1
Armsmaster
Sunlight rose over the eastern horizon of the Grim Marches and spilled across the plain.
Mazael walked the courtyard ramparts, as he had every morning of his youth. The bleary-eyed night watchmen bowed or offered a salute as he passed. Word of Captain Brogan’s fate had gotten around.
Mazael felt better. Sleeping from sunset to sunrise would do that. He bit into the apple had taken from the castle’s orchards.
The memory of the strange dream had faded. Most likely it had come from his anger at Mitor and Rachael. And he had been living off travel rations for a month, and a month of travel rations would sicken anyone. And Mitor Cravenlock could upset the strongest stomach.
He flicked the apple’s core into the courtyard. Another few days and he would depart Castle Cravenlock and leave Mitor to his ruin. But what would become of Rachel when Lord Richard crushed Mitor’s delusions of liege lordship? Mazael considered abducting her himself and taking her back to Knightcastle. She would be better off at Lord Malden’s court than in the clutches of Mitor and Albron Eastwater.
Mazael decided to consider it later. Sleep had slowed his muscles, and he needed morning sword practice to loosen them.
“Sir Mazael?”
Timothy deBlanc climbed up the rampart stairs, his black cloak fluttering in the wind. On the collar and shoulders of his black cloak he wore a variety of small metal badges marked with different sigils. Each sigil represented a magical spell he had learned.
“You’re up early,” said Mazael.
“Revels...ah, do not agree with me, my lord knight,” said Timothy. “We appear to share that preference.”
“I enjoy a feast as well as any man,” said Mazael. “But I prefer my own company to that of certain others.”
“I cannot hold drink very well, I must confess. I left quickly. Yet Master Othar had already drained four tankards of ale!” said Timothy.
Mazael laughed. “He’s not what you expected?”
“No, my lord knight,” said Timothy. “Ah...I do not mean that as an insult, please understand. He’s skilled in the magical arts. In just the last afternoon, he showed me a dozen ways to improve upon my spells.”
Mazael nodded. “Lord Mitor should have kept him as court wizard.”
“Oh, certainly,” said Timothy. “Master Othar is a skilled master wizard, but this Simonian of Briault...Simonian is...unknown.”
“Simonian is a lying schemer, you mean to say,” said Mazael. “Lady Romaria thinks he is the wizard she seeks.”
“It is possible,” said Timothy. “Briault is full of practitioners of dark arts, warlocks and necromancers...or so I’ve read. I’ve never actually been there.” He coughed into his fist. “I...ah, well, it’s a terrible breach of etiquette, but my curiosity got the better...”
“What?” said Mazael.
“I cast one of the minor spells before I left the feast. One to sense the presence of magic,” said Timothy. “Simonian has a spell resting upon him.”
Mazael frowned. “What sort of spell?”
“I...don’t know, my lord knight,” said Timothy. “I didn’t recognize it. And I feared Simonian might notice me, so I released my spell before I could seek further.”
“That was likely wise,” said Mazael. He remembered the gleeful amusement in Simonian’s eyes. “He seems dangerous. If he suspected you of meddling, I doubt he would spare you harm.”
Timothy tugged at his beard. “I’ve lately had no shortage of men trying to kill me.”
“I’ll have to tell this to Master Othar,” said Mazael. “He likely has a spell that can reveal more about Simonian. Thank you.”
“Yes. And...there is another reason I’d like to speak with you this morning, my lord knight,” said Timothy.
“Well, out with it,” said Mazael.
Timothy cleared his throat. “Ah...I would like to swear to your service...if you’ll take me, that is.”
Mazael frowned. “You mean Lord Mitor’s service?”
Timothy shook his head. “No, Sir Mazael. Your service.”
“Why?” said Mazael. “I thought you had come all this way to learn from Master Othar.”
“Well, yes,” said Timothy. “But Master Othar hardly needs help executing his duties. And he is a good man, my lord knight...but this castle...” He shrugged. “I do not like it here. That is all I can say.”
Mazael laughed. “You’re not alone in that, wizard. Go on.”
“And...” Timothy shrugged. “I would rather serve you, my lord knight, than swear to your brother Lord Mitor.” He sighed. “The gallows in the town...I have seen many such executions in my life. I always wanted to put a stop to it, but I had not, and still do not have, the power. Sir Mazael, you are the sort of man who has that power, and I would follow you.”
Mazael snorted. “Don’t fill your head with notions of chivalry and adventure, wizard. My life is a hard one. If you swear to me, you’ll spend your days riding back and forth on Lord Malden’s errands in fair, and usually foul, weather, with bad food.”
“I understand,” said Timothy. “I spent most my youth sleeping under trees, and I slept in a bare stone cell during my time at Alborg.”
“If you’re determined...well, then, who am I to turn away help?” said Mazael. He drew Lion. “Kneel.” Timothy knelt, and Mazael laid the flat of the blade on the wizard’s right shoulder. “Timothy deBlanc, wizard of Travia, do you swear to be my true and faithful servant?”
“Yes, Sir Mazael,” said Timothy.
“In return, I swear to provide you with food, clothing, and the protection of my sword. Do you accept this oath?” said Mazael.
