The Steel Queen (The Silk & Steel Saga Book 1)

by Karen Azinger

  Slick with sweat, she ran her hands along the silken rope until she found a knot. A wave of relief washed through her, she was safe. White mist surrounded her like a malevolent fist. She saw no more illusions…yet a nagging fear clawed at the back of her mind. She began to wonder if the rope was real. If the Mist could convince her that the streets of Coronth were real then surely the Guardian could project the image of a simple rope. If the rope was an illusion, she could be walking to her death. She tightened her grip, refusing to consider the possibility. To counter her fear, she began to chant, “I walk in the Light. I walk in the Light.” She closed her traitorous eyes, blindly walking forward. The walk seemed never ending.

  The cold disappeared, banished by a gentle warmth. A hand grasped her arm. Unsure if the sensations were real or illusion, Jordan cautiously opened her eyes.

  Sir Cardemir gripped her arm. “You’re through Jordan. You’re safe.”

  Not wanting to be tricked twice, Jordan looked for the guide. The monk was standing next to Duncan, coiling the rope while keeping a steady tension on the line. Seeing Jordan’s hesitation, the guide said, “It’s true. You have passed safely through the Guardian Mist. You can let go of the rope now.”

  Jordan forced her hand to unclench from the rope. Shaking from the ordeal, she hugged the knight, needing proof he was real. Sir Cardemir gave a throaty chuckle, “So the Mist holds the secrets to a woman’s heart, and all this time I thought it was the lute.”

  Blushing, Jordan stepped away. She turned to watch the rest of her companions emerge from the Mist.

  The black knight stumbled out of the wall of white. Kath followed five steps later. Jordan let out a whoop of joy, relieved to see her sword sister, but her joy quickly twisted to a shout of despair. Behind Kath, the silken rope dragged on the ground. Blaine was lost to the Mist.

  Kath screamed, “Nooooo!” She drew her sword and stepped toward the Mist.

  Duncan raced passed Jordan, grabbing Kath from behind. “You can’t go in there!”

  The guide stepped between Kath and the Mist. “It is death to enter the Mist without a guide. If you enter, we’ll lose two instead of one.”

  Kath struggled in Duncan’s arms but the archer held her firm. She glared at the guide. “Then help me find him!”

  Sorrow filled the guide’s brown eyes. “The Mist is vast. Even with the aid of an amulet, the knight will not be found unless it is the will of the Guardian.”

  Duncan said, “Is there no hope?”

  Jordan held her breath, fearful of the answer.

  “No one has ever made it through the Mist without a guide. The knight’s fate is in the hands of the Guardian.”

  “You can’t just give up! We have to search for him.” Kath struggled against Duncan.

  The guide nodded. “I will retrace my steps, but only if you agree to remain in the safety of the sunlight.”

  Kath nodded, a stubborn set to her face. “I’ll wait here till you find him.”

  Jordan moved to stand next to Kath, offering support. The companions watched as the guide stepped back into the Mist, vanishing in a swirl of white. Standing close together, they kept vigil on the edge of the fog. Jordan shuddered, thinking about her own trials in the Mist. Swords were nothing against the magic of the Guardian. Jordan wondered if they’d ever see the knight again.

  77

  Steffan

  Flaming torches lined the stone walls, casting flickers of pale light into the yard of the fortress. The moonless night formed a dark vault, sucking on the feeble torchlight, a perfect evening for the new ritual.

  At the heart of the yard, a freshly raised mound of earth rose to the height of a man. Hidden within the earthen mound was a special fire pit, designed by the pyromancer to burn with the fearsome heat of a forge. Jellikan added the last batch of powders and oils to the complex layers of fuel and reagents. Finished with his preparations, he bowed toward Steffan and then climbed the stairs to the parapet.

  Torchlight guttered in the chill wind, sending shadows writhing along the fortress walls. As was his usual practice, Steffan took a position at the rear of the yard, allowing him to watch the ritual from the perspective of the audience. Cloaked in his black cape, he stood with his back to the wall, the only substantial shadow in a courtyard of darkness.

  Light flashed from the parapet above. Steffan heard the army’s drummers and horn blowers take positions along the battlement. An unearthly wail flooded the courtyard, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. The curved aurochs horns were the general’s idea. Twisted and eerie, the low moaning tugged on the soul as if summoning the very dead to serve the Flame God.

