Osbourne felt the king’s stare boring into him, and he knew what the king saw. A map of honorable scars crisscrossed his face and his left eye socket gaped empty. He knew the empty socket was ugly, even shocking, but he deliberately left it uncovered so the knight-candidates could see the cost of war. Loyalty was writ large across his face; old wounds gained fighting at the king’s side.
The king sighed. “Bitter as it is, we will let the lesson stand…but we will not allow the rot to fester.”
Osbourne nodded, quick to note the rare use of the royal “we”, a sure indicator his king was not pleased.
“The Octagon has always been outnumbered by the forces of the Mordant. We must keep to the old ways if we are to succeed against the dark hordes. Honor gives men courage and purpose. Honor enables ordinary men to do extraordinary deeds. If just one man dares to reach high in times of need, then others will follow. A single act can turn the tide of battle.” He stared pointedly at his marshal. “You know what I mean.”
He’d fought at his king’s side all his life. “As you say, sire.”
“When the knight-candidates debate the treachery at Dymtower remind them of Raven Pass. See to it that you teach them the lessons of honor.” The king slammed his fist onto the table, quaking the maps and goblets. “By Valin, I will not have honor fade from the ranks of the maroon! Not while I hold this throne!”
Silence fell between them. The knight marshal waited for orders.
“Trask should be stripped of his maroon cloak.” The king’s voice held a deadly edge.
“Our ranks are too thin.” When the king did not respond to this, the marshal added, “Sire, I loathe the man as much as you do, but he is good with a battleaxe. When the Mordant breaks the peace, we will need every blade.”
“And so you would forge a long chain built with weak links rather than a short one of unquestionable strength.”
“We do not have the luxury of choice!”
“There is always a choice…and always consequences. Necessity be damned to the nine hells.” The king spread a scrolled map across the table and with a calloused finger traced the line of mountains dividing the far north from the kingdoms of Erdhe. “See to it that Trask is given duty at Cragnoth Keep. Perhaps a tour of duty at the frozen keep will teach the arrogant wretch a lesson. If nothing else, it will put some distance between Sir Trask and the knight-candidates.”
The marshal did not agree, preferring to keep trouble close at hand, but he knew better than to press the argument. Bowing, he acknowledged the king’s command.
“And,” the king continued, “I’ll have the names of this minority of knights who side with Trask. I want them dispersed through the ranks, with none of them given guard duty in the king’s tower or at the gates of Castlegard. Perhaps dispersed the poison will dissipate. So let it be done.” He waved his hand in weary dismissal.
As Osbourne reached for the door, the king added, “And see to it that this new knight is given a blade of blue steel.”
The marshal blinked his one good eye in surprise. In a quiet voice he said, “There are knights more deserving. Blue steel blades are meant for heroes. They should be reserved for the very best of the Octagon.”
“No Osbourne, a blue blade given to Sir Blaine will remind the rest of the knights of the importance of honor…a lesson that is sorely needed. Honor fought in the octagon last night. I’ll see it rewarded. When stories circulate of a newly-made knight with a blue steel blade, the young men will flock to our banner. With enough recruits, we’ll no longer need brutes like Trask. And since the miners have finally struck a new vein of blue ore, Castlegard can afford it, despite the quartermaster’s dreary ledgers.” He paused, “Besides, I liked what I saw in the trials. Sir Blaine fights with his mind not just with his muscles. Reminds me of a younger you. That feint of fatigue was very well done. Give Blaine a blade of blue steel and we will see what he can do with it. Allow an old man to bet on a better future.”
“Sire, I would never presume to bet against you.” The knight marshal bowed and left to attend to the king’s orders. He would have to do some serious thinking about where to post Trask’s compatriots in order to neutralize the faction. That problem would take time to work out. On the other hand…a weapon of blue steel…he was looking forward to issuing the orders. If the decision were his to make, blue steel weapons would be exclusive to the best knights of the Octagon instead of being sold for gold to the highest bidders among Castlegard’s allies. The problem with selling arms to allies was that you never knew when you were really selling to an enemy. He’d often had this argument with the king. It was the only argument the knight marshal always lost. As Castlegard’s best source of income, the sale of the rare blue steel weapons would continue.