“Yes,” said Timothy.
“It’s done, then,” said Mazael. He offered his hand and helped Timothy back up.
“So quickly?” said Timothy.
Mazael frowned. “The full version of those oaths are longer. I don’t have the time or patience to recite them, even if I could remember them. First a squire and then a wizard. I’ll have a bloody court of my own by the time I return to Knightcastle.” He frowned. “Speaking of which, here’s your first task. Find where my squire has gotten...”
“Oh,” said Timothy. “He’s over there.”
Adalar Greatheart jogged up the rampart stairs. Mazael could have killed the boy with a quick push and a long fall to the courtyard, but he pushed the thought out of his mind.
“I went to your rooms, Sir Mazael,” said Adalar, “but you weren’t there.”
“I rose early," said Mazael. "Take a room in my chambers in the King’s Tower.”
“Would that be inconvenient?” said Adalar.
Mazael snorted. “Inconvenient? There’s room to quarter an army in the King’s Tower.”
“Thank you, Sir Mazael,” said Adalar. “I’ll move my possessions in at once...”
Mazael waved his hand. “Do it later. Now, you can tell me where Sir Albron keeps morning arms practice.” He frowned. “Sir Albron does have morning arms practice, doesn’t he?”
“Of course,” said Adalar. “It is held over on the other side of the castle, in the courtyard between the armory and the barracks.”
“Let’s go.”
Below them, Castle Cravenlock came awake as servants hurried to their duties. Squires and grooms descended on the stables. The watch changed, tired night guards going for their beds, while rested men came to take their places on the ramparts. Singing rose from the castle's chapel, and a deep red glow and the sound of ringing metal came from the forges. Suits of chain mail rested on wooden stands, while completed swords and maces leaned against the forges’ walls. The smell of cooking bread rose from the kitchen, and Mazael's stomach rumbled. Perhaps he would pay a visit to the kitchens later.
They made a complete circuit of the castle’s walls and came to the stretch of rampart overlooking the yard between the barracks and the armory. Two hundred armsmen milled about, bearing wooden practice weapons, Sir Albron directing them. Further down the battlements, Mazael saw see Sir Nathan and Master Othar. Rachel stood with them, her eyes on Sir Albron. Mazael grimaced, stiffened his resolve, and went to join them.
“Father,” said Adalar.
“Adalar. Sir Mazael,” said Nathan. Rachel’s hands clutched at her sleeves.
“Sir Nathan,” said Mazael.
“I trust you are well? Adalar told me of your sickness,” said Nathan.
“I’m well enough,” said Mazael. “After a night of sleep and emptying my guts into the chamber pot, I feel fine.”
“A pity you missed the feast, boy,” said Othar. He rapped the tip of his cane against a battlement. “A man should never pass up an opportunity for fine food and strong drink, I say.”
“You ate and drank to disgraceful excess, as always,” said Nathan.
“Absolutely!” said Othar. “I’m an old man, Sir Nathan. I want to enjoy my last years on earth. If I’d wanted a life of austerity, I’d have joined the Cirstarcians.”
“I’m older than you,” said Nathan.
Othar waved a meaty hand. “Yes, yes, obey your elders and all of that.” He winked at Adalar. “My boy, let me give you a piece of valuable advice. Just because a man is your elder does not necessarily mean that he is your better.”
“I know,” said Mazael, thinking of Mitor.
“Do not poison my son’s mind,” said Nathan.
Othar rolled his eyes. “Poison? You wound me, old friend. I just want to insure that the boy has proper appreciation for the gift that is life.” He slapped Mazael on the shoulder. “Now, if it wasn’t for me, Mazael would be as dry and dull as you.”
“Somehow I doubt that,” said Nathan.
“Besides, if we do not enjoy life, then all that is left is our worries and cares,” said Othar. He frowned. “And there are so many of those.”
“Lady Rachel,” said Mazael, “how are you this morning?”
Rachel smiled, her eyes fever bright. “I...I am well. And you?”
“Fine,” said Mazael. “Where is Mitor?”
“Lord Mitor...does not usually rise before noon,” said Rachel. “Nor the lady Marcelle.”
Othar snorted. “Bah! And you say I drink to excess, Nathan.”
“I left early, as well,” said Rachel. “Albron and Mitor often discuss matters of state during the meal. I find that leaves me with little appetite.”
“That’s understandable,” said Mazael, “considering ‘matters of state’ just gave you three days in the company of Sir Tanam Crowley.”
“I wanted to rise early,” said Rachel. “Albron likes it when I come to watch him train the men.”
“Does he, now?” said Mazael. “Rachel, I think you’re making a mistake, marrying him. But I suppose it’s your mistake to make.”
“It’s not a mistake!” said Rachel. “You just don’t know him as I do.”
“And how well do you know him?” said Mazael. “I hope better than I, for what I saw was not very complimentary.”
“He’s...a hard man to really know,” said Rachel. “But...inside, he’s very brave, and very daring.”
"But not brave enough to go after Sir Tanam to get you back," said Mazael.
Rachel had no answer for that.