  Steffan smiled, religion was all about sleight of hand.

  The unearthly wail slowly faded, leaving an expectant hush. A pair of ironbound doors crashed open. Soldiers marched into the yard, their boots beating a military tattoo on the rough cobblestones. General Caylib, a mountainous man in black leathers, led the elite squad to the heart of the yard.

  Taking his place at the base of the earthen mound, the general pivoted to watch as the guards formed into neat ranks. Bare-chested, the soldiers’ oiled torsos gleamed in the torchlight. Wearing only leather boots and black pants, they stood rigid at attention despite the biting cold. Steffan smiled at their discipline. The culling process had been deliberately brutal. For every soldier who passed, two more died or were seriously injured. The men that survived were obedient, tough, and skilled with weapons. More importantly, they were ruthless warriors, hardened to the rape of women and the slaying of children, trained to form the brutal heart of his army. Steffan smiled, knowing the Dark Lord was pleased.

  A bright light appeared on the battlement. Searing white, the light was so intense it looked like no flame ever lit by the hand of man. A murmur of amazement swept through the soldiers despite their discipline. Against the dark of the sky, the blinding light was mesmerizing, like a star flung to earth.

  Steffan smiled. The pyromancer had developed a new fuel for the ceremonial torch. The man was proving well worth his weight in golds.

  The drums began a slow heartbeat. The Keeper descended the stairs bearing the star-bright torch aloft. Ascending the earthen mound, he touched the torch to the fire pit. Flames roared to life, belching to a height of sixty feet. The bonfire pierced the night sky, putting the stars to shame. Heat pulsed through the yard, fierce as any forge, strong enough to make Steffan flinch into the shadows.

  The drums fell silent. The Pontifax appeared at the top of the battlement, his golden robes shimmering in the light of the flames. The patriarch made his way down the steps and then climbed the mound, standing at the very edge of the fire pit. An acolyte knelt to unlace the Enlightened One’s sandals. A second acolyte handed him a long spear with a broad crossbeam affixed to the end.

  Gasps of disbelief rippled through the soldiers. They’d all witnessed the Test of Faith, but this fire was unearthly hot. Steffan reveled in the soldiers’ fears. Some murmured, “No! Don’t do it!” But the Pontifax did not listen. Holding the spear aloft while grasping his ruby amulet, the holy man walked into the raging inferno.

  It was a miracle of rare intensity. Even Steffan had to applaud the courage of the Pontifax. Soldiers fell to the cobblestones in prostration, awed by the spectacle.

  Flames roared and licked at the Pontifax, yet the patriarch stood unharmed in the melting heart of the blaze. He gazed at the soldiers, his voice ringing through the courtyard. “Our god is a god of love! The Flame God gives us light to beat back the darkness. The Flame God gives us heat to beat back the chill of winter. Through his gifts of light and heat, the Flame God gives us life. He nourishes and sustains the faithful.” Raising the spear, he made the sign of blessing. “The Flame God looks after our spiritual needs as well as the physical. He gifts us with the Test of Faith so that our sins may be redeemed. Yes, our god is a god of love.” The Pontifax lowered his voice. “But our god has another face. It is a face he turns toward all unbelievers, a face that bur
ns and destroys all those of impure hearts. In his wrath, the Flame God consumes the infidel, reducing them to nothing more than ash.” Raising the spear high into the air, the Pontifax pounded the iron-shod butt straight down into the fire pit. “To the infidels the Flame God shows the face of war!”

  A shower of sparks erupted from deep within the fire pit. Crimson veins of color shot through the golden flames. Gas belched from the pit like the breath of an angry god. A noxious cloud of brimstone rolled down the earthen mound swirling around the soldiers as if the gates of hell had opened. One soldier crumpled in a dead faint. The line of soldiers wavered, but discipline held. No one dared move.

  The voice of the Pontifax thundered from the flames. “Fear not, for you are the chosen, the elite warriors of the Flame God. The sins of your past are forgiven. You are pure warriors of the Flame. You strike with the might of the Flame God. If you fall in battle, a place will be made for you in heaven. The warriors of the Flame will prevail!”