At least this time, one of the fabled blades would remain in Castlegard. He wondered how many weapons they’d get out of this latest vein. Castlegard’s mine was rich in conventional iron ore, but the veins of blue were sporadic and short-lived. The marshal had been a young man, just a squire, the last time the miners had struck a blue vein. That thin seam yielded only enough ore for three weapons of blue steel. Three blades that were forever sharp and capable of cleaving armor…blades meant to be wielded by heroes. The marshal was not a superstitious man, but he couldn’t help wondering if the reappearance of the blue ore was a sign from the gods, a sign that heroes were once again needed in the lands of Erdhe.
6
Steffan
The dank gray sky pissed rain. Steffan hunched in the saddle, under his oilskin, but it was no use, he was soaked to the bone. He cursed the sky but kept the horse moving deeper into the woods. The crone’s cave had to be nearby.
Sick of the rain and the endless forest, he forced the gelding to a faster pace. Wyeth was such a godforsaken land, nothing but old-growth forest and the occasional small village full of superstitious peasants. As the third son of a baron of Wyeth, the back woods should be familiar, but Steffan was merely passing through on his way to something better. He used his father’s title with those who were ignorant, but it was a hollow joke. Steffan’s family was so poor that his signet ring was made of tin and his lord father’s was merely silver. He shook his head. Only his family would stoop to using signet rings of tin.
Disgusted with an empty title cloaked in poverty, he’d left his father’s keep years ago to make his own fortune, shaking the dung from his boots as he walked out of the door. Relying on his dark good looks, his quick wit, and skills at dice, he’d traveled the southern kingdoms of Erdhe. He’d dallied with a rich widow in Coronth, run a con in Radagar, and diced with the wealthy of Lanverness. He’d done all right for himself, acquiring a taste for the finer things in life. Gold filled his saddlebags and he rode a good horse with solid bloodlines, but Steffan wanted more, much more. He’d heard rumors in the backrooms of alehouses about a quick way to power, a way to a better life. The rumors had cropped up often enough that he’d decided to take a chance tracking down the truth. The old crone, Helsbeth, was the next link in the chain of dark whispers.
The gelding plodded through the mud. The sky brightened and then dimmed again but the rain never let up. He was beginning to think that he’d drown in the saddle when he found the cave. A bear skull hung with beads and red feathers stood impaled on a pole, marking the entrance. Steffan reminded himself that the hedge witch had a reputation for potions laced with curses from the Dark side. He’d be sure to avoid anything she offered to drink or eat.
Tying the gelding to the pole, he ducked under the low entrance to the cave. A wall of smoke stung his eyes and he coughed on the harsh tang. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he glimpsed a figure huddled beneath blankets feeding herbs to a small fire.
“Saw you coming, we did, come in, come in.”
Steffan let his sodden oilskin drop to the cave floor and walked forward to take a seat in front of the fire. Warmth from the fire was worth the bite of the strange blue smoke.
The snaggletoothed crone leaned forward
, peering at him through the flames. The crusty blanket slipped back to reveal a shock of white hair and pale skin stretched thin across a hawk-nose and a pointed chin. The face was ancient but the eyes were filled with cunning. She studied him and laughed. “A young lordling no less, come to Helsbeth for something from the Dark side, but we wonder if he’ll pay the price? We wonder if he even knows the price?” Her head bobbed like a chicken pecking at each word. “Tell Helsbeth what you came for, lordling, and together we’ll find the price.”
“I’m chasing dark whispers about a way to power, power that comes from the Dark Lord. I’ve been told you know the way.”
The crone cackled. “The Dark Lord is it? The lordling reaches high.”
Soaked from the long wet ride, Steffan had little patience for the crone’s prattle. “Do you know the way or not, old woman?”
“Only a hedge witch am I, brushing crumbs of power from the hem of the Dark Lord’s cloak, but I know what you seek. The dedicates, the ones with the gift.” She leaned toward the fire. “Only a hedge witch, but we know more than you lordling, oh yes we do, for the bones tell me, they tell me true.”
“I’ve coin in my purse, so stop babbling and name your price.”
