The Steel Queen - Prologue

Chapter 3 - Blaine

3

Blaine

The candidate strode through the door into the Octagon Tower, the crucible where knights were made or broken. Mage-stone walls soared to crenellated battlements open to the night sky, as if the ancient builders wanted the heavens to stand in judgment of his trial. Taking a deep breath, he nodded toward the jeweled stars, acknowledging the gods and praying for victory. The night carried a chill, the last vestige of winter, but if the stars held any reply he could not tell. Eager to prove his worth, he turned his gaze toward the king.

King Ursus of Castlegard sat upon an iron throne, his face chiseled with the stern lines of duty, a hero’s great sword across his knees. Age was clearly upon him, yet he wore only steel and leather as befitted a warrior-king who counted his wealth in loyal swords. The silver-haired king leaned forward, pinning the candidate with an unyielding stare. “What name will you be known by?”

Pride swelled within him. “Blaine, sire.”

“And what lineage do you offer to the Octagon?”

Thinking of the poverty of his father’s farm, Blaine struggled to keep the shame from his voice. “None save what I earn here this night.”

The king nodded. “The brotherhood of the maroon accepts all those found to be worthy. We few are the sword and shield of the southern kingdoms, standing against the Mordant’s hordes. Are you ready for your trial?”

“Yes, sire.”

Raising his voice, the king cried out the words of ritual.  “Let the swords decide the candidate’s worth!”

A thrill shivered through Blaine the chance to change his fate was at hand. He turned to face the center of the hollow tower. A blood-red marble octagon stretched across the heart of the floor, defining his crucible. Eight knights stood stationed at the corners, their helms closed, their weapons drawn, torchlight reflecting off bright steel. Daunting in their maroon armor and elaborate helmets, the knights seemed more than mortal.

Blaine studied his opponents, guessing their names by their size and chosen weapon. One towered above the others, a brooding hulk holding a moon-shaped battleaxe. Trask. So the nobleman dared bring his grudge to the octagon. Anger threaded through Blaine; there was more on trial here than his dreams.

Undaunted, he bowed to the eight champions. By tradition, candidates showed their faces in the octagon. Blaine wore a simple half-helm and plain gray armor devoid of any emblem or device save the heart-rune. All candidates came to the trial stripped of their name, lineage, and past deeds, but the trappings of noblemen meant nothing to Blaine. His dreams and his future depended on the trial.

“Choose your weapon!” The one-eyed knight marshal unveiled the weapons arrayed on the altar stone. Flickering torchlight illumed the marshal’s empty eye socket and scar-crossed face, making him appear a demon, or a harbinger of doom, but Blaine refused to flinch from the wages of war. Answering the call, he climbed the stairs to the rough-hewn block of red granite, a fitting altar for the warrior god. A knight stood on either side; one held an ornate sand glass and the other a battle horn, the timekeepers for the trial. Blaine studied the weapons while the knight marshal whispered a warning, “Think first and choose well, for each warrior may bear but a single weapon within the octagon. May Valin, the god of warriors, guide your hand.”

Weapons gleamed in the torchlight, death crafted into steel. A flanged mace, the spiked ball and chain of a morningstar, the half-moon blade of a war axe, a heavy cavalry saber, a hand-and-a-half claymore, and a two-handed great sword, he’d trained with them all, but his gaze was drawn to the great sword, the weapon of heroes. He reached for the five-foot great sword with its double-edged blade and sturdy cross-hilt. It felt good in his hands. Well balanced and honed to a fine, silk-cutting edge; the blade was as beautiful as it was deadly. For the fight of his life he could choose no other weapon.