  A rousing cheer rose from the soldiers. When the cheer subsided, the Pontifax continued, “As holy warriors, you will fight under a new standard, the standard of the Black Flame!” He shook the spear, unfurling the cloth attached to the crossbeam. The standard snapped in the flames, blood red with a black flame boldly emblazoned on the center. “Blessed by the Flame God, I give you the standard of victory!” The standard snapped in the burning maelstrom but it did not burn. Seeing the invincibility of their new battle banner, the men roared their approval. “Carry it before you into battle. Carry it to victory!”

  When the soldiers quieted, the Pontifax continued, “Tonight you are reborn from ordinary soldiers to elite warriors of the Flame. A new weapon, consecrated in the Sacred Flames, has been forged for you. A weapon designed to drink the very souls of the infidels. In the hands of true believers, the black halberds will be invincible.” A dozen acolytes hurried forward to remove coverings from the base of the earthen mound, revealing bundles of weapons gleaming in the firelight.

  “Soldiers of the Flame! Take up your holy halberds and dip them in the Flames of War! Let each warrior pledge his life and his soul to the Flame God! Come forward and be consecrated in the Sacred Flames!”

  General Caylib was the first to answer the call. Selecting a halberd, he whirled it above his head, demonstrating the fearsome reach of the seven-foot weapon. A halberd was three weapons in one, a foot-long steel spike at one end, a vicious half-moon axe below the spike, and a long blackened shaft of polished ash that served as a quarterstaff. Moving like a demon possessed, the general twirled the weapon with a savage grace. He finished the exhibition with a thundering war cry. “Death to the infidels!”

  The soldiers echoed his cry, fists pumping the air.

  Saluting the Pontifax, the general climbed the mound of earth to stand before the Flames. Bowing low in homage, he thrust the blackened axe-head into the fire. Crimson sparks erupted from the halberd, like a sign from the god. The general twirled the halberd, blazing a trail of sparks like a comet.

  Gasps of amazement rippled through the soldiers, overwhelmed by the miracle.

  Steffan smiled knowing it was merely a coating on the steel, another trick of the pyromancer.

  The Pontifax made the sign of blessing. “Bless this weapon of the Flames. May it drink the souls of the infidels and prove invincible in the hands of the faithful.”

  The soldiers roared their approval.

  The general removed the sanctified weapon. Waving the halberd over his head in triumph, he let out a blood-curdling war cry. The raw savagery of the man was visible to all. Steffan smiled, he’d chosen his general well.

  The general strode back down the mound and stood at attention while the ranks of troops came forward to select their halberds and receive their blessing. A line of bare-chested warriors coiled at the base of the mound like a serpent mesmerized by the Flames.

  Steffan watched as the Pontifax blessed the halberds. Gleaming in his gold vestments, the old showman did a masterful job. The projection of his voice and the timing of his delivery perfectly matched the pyromancer’s effects, making the flames appear alive with the presence of the god. The illusion was powerful, as if the god himself called the soldiers to war. Raw religious fervor thrummed through the courtyard like unchained lightning. Steffan reveled in the power. With just one ceremony, he converted ordinary soldiers into fanatical warriors. The Black Flames would form the core of a ruthless army. Soon it would be time to loose them on the kingdoms of Erdhe. Steffan smiled from the shadows, pleased with the layers of illusions. The soldiers thought they worshiped the Flame God, but in truth, it was the Dark Lord they served.

  78

  Blaine

  Blaine watched the Mist swallow each companion whole. Step by step, they disappeared, consumed by the swirling white, till he was the last one standing in the clear light of day. Shuddering, he made the hand sign against evil. He didn’t trust the Mist. It reeked of magic. Knights preferred sharp steel to the murkiness of magic, but he’d sworn to follow the princess. Tightening his grip on the knotted rope, he took a deep breath and followed the others into the Mist.

  Fog clamped around him like a suffocating fist. The world went white, nothing but damp fog in every direction. Straining his senses, he tried to see, he tried to listen, but the only sound was the drumbeat of his heart. Blaine had never seen fog so thick, or so smothering. He knew Kath walked five feet ahead yet he couldn’t catch a glimpse of the girl, not even a silhouette. Blinded by white, he stumbled forward, keeping a tight grip on the rope.