The crone rocked from side to side. “So the lordling learns quickly does he, for there is always a price, always, especially with the Dark Lord.” She extracted a small soiled pouch from beneath her blankets, and from it spilled a collection of bleached bones onto the rough rock floor. Peering at the pattern, her nose almost touching the bones, she muttered, “The bones name the price, the bones name the price. Flames burn with Darkness, a raven flies to Coronth. Life and death intertwined, blurred into one. Aha!” The crone leered through the flames. “Something from the past, something from the present, and something from the future, the bones name the price for your questions. Three answers, three payments, so shall it be.”
Steffan’s head felt cloudy: it must have been the blue smoke. Reaching into his pocket, he removed a handful of gold coins. “I’ll pay for information, not riddles. Speak plainly, old woman, and tell me what you know.”
Bobbing like a chicken, the crone cackled, “The gold will pay for now, yes, yes. So we will tell you a secret, the Dark Lord is real. He is not like the other gods who only watch from above. The Dark Lord’s dedicates can feel his touch, know his will. He gives those who serve him great gifts, power, beauty, and wealth…but the greatest gift of all is eternal life!”
The words sparked a flame within Steffan, confirming what his soul had always known. He whispered, “One lifetime is not enough.”
The crone cackled, “Yes, now the lordling knows! Pay us for the now, pay us the price for the secret!”
Steffan tossed the handful of coins across the cave. The gold fell among the bones, coins clattering against stone. The crone plucked the gold from the floor, the coins disappearing into the folds of her blanket.
Eager to hear more, Steffan leaned forward. “Where do I find these dedicates?”
“First the rest of the price, lordling. You know in the dark of your heart that Helsbeth speaks the truth. Pay the price of the bones and we will tell you more. Pay us with the past and we will point you toward the future.”
He shook his head to clear it of the smoke. “What do you mean, old woman, how can I pay you with the past?”
Her eyes glittered in the firelight and a bony finger pointed toward his right hand. “Give me the shiny ring, the token of your past and we will speak of the future.”
He looked down at his tin signet ring and laughed. “You drive a shrewd bargain, old woman, but so be it.” He wrestled the ring off his finger and tossed it to the crone, happy to be rid of it.
She caught it neatly and stared at it like a precious treasure.
“Tell me about the dedicates.”
“Yes, yes, we hold the past, so we point to the future. The dedicates assemble in old forgotten places, places rich with ancient power where it is easy for the god to reach through. The oldest of these places is the Dark Oracle: you seek the Eye of the Dark Lord.”
He’d heard rumors of a Dark Oracle, but he never heard enough to seek it out. “And where do I find this Dark Oracle?”
The old woman’s cackle echoed around the small cave. “Knew it we did! The bones told us true! Told us you’d be hasty and ask the wrong question! But ask you did. And the Dark Lord wants you, oh yes he does, the bones tell me so. Pay the price, lordling, and we’ll tell you what we know.”
For a moment the crone’s face seemed transformed into a death mask, red eyes peering at him from the gaping sockets of a skull. Steffan gasped, shaking his head to banish the illusion. It had to be the smoke. “You have my gold, you have my ring, so what is your price now, old woman?”
“The bones need to be fed. Magic feeds off life and death. A man’s seed is ripe with life, full of the future. Pay the bones with your future. Let me milk your seed, spilling it out onto the bones, and we’ll tell you what we know!”
His manhood shriveled beneath his codpiece. He had no intention of letting the old witch touch his rod. He’d end up shriveled for life! But he wanted the information. “I’ll feed your bones, old woman, but first the information.”
The old witch rocked back and forth humming a strange tune. “You seek to trick us, oh yes you do. Swear on your soul, lordling, swear on your very soul to feed the bones.”
Steffan placed his right hand over his heart. “I swear on my soul to feed the bones.”
The old witch cackled, “You’re sworn, lordling, you’re sworn. Seek the Oracle in the south of Radagar, in a wet, dank place. It’s all we know, but we’ll tell you one thing more, be prepared to give the Dark Lord his due!” The old woman cackled madly. “Three questions we answered; now pay the final price, lordling. Feed the bones! Feed the bones!”
