half-dozen seniors. Alandale could try his bragging on his former friends now, but he had better stick to women as a topic.

  A stray draft jangled its way through the sky of swords, setting five thousand steel teeth softly gnashing, flashing a million stars. Each blade hung through a link, and there were dozens of chains…she pulled her chin down again.

  The masters had taken their seats, which was the signal for the boys to resume their places on the benches—with renewed squabbling and punching at the soprano tables—and servants appeared with carts. She was ravenous but halfway through the meal she was going to fall flat on her face, asleep.

  “Wine, Your Highness?” asked Grand Master.

  She declined another glass of wine. She studied the six at the seniors’ table, chattering with the visiting guardsmen. Whatever their actual ages, they were three young men and three tall boys—the distinction was perhaps unfair, but real enough. Only one of them could be described as handsome.

  Since Grand Master was cross-examining Dian about Wetshore, she turned to Master of Rituals.

  “Sir Lothaire, pray name the seniors for me. That dark-haired charmer must be Candidate Audley? He is going to pop every female eye in the palace.” Just wait until Lady Violet set eyes on that one!

  “Oh, we all do,” the conjurer said, so smoothly that she was not sure how serious he was. “Opposite him is Winter.”

  Winter she was always going to think of as the nail biter, and he did look a little jumpy. Who wouldn’t be jumpy in his shoes? Abel was one of the three kids. He was showing off, telling stories and laughing. The other two, Crenshaw and Hunter, looked more frightened even than Winter, but then they had been moved into the front line only the previous day and now here was a potential ward come harvesting Blades. Even if they were not called out themselves, they might be left behind as the only seniors in Ironhall. They were having trouble managing their swords, threatening to trip up passing servants.

  That left Dog, who was the largest, probably the oldest, distinguished by coarse, unattractive features and untidy tow-colored hair protruding from under his hat like straw. He was eating stolidly, ignoring conversations on either side of him.

  “He’s big for a Blade, isn’t he?”

  “Wide, certainly,” agreed Lothaire, who believed strongly in his own ability to talk while chewing. “He was already over our height limit when he was admitted, so we applied…necessary ritual to stop him growing…didn’t work as well as usual. He may have been too young…grew no taller but spread out sideways and forward. You should see the chest on him…expect you will, won’t you? The others call him Ox or Horse sometimes. He doesn’t like that, which seems odd when he named himself Dog…hasn’t affected his agility much. Can whip a broadsword around like a rapier, quite incredible…”

  There was no shortage of appetites in the hall. The fare was simple but ample and tasty enough. Everyone ate heartily, even the older knights, and the servants rushed around refilling platters as if they were shoveling dirt in a hole. Malinda herself ate more than she had in years and felt better for it. Tomorrow she would be required to fast in preparation for the ritual. She made trivial conversation with her two companions, well aware that they were trying to eavesdrop on Dian and Piers, who were being brutally cross-examined about the Wetshore Massacre. The seniors were interrogating the Blades in the same fashion, and only her rank was protecting her from similar treatment.

  The eating ended, Grand Master rose and waited for silence. “Brothers, candidates, as you can see, we are honored by the presence of a royal guest tonight. Before I make the introductions, we shall have our traditional reading from The Litany of Heroes.”

  With a harsh scrape of boots and benches, everyone rose, Malinda and Dian just a fraction behind the rest. A servant had pushed a wheeled lectern to Grand Master’s side, and now he turned to the great book resting on it.

  “‘Number 275: Sir Intrepid who, on the fourth of Fifthmoon 368, was escorting his ward on a hunt when a conjured monster in the form of a giant manlike cat emerged from the bushes and attacked his ward; he interposed and wounded it in the leg before it broke his neck with a blow of its paw, but his ward survived.’” After a moment’s silence, Grand Master closed the book. “Let us remember and honor our fallen brother.”

  Malinda had known Intrepid! Two hundred and seventy-five? Her mind balked like a horse at a fence. She turned again to Master of Rituals. “The boys hear a story like that every night?”

  He nodded, blinking through his spectacles. “There are other readings, too…when a new boy takes a hero’s name, when new names are added. Lots of those recently!”

  Grand Master had begun introducing her. If Intrepid had been 275, what was the total now? Did the Wetshore casualties qualify? “Who gets listed?” she whispered.

  “Whoever saves his ward from peril or dies trying.”

  No, the Wetshore sixty-two would not be added to the litany.

  “…and welcome Her Highness,” Grand Master concluded.

  Big cheer.

  “Lady Bandit, widow of the most recent Leader.”

  Huge, prolonged cheer, tribute to the Commander everyone had liked. It went on and on, until Grand Master cut it off. Dian stared down at her lap, blinking rapidly.

  “Sir Piers, unofficially acting deputy commander of the Royal Guard.”

  Piers took a bow, but the cheering was restrained. It grew steadily fainter as each additional visitor was announced, and ended with some jocular booing at the naming of Sir Alandale.

