by Dave Duncan
Durendal had been Second for less than a week. He had not expected to make the leap to Prime just yet. He glanced at Harvest beside him, but Harvest was arguing so intently with Everman that he had not even noticed the disturbance.
Five years, and soon it would be over—possibly as soon as tomorrow night, if the King wanted more than one Blade. Manhood in place of adolescence; farewell to Ironhall. Feeling his mind strangely concentrated by this sudden nostalgia—and possibly also by the wine, he realized—he scanned the great hall, as if to fix it more tightly in his memory.
Servants hastened back and forth from the kitchens, striving unsuccessfully to keep platters heaped against the onslaught of voracious young appetites. Candlelight flickered on scores of fresh faces at the long tables and reflected on the famous sky of swords overhead—a hundred chains slung from wall to wall, with a sword dangling from almost every link, more than five thousand blades. Visitors and newcomers notoriously lost their appetites when offered their first meal in the hall, especially when it was accompanied by vivid descriptions of what would happen if just one of those ancient chains should break. Residents soon learned to ignore the threat. The oldest of those swords had been up there for centuries and would probably remain there for a long time yet. The oldest of them all hung alone in a place of honor on the wall behind Grand Master’s throne, and that was Nightfall, the sword of the first Durendal, which had been found so inexplicably broken after his death.
Soup sprayed over the Brat as he passed the beansprouts’ table.
There were seventy-three candidates in Ironhall at the moment. Second was responsible for keeping them all in line, so he had that number branded on his heart. There ought to be a hundred or so, but there was a new King on the throne. In his first year Ambrose had replaced more than a score of his father’s aging Blades. He had slowed the pace a little since then, but lately he had been gifting Blades to his favorites. The candidates considered that Ambrose IV was being profligate with his precious swordsmen, although they were hardly unbiased observers. How many did he want tonight? Harvest was Prime, and candidates invariably left Ironhall in the same order they had entered.
The Brat arrived at last, panting and well spattered with gravy and fragments of salad. He stared in dismay at Harvest’s back, hesitant to interrupt the awesomely exalted Prime while he was talking; but all the seniors except Durendal were still arguing at the tops of their voices, blissfully unaware of the drama. The hall hushed as the audience realized what was happening and waited in amused suspense. The distant sopranos had climbed up on their benches to watch.
Young Byless was in full throat. “And I say that we’re the most deadly collection of swordsmen in all Eurania!” He apparently meant the seniors, including himself. This was certainly the first time in his life he had ever tasted wine, and it showed. “We’d be a match for a whole regiment of the King of Isilond’s Household Sabreurs. We ought to send them a challenge.”
“Shinbones!” said Harvest. “We’d be massacred!”
Byless turned an unsteady gaze on him. “What if we were? We’d have created a legend.”
“Besides,” said Felix, “I think they’re a lot more deadly.” He gestured over his shoulder at the tables behind him.
He was making better sense. That was where the masters and other knights sat, those Blades who had played out their game and retired to teach another generation. There were bald heads and liver spots and missing teeth there. Some were truly ancient, but not one of them was fat, senile, or even stooped; and by and large they were all still functional. Blades might rust, but they did not rot. Among them were some unfamiliar faces, visitors enjoying the nostalgia of a Durendal Night. Knights who had completed their stint in the Royal Guard might be anything from doorkeepers for rich merchants to senior ministers of the Crown. The only one Durendal recognized there tonight was Grand Wizard, head of the Royal College of Conjurers. They were all having as much trouble as the juniors in suppressing their laughter.
Red-faced, Byless drained his glass and went on the offensive with a loud burp. “Urk! Them? They’re old! There isn’t one of them under thirty.”
Durendal decided it was time to stop his friends making fools of themselves. He scowled at the Brat, who was a smartish nipper and had been Brat long enough to know that the current Second was no danger to him.
“Miserable lowlife!” he shouted. “Bottom-feeding, snot-nosed, festering slug, you dare to creep in here and mar the merriment of your betters?”
