by Dave Duncan
The Monster War: A Tale of the King’s Blades
Dave Duncan
Contains three previously published titles.
Sir Stalwart Copyright © 1999 by Dave Duncan
The Crooked House Copyright © 2000 by Dave Duncan
Silvercloak Copyright © 2001 by Dave Duncan
Published by E-Reads. All rights reserved.
www.ereads.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.
ISBN-10: 1-61756-002-2
ISBN-13: 978-1-61756-002-6
To Anne McCaffrey:
Because you write wonderful stories,
Because you are a wonderful person,
And because when I was offered the chance
to write this book and asked your advice,
you told me to go for it.
The Minstrel Boy to the war is gone,
In the ranks of death you’ll find him;
His father’s sword he has girded on,
And his wild harp slung behind him.
—THOMAS MOORE
Contents
Book One: SIR STALWART
1. Rude Awakening
2. Rejected
3. Mysterious Alternative
4. Coward
5. A Fateful Scream
6. Sentence
7. Trials
8. The Open Road
9. Minstrel Boy
10. Three Roads
11. Bad News
12. Good Offer
13. A Dangerous Thing
14. Ambush
15. Knights to Remember
16. Unpleasant Journey
17. Reluctant Ally
18. Chimeras
19. Quagmarsh
20. Stalwart Unbound
21. Sister Cloud
22. Reunion
23. Fight
24. Flight
25. Fright
26. Valglorious
27. Star
Book Two: THE CROOKED HOUSE
1. Murder in the Court
2. His Majesty’s Displeasure
3. Posthaste
4. Prime
5. Return of the Lost Lamb
6. Pilot on Board
7. Nythia
8. The Sheriff of Waterby
9. Stalwart Sends a Message
10. Mervyn
11. The House of Smealey
12. The Hole
13. Homecoming
14. Reunion
15. Unwelcome Discovery
16. Meanwhile, His Sword
17. Baron Smealey
18. Sir Emerald
19. The Seventh Brother
20. A Sleight Problem
21. Faces from the Past
22. Point of View
23. Change of Heart
24. Stalwart Stalwart
25. Secret Passage
26. The Fall of the House of Smealey
Book Three: SILVERCLOAK
1. The Snakepit
2. All the King’s Men
3. Defeat Snatched from the Jaws of Victory
4. Hidden Agenda
5. Stalwart to the Fore
6. Stalmart at His Post
7. The Meat Wagon
8. The Prettiest Little Parlor
9. Intrepid
10. The Soprano Jungle
11. At the End of the Day (1)
12. At the End of the Day (2)
13. Secret Chamber
14. Walk into My Parlor
15. Have Barrow, Will Shovel
16. The Invisible Brat
17. Contact
18. Bait in the Trap
19. Lonesome Road
20. Princess Vasar
21. The Way into My Parlor
22. Rats, of Various Sorts
23. Stalwart Comes in from the Cold
24. The Action Heats Up
25. Rampage on the Ramparts
26. Finale
Aftermath
Book One
SIR STALWART
1
Rude Awakening
ABOUT AN HOUR BEFORE DAWN SOME IDIOT BLEW a deafening blast on a bugle right under the dormitory window. Nine boys lurched up out of deep sleep with yells of alarm, then registered the clattering of iron-clad hooves on the cobbles of the courtyard. Nine blankets flew off, eighteen bare feet hit the boards at almost the same instant, nine bodies dived for the window.
Stalwart prided himself on being the fastest man in the senior class, but he was also the smallest. He did reach the window first, only to be hurled aside by a flying wedge of superior muscle. No matter! It was still too dark outside to see much, and he could guess what was happening—the King had come to Ironhall. Judging by the racket, he was being escorted by the entire Royal Guard, a hundred strong.
“When did the King ever travel by night before?” someone cried, probably Rufus.
“Never!” That was Orvil, who was Prime, meaning he had been in Ironhall longer than anyone. “And he used to bring a dozen Blades with him, no more.”
