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

by Karen Azinger

  Sir Tyrone leapt to his feet, his great sword drawn as if for battle. Captain Tellor ordered Sir Kirk to check the girl’s room but the second search changed nothing. The common room erupted in arguments.

  Sir Tyrone hissed to Blaine, “The god’s warning!”

  Blaine nodded, a sick feeling twisting his stomach.

  The black knight shouted to be heard. “Arguing is a waste of breath! Spread out and search for any clues to the princess’s abduction.”

  The men dispersed. A search of the roadhouse failed to yield any sign of forced entry, but the locks were nothing more than flimsy latches, easily breached. All of the horses, including Kath’s stallion, were accounted for. Scanning the road for fresh tracks, they found none. With no trail to follow, they roused the innkeeper and a peddler, the only other guest in the roadhouse. They questioned them both, but like the knights, neither had heard anything. Without any obvious leads, the knights regrouped in the common room.

  Captain Tellor banged his sword hilt on the table, silencing the arguments. “Why would anyone abduct the Imp? Most people take her for nothing more than a scruffy squire.” He forked Blaine with his stare. “You know her best, can you explain this?”

  Blaine locked stares with Sir Tyrone, unsure how to respond. The black knight gave a subtle nod, confirming his unspoken question. Taking a deep breath, Blaine said, “While we were on the Isle of Souls, Kath was threatened by a dwarf, but by the time we got there he’d melted into the crowd.” He held the captain’s stare, forcing the words out. “The Imp insisted the dwarf was up to no good. It seems we should have paid more heed to her fears.”

  “You were ordered to protect the girl! If there was a threat you should have reported it. Or did you forget that you guarded the king’s daughter?”

  The captain’s words hit Blaine like a hammer blow. Bile rose in the back of his throat; he’d failed Kath and his king. “My gut tells me this is the handiwork of the Dark Lord.”

  A stillness claimed the room.

  Sir Tyrone spoke up. “I agree with Blaine.”

  A horrified look crossed the captain’s face. “The girl is a princess of Castlegard. Perhaps the Dark Lord plans to use her to weaken the king?”

  The black knight turned to Sir Kirk. “Get the innkeeper back in here. We need more answers.”

  Sir Kirk herded the wizened old man to a chair, a circle of knights looming over him. Sir Tyrone asked the questions. “The abductors must have come out of the forest. Are there any holdfasts or farms nearby?”

  The old man shrank into the chair. “T-the Kellers have a farm up the road. I buy food for the roadhouse from them. H-harmless folk they are; wouldn’t be involved in this.” He scratched his head. “T-the only other place is an abandoned keep in the forest to the south, but it’s nothing but a jumble of old stones. No one goes there for fear of ghosts.”

  “Can you show us the way to this keep?”

  “N-never been there myself, it’s just an abandoned ruin.”

  The captain said, “We need hunting dogs to track the abductors. Would these farmers have dogs?”

  The innkeeper bobbed his head. “Not a farmer in Wyeth that doesn’t have hunting dogs. Most of us rely on venison for meat. I buy mine from the Kellers. Gunthor is a good shot with the bow.”

  The captain barked an order to the senior squire, Alain. “Saddle a horse and ride to the farm. Offer the man a purse of gold if he will bring his bow and his hunting dogs.” He tossed the squire a small purse. “Take the princess’s horse. Dancer is the fastest we have. Ride hard, there’s no time to lose. May Valin speed you!”

  Alain sprinted for the door. Blaine envied the squire his clear course of action. Flexing his sword hand, he tried to control his frustration. Only a fool would mount up and dash off in the wrong direction, but it was hard to wait.

