The Steel Queen - Prologue

Chapter 7 - Blaine

Expectations of war filled the great castle. Rumors about the Painted Warrior rippled through the barracks, stirring fears and hopes, giving renewed purpose theknights. Sword strokes in the training yard held a new rhythm, a fierce beat revealing an undercurrent of urgency. Squires and knight-candidates honed their skills, hoping to be worthy. Sworn knights kept their blades sharp and their armor close at hand. Even the maimed veterans felt the thrill of war, retelling tales of daring to any who would listen, stories that roused the heart to honor and courage. Blaine drank it all in, eager for a chance at glory. As the son of a peasant farmer, he had more to prove than most. Blaine sought the marshal, asking for patrol duty, hoping to wet his sword against the enemy, but his request was denied. His left shoulder still hadn’t healed and his fight with Trask had left his face a mass of purple bruises. Disappointed, he consoled himself with the ceremony to come. In another fortnight he’d swear his life to the Octagon, but before he took his vows, he must choose his First Weapon.

Legend said that the candidate’s choice of First Weapon defined his knighthood. Blaine knew his choice should be based purely on his abilities, his strength, and his reach, but he longed to be worthy of his childhood heroes…and all of his heroes carried swords, two-handed great swords.

Castlegard’s forge throbbed with heat and soot and the smell of hot metal, but the fall of hammers was strangely silent, replaced by a storm of whispers. Blaine found the masters, smiths, and apprentices gathered in the back, all clustered around a small wooden crate. He angled his way into the crowd, using his height to peer over the shoulders of two young apprentices. His breath caught in his throat.  “Blue ore.” The words whispered out of Blaine without thought, “Can I touch it?”

A collective gasp filled the forge, the others pulling away from Blaine as if he had the plague. Finding himself suddenly alone in an island of space, Blaine searched their faces trying to understand his offense. A rumble of laughter broke the tension. Otto, the master swordsmith, said, “He’s too young to know better. Only a raw knight-candidate could ask such a question.”

Blaine felt his face flush red. “I meant no offense.”

Burly and bald with eyebrows that looked like thick slashes of soot, the master smith had a rumbling voice that matched his size. “Of course you didn’t. But by the king’s orders, no one but the master of the forge so much as touches blue ore.” Ignoring the armed guard that stood at the side of the crate, the master reached down and removed a fist-sized lump of sapphire-blue ore, holding it aloft so that it winked in the firelight. “A king’s ransom and a smith’s dream forged together to make a knight’s soul.” Staring at Blaine with a penetrating gaze, the master said, “What form will your soul take, I wonder?”

Blaine could only stare, confused by the strange question.     

“What’s your name, candidate?”

“Blaine. The knight marshal ordered me here for my First Weapon.”

“So you’re the one!”

Blaine was sinking in a sea of confusion but no one seemed to notice.

The master settled the ore back in the crate and clapped his meaty hands, breaking the spell. “Back to work, people! We’ve weapons to forge and armor to repair and it won’t get done if you stand around gawking.”

Smiths and apprentices scurried back to hammers, bellows, and tongs. The throbbing heartbeat of the forge returned. The master turned to Blaine. “Come with me.”

Blaine followed the master to a small courtyard behind the forge. A strange assortment of half-formed weapons adorned the four walls. All the leather-wrapped hilts were finished, but unworked bars of steel took the place of true blades. The master gestured to the implements. “This is where we measure successful knight-candidates for their First Weapon. We take pride in crafting a weapon designed to suit the reach, strength, and fighting style of each knight.” The master gestured to a wall filled with implements shaped like battleaxes. “Two-handed battleaxes crafted for the wild style of berserkers, or maces for knights who bull their way through battles with pure brute strength. Then there is the morningstar, a rare combination of brute force and finesse…but I don’t think any of these are right for you, are they?” He looked Blaine up and down. “The weapon is the very soul of the knight. Which will you choose?”

The words came of their own will. “A sword.”

“The weapon of pride and honor. But what type of sword?”

“In the trial, I chose the great sword, but the weight was almost my undoing. The four-foot claymore has almost as much reach but also offers the flexibility of being wielded with a strong hand. So I thought to choose a claymore.”

“Honor and flexibility, a difficult alloy.” The master selected three implements, each with the hilt of a two-handed great sword. Handing the longest to Blaine, he said, “Swing this one.”

“But I asked for a claymore.”

A broad smile stretched across the master’s face. “No, what you really asked for is a great sword you can wield with one hand.”

“But that’s not possible.”

“It’s entirely possible…if the great sword is made of blue steel!”

Blaine could barely believe his ears, yet his heart raced with excitement. Blue steel weapons were for heroes, not fresh-made knights.

The big smith clapped Blaine on the back hard enough to make his teeth rattle. “I like you, Sir Knight! Your face tells me that you’re honest enough to know you haven’t yet earned a hero’s blade. I’ll enjoy crafting this sword for you.”

“For Valin’s sake, how is this possible?”

The master grinned, “By order of the king, signed and sealed. But whatever the king’s reasons, the blade is mine to craft and yours to wield. And now we have work to do. Show me your swing. The design of the blade must be worthy of the metal.”

Blaine wrapped his hands around the hilt of the five-foot weapon and began executing the classical forms. Elated by the thought of the blue steel blade, he celebrated by plunging into the patterned dance of the sword, each swing of the blade dispatching an imaginary foe. In his mind, he cleaved a path through the Mordant’s hordes, all the way to the very gates of the Dark Citadel. Tightening his grip on the hilt, Blaine danced the steel, imagining deeds worthy of the ancient heroes, deeds worthy of a blue steel blade.