“A brave man inside,” said Othar, shaking his bearded head, a strange look on his face. “If you’ll excuse me, I had best retreat to my workroom. Lord Mitor will have a thunderstorm of a hangover when he awakes. I had best have some medicinal elixir prepared.”
Mazael spat. “Lord Mitor has seen fit to make Simonian his court wizard. Is a medicinal elixir out of reach of his great arts?”
Othar shrugged. “I do not know. Besides, Simonian left on one of his ‘errands’ shortly after the feast. No one has seen him since.”
“Will you need my assistance?” said Timothy.
Othar laughed. “My boy, I prepared medicinal elixirs decades before you were born. I do believe I shall be fine.” He left, his cane thumping against the ramparts.
“Mazael,” said Rachel, “I know we don’t agree on everything, but you are right about Simonian.”
“I am?” said Mazael.
“I don’t know about all these rumors of dark magic and the like,” said Rachel, “but he is a very dangerous man. His eyes give me nightmares, sometimes. And he’s...powerful. He does things I don’t think any other wizard could do.”
“I see,” said Mazael.
Rachel’s voice fell lower. “I...I think Mitor should send him away, but he’ll never listen to me. Please, Mazael, stay far away from Simonian. It’s been so hard, here...if something were to happen to you, I think I would go mad.”
Mazael remembered the amusement in the wizard’s flat gaze as he spoke of Mitor’s death. “I’ll do what I can,” he said.
“He’s doing that wrong, you know,” said a woman’s voice.
Mazael's hand fell to Lion's hilt as he whirled. Romaria Greenshield stood behind them. Mazael hadn’t heard her approach. She wore again her trousers, boots, tunic and worn green cloak, though a suit of steel-studded leather armor covered her torso. The hilt of her bastard sword poked out over her shoulder.
Her grin cut like a dagger’s edge. “Did I startle you?”
“I nearly cut you in two,” said Mazael.
A flicker of fear flashed across Romaria's blue eyes. Mazael wondered if her bravado covered something else.
“You nearly tried to cut me in two,” Romaria said.
“I don’t try. I do,” said Mazael. He remembered how her skin felt and he grinned. Then he remembered the dream and his smile faded.
“You did startle us,” said Sir Nathan. "Your skill at stealth must be considerable."
Romaria smiled. “Thank you. It’s hard to keep in practice, but I try.” She bowed. “I am Romaria Greenshield, of Deepforest Keep.”
Nathan bowed in return. “I had hoped to speak with you. I saw you at the feast, but did not have the opportunity. I am Sir Nathan Greatheart. Is your father well, my lady?”
Romaria’s eyes widened. “Sir Nathan Greatheart?” She smiled. “Yes, he is well. In fact, he told me to give you his greetings, should I happen to meet you.”
“You know Lord Athaelin?” said Rachel. “But I didn’t think anyone knew the Greenshields. Until I met Romaria, I thought Deepforest Keep legendary.”
“Lord Athaelin and I knew each other in my youth,” said Nathan.
Romaria laughed. “You saved his life, you mean.”
Nathan shrugged. “I happened to be in the right place at the right time.”
“My father tells it differently,” said Romaria.
“Knowing him, no doubt,” said Nathan. He watched her for a moment. “Is something amiss?”
Romaria pointed to the courtyard. “Sir Albron. Those men are a mess.”
Rachel’s eyes flashed. “Albron does his best.”
“Then despair for the future of Castle Cravenlock,” said Romaria. “Half those men aren’t holding their weapons correctly. The other half at least have correct grips, but haven’t the slightest idea what to do with a blade.”
Nathan grimaced. “I have offered to assist Sir Albron with training, but he has rebuffed my aid.”
“He needs it,” said Mazael. “Sir Tanam’s crows could take this lot. Lord Richard’s veterans would annihilate them. If Mitor plans to go to war with Sir Albron training his soldiers...”
“Mitor will win,” said Rachel. “You’ll see. He hasn’t told you...”
Mazael frowned. “Told me what?” Rachel blanched.
“Sir Mazael, I say!”
Sir Albron walked towards the rampart stairs. “Are you going to join us?” His smile widened. “I have heard so much about the daring of Sir Mazael. Is it true, or does the great knight spend all his time in the company of women and old men?”
“Albron!” said Rachel. “Please.”
Mazael laughed. “Sir Albron, this old man did a better job of training Cravenlock armsmen than you ever could. As for the company of women, I think Lady Romaria could split your head down the middle.”
“Oh, flattery,” said Romaria. A chorus of laughs burst from the armsmen, and Sir Albron silenced his men with a smiling glare.
“Easy to say standing up there,” said Albron. “Why not come down here and prove your words?”
“I think I will,” said Mazael. “Adalar, Timothy, with me.”
“I shall join, as well,” said Nathan. “Perhaps you can teach me a few lessons, Sir Albron.”
“And I,” said Romaria.
Rachel gaped. “Lady...that’s...that’s hardly proper.”
Albron laughed. “A woman? Lady Romaria, you mock me.”
Romaria grinned at him. “Indeed? Consider this, Albron. If your men can defeat a woman of Deepforest Keep, then Lord Richard’s armies won’t even be a challenge.”