  Sir Tyrone organized a search of the surrounding forest; each man assigned a different direction. Desperate to find the girl, Blaine pushed through the undergrowth looking for any signs of passage. He scanned the ground as he walked but he saw no tracks of men or horses. Frustrated, he climbed an oak tree and spied the remnants of a broken tower. Wondering if it was part of the haunted ruins the innkeeper had spoken of, he scrambled down and set off at a jog. Drawing close to the ruins, he slowed to a walk, listening for voices or the chink of steel, but he heard only the song of birds. The broken tower reeked of age, moss-covered stones scattered as if thrown by a giant’s hand. A wall lay in a tumbled in ruin and the single tower leaned drunkenly. Overgrown with vines and trees, the forest had almost reclaimed the keep. Blaine pushed through the tangled growth, seeking an entrance. The stone doorway gaped open, its door lost to time. A carving on the keystone caught his attention, a shield bearing an eight-pointed star. He knew most of the heraldry of Erdhe yet this device was unfamiliar. Yielding to a strange compulsion, he reached up and touched it, as if asking for leave to enter. Chiding himself for silly superstitions, he unsheathed his great blue sword and entered with steel first.

  Blaine passed from sunlight into shadow. The lower hall was almost intact, rubble and leaves strewn across the uneven stone floor. Movement blurred to his left. He whirled, sword in hand. Golden cat-eyes and an angry snarl flashed from the shadows. He thought it might be a lynx but quick as a flash it fled the tower through a chink in the wall. Heart pounding, Blaine climbed the stairs to the next level and ducked as a flurry of wings beat against his face. A flock of starlings spiraled up inside of the hollow tower, exiting through the open roof like a plume of smoke. Blaine shook his head. The broken tower was nothing more than a rookery for starlings, a home for the wild things of the forest. Sheathing his sword, he stood on the topmost step, scanning the surrounding forest, but he saw no sign of movement or telltale smoke from a campfire. Disappointed, he made his way back down the stairs.

  He left the tower and set out at a sprint for the roadhouse. Angry for wasting time at the keep, he forced himself to a hard run, accepting the ache in his side as punishment. Stumbling out of the forest, Blaine was the last to return. Judging from the grim faces, he knew the others had found nothing. The sun hung low in the afternoon sky and still the knights were no closer to finding the princess.

  Baying hounds and the sounds of galloping horses approached from the east, sending a sliver of hope through Blaine. The squire returned with a burly blond farmer and three yapping dogs.

  Sir Tyrone and Sir Blaine greeted the farmer and together they entered the inn. Holding the dogs on a leash, the farmer followed the knights to Kath’s room. Before they even reached it, the hounds began to snarl, disturbed by the scent. Straining against their leashes, they traced the scent back outside.

  Following an invisible lead, the hounds nosed their way deep into the old growth forest. The knights followed, keeping their horses to a slow trot, chafing at the pace. Several times the hounds stopped to backtrack, milling with noses to the ground trying to re-acquire the scent and then they sprinted ahead, baying wildly. The sun set in a blaze of gold by the time the knights broke into a small clearing. Barking in triumph, the hounds circled the glade. Blaine swung down from his horse, his sword in his hands. The other knights drew their blades, searching the glade, hoping for a fight, but the clearing stood empty. A cold campfire looked to be at least a day old. Clumps of manure marked where horses had been tethered. On the edge of the clearing, Blaine found scuffmarks in the soil under a large oak tree. Studying the marks, his eyes suddenly widened. He called Sir Tyrone over, pointing to the ground. “See anything?”

  The black knight crouched, a smile playing across his ebony face as his fingers traced a crude ‘K’ drawn in the earth. He clapped Blaine on the shoulder. “She’s alive and leaves us a message to follow.”

  “Now we need to catch the bastards and send them to their graves.”

  The tenor of the hounds changed from excited barks to wary snarls. Blaine and Tyrone ran to join the others, a ring of drawn swords standing behind the growling dogs. “What is it
?”

  The farmer shook his head, struggling to keep the dogs in check. “Something in the forest.”

  Blaine heard it then, a low crashing sound in the underbrush. Something big and massive rushed towards them. Gripping his sword, he crouched for battle, hoping the abductors returned. The hounds strained at their leash, a snarl of frenzied teeth. A massive boar erupted from the forest. Hooves churning up fallen leaves, the razorback barreled toward them. Bristling with broken arrow shafts, it stank of rot, rushing the hounds with a mad vengeance.

  “Protect the dogs!”