  “These are sad times,” Grand Master conceded. “Our beloved sovereign, head of our Order, was treacherously slain less than a week ago. The toll of our brethren was far greater than we at first heard. Sir Piers was there and will say a few words.”

  In the days when Malinda had dreamed of being the love slave of Sir Piers, she had not appreciated his ruthless streak. He had revealed it today in his casual dismissal of Kromman’s murder and perhaps even in the way he had manipulated her into riding posthaste all the way to Ironhall. Now he showed it again when he described the Wetshore Massacre for his brethren. He spared no horrors: the Baels had shot only one arrow, the Blades had rioted, sixty-two had died, perhaps two hundred others. Each new revelation was greeted with gasps and moans. He did offer a few rays of light—most of the civilian casualties had been caused by the panic; they had been crushed or had fallen down the bank. Most of the Blade casualties, so far as the Guard could determine, had not been caused by Blades. The mounted Yeomen had taken fearful toll of their old rivals.

  “None of our dead can be honored in the Litany,” he said, “but perhaps they did not die entirely in vain. When the answers are known, brothers, their loss may count in our favor.” The you
ngsters at the far end of the hall would not understand; the older boys might not; the knights certainly would. Questions were going to be asked and the Order’s very existence might be in jeopardy.

  “It has been no joy to tell you these things, brothers, and yet I have even sadder tidings, perhaps the worst news ever reported in Ironhall. You have heard that the bolt that killed our liege was fired by the King of the Baels himself, Radgar Æleding. I saw him on his ship a few minutes earlier. I recognized him. I guessed who he must be. I knew him under the name of Raider, although I had not known until then what he had become. I knew him here, when he was a candidate in Ironhall.”

  Uproar! Even the masters joined in the shouts of denial.

  Piers stood mute until the hall stilled. “Our greatest foe was once one of us, brothers. He was a senior when I was the Brat. He refused binding when the time came, of course, and fled from Chivial back to his fiery lair, where he seized the throne and declared war on the land that had given him refuge. This fact King Ambrose managed to suppress. The rest of us were led to believe that Raider and another candidate had been bound by the King for some secret service outside the Royal Guard. To add to our shame, brothers, Radgar Æleding must have known what would happen to the Blades present at Wetshore when he slew our ward. We were betrayed by one of our own.” Piers sank back on his stool.

  Grand Master let the horrified silence drag on for several minutes before he whispered. “Your Highness?”

  Malinda nodded. Her eyes would not stay open, but she had been making speeches for years and there was grave need of one now. He introduced her again. She heaved herself to her feet and sent her voice to the far end of the hall.

  “Grand Master, masters, knights, companions, candidates…I have long wanted to come here and visit the Order which has served my family so well for so long. I am honored to meet all of you who dwell under the sky of swords. Alas, these are dark times, both for your order and for my family. Yes, and for our homeland of Chivial, which is now ruled in the name of a child. Regencies are never easy. In the long years ahead before my brother can come into his inheritance, I swear to you that I will dedicate my life to his welfare, his service, his—”

  “I will die for you, Princess!”

  The voice was harsh and discordant. Dog was on his feet. At once his neighbor on either side jumped up and tried to drag him down. Staggering but still upright, he yelled again, “I will die for you!” Angry murmurs swelled all around. “Ask whatever you want and I will obey—” Oak and Marlon went to add their weight to the heap, and four men together forced Dog down onto the bench.

  Grand Master did not say a word, but Malinda could hear him anyway: I told you so! Dog was crazy.

  “Honor and courage and service,” she said, “have been for centuries the hallmark of your brotherhood. I should like to believe that they have also distinguished the House of Ranulf. It is in the darkest of times that honor and courage and service shine most brightly. So let us make this our pledge together, you and I, here under the sky of swords, that we shall always hold true to our ways, our laws, and our traditions. Then centuries as yet unborn will look back on us and see, not our darkest times, but our most glorious.”

  She sat down to enjoy the ovation.

  She had naively hoped to have a reasoned discussion with the four available seniors, outlining the political situation and the dangers she foresaw, but the hour was late and she was exhausted. It was Piers who took control of the meeting that assembled back in Grand Master’s study. She did not dare sit down lest she fall asleep, and when royalty stood everybody stood—the four candidates in an uneasy line in front of the window; Malinda, Dian, Piers, and Grand Master opposite. There were not enough candles and the fire had collapsed into ashes. It was bedtime. The world trembled with weariness.

  “They’re not as bad as Grand Master said,” Piers told her. “They need much more practice and instruction, which is what we’ve been seeing in all recruits lately, and they won’t get any better if you leave them here because they’re spending all their time on the juniors. So are the instructors who should be helping them. A couple of months at court and the Guard will lick them into shape for you.”

  “And what do we do, here in Ironhall?” Grand Master snapped.

  “You cope as best you can, which is what we’re all doing.”