The Brat shot him a wary glance. Harvest looked around, gaped in horror for a moment, and then made a fast recovery. “Scum! Bed-wetting troglodyte!” He swung a blow at the Brat’s head, but it was well signaled and failed to make contact.
The Brat sprawled realistically to the floor and groveled appropriately. When he had been Brat, Durendal had found groveling the hardest duty required of him. He had learned, of course—oh yes, he had learned! The hall whooped in approval. They had all been there once, every one of them, down on the floor, butt of all Ironhall.
“Honored and glorious Prime!” the kid squeaked. “Most noble, most illustrious Second, Grand Master sent me to summon you!”
“Liar!” Harvest boomed, tipping his wineglass over the lad. “Get out of here, you human pestilence. Go and tell Grand Master to eat horse dung.”
The Brat sprang to his feet and fled, running the gauntlet of flying food and extended feet again. The knights joined in the laughter as if they had not witnessed such scenes a thousand times before.
Tumult died away to an excited murmur.
“That was good,” Durendal said. “‘Bed-wetting troglodyte’ was good!”
Prime tried to hide his apprehension and failed miserably. “You suppose there might be something in what he said?”
“It’s your blood, brother,” Durendal declared confidently.
It would not be his blood, not tonight. Only Prime was going to be bound, or Grand Master would have summoned more than two. They rose together, bowed to high table together, and headed side by side to the door. An ominous hush settled over the hall.
Most-wondrous!
3
Durendal closed the heavy door silently and went to stand beside Prime, carefully not looking at the other chair.
“You sent for us, Grand Master?” Harvest’s voice warbled slightly, although he was rigid as a pike, staring straight at the bookshelves.
“I did, Prime. His Majesty has need of a Blade. Are you ready to serve?”
Candles flickered. Durendal had not been in this chamber since the day he caught the coins, five years ago, yet he could see no change. The grate had never been touched by flame, the same stuffing was still trying to escape from the chairs, and even the wine on the table was the same deep red. Of course Grand Master’s eyebrows were thicker and whiter, his neck more scraggly, but Durendal had watched those changes coming day by day. He himself had changed far more. He was as tall now as Grand Master.
He remembered how, that epic first day, he had gone to report to this same Harvest and seen his face light up with ecstasy. Three months later, Durendal himself had reacted the same way when his own replacement had appeared. Three months of hell—and yet those three months had been nothing compared to what had followed right after, when the ex-Brat had insisted on taking the sacred name of Durendal. Master of Archives had warned him what would happen if he defied a tradition hallowed by three hundred years’ observance. Well, they hadn’t broken him. He had survived, struggled to be worthy of the great name, won the grudging respect of the masters and his peers. And he was worthy—the best of them all. By tomorrow night he would be Prime and Byless Second. By-less wouldn’t be able to handle the juniors.
Not Durendal’s problem.
What was his problem was Harvest’s appalling silence. He must have been expecting the question, because he had been Second when Pendering was called. What choice did he have? Did any man ever refuse? Presumably he still had the choice all candidates had, t
he dismal election of walking out of the gate forever; but to contemplate surrender after so many years of effort—it was unthinkable, surely?
The only sound in the room was a faint crackling as Grand Master crumpled a sheet of parchment in his massive fist. The wax of the royal signet broke off in fragments. After five years of learning to read Grand Master’s moods, Durendal knew that now they were proclaiming hurricane! Enforced absence from the feast might explain some storminess, but not so much.
Harvest spoke at last, almost inaudibly. “I am ready, Grand Master.”
Soon Durendal would be saying those words. And who would be sitting in the second chair?
Who was there now? He had not looked. The edge of his eye hinted it was seeing a youngish man, too young to be the King himself.
“My lord,” Grand Master said, “I have the honor to present Prime Candidate Harvest, who will serve you as your Blade.”
As the two young men turned to him, the anonymous noble drawled, “The other one looks much more impressive. Do I have a choice?”
“You do not!” barked Grand Master, color pouring into his craggy face. “The King himself takes whoever is Prime.”
