King's Blades 01 - The Gilded Chain

by Dave Duncan

  as Kate had described a Blade--strong,

  intense, a dagger in a box. Bullwhip and

  another stood ready to grasp his arms, but suddenly

  Durendal guessed what was going to happen. Hero

  worship ...

  Prime slapped his hands down on his thighs,

  lifted his chin defiantly, and said, "Do it now!"

  --the Durendal way.

  "Serve or die!" In, three feet of

  steel through the chest, back out again. Done!

  Durendal saw the contortion of agony, the instant

  relief. Surprise, pride ... All so

  familiar! Almost no blood at all.

  Wolfbiter did not smile even when the waves

  of cheering boomed back from the roof and his friends poured

  around to congratulate him. He just stood there,

  acknowledging the acclaim with quiet dignity, as if

  to say that it was no more than his due. He was

  obviously popular, which was a good sign in

  Ironhall, and his assignment to Durendal was being

  hailed as incredible good fortune.

  Durendal knelt to give him back his

  sword, for that seemed a fitting tribute

  to courage and years of effort. The King could not do it

  that way, but another Blade should. With more

  heartrending deja vu he watched the boy

  inspect the bloodstains and then hang the sword

  on his belt.

  Wait for it!

  Wolfbiter was distracted by more knights coming

  to compliment him. Suddenly he turned from them

  impatiently and glanced around, seeking his ward.

  When he located Durendal, his eyes widened in

  shock. That was it, the moment of realization, the moment

  when the ward became the sun and the moon, the light

  of the world.

  Remembering the King's words to him four years

  ago, Durendal said, "Ready to ride, Sir

  Wolfbiter?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "I think we can eat first."

  "As you wish, Sir Durendal."

  Did the kid never smile?

  During the raucous festivities that followed,

  he was shocked to discover that the Litany of Heroes

  now included his own exploit at Waterby. The

  roar that followed seemed to make the sky of

  swords shimmer and glitter more brightly and would not

  stop until he rose and took a bow. Very few

  Blades lived to hear their own names in the

  Litany.

  Somewhat later he found himself on his feet

  giving the Durendal Night speech and mouthing all

  the platitudes he had suffered through five times

  during his own youth--honor, duty, service.

  Yet the hundred young faces out there did not seem

  to recognize banality when they heard it. Perhaps

  it helped to have a real hero spreading the

  fertilizer, or perhaps fertilizer was more welcome

  when one was still growing. No soprano went

  to sleep, no senior yawned, and Grand Master

  swore that this was an unprecedented compliment.

  Prime Candidate Bullwhip conducted the

  real hero around the hall, introducing him

  to everyone, even the servants, even the Brat. His

  Blade followed two steps behind. When Sir

  Durendal went to the privy, Sir Wolfbiter

  was immediately overcome with the same need.

  Dawn found the two of them miles away,

  riding into the rising sun. Of course Wolfbiter

  was as impressive with a horse as he was with a

  rapier--if he had any failings at all, they

  would have been mentioned. Even his manner was

  appropriate; he knew he was good, but he would

  let the world find that out for itself. Everyone wanted

  to compare him to Durendal. Had he been like this:

  bright, sharp, untested, dangerous? He

  suspected he had been a lot more cocky. He

  had been younger, of course.

  "Ready to hear the story?"

  "Yes, sir." Not a smile, though, only that

  intense dark stare. Why had he not died of

  curiosity before now?

  "First, though ... I couldn't tell you this

  earlier, but Grand Master submits detailed

  reports on all the seniors. The reason you

  stayed Prime all those long months is that you are

  so fiery good! The King has been saving you for

  something special."

  Wolfbiter nodded as if he worked that out, but he

  did not comment.

  "This is the special something. Remember

  Everman, just behind me?"

  That won a faint frown. "Yes, sir."

  "Did you give him his sword, too?"

  "No, sir."

  "He and his ward were sent on a dangerous

  mission to a mythical city halfway around the world,

  in Altain. They never returned and were assumed

  dead, but word arrived a few months ago that

  Everman at least is still alive, probably

  enslaved. Two days ago, the King ordered me

  to go and get him back. He gave me a Blade

  because I'm going to need one. We sail with tomorrow's

  tide."

  The hooves drummed on the dewy trail. The

  riders squinted into the rising sun. Wolfbiter

  seemed to be thinking. He certainly did not

  volunteer any remarks.

  "The journey there will take us at least two

  years, by ship, by horse, and eventually by camel.

  We shall cross seas and deserts and mountains. We

  must evade brigands and wild beasts, storms and

  disease, pirates and hostile tribesmen."

  Still no reply.

  "Well?" Durendal said, exasperated. The

  hawk was loosed from the hand at last; he had been

  assigned to aid the hero of his dreams on a

  fairy-tale mission to the ends of the earth. Was he

  pleased or scared? Couldn't he say anything at

  all?