  The rope pulled him forward, a lifeline in a sea of Mist. He lost count of the number of steps, nothing to do but follow. Yet the brooding white preyed on his mind.

  Something dark skittered ahead. Blaine stared, not trusting the fog. Catching movement from the corner of his eye, he whirled but the Mist was empty. The white cloud mocked him. Suspicious, he scanned the Mist, his unease growing with every step.

  A sword slashed through the fog.

  Blaine dodged backwards, keeping a hold of the rope. A second blade hissed past his face. Ambush! His heart racing, he reached for his sword. Wielding it with one hand, he struck at the fog in a blind slash. His blue blade whistled though white. Nothing! He shook his head, unsure if the attack was real or illusion. Peering into the fog, he held his sword at the ready.

  Time crawled.

  A sound cut through the Mist, the harsh clang of steel. Dark silhouettes danced ahead. Blaine suspected an illusion, but he couldn’t stop staring. The Mist parted. Three men in scarred leather armor attacked a single foe. Swords clanged with a furious tempo. Someone waged a fierce defense. The attackers shifted and Blaine glimpsed the lone figure at the heart of the fight. Kath! She dodged and parried, one sword against three. The girl was good but not against those odds. Blaine told himself it was an illusion but he couldn’t look away. Fear clawed at the back of his mind. What if the attack was real? He’d sworn to protect her. Honor pulled him toward the fight. He made his choice, deliberately dropping the rope and grasped his sword with two hands.

  He half expected the brigands to disappear but the clang of swords continued.

  A cry rent the air. One of the brigands lunged inside Kath’s guard, his sword piecing her side. Bright blood bloomed on her leather jerkin as she crumpled to the ground, her sword dropping from her hand.

  “No!” Blaine covered the distance in two leaps. His great blue sword slashed a deadly arc toward the attackers. The sword sliced clean through the brigand’s neck without resistance! The attacker disappeared in a swirl of angry white. Blaine staggered with surprise, but refused to leave anything to chance. He whirled a backhanded cut toward the second brigand, a whisper of death in the fog. The second man raised his sword for the parry. Instead of meeting steel with steel, his sword found only mist. The second attacker vanished. The third met the same fate, nothing but a gang of phantoms. His heart hammering, Blaine stood guard, peering into the malevolent Mist. The attackers were gone but the pr
incess remained, bright blood leaching her side. Blaine knelt, afraid to find the blood was real.

  Kath gazed up at him with pain-filled eyes. “I knew you’d come.”

  Her trust cut him to the core. He should have been quicker. “But I came too late.” His words were a whisper. He reached out to tend her wound. His hand passed through her side, finding only white. The princess disappeared. Relief washed through him. He hadn’t failed after all. But then anger struck. His honor remained intact, but he’d been tricked by the Mist.

  “Show yourself!” Anger burned through him.

  He pivoted, searching for a landmark but every direction was white. A drop of fear trickled down his back. He was lost, caught in the deadly grip of magic. He tried to retrace his steps, reaching out for the rope, but found only damp air.

  Lost in a sea of fog, fear gripped his stomach. Not trusting the cursed Mist, Blaine slid his right foot forward, testing the ground, searching for reality. He refused to die, lost in this wizard’s nightmare. He forged his way forward, muttering, “I walk in the Light. I walk in the Light.”

  The Mist swirled, white riddled with gray. Figures danced ahead, silhouettes against the white. A breeze stirred, carrying the mingled scents of blood, sweat, and gore. If valor had a smell, this was it. Blaine followed the scent of battle. Steel clanged on steel. Men shouted and the wounded moaned. Death surrounded him. Blaine’s mind warned of illusion but his senses screamed otherwise. He tightened his grip on his sword. The Mist thinned and details became distinct. Shattered shields, trampled banners, and broken men littered the ground. Blaine stood at the center of a grim battlefield. Disciplined lines were gone, dissolved into the chaos of individual conflict. Pockets of knights battled hordes of soldiers in black and gold. The last defenders of the eight-pointed star wavered against the relentless onslaught of the pentacle. Blaine watched as the gold and blue banner fell, the eight-pointed star tramped in the bloody mud. The battle was lost but the knights fought on, refusing the odds.