“Oh, so sorry! Didn’t mean to twist your dewlaps, Grand Master.” He smiled vacuously. He was a weedy, soft-faced man in his early twenties, a courtier to the core, resplendent in crimson and vermilion silks trimmed with fur and gold chain. If the white cloak was truly ermine, it must be worth a fortune. His fairish beard came to a needle point and his mustache was a work of art. A fop. Who?
“Prime, this is the Marquis of Nutting, your future ward.”
“Ward?” The Marquis sniggered. “You make me sound like a debutante, Grand Master. Ward indeed!”
Harvest bowed, his face ashen as he contemplated a lifetime guarding…whom? Not the King himself, not his heir, not a prince of the blood, not an ambassador traveling in exotic lands, not an important landowner out on the marches, not a senior minister, nor even—at worst—the head of one of the great conjuring orders. Here was no ward worth dying for, just a court dandy, a parasite. Trash.
Seniors spent more time studying politics than anything else except fencing. Wasn’t the Marquis of Nutting the brother of the Countess Mornicade, the King’s latest mistress? If so, then six months ago he had been the Honorable Tab Nillway, a younger son of a penniless baronet, and his only claim to importance was that he had been expelled from the same womb as one of the greatest beauties of the age. No report reaching Ironhall had ever hinted that he might have talent or ability.
“I am deeply honored to be assigned to your lordship,” Harvest said hoarsely, but the spirits did not strike him dead for perjury.
Grand Master’s displeasure was now explained. One of his precious charges was being thrown away to no purpose. Nutting was not important enough to have enemies, even at court. No man of honor would lower his standards enough to call out an upstart pimp—certainly not one who had a Blade prepared to die for him. But Grand Master had no choice. The King’s will was paramount.
“We shall hold the binding tomorrow midnight, Prime,” the old man snapped. “Make the arrangements, Second.”
“Yes, Grand Master.”
“Tomorrow?” protested the Marquis querulously. “There’s a ball at court tomorrow. Can’t we just run through the rigmarole quickly now and be done with it?”
Grand Master’s face was already dangerously inflamed, and that remark made the veins swell even more. “Not unless you wish to kill a man, my lord. You have to learn your part in the ritual. Both you and Prime must be purified by ritual and fasting.”
Nutting curled his lip. “Fasting? How barbaric!”
“Binding is a major conjuration. You will be in some danger yourself.”
If the plan was to frighten the court parasite into withdrawing, it failed miserably. He merely muttered, “Oh, I’m sure you exaggerate.”
Grand Master gave the two candidates a curt nod of dismissal. They bowed in unison and left.
4
Harvest clattered quickly down the stairs and strode off along a corridor that led to nowhere except the library. Durendal, with his longer legs, had no trouble keeping up with him. If the man wanted to be alone, he could say so; but if he needed support, then who else should offer it but Second?
The glow of a lamp appeared ahead as someone approached the corner. Harvest muttered an oath and moved into a window embrasure. Leaning on the stone sill, he thrust his face against the bars, as if trying to fill his lungs with fresh air.
“You go back to the hall, Second. Take—” His voice cracked. “Sit in my chair. So they’ll know.”
Durendal thumped a hand on his shoulder. “You forget that I have to fast also. Look on the bright side, warrior!” You can always cut your throat, which is what I would do. “You might have been gifted to some tinpot princeling in the Northern Isles. As it is, you’ll live at court, romancing all the beautiful maidens. What a sinecure—wenching, dancing, hunting, and not a worry!”
“An ornament?”
“A long, quiet life is better than a short—”
“No, it isn’t. Never! Five years I’ve slaved here, and I’m being wasted. Utterly wasted!”
This was so obviously true that Durendal found himself at a loss. He turned hopefully to the lamp approaching and saw that it was being carried by Sir Aragon, who was even older than Grand Master. He contributed nothing to Ironhall these days except a glorious reputation, for he had been Blade to the great Shoulrack who had pacified Nythia for Ambrose III. He was reputed to have been the general’s brains as well as his personal sword and shield.
“Leave me,” Harvest howled to the sky. “For spirits’ sake, Second, leave me, go away, and let me weep like a crazy woman. Like that dissolute, useless namby who is going to own my soul.”