Eighteen eyes shone wide in the gloom as the senior class thought about King Ambrose skulking around by night and needing so many bodyguards. Nine naked or near-naked youngsters shivered in the predawn chill. The unheralded royal visit was a chilling reminder of the Monster War. For the last eight months or so—starting with the terrible Night of Dogs—unknown sorcerers had repeatedly tried to kill the King of Chivial, killing many of the Blades in his Guard in the process. The only reason he ever came to Ironhall was to enlist new Blades, who would be chosen from the senior class—the very nine present in that dormitory. How many would he take this time? Tonight at midnight he would strike a sword through their hearts in a magical ritual to bind them to absolute loyalty, companions in the Loyal and Ancient Order of the King’s Blades.
How many of them?
“Well, don’t all stand there with your tongues hanging out!” yelled Panther. “Get dressed! Your King wants you!”
Eight seniors sprang into motion, quickly followed by Panther himself as he realized he wasn’t wearing anything either. Someone struck a flint. Spark on tinder, flame on candle, many candle flames…With nervy haste the nine seniors rummaged in hampers to find their best and cleanest—breeches, hose, shirts, doublets, jerkins. Cloaks and boots and hats. Comb hair. Those who needed to shave began doing so—painfully, because no one dared run and fetch hot water lest he be absent when the summons came. There was some angry jostling around the candles and tiny mirrors.
Shaving was not yet one of Stalwart’s problems. He sat on the edge of his bed and hugged himself, miserably uncertain whether the knot in his innards was wild excitement or just terror. He wanted to be chosen this time! Of course he wanted to be chosen! Why else had he spent the last four years working his heart out here in Ironhall if not to become a Blade? True, he was the youngest of the seniors, but he ranked fifth in seniority, and candidates always left Ironhall in the order in which they had come. He was worthy! Day in and day out he was the best on the fencing ground. And yet…Until the Night of Dogs a career in the Royal Guard had been a sinecure, easy pickings, ten years of lounging around the court charming beautiful ladies. Now it was as dangerous as lion wrestling. Two dozen members of the Order had died in the last half year. Ironhall was rushing boys through training faster than it had in centuries. None of the current seniors, even Prime, had been in the school for the standard five years.
“There’s no great hurry,” Orvil said squeakily, although he had been moving as fast as anyone. “First the King talks with Grand Master and tells him how many of us he wants. Then Grand Master sends the Brat to fetch us.” Everyone knew this, because he had told them at least a dozen times. He had been present the last time, two months ago. “They always send for one more than they are going to bind, so he can—”
The door flew open. Two shavers cut themselves and screamed in fury. In walked Sir Dreadnought, Deputy Commander of the Guard.
“How many?” everyone yelled in unison.
Dreadnought closed the door and folded his arms. He surveyed the room in the dim light, smiling grimly. “As many of you as Grand Master can bear to part with. I just came to make sure none of you goes sneaking down to the kitchens. A whole day’s fasting before a binding, remember.”
The discomfort inside Stalwart, which had been worry, instantly became ravening hunger instead. Out in the corridor a mob of chattering, jabbering juniors headed for the stairs—so-pranos and beansprouts. The seniors clustered closer around Dreadnought, most of them still soaped for shaving.
“Have there been more attacks on the King?” Orvil asked.
“State secret. I’m not allowed to tell you that until you’re bound.” Dreadnought was a good man, a superb swordsman. He had won the King’s Cup for the second time that summer, which meant he was probably the finest fencer in the entire world at the moment. On his jerkin he sported a four-pointed diamond-studded badge to show he was a member of the White Star, the highest order of chivalry in the country. Very few Blades had ever been admitted to the Star, but he had turned up wearing this wonderful thing two months ago. He’d conceded only that he had won it “killing something,” but the other men in the Guard had added blood-curdling details of a shambling half-human monstrosity that had gone after the King when he was out hunting. Its fangs and talons had disposed of two other Blades and a horse before Dreadnought slew it. An excellent man!
A bit lacking in humor, maybe. You could tell a lot about a Blade by the name he gave his sword, and his was called Honor. Dull!
“And you still don’t know who’s doing this?” Orvil persisted.
“If the Guard knew that, sonny, blood would be shed and balefires lit. No matter how good their sorcery is.”
Stalwart asked, “How many swords have you brought back this time?”
Dreadnought gave him a long, thoughtful look. Then he said softly, “Keep it to your-selves—eight.”
The seniors exchanged shocked glances. When a Blade died his sword was returned to Ironhall to hang for evermore among the thousands of others in the great sky of swords. Elderly, retired Blades—the knights in the Order—died off all the time, but not at that rate, not eight in only two months!