Albron shook his head. “I won’t have it. In the barbarian wilds, women might waddle about in a man’s garb and with a man’s weapons. But you are in civilization now, Lady Romaria, and you will act in a civilized fashion.”
“No,” said Sir Nathan. “If Lady Romaria possess a tenth part of her father’s nature, Sir Albron, then I would rather stand with her to death then spend an hour with the likes of you.”
Albron's face hardened, and for a moment fury seem to rise off him in waves. His smile returned, but Mazael was certain he had glimpsed Albron’s true feelings. Perhaps Rachel had as well.
“Well, then,” Albron said. “Humiliate yourself, Lady Romaria, if you wish. Stand with her, Sir Nathan, and prove yourself an old fool. It matters not to me. I did warn you. Come down, then, and let us practice the blades.”
2
Sword Dancers
Mazael descended the rampart steps alongside Sir Nathan and Romaria, followed by Adalar and Timothy.
“Cease!” Albron said. The armsmen stopped fighting, the clack of wooden swords fading. “Now it is time to watch and learn from a true master of the blade. Sir Mazael has bravely volunteered to fight me.”
“Oh, have I?” said Mazael. “Such a brave act.”
Another flicker of rage shadowed Albron’s face, and he gave orders to the armsmen. “Give your practice blade to Sir Mazael. You and you with the wooden bastard sword. Relinquish your weapons to Sir Nathan and...the lady.” Three armsmen ran forward. Mazael took a practice longsword made of heavy wood with a lead core. It was heavier and shorter than Lion, but Mazael had used far worse weapons.
He unbuckled his sword belt, Lion swinging in its scabbard. “Adalar, hold this for me."
“Perhaps Sir Mazael needs a bit of a primer, before he has to face me,” said Albron. “We wouldn’t want the great knight to overtax himself.”
“Albron,” said Rachel. She had come down from the ramparts. “Mazael is Lord Mitor’s brother and his guest. Please be more polite.”
Albron laughed. “My dear, how do you worry! There’s no need to involve yourself in this. It is a matter for men. I only have Sir Mazael’s best interests at heart.”
Mazael smiled. “I’m sure you do.”
“Lady Romaria first, Sir Mazael,” said Albron. “After all, a mere woman should be no challenge for such a great fighter as yourself?” Romaria watched Mazael with intent blue eyes. “Or maybe the women of Deepforest Keep are just as wild as the wood demons!”
“Albron!” hissed Rachel. She fell silent at his glare.
“I’d be honored,” said Mazael. “Romaria is a skilled opponent, I’ve seen that for myself. I could use a challenge today.” He shrugged. “I doubt I’ll find one fighting you.”
Shocked silence rose from the soldiers.
“Very well, then!” said Albron. “Watch closely, men! See if you can learn anything from the fighting of a wild woman!” More laughter rose up.
Romaria stepped towards Mazael with the wooden bastard sword in hand, her eyes like blue ice. She moved with the grace of the hunting cat she had killed in the hills. Mazael wanted her, drawn to her in a strange way he had never experienced before. She wore her usual confident grin, but Mazael saw something in her face. She was afraid of him.
Mazael raised his sword to a guard stance. “This wasn’t the sort of tumble I had in mind.”
Romaria took her sword in a two-handed grip. “Who knows? A good fight always gets my blood up. And no man can see the future...or so I hope.” Again he heard the fear in her voice.
Mazael stepped towards her. “What are you afraid of?"
Her eyes flashed. “Not anything. Not you.” Her sword blurred towards his chest, and Mazael barely got his parry in place.
“Ha!” Albron shouted. “This cat has claws!” Then Romaria’s attack drove all distractions from Mazael’s mind.
Her sword spun and stabbed for Mazael’s head. Her grip shifted from two hands to one and then back again. His sword worked circles as he blocked Romaria’s blows. Mazael parried a low blow, and Romaria twisted her wrist, the dulled tip of her longer sword nicking against Mazael’s leg.
Romaria laughed. “First blood, mine!”
Mazael grunted and sidestepped, Romaria's thrust shooting past his hip. His sword blurred in a two-handed swing for Romaria’s shoulder. She parried, but the force of his strike knocked her back. Mazael drove into the opening, sword flashing for her throat. But Romaria regained her balance, and beat back Mazael’s attacks. He hammered at her again and again, and so caught her off-guard when he fell to one knee and thrust at her legs. Romaria jumped aside, but Mazael’s sword banged into her knee.
“Second blood, mine,” said Mazael.
Romaria grinned at him. “Second blood, second best.”
“Let’s find out,” said Mazael.
Romaria flew at him. Her thrust flowed into a swing and then into a two-handed chop. Mazael blocked and parried, the wooden sword vibrating in his hand. His breath came rapidly, his heart pounding in his chest. Romaria was better than good. She was masterful. He had not fought anyone this skilled in years.
Mazael was enjoying this.