Durendal stepped back. Aragon came shuffling closer with his lamp in one hand, a cane in the other, and a thick book under his arm. He was frail, but he had not lost his wits. He took in the situation at a glance.
“Bad news, lad?”
When Harvest did not answer, Durendal said, “Prime is a little shocked, sir. He has been assigned to the Marquis of Nutting.”
“Who, by the eight, is he?”
“The brother of the King’s current mistress.”
The old man pulled a hideous face, all wrinkles and yellow stumps of teeth. “I trust you are not implying that a private Blade is in some way inferior to a member of the Royal Guard, Candidate?”
Huddled in his cloak of misery, Harvest mumbled, “No, sir.”
“It is a rare honor. There are a hundred Blades in the Royal Guard all going mad with boredom, but a private Blade has his work cut out for him, a lifetime of devotion and service. I congratulate you, my boy.” Propping his cane against the wall, he held out a gnarled claw that would never again draw the sword hanging at his side.
“Congratulate?” Harvest shouted, swinging around but ignoring the proffered hand. Two red lines framing his face showed where he had been leaning on the bars. “Nutting is a nothing, a bag of dung! What need has he for a Blade?”
“The King must think he has need, Candidate! Do you presume to overrule your King? Do you know things that he doesn’t?”
Nice try, Durendal thought, but it wouldn’t console him, were he in poor Harvest’s half-boots.
Prime shuddered and made an effort to control himself, although he was obviously close to tears now. “The King knows what he is doing! Grand Master’s told him I’m not good enough for the Royal Guard, so he’s palming me off on a worthless buffoon, a panderer. He isn’t even a genuine noble.”
Aragon’s shock seemed genuine enough. “You are raving, Prime, and you know it! Neither Grand Master nor anyone else ever passes judgment on the candidates like that. Anyone who fails to measure up is thrown out long before he becomes a senior—you know that, too. I am well aware that you can’t fence like Durendal here. Who can? That does not mean that all the rest of us are useless! T
he reason the King always takes the first in line is because even a below-average Blade is fields ahead of any other swordsman anywhere. It doesn’t matter how you rank in Ironhall, you’re first-class by the world’s standards. Now stop making a fool of yourself.” The rheumy eyes glanced briefly at Durendal. “If Grand Master were to hear of this exhibition, he might indeed change the assignment—but he would do it by striking you off the roll completely!”
Then Durendal would have to take his place, but he was more concerned for his friend than he was for himself—or hoped he was. Harvest’s trouble was that he wasn’t quite ripe. He did not have his emotions under adult control yet. He needed to do some more growing up.
He had twenty-four hours to do it.
Durendal said, “You’re an Ironhall Blade, the deadliest human weapon ever devised—loyal, fearless, and incorruptible. How long since anyone died in a binding, Sir Aragon?”
“Before my time. Sixty years ago, at least.”
“There you are. You’re not afraid, are you?”
Harvest flinched. “Curse you, no! I’m not a coward!”
“It’s beginning to look like it.”
“No!”
“Well, that’s all right, then.” Durendal laid a friendly but powerful arm around Prime’s shoulders and propelled him bodily along the corridor.
Aragon stared after them wistfully.
5
The secret, sacred heart of Ironhall was the Forge, a vast and echoing crypt watered by its own spring. The eight hearths around the walls—each with its own bellows, anvil, and stone trough—were where the magnificent cat’s-eye swords were made; but the focus of power was the coffinlike slab of iron in the center, for there the human Blades were tempered. Puberty alone would have transformed the boys into men, but few of them would have become the superb swordsmen who graduated. The King’s Blades were all stamped with the same die—lean, well-muscled athletes. When Harvest had stopped growing too soon, conjuration had coaxed his body into another effort. When Durendal had been in danger of growing too big, then he in turn had lain on the anvil while Master of Rituals invoked the appropriate spirits to come to his aid. The final drama, the binding of a Blade to his ward, must inevitably be consummated among the fires of the Forge.