  Fear pierced Blaine; lose the dogs and they lost Kath. He leaped forward, putting himself between the hounds and the boar. Dropping to one knee, he braced his sword hilt against the ground, the sapphire-blue blade angled up toward the heart of the beast. Time seemed to slow. The boar barreled forward, yellow tusks keen as sabers, red eyes rabid with pain. Blaine had a heartbeat to wish for a spear instead of a sword and then the beast was upon him. It stank of death, cloven hooves churning the ground like a plow. The strength of the charge nearly wrenched the sword from his hand, but somehow he kept the blade anchored. The beast never slowed. It barreled up the shaft, blue steel sinking deep into its chest and still it came. Blaine stared in horror as foam-flecked tusks rushed towards his face, the stink of death on its breath, but then the boar grunted to a stop, the mad light fading from its eyes. The beast fell dead, impaled to the hilt on his sword. Shaking and surprised to be alive, Blaine slumped to the ground, drenched in sweat.

  The other knights gathered around. Kirk said, “A lucky strike. Your sword must have pierced its heart.”

  The farmer struggled to still his snarling hounds. “In all my born days, ain’t ever seen nothing like it. All those arrows in its back, that boar must have been crazed with pain.” He gave Blaine an awed look. “To kill a boar with a sword, that will make a fine tale.”

  Blaine staggered to his feet. Putting a boot on the carcass, he yanked his sword free. A stench filled the clearing, the smell of putrid rot. The boar was corrupted, its red hide scarred with festering wounds, its curved tusks glistening with froth. The massive beast looked like something spawned from the depths of hell.

  Sir Tyrone met his stare. “It’s as if the Dark Lord seeks to keep us from the princess.”

  A shiver raced down Blaine’s spine. “Then by all the gods, we need to find her.”

  29

  Jordan

  Jordan had small breasts and she liked it that way, otherwise it would have been difficult to wear armor. Wrapping a winding sheet around her breasts, she pulled on a quilted jacket followed by a leather jerkin and finally a coat of fine mesh chain mail, the steel links oiled and burnished to a dull shine. She buckled a worn leather scabbard holding a standard infantry sword around her waist and settled a half helm on her head, tucking her short sandy hair behind her ears. Picking up a plain round shield, she glanced in the mirror. Most people would take her for a young man-at-arms instead of a woman, unless, of course, she spoke, or they looked closely at her face. But few people ever bothered to look at the face of a man in armor; they looked at the device on his shield instead. Her plain steel shield named her a common foot soldier, someone without any title or lineage. There was no way anyone could tell she was from Navarre, let alone a princess of the seaside kingdom, and that was just the way she wanted it.

  Her father had given her the task of evaluating the battle-readiness of the Rose Army. Uncle Isador had tutored her on methods of assessing an army’s strength but Jordan had her own ideas; ideas that involved more challenge. From conversations in the great kitchen, she’d learned that the knights of Lanverness held sparring sessions in the Eastern Yard. She’d also learned there were no women in the Rose Army, another kingdom that believed the fairer sex should not wield a sword. The enduring prejudice angered her. She decided to join the army’s sparring sessions. She’d test her skills against the Rose knights, and prove, at least to herself, that women were worthy of the sword.

  Jordan hailed a page and followed the lad through a labyrinth of passageways until she heard the clanging of swords. Dismissing the page with thanks, she followed the song to the open yard. Pausing in the doorway, she took stock of the practice yard. It was a fairly large training yard with a hard packed dirt floor and sheer stonewalls on all four sides. Eight sparring groups practiced in the yard, ten warriors to each group. Judging from the swordplay, the men were participating in a form of sparring known as ‘best sword’, where two men fought with edged weapons until one man scored a strike to the other’s chest. Once tagged, the loser left the sparring circle and a new man stepped into the ring until the ‘best sword’ was determined…just the type of practice session Jordan was hoping for.

  Watching from the shadows, she judged the sparring circles, her gaze drawn to a spirited group at the far side. The sword work in this circle was especially fierce, perhaps because the majority carried shields bearing proud heraldic devices. If she wanted to remain unnoticed, Jordan knew she should pick a different group, but she couldn’t resist the chance to dance the steel with a group of knights and noblemen.

  Tightening the leather strap on her half helm, she approached the far group. Acting as if she belonged, she joined the end of the line. Five knights waited ahead of her, giving Jordan plenty of time to evaluate the competition.

