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

by Karen Azinger

  The knights hurled a final insult and headed toward the armory. Blaine dropped his guard. He’d survived another day. Prying the dented helmet off, he wiped the grime from his face. His brother knights made him pay a steep price for his sword. He never thought owning a blue steel weapon would be so painful.

  Blaine felt a hard stare crawl up his back. Pivoting, he looked for a new threat, but only found the knight marshal watching from the edge of the yard. He speared Blaine with his one-eyed gaze and then nodded before walking off.

  The marshal often watched the afternoon sparring rounds, but he never said anything and he never interfered. Abandoned by both the marshal and the king, Blaine resented their silence. Why give him a blade of blue steel and then leave him to molder in the sparring yards? He would never earn the respect of his fellow knights while safe in Castlegard, but the choice was not his, forced to wait for the orders that would let him earn the sword. In the meantime, he’d do his best to win the battle of the sparring yard, although some days just staying on his feet seemed a challenge.

  Tired and sore, he limped to the benches to retrieve his blue sword. The great blade was too deadly for practice, yet it was never far from his hand. He slung the harness across his back so that the sapphire-blue hilt projected over his right shoulder. Whole again, he walked toward the armory at the far end of the yard.

  Blaine trudged through the double doors, into a cavernous room lined with weapons, shields, and helms. The other knights made a point of turning their backs. The young squire, Devlan, was the only one to acknowledge him. The boy gave him a shy smile, scrambling to help.

  “Hello Dev, the armor is a bit mangled and dented again, not to mention the state of the body inside. You’ll have to give me a hand getting it off.”

  The squire reverently set Blaine’s blue blade on a bench before helping with his armor. Afflicted with a bad case of hero worship, the boy hardly ever spoke a word, but he never failed to leap to Blaine’s assistance.

  Freed of the dented armor, Blaine selected a half-helm from some shelves and then headed for the stables. He was tired but he had a promise to keep. He’d been skeptical about training the Imp. When they’d first started, some six full moons ago, he’d argued that the girl should take up a distance weapon, distance being her best defense, but the girl stood her ground, insisting on the sword. So they compromised and did both. He’d teach the girl the sword, but she’d also learn to wield throwing axes, an obscure weapon that could fell a knight in plate armor at a distance of twenty feet. Used by peasants, throwing axes were spurned by knights, so Blaine approached Otto, the master swordsmith and delicately raised the possibility of having an apprentice forge a pair of axes. A fortnight later, the master smith produced a pair of perfectly balanced throwing axes made to just the right scale for the Imp. Both weapons bore the maker’s mark of an anvil in an octagon, the mark of the master smith. But the most surprising aspect was their handles. Carved into the image of a hawk with folded wings, the handles bore the ancient heraldic symbol of Castlegard; the blazon the Kings of Castlegard gave up when they swore allegiance to the Octagon. Seeing the carved handles, Blaine had gasped. Either he’d drunk too much ale in town that night or the master smith was a very shrewd man. When Blaine tried to thank the master, the big smith forestalled him saying, “She has the heart of an untamed hawk and I am honored to forge weapons worthy of her.”

  Humbled by the master’s generosity and insights, Blaine asked the smith to hold the weapons until the Imp could claim them for herself. Blaine would never forget the way the Imp’s face lit up when the master presented her with her First Weapons. From her reaction, Blaine would have sworn that someone had just given her the world. Both men were astonished when the girl stood on tiptoes to give the big smith a kiss on his rough cheek. Embarrassed, Blaine had turned away. In the heat of the forge it was obvious that the master smith’s heart had melted.

  They spent a part of every day practicing in an abandoned cellar. The Imp drew a chalk outline of Blaine on the door for a target, dubbing the outline ‘the Empty Knight’. The girl took to the lessons like a duck to water, proving an apt pupil with the axes as well as a with a short sword, almost as if she was graced by the touch of Valin. After six turns of the moon, the Imp grew proficient with her throwing axes, but to reach the next level of swordsmanship she needed to train on open ground instead of the smooth mage-stone floors of the castle. Balance was the key to swordsmanship and the Imp needed uneven ground to understand the true importance of the lesson.