Romaria’s attack played out without landing a single hit, and Mazael launched his own attack. He threw a flurry of two-handed swings at Romaria’s head, forcing her to take the bastard sword in both hands to block his heavy blows. Mazael finished the attack with a high swing aimed for her head, and Romaria raised her sword to parry. But his swing had been a feint, and he reversed the momentum of his sword, sending it for her stomach. Few fighters would have seen it coming. But Romaria did. Not only did she block the blow, she turned her sword and clipped Mazael on the forearm. Mazael jerked away, his forearm stinging from the hit.
Romaria laughed, her blue eyes were ablaze. “Two for me, and one for you.”
Mazael stepped back. “First blood doesn’t matter. What matters is the last blood!”
Mazael rushed her, driving a lunge at her heart. Romaria sidestepped and batted his sword aside, splinters flying from the battered practice swords. Mazael turned her parry into an attack and twisted his sword around to strike at her legs. Romaria parried low, and Mazael sent his next attack high. His attacks and parries merged with Romaria’s, joining together in an intricate, blurring dance. Mazael moved with Romaria, fighting on instinct and trained reflexes, without thought, thrust left, thrust right, parry high, parry low, block, riposte, swing high, swing left, swing right...
Their swords came together with a great crash, the crosspieces jamming against each other. Mazael shoved forward and tried to push Romaria off balance, but she held her ground. They strained against each other, close enough that Mazael could feel Romaria’s hot breath on his face, that he could smell her sweat. Mazael couldn’t lower his blade, but neither could Romaria.
“Stalemate,” said Mazael.
“Think so?” said Romaria.
Mazael almost leaned forward and kissed her. “Unless you have some trick even I’ve never heard of.”
Romaria’s grin widened. “Tricks, is it? You are in for a surprise!” She pushed backwards and broke free from their clinch. Mazael brought his sword up, knowing she could not regain her balance in time...
Romaria's free hand flew through an intricate gesture, and she vanished.
Mazael's mind overrode his shock. He remembered her tricks with the coins. She could do magic. Wizards knew how to make themselves unseen.
He moved his sword in a sweeping parry just as Romaria reappeared before him, beating aside the sword point darting for his throat, and brought his sword down in a two-handed swing. Their swords crashed together and shattered with a tremendous crack. The blades splintered into pieces, the leaden cores falling to the ground.
“A stalemate!” said Albron.
A thunderous cheer rose up from the armsmen. Mazael saw their rapt, amazed expressions.
“Now it’s a stalemate,” said Mazael.
An expression of relief washed across Romaria’s face. “That’s good to know.”
Mazael frowned. “Why?”
Romaria smiled. “You’re no more skilled than I am.”
Mazael snorted. “Just why is that important?”
Romaria put a finger over his lips. “You’ll see.” She stepped away from him, and he watched her go, entranced.
Albron’s voice jerked Mazael out of his reverie. “Well fought, Sir Mazael! A stalemate against a woman. Indeed, I see your reputation is not exaggerated. But let us see how you do against a real opponent.”
“Adalar,” said Mazael. “Another sword.” The squire fetched another wooden blade from the rack. Mazael took the sword and raised it to a guard position. His heart beat rapidly, but he was not tired.
He wanted to fight this liar who had usurped Sir Nathan’s place.
Albron swung his own wooden sword. “Are you ready?”
“Yes,” said Mazael. "Perhaps you'll learn a lesson or two."
Albron came at him before he had finished speaking. Albron’s sword spun, flashed high, then low, then high again. Mazael shifted his sword to a two-handed grip and parried. He beat aside a thrust from Albron, side-stepped, and riposted. Albron danced away. The armsmaster was deadly quick. Mazael tossed his sword to his right hand.
Albron came at him again, slashing for Mazael’s chest. Mazael parried and shoved, pushing with all his way. Albron stumbled, and Mazael's sword lanced out. Albron jerked back, quick as a snake, but not before the wooden blade kissed his left shoulder.
The impact made an odd scraping sound.
Mazael grinned. “First blood. Good thing we’re not using steel swords.”
Albron snarled. “I’m waiting for that lesson.”
“Then I’ll give it to you.”
Albron whipped his sword over his head and brought it whistling down. Mazael blocked, the rapid crack-crack-crack of strained wood filling his ears, and twisted his wrist. Albron’s sword scraped to the ground, and Mazael's blade shot up, the point aimed for Albron’s face. Albron jerked back, but the pommel struck him hard enough to make his teeth click. Mazael reversed his sword and struck for Albron’s throat. The other knight danced away.
Albron went on the attack, his sword reaching for Mazael's neck. Mazael could not parry in time, so he rolled, tumbled past Albron’s legs, came to one knee, and gave the knight a solid hit across the back of his legs. A gasp of wonder rose from the watching soldiers.
Albron turned, growling, before Mazael could rise and hacked a vicious two-handed blow. Mazael parried high and caught the strike above his head. Albron hammered at Mazael like a smith pounding iron. Mazael parried every blow, his arms and shoulders aching from Albron's pounding.
Mazael took a chance and rolled to the side. Albron's overbalanced and stumbled as his blow missed, and Mazael shot to one knee and drove his sword forward. Albron twisted to the side, but Mazael's sword smacked into his hip, and Albron fell. Mazael jumped to his feet and brought his sword down in imitation of Albron’s two-handed blows. Albron jerked to the side and regained his feet.