  Now was the moment for Malinda to open that discussion she had wanted. Already she realized that her noble talk of ignoring traditional ways and giving the boys the right to refuse had been folly. Dare she mention her doubts about the Lord Protector? His scheming would be much harder if she had four Blades around her, but the four would be crazy to volunteer if she told them how grim her prospects really were. She looked uncertainly at them. Audley was instantly impressive—stunningly good-looking and apparently confident. Dog was only slightly taller but much burlier. He was frowning; there was something odd about his eyes, but she did not want to stare. Winter looked terrified, ready to vomit. Abel was grinning nervily; he was only a boy. Where to begin?

  While she hesitated, Piers spoke again. “I expect you’re all shaking in your socks. I know I was when I got to this stage, but all you have to worry about is the binding, and thousands of men have gone through that unscathed. Once you’re bound, you never lack for courage. The binding will provide it when you need it.” He probably meant those words especially for Winter, and certainly Winter raised his chin. Abel’s brave grin widened. Dog scowled harder.

  “You all know,” Malinda began, “that our new king is too young even to understand what ‘king’ means, but we do, and we know what honor and loyalty mean. I give you my most solemn oath that I have no designs on the throne. I want my brother to grow safely into manhood and come into his inheritance. If the spirits of chance decree otherwise, then I hope to inherit in my turn. But you know the dangers of minorities. It is my—”

  “I will die for you, Princess!” Dog rasped, stepping forward.

  “Wait!” Grand Master yelled, moving to block him.

  It seemed that Dog merely made an idle gesture, but the impact of his arm sent the older man flying; he would have sprawled flat on his back had he not collided with the table. Taking no notice of him, Dog dropped on his knees at Malinda’s feet and grabbed her hand in two huge, horny paws.

  “I don’t want you to—” She tried to pull free, but her hand stayed firmly where it was.

  Dog kissed it. “I’ll be your man, Princess.”

  “And I, also!” said Audley, coming to kneel beside Dog. As Prime he should have been first, but he smiled easily, taking no offense. Abel and Winter almost collided in their haste to join the line.

  “Well done!” Piers cried. “You’ve gotten yourself a fine Princess’s Guard there, my lady! Shut up, Grand Master.”

  18

  189: Sir Valorous who, in Thirdmoon 302, was captured by Isilondian soldiers and died under torture without betraying his ward.

  IRONHALL, THE LITANY OF HEROES

  “Ah, you killed him,” Sir Lothaire said sadly. “You must try not to twist it on the way out. Try again.” He made another mark with his charcoal.

  Fortunately, the victim was only a dressed pig’s carcase on a chopping block in the Ironhall kitchens. Two smirking varlets were holding it upright while Malinda attempted to bind it to her Guard. She was not happy. The morning was too young, the kitchen reeked of tainted meat as butchers’ premises always did, the carcase crawled with big black flies, and yesterday’s ride was still a painful subject. She steadied the sword, keeping it level as she had been instructed, and pushed, hard. The blade slid in and struck a bone on the far side, making the holders stagger.

  “And out again!” Master of Rituals said cheerily. “Yes! Much better! Don’t worry about hitting a rib or shoulder blade. It looks more dramatic if you stick ’em all the way through, and the lads like to have two scars to impress the ladies, but as long as you’re into his heart, he’s bound. Provided you don’t carve him up on the way out
, that is. Then he’s dead. Again? Well done. Try it with this.”

  The sword he now offered her was a notched and rusty horror, almost as long as she was tall. She gasped at the weight.

  “I can’t use this! I could swing it maybe…” She raised it, using both hands, and the kitchen helpers leaped backward.

  Lothaire guffawed. “It does have to be his heart. Cutting his head off won’t work.” Conjurers often had a strange sense of humor.

  “What’s wrong with the other one?”

  “You must bind a man with his own sword, and I know they’ve made a broadsword for Dog. Try on this gauntlet. If you hold the blade with your left hand, you should be able to manage. This one isn’t sharp, but tonight’s will be like a razor….”

  They emerged into the courtyard, where the visiting guardsmen were ferociously clattering steel with candidates, bellowing comments and instructions. Dian had waited out there, in the fresh air.

  Beside her stood a hefty, flaxen-haired young man, who growled, “Will you spit me clean through tonight, Princess?”

  She wondered if that hoarse rumble was Dog’s natural voice or if he had learned to fake it to fit his chosen name. In sunlight, she could understand the strangeness she had glimpsed in his eyes the previous night—the irises were so pale as to be almost white. So were his lashes. He looked blind.

  “You do not address Her Highness that way!” Master of Rituals snapped.

  “She can tell me if she doesn’t like it.” No smile, no smile at all.

  “I prefer,” she said, “that you stay with formal forms of address.”

  “As Your Grace wishes,” Dog rasped, bowing. “If you want to practice your sword work on a real body, Your Highness, I don’t mind going first tonight.”