Steffan rose to his feet, and stood there for a moment, swaying from the smoke. He took a moment to clear his head and then walked around the fire toward the crone. Her head bobbed in front of his crotch, a thread of drool dangling from the side of her mouth. Disgusted, Steffan reached down with his left hand to undo the laces of his codpiece. His right hand reached for the dirk tucked in the belt behind his back. The witch leaned forward, her gaze focused on his crotch. The hand with the dirk snaked out, burying six inches of steel in the crone’s chest. “I’ll feed the bones, old woman!”
He pulled the dirk free with a wet, sucking sound. Keeping his word, he held the witch over the bones, letting her blood spatter a red pattern across the ivory-colored bones. The old woman’s hands scrabbled against her chest, trying to hold back the tide of blood.
Steffan whispered, “It won’t be long now, old woman. Take a last look at your precious bones. Do you see your own death written among them?”
The crone wheezed, struggling to speak. “Asked the wrong question, lordling, yes you did. You never asked the price!”
A shiver ran through Steffan. He shook the witch, trying force more answers out of her, but the body was lifeless. The corpse slumped forward, covering the bones. He cleaned his dirk on her soiled blanket and picked up his oilskin on the way out.
The rain felt good against his face, clean and cold, clearing his head of the smoke. Shaking off his premonition of dread, he focused instead on what he’d learned. The prize was even greater than he’d ever imagined. Vaulting into the saddle, Steffan spurred the gelding toward the south. One lifetime was not enough!
7
Blaine
Expectations of war filled the great castle. Rumors about the Painted Warrior rippled through the barracks, stirring fears and hopes, giving renewed purpose to the knights. Sword strokes in the training yard held a new rhythm, a fierce beat revealing an undercurrent of urgency. Squires and knight-candidates honed their skills, hoping to be worthy. Sworn knights kept their blades sharp and their armor close at hand. Even the maimed veterans felt the thrill of war, retelling tales of daring to any who would listen, stories that roused the heart to ho
nor and courage. Blaine drank it all in, eager for a chance at glory. As the son of a peasant farmer, he had more to prove than most. Blaine sought the marshal, asking for patrol duty, hoping to wet his sword against the enemy, but his request was denied. His left shoulder still hadn’t healed and his fight with Trask had left his face a mass of purple bruises. Disappointed, he consoled himself with the ceremony to come. In another fortnight he’d swear his life to the Octagon, but before he took his vows, he must choose his First Weapon.
Legend said that the candidate’s choice of First Weapon defined his knighthood. Blaine knew his choice should be based purely on his abilities, his strength, and his reach, but he longed to be worthy of his childhood heroes…and all of his heroes carried swords, two-handed great swords.
Castlegard’s forge throbbed with heat and soot and the smell of hot metal, but the fall of hammers was strangely silent, replaced by a storm of whispers. Blaine found the masters, smiths, and apprentices gathered in the back, all clustered around a small wooden crate. He angled his way into the crowd, using his height to peer over the shoulders of two young apprentices. His breath caught in his throat. “Blue ore.” The words whispered out of Blaine without thought, “Can I touch it?”
A collective gasp filled the forge, the others pulling away from Blaine as if he had the plague. Finding himself suddenly alone in an island of space, Blaine searched their faces trying to understand his offense. A rumble of laughter broke the tension. Otto, the master swordsmith, said, “He’s too young to know better. Only a raw knight-candidate could ask such a question.”
Blaine felt his face flush red. “I meant no offense.”
Burly and bald with eyebrows that looked like thick slashes of soot, the master smith had a rumbling voice that matched his size. “Of course you didn’t. But by the king’s orders, no one but the master of the forge so much as touches blue ore.” Ignoring the armed guard that stood at the side of the crate, the master reached down and removed a fist-sized lump of sapphire-blue ore, holding it aloft so that it winked in the firelight. “A king’s ransom and a smith’s dream forged together to make a knight’s soul.” Staring at Blaine with a penetrating gaze, the master said, “What form will your soul take, I wonder?”
The Steel Queen (The Silk & Steel Saga Book 1) Page 4