  His Blade's swift glance seemed

  to appraise him: What does he want of me?

  What am I doing wrong? "Sir?"

  "Sonny, not one Blade in ten ever draws his

  sword in anger from the night he is bound till the

  day he is knighted and released--his whole

  career is one big sham. He struts and

  postures and does nothing of any interest except

  prod girls. You are going to be fighting for my

  life and yours about once a week for the next five

  years. Your chances of ever coming back alive are

  worse than slim. How does that future look

  to you?"

  "Oh." Wolfbiter did not exactly smile

  then, but he came close. "Very satisfactory

  indeed, sir."

  WOLFBITER

  IV

  Eight hundred days later, they rode

  into Samarinda, mounted on the shaggy, tough ponies

  of Altain, which had no great speed or beauty but

  could amble on forever. The Blades were posing

  successfully as free swords, two of the dozen

  nondescript guards hired to guard Sheik

  Akrazzanka's caravan of linen, ivory, and

  dyestuffs. Ironically, despite all

  Kromman's skilled efforts at masquerading as

  an itinerant scholar, the wily traders were quite

  convinced he was a spy, just on principle. They

  did not care, since most of them were spying for someone

/>   or other.

  The sheer size of Altain made men feel like

  fleas. Ice-clad peaks lined the horizon--

  clear at dawn, fading under the sun, and yet

  revealed the next morning unchanged, as if a

  whole day's ride had achieved nothing. Compared

  to those giants, the nearby gray-brown hills

  seemed insignificant, but hours of riding were

  needed just to descend a slope or climb out of a

  valley. Water holes were scattered and

  precious, trees nonexistent, villages even

  rarer. From time to time Durendal would catch a

  glimpse of watchers in the distance but never of

  tents; rare tracks and droppings were the only

  sign of herds. In this parched emptiness, life was

  a constant struggle against wind and dust, the gentle,

  misty landscape of Chivial an incredible dream.

  A man might vie all day with a sadistic sun

  searing his eyes and flesh, and at night be fending

  off bitter frost under crystal stars.

  A line of laden camels wound up the long

  hillside ahead, but one lone rider came

  cantering back, shouting to every trader, driver, and

  guard he passed, "Samarinda in sight!" Most

  laughed or cheered. When he reached the end of the

  column, he wheeled around to retrace his path;

  he drew alongside Durendal. He smiled,

  teeth very white against his deep-tanned face--

  Sir Wolfbiter, of course.

  What would the court of Chivial think of the two

  of them now? Under conical, comical felt hats,

  their faces were as brown as dried dates. They

  wore the baggy trousers and shapeless smocks of the

  country, colored a muddy shade, and they

  reeked of man and horse and camel. Hair and

  beards blew wild in the ceaseless wind. Only

  the cat's-eye swords at their sides marked them

  for what they were--or what they had once been and

  might hope to be again.

  "We'll make it before sundown?"

  Wolfbiter nodded firmly. "Journey's

  end! Praise to the spirits!"

  Amused by this rare display of enthusiasm,

  Durendal said, "It has been an interesting

  trip, has it not?"

  His Blade glanced appraisingly at him.

  "Moderately, sir. You promised me seas and

  deserts and mountains--no complaints there.

  Brigands, yes. Wild beasts, I think you

  mentioned. Not too many of those. Or pirates. But

  hostile tribesmen ... yes, you delivered

  those." He did not mention the snakes,

  scorpions, fevers, shipwreck, avalanche,

  forest fire, and dysentery.

  "You delivered me. I'd be rotting in an

  unmarked grave in Thyrdonia if you had not been

  with me. Or feeding fish."

  The Blade's faint smile indicated

  satisfaction. At least twice he had saved the

  life of his friend and ward with a flashing thrust--and that

  put him one ahead of Durendal. "But the same

  goes for me, too. And we still have to find our way

  home again."

  "Enjoy it. The rest of our lives will seem

  dull after this."

  "I am enjoying it, every minute." He stared at

  the skyline, where the horses showed as dark dots.

  "I'm considering killing Kromman."

  "You don't say? Why?"

  "He makes my binding itch."

  He was probably joking--it was never easy

  to tell. Wolfbiter was a peerless companion, as

  tough and reliable as a cat's-eye sword,

  uncomplaining, resourceful, and usually a voice

  of prudence to restrain Durendal's wilder

  impulses. Though he was four years younger, his

  blood was colder. He would kill the inquisitor

  without a scruple if he thought he had reason

  to.

  "We'd never have made it here without him,"

  Durendal said hopefully. "He will probably

  be as useful on our way home. Murder needs

  evidence, Wolf." Not necessarily, because some

  Blades could detect danger to their

  wards by pure instinct.