Mazael tossed his sword from hand to hand as Albron backed away.
“First, second, and third blood,” said Mazael. “A very good thing we’re using wooden swords.”
Albron’s sneer said more than words. He ran at Mazael with a noticeable limp.
Albron was good, but his skills lacked something. Mazael was not surprised when Albron began to repeat the same attack routine over and over again. It was if he knew all the thrusts, parries, and blocks, but had never used them before. Albron fought as one who had been trained by the best tutors, but who had never before lifted a blade in mortal combat.
Albron swung high twice, his handsome face contorted with exertion. Mazael beat aside the reaching blade. Albron reversed the momentum of his sword, bringing it around in a high loop for Mazael’s head.
But Mazael moved, and Albron’s sword swished over his head. Mazael took his sword in both hands and swung into Albron’s guard. His sword crashed down on Albron’s wrist. Albron bellowed, his practice sword flying, and Mazael thrust to finish the fight.
The dull tip of his wooden sword plunged into Albron’s stomach, and six inches of splintered wood disappeared into Albron's belly. Mazael felt the sword scrape against bone. It was impossible. The wooden sword couldn’t have impaled Albron. Yet Mazael saw it with his own eyes. Mazael waited for Albron’s face to pale, for the blood to gush from his mouth and his stomach.
Instead, Albron shook his head and stepped free.
Mazael’s eyes darted from the tip of his sword to Albron’s stomach. No blood marked the wood.
“How?” said Mazael.
“You ought to know,” said Albron. “After all, you did win. I didn’t even hit you once. Well...fought.” His eyes were hard and angry.
“But I saw the sword go in!” said Mazael. “I felt it scrape against your spine! You ought to be bleeding to death.”
Rachel ran to them. “Albron! Oh, Albron, you’re hurt!” She frowned. “You’re...but...I saw Mazael run you through.”
Albron laughed. “Ah, you worry for me so. No need. Your brother can’t kill me.”
“But I saw the sword go in,” said Mazael.
Albron shrugged and a put an arm around Rachel’s shoulders. “Men see many strange things in the heat of battle. Most like your sword caught up in my clothes.”
Mazael stared at Albron. “That must be it.” He had seen the blade go in. He had felt it scrape against bone. Mazael had felt that scrape a hundred times before in battle. “That must be it, I suppose.”
“You must be more careful, Albron. If you were to die...well, what would we do, then?” said Rachel.
Albron jerked his arm away. “Wither and perish. If you’ll excuse me, I have business." He stalked from the practice field, Rachel trailing after him like a faithful dog. Mazael wiped sweat from his brow as Romaria and Sir Nathan came to join him.
“What a remarkably chivalrous loser,” said Romaria.
Adalar took the battered wooden sword and handed him a clay pitcher, and Mazael drank. “What a bad swordsman, you mean. The man has potential, I’ll give him that. But he doesn’t know...”
“It’s as if he learned perfectly how to use that sword yesterday,” said Romaria, “but hasn’t been able to practice the skill.”
“Yes. That’s exactly it,” said Mazael, handing the pitcher back to Adalar. “It’s like his hands but not his mind knew how to use a sword.”
“I noticed that, as well,” said Sir Nathan.
“Fighting with the blade is an art,” said Romaria, pushing a stray strand of hair from her face. “It combines mind and body and spirit. Albron’s body knew that art, I saw ...but his mind and spirit did not.”
Mazael stared after Albron. “And that sword. I saw it go into his belly. I would swear it.”
Sir Nathan frowned. “I thought it had, for a moment. But he stood. A man could not stand after taking such a wound.” He shrugged. “Besides, you were fighting with dulled wooden blades. You would have to fall with the sword beneath you to drive it into flesh.”
“I saw it as well,” said Adalar.
“As did I,” said Romaria. “So did half the garrison, I would wager.”
Timothy cleared his throat. “Ah, my lord knights and lady, if I may speak? Sir Mazael, it concerns the matter we spoke of earlier ...”
“Go ahead,” said Mazael. “I trust everyone here.”
“Why, how flattering,” said Romaria.
“My lord...I observed, discreetly, of course, during your fight that Sir Albron carries an enchantment about him,” said Timothy.
Silence answered his pronouncement.
“As well?” said Romaria. “Who else?”
“Simonian of Briault, my lady,” said Timothy. “He and Sir Albron have similar spells cast upon them.”
“What sort of spell?” said Mazael.
“I do not know,” said Timothy.
“Could you determine who had cast the spells?” said Romaria.
Timothy shook his head, flustered. “Ah...no, Lady Romaria. I have yet to develop my skill to such a high degree.”
“A spell of protection,” said Mazael. “I knew that sword had gone in. Albron must have had some magic to keep him safe from injury.”
“Then who cast the spell on him?” said Romaria.
“Could Othar have done it?” said Mazael.
Nathan shook his head. “I doubt it.”
“That would leave Simonian,” said Romaria.
“Perhaps Albron is Simonian’s creature,” said Mazael.
Sir Nathan shrugged. “It is possible.”
“More wizard’s trickery,” said Mazael. He remembered Simonian's casual request for Mitor’s death.
