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.
Under the gaze of the king and the night stars, he entered the octagon. Bowing to each knight, he used the time to assess his opponents. Trask would be his toughest fight but none would be easy. Taking a deep breath, he tightened his grip on the great sword and nodded to the knight marshal, prepared to claim his destiny.
“The candidate has entered the octagon.” The voice of the one-eyed marshal rang with authority. “Let no man interfere.”
A knight turned the sand glass and a trumpeter sounded the battle horn. The first maroon knight surged into the octagon, a blur of armor and sharpened steel. Blaine whirled to meet the attacker and the two great swords met with a fearsome clash. The first blow shuddered down Blaine’s arms, a warning of things to come. Disengaging, he counter-attacked, searching for an opening to the knight’s heart-rune. Stroke, parry, and evade, he plunged into the fight, hammering his opponent with a whirlwind of blows. I must finish him quickly; with eight against one time is my greatest enemy. A sword flashed toward his face but he parried the blow. Dancing away, he felt sweat drip down his back, a warning that the bout was taking too long. Remember, balance is the key! He feinted toward his opponent’s knees. The knight bought the feint, lowering his guard for the parry. Blaine’s great sword slipped into the opening to tag the maroon heart-rune. His sword struck true. Victory’s thrill rushed through him but the trial had just begun. He gulped air but he had no time to recover. As the defeated knight stepped out of the octagon, a second leapt to take his place.
The trial became a blur of sweat and steel. Each round lasted only a few minutes, but to Blaine those minutes stretched to an eternity. With no time to recover, he faced a different challenge in every round: the brute strength of the mace, the sly finesse of the morningstar, the madness of the berserker’s battleaxe, the slashing quickness of the saber, and the disciplined strength of the great sword. After five grueling rounds, Blaine still held the octagon but the fight had taken its toll. His arms ached with strain and his breath turned ragged. Cuts on his forehead and sword arm wept blood. Sweat stung his eyes.
A fresh knight wielding a great sword rushed in to take up the fight. Great sword against great sword, the weapons are equal, but he is fresh. Time to overplay fatigue. Blaine slipped sideways, letting his footwork drag. Slowing the speed of his sword till his parries were just in time, he let the point of his sword dip, as if the weight of it was too heavy. The maroon knight took the bait, pressing in with an overextended lunge. Blaine beat the great sword away and counterattacked. Swift as a snake, his sword tagged the maroon heart-rune.
Six down, two to go, his heart pounded like thunder, his tunic drenched in sweat under his armor. Blaine moved to the center of the octagon. A cold finger of warning shivered down his spine. Footsteps rushed from behind. Raising his sword, he whirled. The gleam of a battleaxe sped toward his face. He jerked backwards but the axe followed, catching him just below the eyes. His nose-guard collapsed with a sickening crunch. Pain exploded across his face. He staggered backwards, reaching up to feel the wound. Blood gushed from his broken nose and a deep cut under his left eye…but he still had a face.
The maroon knight towered over him. “Taste my axe, farmer-boy!”
“Trask!” Blaine spat the name like a curse.
Passing the battleaxe back and forth between massive hands, the huge knight growled a taunt. “You’re not worthy.”
“You’re wrong.” Blaine tore the ruined half-helm from his head and hurled it aside. Wiping the blood from his face, he retreated to the far side of the octagon, buying time to gather his strength, but the ploy failed. With a roar, Trask crossed the arena with surprising speed. Blaine raised his sword just in time. Struggling for breath, he retreated under the onslaught, but the half-moon blade pursued with a vengeance, a wicked blur in the torchlight. Clang! His sword parried a ferocious blow. The force nearly drove Blaine to his knees. Twisting away, he disengaged and dodged a second blow. But the silver axe gave chase, always aiming for his head or neck, persistent as an executioner’s blade. An icy fear ripped through Blaine; Trask seeks my life instead of the heart-rune! He flicked a desperate glance toward the iron throne but the king sat stern and impassive.
Steel whistled toward Blaine’s face. He jerked backwards, avoiding the killing blow. Desperate to end the bout, he feinted to the left and then risked falling to his knees. Ducking under the head-high swing of the axe, he gained an opening. When the axe whispered overhead, Blaine thrust his sword up inside Trask’s guard. His sword tagged the heart-rune. Relief flooded through him. Breathing hard, he sagged back on his heels, flushed with victory.
Above him, Trask snarled, converting the horizontal axe swing into a downward slash. Time slowed to a heartbeat. The silver axe loomed overhead. Blaine froze, shocked by the dishonor of the blow. He dodged at the last moment…but not quick enough. Steel struck steel and the armor on his left shoulder crumpled under the blow. Blaine slammed to the floor, pain surging through him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the silver axe raised for the killing stroke. He tried to lift his sword but his left hand wouldn’t obey. Gripping the hilt with his right, he rolled away.
The axe struck stone, scarring the octagon. Blaine staggered to his feet. Blood flowed from his broken nose, his left arm hung useless, and his shoulder throbbed. One-handed, he struggled to raise the point of the great sword, but the tip wavered like a rum-soaked drunk.
Trask flicked up the visor of his helmet and Blaine met the cold stare of the maroon knight. Death was coming. Even so, he held his ground; dreams did not die easily.
“Run, peasant. Show yourself a craven.” Trask raised the battleaxe in a two-handed executioner’s grip. Torchlight glittered on the half-moon blade.
Blaine refused to move, bracing himself for the blow.
The call of a battle horn split the night, signaling that the sands of the glass had run out. Trask hesitated, held frozen by the sound of the horn. Then bound by ritual if not by honor, he snarled a string of curses and stalked away. Blaine sagged with relief; death had passed. He sent a fervent prayer to Valin, the god of warriors, and stumbled to the center of the octagon. Needles danced up and down his useless left arm. Grinding his teeth against the pain, he sought to find the strength for one more round.
The final knight entered the arena. The spiked ball of the morningstar whirled through the air, carving a circle of destruction. Blaine lurched away, bitterly regretting his choice of weapon. Unable to lift the great sword, he wondered if pride would be his downfall, but then the knight of the morningstar did something unexpected. He lowered his weapon and raised the visor of his helm, revealing a sun-creased face and an auburn mustache. Sir Bearhart nodded to Blaine, then turned his gaze to the king, his voice ringing against the mage-stone walls. “For the honor of the Octagon.” Saluting the king, the veteran knight remained statue-still.
Half in a daze, Blaine gasped for breath. Pride swelled within him: honor still lived in the brotherhood of the maroon.
The horn sounded a triumphant blare, announcing the final turn of the sand glass. With his heart-rune untouched, Blaine had survived the trial.
Sir Bearhart bowed and retreated to his original station. Blaine leaned on his sword, staring up at the king. Silence descended like a fog, wrapping him in a cocoon of stillness. Bone-weary, he swayed, dizzy on his feet, afraid to believe it was over. The warrior-king pounded his mailed fist against the arm of the iron throne, shattering the silence. “Let the candidate approach!”
Bloody and battered, Blaine dropped to one knee, waiting to hear the words he’d yearned for all his life.
“A new candidate has passed the trial of combat and proven himself worthy. As king of Castlegard, I welcome you to the knights of the Octagon!” King Ursus smiled, his voice a mixture of pride and compassion. “Arise, Sir Blaine, and greet your brothers in arms!”
Joy and pride rushed through Blaine; the son of a farmer had gained the title of knight.