  The clang of swords intensified. The grizzled sergeant shouted, calling an end to the round. The victory went to the warrior bearing a shield with two white roses crossed on a field of emerald green, the standard infantry shield of Lanverness. The victor drummed his sword against his shield, inviting the next challenger. A knight bearing a chevron shield entered the circle. The two warriors saluted and then closed for the fight. The chevron knight used a stiff upright stance that Jordan recognized as an outdated style of fighting. Advancing with his shield raised in front of him, he aimed a series of slashing blows at the ‘best sword’. The rose warrior deftly parried the strokes, dancing rings around the chevron knight, always attacking from different angles. Jordan recognized the rose warrior’s strategy. Confronted with a stiff style of fighting, his darting dance was designed to push the chevron knight off balance. Jordan smiled as she watched her prediction become fact. Scrambling to keep up with the quickness of the rose warrior, the chevron knight over pivoted and momentarily lost his balance. Quick as a snake, the rose warrior darted in and tagged the chevron warrior, winning the bout.

  Jordan watched as the rose warrior won each successive match. Tall with broad shoulders, he was light on his feet and skilled with the sword but what really impressed her was the way he adapted his fighting style to exploit his opponent’s weaknesses. As the sparring rounds progressed, Jordan watched for any sign of weakness, but it was hard to spot a pattern. The rose warrior was going to be difficult to defeat. The only strategy Jordan could think of was to try to be as unconventional as possible. If she could change her own style faster than he could adapt then she might catch him off guard.

  Scuffing the hard packed dirt floor with her boot, she rubbed some lose soil in her hands. The dirt would help absorb her sweat and give her a better grip. She was going to need a good grip for her plan to work. Tightening the strap on her half-helm, she loosened her shield straps and then took her turn in the sparing ring.

  Raising her sword in salute, she took a defensive stance. Staring over her shield, she waited, letting the rose warrior make the first move. Jordan was the unknown in this round and she intended to make the ‘best sword’ work to figure her out.

  The rose warrior leaped to the attack, testing her quickness with a series of lightning strikes. Jordan stood her ground, parrying his blows with shield and sword. When he failed to find an obvious weakness, he tried to defeat her with agility. Jordan mimicked the chevron knight, remaining in place and timing her pivots to meet his sword at the last possible moment. Hoping to lull the rose warrior into complacency, she waited until the clang of swords developed a predictable rhythm. Gaugin
g the time to be right, she danced to the side, skipping behind his shield and reaching in with her sword. Her quickness caught him off guard but he managed to twist away, blocking the blow with the chain mail on his upper arm. In a real battle, she might have dealt him a serious wound, but this was the sparring circle and only a touch to the chest counted as a ‘kill’.

  Jordan followed her attack with a flurry of blows, forcing the rose warrior to retreat, but she could not find an opening. Deciding that she needed to try something else, she broke off the attack, retreating to the far side of the ring. Swords raised, the two combatants circled each other, like a pair of scorpions looking for an opening.

  The rose warrior tipped his sword in salute, acknowledging her prowess. Keeping her face closed, Jordan kept her sword raised. Suspecting that he might try to ram her with his shield, she carefully eased her arm out of her own shield, holding it by the straps. It was a risky move but it might give her the advantage she needed. The rose warrior continued to circle, crouched behind his shield like a bull about to charge. Watching his feet, she waited for him to break into a run. As he took the first stride, she turned her shield sideways and flicked her wrist, sending the shield spinning toward his feet. Caught in mid-stride, he stumbled over the shield. Jordan lunged forward, stabbing at his chest. Even falling, the rose warrior managed to raise his sword to meet hers, but she disengaged her blade and finished the lunge to score a hit on his breastplate. Stepping back from the fallen warrior, Jordan heard the sergeant acknowledge her as the victor.

  “A victory for the plain steel shield!”

  Flushed from the fight, Jordan sheathed her sword, struggling to regain her breath. The chevron knight rushed forward to help the rose warrior to his feet while the other knights surrounded her, thumping her on the back in congratulations. Surrounded by strangers, Jordan had the sudden desire to disappear.