Sir Nathan frowned. “You may be right, Mazael. But we have no proof. We cannot act without proof.”
“What are you going to do?” said Romaria.
“Find proof,” said Mazael. “But first, I’m going to find breakfast.”
Romaria smiled and touched his arm. “I think I’ll join you.”
3
Mazael Visits the Kitchens
“Sir Gerald!” said Mazael.
Sir Gerald descended the steps to the chapel, his sheathed longsword's pommel flashing in the morning son. Wesson trailed after, bearing Gerald’s shield.
“Sir Mazael,” said Gerald. “I missed you at the feast. What detained you?”
“I fell ill,” said Mazael.
“You? You never take sick,” said Gerald. “Are you sure you are well?”
“I feel fine now,” said Mazael. “You missed morning practice, Gerald.”
“I wanted to attend morning prayer,” said Gerald with a sigh.
Mazael laughed. “Why so glum? Confessing your sins puts you into a better mood for hours.”
Gerald scowled. “You should try it.” Romaria snickered. “No, what upsets me is the chapel’s condition.”
The ancient chapel dated back to the old kingdom of Dracaryl. The massive building had stone walls, high, narrow windows, and a domed roof. The three interlocked rings of Amatheon, Father of the Gods, rested atop the dome. “It looks fine to me.”
“The outside does, yes,” said Gerald. “These old chapels were built like fortresses. In Dracaryl I suppose they were built to take blasts of dragon fire. It’s the interior that troubles me.”
“What about it?” said Mazael.
“A mess,” said Gerald. “I’ve rarely seen such open disrespect, Mazael! The floor looks as if it was used to stable horses. The pews are dusty and have been carved with all manner of vile obscenities. And those priests, and those acolytes.” Gerald shook his head. “I’ve never seen such an ill-trained bunch! They stumbled through the liturgy. I doubt they even know more than five or six words of High Tristafellin.”
“Mitor was never one for piety,” said Mazael.
“Your whole family seems that way,” said Gerald.
“That’s insulting,” said Romaria.
Gerald shrugged. “Mazael is hardly the most pious of men, but he’s not a blasphemer. Lord Mitor borders upon it.”
“Perhaps we’ll be fortunate and the gods will strike Mitor dead,” said Mazael.
“Let’s leave this place,” said Gerald. “I do not like it. No doubt Lord Mitor is awaiting us for breakfast.”
Mazael laughed. “I doubt it. Lord Mitor feasted last night. He might rouse himself in time for supper, though I wouldn’t wager on it.”
“Lord Mitor reminds me of Wesson’s father,” said Gerald. “They call him Lord Tancred the Tankard. I’ve seen him drink like a fish. But Lord Mitor and Lady Marcelle.” Gerald shook his head. “I’ve never seen a man drink so much. It was as if they drank to escape all the demons of all the hells. And the court followed suit. Such debauchery. And I shudder to think what followed in the hay lofts and in the dark corners.”
Mazael laughed. “We need to find you a wife.”
“Why?” said Gerald.
Mazael laughed harder and clapped him on the back. “Let’s go get breakfast.”
He led Romaria and Gerald around the back of the chapel and towards the kitchen’s rear door. He felt eyes on him as he walked. Servants faltered in their stride and armsmen gaped.
“They’re staring at us,” said Gerald.
“No,” said Romaria. “They’re staring at Mazael. They saw the way he fought.”
“That’s hardly new,” said Gerald. “Sir Mazael has always fought well.”
“Yes, but he defeated Sir Albron in sword practice,” said Romaria.
Gerald whistled. “That will raise attention.”
Mazael snorted. “It shouldn’t. It wasn’t impressive. Yes, yes, I know, Romaria. If I could defeat him, then the great and powerful Lord Richard should have little difficulty vanquishing Albron.”
“Is Lord Mitor incapable of leading his own armies?” said Romaria.
Mazael snorted. “What do you think? In armor, Mitor would look like a pear in chain mail.”
They came to the back of the kitchens. A stout old woman brandished a broom, herding a trio of clucking chickens back into an old coop. Mazael felt heat radiating from the ovens, and he stepped through the back door. The kitchens were vast, a dozen ovens ablaze as cooks labored to feed the castle's armsmen, servants, and nobles.
“Sir Mazael!”
Mazael turned. A young woman in a soot-stained apron approached. Her sweat-stained clothes stuck to her body. It made for a pleasant sight.
Especially since when Mazael had last seen her, Bethany had a noose around her neck.
“Do you remember me?” said Bethy. “Or do you go about saving women and children so often that it’s all another day’s work to you?”
Gerald laughed. “You’d be surprised what occupies Sir Mazael’s days, lady.”
“And how are you faring in the kitchens, Bethy?” said Mazael.
Bethy sighed. “Well enough, I suppose. Master Cramton has taken over the kitchens.” The fat man bellowed orders on the other side of the room. “Lord Mitor had no one running things, if you can believe it. I miss the old inn, though.”
“At least you’re alive,” said Romaria.
“That’s true,” said Bethy. She grinned, her teeth white in her sooty face. “I saw you beat Albron, Sir Mazael. You whipped him right and good.”