  Blaine held his horse to a canter, the spare helm tucked in his saddlebag. He found the Imp waiting in the small clearing in the heart of the old oak forest, sunlight streaming through the autumn trees. Dressed, as usual, in a rumpled gray squire’s tunic, she stood beneath the lattice of branches, a wooden training sword in her hand. It must have been a trick of the afternoon light but for a moment the sword looked as if it belonged there.

  Shaking his head to clear the illusion, Blaine secured his horse in the dappled shade of a massive live oak and hung the harness with his great blue sword from a gnarled branch. Tossing the Imp the half-helm he’d borrowed from the armory, he hefted a wooden training sword. “Come on, Imp, show me what you can do with that blade.”

  She tucked her tangled blond hair up under the helm and then advanced across the clearing, sword at the ready. Flashing him a disarming smile, she sprang forward with a low lunge aimed at his belly.

  The wooden swords met with a clatter. “Good try, Imp, but you’ll have to do better than that.”

  Her second thrust snaked toward him, twice as quick as the first. Blaine parried and they settled into a dance of swords, their steps matching the rhythmic clacking of wooden blades as they fought beneath the trees. He let the Imp set the tempo, content to observe his pupil. She tried every trick he’d shown her and one or two he hadn’t. There was no doubt she had spirit as well as skill, but then again they were only using wooden swords.

  She pressed the attack and Blaine retreated, leading her deeper into the forest, choosing a direction strewn with a jumble of exposed roots. Quick to see the new twist, the Imp did a good job of keeping her sword up while maintaining her balance. Impressed, Blaine went on the attack, forcing her toward a tumble of boulders.

  Intent on their swordplay, he didn’t hear the drumming of hoof-beats until the two knights cantered into the clearing. Too late to hide, he hissed, “Pull your helm lower. Keep your eyes down, and your mouth shut. With Valin’s luck you’ll pass as a squire.”

  From the edge of the clearing the first knight bellowed, “What’s going on here? Sword practice for squires is forbidden outside of the sparring yard!”

  Blaine grimaced, recognizing the knights. Mounted on chargers, their maroon capes streaming behind them, the knights projected the perfect image of nobility…but he knew better. These two were nothing but trouble. Edging away from the Imp, he yelled, “What are you two doing here? Have you abandoned your post in the mountains, or been kicked out in disgrace?”

  The knights rode straight for Blaine, stopping a sword’s length in front of him. Sir Lewis’s chestnut stallion pawed the earth, throwing up clods of dirt. Respectful of the warhorse, Blaine edged backward.

  Leering down, Sir Lewis sneered, “Well if it isn’t the good Sir Blaine.” Staring pointedly at the wooden training sword in Blaine’s hand, the knight added, “I see you finally found a sword worthy of your deeds.”

  The second knight, Sir Raymond, urged his horse forward, crowding Blaine back toward the trees. “If it’s extra practice you want, pig farmer, we’ll give it to you, although from what we’ve heard, you’re getting more than enough bruises in the sparring yard.” Both knights laughed, an ugly sound. Sir Raymond dismounted. Sir Lewis joined him, sword in hand.

  Blaine scrambled backward. He’d succeeded in distracting them, but naked steel was more than he’d bargained for. He threw a shout to the girl. “Ride for the castle, squire!”

  Sir Lewis a
dvanced. “That’s right, boy, ride away and leave the pig farmer to his betters.”

  Unsheathing their swords, the two knights closed on Blaine, chainmail and light helms against his leather jerkin and a wooden practice sword. Blaine backed away, shocked by the threat. “Knights don’t draw steel on an unarmed man. Especially not a sworn brother!”

  Sir Lewis barked a twisted laugh. “You’re such a naïve bastard, pig farmer. A peasant’s son has no right to wear the maroon.”

  A vicious sword cut swept toward Blaine’s head. Ducking the blow at the last instant, he dodged behind an oak tree. The two knights split, coming at him from opposite sides. “Come on Sir Blaine, show us what you can do with that great wooden sword of yours.”

  Blaine backed away, forced to retreat in the opposite direction of his blue sword. Sir Raymond aimed a wicked slash at Blaine’s knees. Dodging the saber, Blaine found himself facing Sir Lewis’s blade. He heard the whisper of steel as it sped towards his face. Without thinking, he parried the second saber with the wooden training sword. The wooden blade shattered on impact but the parry deflected the steel.

  The two knights stalked him, two cats chasing a defenseless mouse. Angry and frustrated, Blaine backed away, deflecting their swords with nothing but a wooden hilt.