  "He told me that they did a reading on you

  once, and it foretold that you were a danger to the

  King."

  Durendal laughed with a confidence he did not quite

  feel. "I know that, and the King knows it. It

  doesn't worry him, so why should it worry you?

  Readings are about as reliable as old wives'

  weather lore."

  "And I know that. What matters is whether

  Kromman believes it. If he does, then

  he's a danger to you, out here in nowhere. He may

  not want you ever to get home."

  "I honestly think he's more of an asset than

  a threat, Wolf."

  The Blade glanced thoughtfully at his ward.

  "But how much of an asset? One reason I

  don't trust him is because he doesn't trust us.

  He has brought along conjurements he hasn't

  told us about. I'd like to know why Inquisitor

  Kromman's blanket looks like mine and feels

  like mine and yet weighs three times as much."

  Durendal had not known that, and Wolfbiter's

  satisfaction was irritating.

  "I suppose he's just naturally

  secretive."

  "Then why did he tell me about the reading?

  Why is he so unfriendly all the time?"

  "Because he was taught sneering at inquisitors'

  school. I think he's never forgiven me for

  escaping his clutches once, that's all. I know

  he's a human slug, but sarcasm isn't a

  capital offense. He does have many good

  qualities."

  "Name one."

  "Resourcefulness. And he's loyal to the King

  --you just admitted that yourself. Come on, friend, you can't

  kill a man just because you don't like him!"

  After a moment Wolfbiter said, "You are an

  old sourpuss!"

  When they crested the rise and looked down the

  long slope to Samarinda in the distance, it seemed

  disappointingly similar to other places they had

  visited in this last stage of their trek. Like

  Alzan or Koburtin, the city itself was only a

  slightly rougher patch of the same drab brown as

  the overwhelming landscape, with a striking lack of

  shining towers or domes of jade, but the flat

  valley bottom beyond it displayed the lush

  green of cultivation. Water made crops,

  crops made food, food must be stored, stores

  required defenses. In another hour or so,

  Durendal discerned walls and a central building

  higher than anything else: palace, castle, or

  monastery?

  Somewhere between Altain and the court in Chivial, the

  legend had become distorted. The military order

  that Grand Inquisitor had described was known here

  as the Brethren of the Gold Sword. She had

  spoken of knights in a castle, which in the local

  tongue became monks in a monastery.

  Durendal had concluded that the distinction was of little

  significance; the building would be fortified and the men

  would rule by force or reputation, as required.

  Otherwise, the tale seemed to be standing up. He

 
; had expected it to retreat as he approached, like

  a rainbow, but it had grown stronger all along the

  Jade Road. Yes, agreed the traders, there

  was much gold in Samarinda. They had chuckled at

  his questions. A swordsman asking about Samarinda

  could have only one thing in mind, wealth. What he

  would find would be death.

  "You are a fool to dream so," old

  Akrazzanka wheezed in the talks around the

  campfires. "Many strong young men have I guided

  to Samarinda on that quest. Only two have I

  brought out again, either to east or to west."

  "But some win?" Durendal had asked. "Some

  succeed?"

  "A few. Not that they manage to keep their

  gold for long, you understand--any man foolish enough

  to enter that contest will succumb to the first woman or

  rogue he meets--but yes, a few live and

  depart with much fine gold. I have touched it."

  All the rest of the legend might be faked, but

  real gold leaving the city was inexplicable. No

  one knew of mines or miners in the district, and

  everyone agreed that Samarinda gold was the purest

  gold in all the world, yellow butter-metal so

  soft you could score it with your fingernails, let

  alone your teeth. Taking gold to Samarinda was a

  byword for futility. If the answer was not the

  philosophers' stone, what was it?

  Journey's end. The two guards would leave the

  caravan here, as would the spy who pretended to be a

  scholar. At Kromman's insistence, they had

  concealed their relationship. If they did not die in

  Samarinda, they could catch an eastbound caravan

  in a few days or a month or two,

  or when the spirits willed.

  Not an end, then, a halfway point. Say a

  week in Samarinda to solve the Everman mystery,

  or a month for a return caravan, and then two more

  years home. Two more years until he saw

  Kate again.

  Or the King.

  Kate and the King, the King and Kate. He was still

  bound--many nights he woke up sweating, wondering

  if his ward was safe.

  The true defense of Samarinda must be the

  monks' skills in conjuration, for the city walls

  stood only three spans high, which was modest for a

  place with a reputation for wealth. Few rooftops

  within the walls overtopped them except the castle,

  or monastery, itself, which brooded above everything like a

  hen within her chicks; yet Durendal had seen many

  fortresses in Chivial more impressive. Four

  stubby towers rose at the corners of the main

  keep, each built of the same brown stone and