Mazael shrugged. “It wasn’t hard.”
“Aye, I’ve never seen a man fight like you, so I have!” said Bethy. “And if there’s ever a man that deserved a good whipping, it was that Sir Albron.”
Mazael thought of Rachel. “I couldn’t disagree.”
Bethy’s eyes sparkled. “But, oh, the way you and the lady fought!”
“You fought a woman?” said Gerald.
Romaria turned on him. “So? He couldn’t beat me.”
“He couldn’t? But...it...is not chivalrous,” said Gerald.
“I’d never seen anything like it, Sir Gerald,” said Bethy. “They moved together, and so fast, so...graceful, it was like watching a great ball, where the lords and ladies wear their silks. Except it was swords, instead of silks, I suppose.”
“She beat you?” said Gerald, incredulous.
“Oh, no, my lord handsome knight,” said Bethy. “No one won. It was a stalemate, just like in the songs.”
“Songs? I wonder what Mattias Comorian would say of that,” said Mazael.
“Who?” said Romaria.
“Just a jongleur I met,” said Mazael, wondering what had brought him to mind.
“Their swords crashed together,” said Bethy, “and then they shattered, and all that was left was the splintered hilts. I’d never seen anything so wondrous as that fight, so I have. Neither had half of those armsmen, too, the way they stood about with their mouths hanging open.” She snorted. “It’s the likes of them that are supposed to defend us from the Dragonslayer lord? I’m betting that if Sir Mazael and the Lady Romaria stood together, they could fight his army themselves.”
“A pity I missed this,” said Gerald. “The gods know I wouldn’t have missed much by passing up on morning prayers.”
Bethy wrinkled her nose. “Bah, I don’t hold with that lot, those chapel priests with their mutterings. They spend half their time drunk and the other half staring at me and the other girls as if they’d like to see us with no clothes.” She winked at Gerald. “Of course, you do too, but with you, it’s different.” Wesson smothered a snicker.
“But...” said Gerald. “I most certainly—I did—I didn’t, I mean—”
“Oh, but I’m being rude!” said Bethy. “Why, you likely came here for food, not to listen to me babble! Master Cramton would bellow my ears off if he saw me standing about chattering with you hungry. Let me run and get you some food.” She winked at Gerald again and hurried off, leaving the young knight speechless.
“Sir Mazael is right,” said Romaria. “He does need to find you a wife.”
Gerald sighed.
“And what of you, Sir Mazael?” said Romaria. “Have you no plans to wed?”
Mazael laughed and looked over the bustling kitchen. “I doubt it.”
Gerald laughed. “My father will likely find some pretty but brainless minor noblewoman for you. You’re almost two-and-thirty. He has said that it was past time you married.”
“I doubt it,” said Mazael. “Your father acts only for power and prestige. Were I Lord of Castle Cravenlock, he’d offer his daughter.”
“The Elderborn believe that marriages are fate, the joining of two hearts,” said Romaria.
“Not from what I’ve seen,” said Mazael. “Marriage is about lust and money. Love is a ploy for the jongleurs’ songs.”
“I am not hungry. Excuse me,” said Romaria.
“She’s a strange woman,” said Gerald, tugging at his mustache.
“Yes, but I don’t hold it against her,” said Mazael. Women either bored him or inspired lust, but he had never met anyone like her before. And he had never met anyone who could have fought him to a standstill.
Bethy returned, bearing hollowed heels of bread filled with steaming beef. “Here you are." She smiled at Gerald. “I put a bit of extra in yours.”
“I’m sure he’s flattered,” said Mazael. “Anything to drink?”
“Oh!” said Bethy. “I’d forgotten.” She disappeared into the chaos of the kitchen and returned a moment later with a pitcher of ale. “Now, drink up."
“Gladly,” said Mazael. He drained a large part of the pitcher and handed it to Gerald. “Thank you.”
“Oh, you’re welcome,” said Bethy. “For you, we’d prepare a feast, we would! Besides, with Lord Mitor sick as an old dog from too much drink, we needn't worry about preparing his breakfast.”
Gerald snorted. “That’s hardly appropriate!”
Bethy smiled at him. “Oh, but it’s true, isn’t it? I bet you tell the truth all the time, don’t you?”
“A knight must strive to act honestly and honorably at all times,” announced Gerald.
Bethy laughed. “Oh...so they swear,” she said. She shook her head. “But give me a copper coin for every one that doesn’t...why, I’d have more money than the Lord Dragonslayer. But you and Sir Mazael, you’re different. This isn’t your place.” Her eyes darted back and forth, and her voice fell to a whisper. “Lord Mitor and Lady Rachel and Sir Albron and...that wizard, the Briaultan fellow...they’re all bad sorts, all of them.”
“Not Rachel,” said Mazael. “What are you saying?”
“Leave,” said Bethy. “Right now. This isn’t a good place. I don’t think you’re welcome here. You take Lady Romaria and your squire and your friends and leave and don’t ever come back.”
“What are you talking about?” said Mazael.
Bethy paled. “I’ve...said too much...I’m just babbling...I’m a bit tired...”
She spun and ran away.
***