  Behind him he heard a horse approaching at a gallop. Blaine prayed to Valin that it wasn’t another of Sir Lewis’s cronies.

  Sir Raymond’s saber paused in mid-stroke. He stared over Blaine’s shoulder, his eyes growing wide in disbelief, his voice a harsh hiss. “What the devil is she doing here?”

  Blaine dared a backwards glance, shocked at the sight. The Imp flew toward him at a reckless gallop, brandishing his sheathed sword aloft, her blonde hair streaming behind like a battle banner. Drawing near, she yelled, “Catch!” and hurled the great sword toward him as she sped past.

  Catching the sword, Blaine unsheathed the blue blade and whirled to face the two base knights. Justice lent fury to his sword. In three strides he was on them, his sword descending in a great blue arc. A saber met the great sword in a mighty clang, but the blue blade never slowed. Cleaving the saber in half, it struck Sir Lewis in the shoulder; slicing clean through chainmail as if it was leather, laying him open to the bone. Screaming in agony, the wounded knight crumpled to the ground.

  Shocked by the power of blue steel, Blaine wrenched his blade free with a fountain of blood, and turned to face the second knight. “Would you like a taste of blue steel?”

  Whey-faced, Sir Raymond backed away.

  Mollified, Blaine lowered his sword. “Take this screaming disgrace of a knight back to the castle with you. Neither of you are worthy to wear the maroon.”

  Blaine strode past the two cravens. Vaulting into the saddle, he urged his horse to a gallop, intent on catching the Imp. He exited the forest in time to see the girl reach the safety of the castle gates. Blaine slowed his mount to a walk, needing time to recover. The power of blue steel awed him; he hadn’t meant to deal such a terrible wound to a brother knight. Doubt gnawed at him, shocked to be attacked by two knights of the Octagon. Wiping the blood from his sword, his hands shook as he sheathed his blade. His first battle with his blue steel sword and he’d drawn blood from a fellow knight. He shivered at the ill-omen. And then there was the Imp. The girl had sacrificed her secret to bring him his sword. Dazed from the battle, Blaine let his horse meander back to the castle. He caught up to the Imp at the stables. She stood at the entrance, concern writ across her face. Before she could speak, he motioned her to silence and handed his horse over to the care of a squire.

  Mired in worry, they walked from the stable to the inner yard of the castle. Questions boiled across the Imp’s face but she had the discipline to hold her tongue.

  When they reached the Knights’ Tower, he turned and stared at her, his voice solemn. “Thank you for my sword, my Lady.” Watching the blush spread across her face, he knew she understood. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Raymond recognized you.”

  A touch of fear filled her eyes, followed by a grim acceptance of the truth. “It’s not fair.”

  He couldn’t agree more. “Sir Lewis was badly injured in the fight. I don’t know how those two cravens will report the incident, but I suggest you hide your axes in a safe place, a place you can always reach, no matter how your father reacts.”

  Her eyes widened. She clenched her fists, as if readying for a storm, but her voice was formal. “Thank you, Sir Blaine, for honorably fulfilling my boon. I could not have wished for a better weapons teacher. I will always be in your debt.” She bowed and then left him standing in the courtyard.

  Watching her walk away, Blaine thought that the master swordsmith had the truth of it, she truly was an untamed hawk…pity she’d been born a girl.

  12

  Duncan

  Duncan raised his longbow. Planting his feet wide, he summoned the strength of his entire body. Pulling from his legs through his chest and into his arms, he curved the massive bow, savoring its savage power as he fixed his will upon the distant target. At the herald’s signal, he released. A black-fletched arrow thrummed skyward. Without thought, he reached for another. Draw and loose, he fell into a deadly rhythm, his world narrowing to the straining power of the bent yew and the swift release of his will-threaded arrows. A horn sounded just as his last arrow struck the target’s heart. The crowd roared its approval of their one-eyed champion. Duncan lowered his bow and the world intruded. He was surprised to discover that he’d loosed twenty-six arrows in the allotted minute, all but one finding its mark. Scanning the other targets, only one other contestant, the yeoman from Wyeth, had equaled his feat. Duncan nodded to him, acknowledging his skill, and then waved to the crowd for their support. Unstringing his longbow, he wiped the yew down while waiting for the judges’ decision. From his view of the targets it would be a tough call, but he hoped to claim the golden arrow for Navarre.