“Well?” Dreadnought said mockingly. “Anyone want to chicken out? If you’re going to turn yellow, you’d better do it now, while the going is good—run for the hills!”
Nobody moved.
“No cowards here!” Orvil said proudly.
2
Rejected
AS THE SUN ROSE OVER THE BARREN HILLS OF Starkmoor, Grand Master sent for the five most senior candidates. That meant only four would be bound, which was what Stalwart had dreaded.
The Flea Room was a small, bleak chamber that most boys saw only twice in all their years in Ironhall. Each newcomer met Grand Master there, and usually had to listen while whoever had brought him explained what a useless and ungrateful brat he was, and how nobody could do anything with him. Grand Master would hear the story, then talk with the boy in private and test his agility by throwing coins for him to catch. In most cases, he sent the boy and his guardian away and that was the end of it.
But if the boy had spirit and was nimble, Grand Master would accept him as a candidate. He was encouraged to take a new name and make a new person of himself. Whatever he had done in the past was forgotten. He would not see the Flea Room again unless he were set to clean it as a punishment. That was far from the worst that could happen to him, for Ironhall discipline was hard.
Time changed boys into young men. Iron-hall’s expert training plus a dash or two of magic turned the unwanted rebel into one of the finest swordsmen in the world. After five years or so, when the transformation was complete, the King would either accept him into the Royal Guard or assign him as bodyguard to someone else. It was back in the Flea Room that he learned his fate and met his future ward.
A companion in the Order was addressed as “Sir,” although that was only a politeness, so tomorrow Sir Orvil, Sir Panther, Sir Dragon, Sir Rufus, but still only Candidate Stalwart…sigh!
At the door, Dreadnought took away their swords, because only a bound Blade could go armed into the King’s presence. He sent them in by seniority: Orvil striding ahead, Panther close on his heels. Dragon and Rufus followed eagerly, like puppies wanting to romp. The reject trailed along behind, keeping his face blank to hide his disappointment.
There was no shame in being young, but why did it have to go on so long?
An icy wind blew off the moor, in one unglazed window and out the other. The five lined up facing Grand Master, who stood hunched in front of the inner door, clutching his cloak around him against the chill. With nine persons present, the room was crowded. The one staying out of sight at their backs would be Commander Bandit. The huge man in the corner was King Ambrose, but they must pretend not to notice him until they were instructed otherwise. He had set his hands on his hips and was grinning like a stuffed shark. His fingers glittered with jewels.
Orvil spoke the traditional words: “You sent for us, Grand Master?” He said them very loudly, so perhaps he was less calm than he was managing to appear.
“I did summon you, Prime. His Majesty has need of a Blade. Are you ready to serve?” Grand Master’s beady eyes were set in a craggy, gloomy face. His name, although nobody used it, was Saxon. He was a distant, coldhearted man, inclined to lose his temper and lash out with harsh punishments, even expelling boys without fair warning. Since expulsion meant the culprit walked away over the moors with nothing but the clothes on his back—and usually no home or family to go to—it might easily be a death sentence. Even some of the elderly knights who dawdled away their final years at Ironhall would shake their heads at times and mutter that the Order had known better Grand Masters than Sir Saxon.
“I am ready, Grand Master,” Orvil said quickly.
Grand Master turned and bowed. “Your Majesty, I have the honor of presenting Prime Candidate Orvil.”
Now everyone could take notice of the King. Speed being more important than brawn to a swordsman, Master of Rituals used sorcery to prevent any boy growing too big. That rule did not apply to kings, though, and Ambrose IV, King of Chivial, was tall, wide, and portly. Between the calves bulging in his silk hose and the ostrich plume in his floppy hat, everything he wore seemed to be pleated and padded as if intended to make him appear even larger—knee breeches, doublet, jerkin, and fur-trimmed cloak. He loomed like a cheerful storm cloud and his voice thundered in the little room.
“Welcome to our Guard, Prime! Grand Master speaks highly of your skills.”
Then Grand Master was lying. Stalwart could beat Orvil every time with rapiers and usually with sabers. Orvil would always win at broad-swords, of course, because a broadsword needed more muscle than Stalwart’s body had yet gotten around to providing.
Orvil bowed low, then went forward to kneel before the King and kiss his hand. As he rose to return to his place in line, Grand Master turned to Panther.
