Genre: High Fantasy

Author: Deborah Chester

Name: The Sword

Series: The Sword, the Ring, and the Chalice, book 1

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The Sword
Part One

The dogs warned Tobeszijian that something was wrong.

It was only midday, but the sky hung low, as dark as weathered steel. Snowflakes like tiny chips of ice dropped steadily, turning the shoulders of his burgundy wool cloak white and gathering in its folds where it lay across the powerful rump of his stallion. The king was large, his human blood having given him the same vigorous frame as his father, with broad shoulders, long arms bulked with muscle, and a neck like a pillar. When geared for battle, encased in full plate armor and a crowned helmet fitted with the full spread of gold danselk antlers, he was massive, truly an awe-inspiring sight. But today the king was hunting, and he wore only chain mail and a breastplate embossed with the lightning bolts and hammer that symbolized the connection between Netheran kings and their gods. A bow was strung across his strong chest; a quiver of arrows was tied to his back at his belt. His sword, Mirengard-spell-cast and eldin-forged, which no man's hand save his own could touch-hung at his side, its two-handed grip twisted with gold-wire and studded with a great emerald set in a gold gryphon's claw. His riding gauntlets, crafted of the finest, most supple leather upon his hands and flaring wide to his elbows, were embroidered with gold thread, again displaying his royal crest of lightning bolt and hammer. Hunting spears of pure white ash clattered in his saddle quiver, and his spurs jingled with the clear, ringing sound of pure silver.

The king's dogs, tall slender beasts with white curly hair feathering thickly on their long legs, ran ahead. Cresting a rise, they lifted their slim muzzles and barked excitedly. The king and his lord protector rode right behind them. They parted to dodge a stand of snow-laden fir trees, and plunged down the slope toward a thicket of briars and choked undergrowth. Tobeszijian's gaze swept the snow ahead of him, noting the scuffed tracks-not fresh-and the nibbled tips of branches. Deer had come this way, all right, but not as recently as Count Mradvior had led him to believe.

Clamped between his strong thighs, his black stallion stretched its muscular neck and fought the bit, trying to outrun the dogs, who were bounding gracefully over the snowdrifts, baying now with a sharp, shrill unfamiliar note. Tobeszijian reined back, forcing the excited stallion to slow.

Half of the hunting party came into sight behind him, shouting encouragement to the dogs; the rest galloped in from his left.

Ahead of him, the dogs reached the thicket, snapping and growling, then one of them yelped sharply and sprang back. Blood stained her white coat.

"That's no hind!" Kuliestka shouted.

Tobeszijian felt a surge of excitement. Since rising at dawn, he'd been eager to course the deer that Mradvior and Surov had claimed was out here. He'd dressed swiftly, eaten light, and kept his horse at a ground-eating canter right behind the dogs. "Nay," he said. "I'll wager my spurs it's a stag that's gouged the bitch like that."

Another dog yelped and dodged, the snarling and snapping taking a vicious quality unusual when they cornered a deer. Tobeszijian frowned, but could see nothing in the thicket except a violent shaking of the branches and brambles.

"Thod take the creature!" Prince Kuliestka said. "Will it stand here or will it run?"

An arrow skimmed Tobeszijian's left arm just above the elbow, ripping his cloak and sliding harmlessly off his chain mail. It nicked the shoulder of his horse, which reared, screaming.

Fighting to keep control of his animal and furious at whoever had shot so carelessly, Tobeszijian tried to look to see who was shooting, but his glance took in only a confused blur of snow and trees, rapid movement as the hunting party galloped closer, and a series of rapid jolts as his horse bucked. From the thicket, something suddenly exploded forth, racing away black and swift, with the dogs in rapid pursuit.

Tobeszijian spurred his stallion, who galloped after them. Blood was still streaming from the horse's shoulder, splattering back across Tobeszijian's gauntlets and thigh. He put his anger aside, knowing he would deal with the matter later, and bent low over the stallion's whipping mane, urging him on faster.

In minutes, he grew certain they chased no stag. The creature was larger, fully as big as a danselk, but too swift. Now and then Tobeszijian caught glimpses of it, too fleeting to tell what it was, except that it was black, the color of no stag that he knew, nay, and no danselk either.