  Ten judges huddled around the targets.

  A fresh sea breeze blew across the tournament field. The banner of Navarre, a white osprey eagle soaring on a field of red and blue checks, snapped overhead. Duncan leaned on his bow, savoring the sights. The sun-drenched greensward was a riot of colors and sounds. Spectators filled the benches along the seaward side, while bright silk pavilions for the royals and the competitors ran along the city side. The view from the tourney ground was magnificent. The sparkling white limestone walls of the capital city rose to the east, while Castle Seamount, perched on a rocky outcrop surrounded by a turquoise ocean, lay to the west. It was a beautiful setting for his last tournament.

  A horn sounded and the herald stepped up to the raised dais, his voice sweeping across the field. “There is a tie of twenty-five arrows for both Duncan Treloch of Navarre and Jon Tanner of Wyeth.” The crowd roared its approval, but the herald raised his hand for silence. “Based on the points scored for accuracy, with a total count of one hundred and fifty-two, a new record in the history of the Royal Tournament, the winner of the longbow competition is Jon Tanner of Wyeth!”

  A thin cheer rose from the crowd; those spectators wearing the red and blue of Navarre far outnumbered the visitors from Wyeth.

  Duncan bowed, hiding his disappointment, and went to congratulate the winner. “I shot my best yet was bested. A well-deserved victory, Jon.” The two men clasped hands with the mutual respect of friends who were also fierce competitors. In a rueful voice, Duncan added, “A shame as this may be my last chance to compete for a while.”

  The yeoman gave him a wry smile. “It’s past time I won, you mangy scoundrel. If memory serves, you’ve beaten me the last four times, so you’ve no reason to complain.” Untying the leather brace from his left forearm, he added, “And what do you mean you won’t be competing? Don’t let my victory scare you away from the tournament grounds.”

  Duncan flagged down a boy struggling to carry several large flagons of ale for the tournament feast. Lightening the boy’s load by one, he motioned Jon toward a bench. “I’ve s
tayed in one place too long, almost long enough to set down roots. It’s time I took to the road.”

  Jon gave him a questioning look. “So where are you bound?”

  “This tournament honors the eighteenth naming day of the Royal Js. It’s a long-standing tradition for the royal heirs of Navarre to begin their Wayfaring shortly after they turn eighteen. I’ve pledged to be a companion for this Wayfaring.” Duncan took a long pull from the flagon, enjoying the woody flavor of the summer ale.

  “What’s a Wayfaring and why should it stop you from competing?”

  Duncan handed him the flagon. “The Royal Js are septuplets, each with an equal chance to gain the throne of Navarre. To prepare for the throne, the heirs embark on a Wayfaring, striving to become excellent at a skill, or a trade, so they can bring this knowledge back to Navarre and better serve the kingdom. Each of the Royal Js must petition the king and council with proposals for their Wayfaring. Once a proposal is accepted, the council works to set up fosterings or apprenticeships within the other kingdoms of Erdhe. A companion accompanies each heir for the first year of the Wayfaring. I’ve offered to serve as a companion.” Duncan reclaimed the ale. “So I predict a lot more prize golds in your purse, my friend.”

  “You Navarrens are a strange people.” Jon shook his head, disbelief on his face. “No other kingdom would willingly scatter their heirs across all of Erdhe. So where will this mad goose-chase take you?”

  “Juliana loves the sea and will prentice with the merchant fleet. The sea and I do not mix so that is not for me. James will go to Tubor to study wine-making. I could have been a great help with the wine tasting, but unfortunately he already has a companion. The little beauty, Jemma, will go to Lanverness to study commerce at the queen’s court, but I cannot think of anything duller than counting coppers. Jayson, the scrollish one, will go to the Delta to study some strange new waterwheel. So that leaves Justin, Jordan, and Jared.” Pausing for a sip of ale, he continued, “Justin will train to be a bard and will start under Master Haldor in Wyeth. Jared will go to Castlegard to train with the knights of the Octagon. Jordan wanted Castlegard as well, but the maroon knights would never train a woman, so Jordan will go to the Kiralynn monks to study the art of war. King Ivor has asked me to watch over Jordan, so I’m off to the Southern Mountains for a year or two.”