by Dave Duncan
On the day of a binding, the echoing cavern was relinquished to the participants, who were required to meditate there, starting before dawn. By the end of a very long day, Durendal was still not sure he had succeeded, because meditating wasn’t something he’d ever tried before; but if boredom was the measure of success, he had done splendidly. Harvest sat and chewed his fingernails to the elbow, while the Marquis paced, fretted, and whined about hunger. Once Master Armorer came in and asked Harvest what he wanted to name his sword. Harvest muttered, “Haven’t decided.” The man shrugged and went away.
At sunset Master of Rituals appeared and ordered the three of them to strip and bathe in four of the eight troughs, in a particular order. After poking a finger in the icy spring water, the Marquis squawked and refused so vehemently that a pathetic smile briefly warmed Harvest’s pale face. Alas, offered alternatives of calling off the binding or being forcibly stripped and dunked by four smiths, Nutting decided to cooperate; but he must have set a record for the shortest bathing on record.
Close to midnight, the knights and the rest of the candidates filed in to begin the ritual.
Bright flames frolicked in the hearths, but the shadows of six score men and boys made the crypt dark and creepy. As the chanting soared amid strange acoustics and the metallic beat of hammers, Durendal sensed the spirits gathering. Some spirituality always lingered there, for any forge sustained all four of the manifest elements—earth from the ore, fire from the hearths, air from the bellows, water from the quenching troughs. Of the virtual elements, the swords attracted spirits of death and chance, while time and love were essential ingredients of loyalty. Binding was a very potent and complex conjuration.
His fast had left him vaguely light-headed, yet he was buoyed up by the surging powers. Hard to believe after so long that his life in Ironhall was almost over. Soon he, also, would be bound and stride out into the world behind his ward, whoever that might be. He could not possibly draw a shorter straw than poor Harvest had.
The procedure was very familiar. He had first played a role in a binding on his third day in Ironhall, because one part of the ritual was assigned to the Brat. As the spirits of chance had caused him to remain the Brat so long, he had assisted no less than eight Blades at their bindings, which might be a record, although a petty one to be proud of.
Now he had emerged from the chorus to play a major role once again, gathered with the other participants inside the octogram. The locations were obligatory: Prime stood at death point, directly across from his future ward at love and flanked by Second at earth and Byless, the next most senior candidate, at air. Chance point was always given to the Brat. The three who performed most of the conjuration took the remaining points—Master of Rituals as Invoker at fire, Master of Archives as Dispenser at water, and Grand Master as Arbiter at time.
Dispenser chanted the banishment of death, casting grain across the octogram, grain being a symbol of life. Banishing all death spirits when there was a sword present was an impossibility, of course; and the element of chance was fickle by definition. When he had completed that second revocation, Invoker began summoning spirits of the required elements. The onlookers joined in the triumphant dedication song of the Order, a paean to brotherhood and service that made the Forge throb like a great heart. Although the chamber was stiflingly hot, Durendal felt the hair rise on the back of his neck.
Grand Master went forward to scatter a handful of gold coins on the anvil. He peered at their distribution and seemed satisfied that they hinted at no bizarre improbabilities afoot. As he gathered them up again, he nodded to the Brat, who strutted forward to play his small role. So fast was the King calling for Blades now that this Brat had done it three times already. He was still a long way behind Durendal’s record, if it was a record. Piping out the dedication in his reedy soprano, the boy laid the cat’s-eye sword on the anvil. Harvest had never touched or even seen that sword before, but the skilled armorers of Ironhall had wrought it to be a perfect fit for his hand, his arm, and his favored style.
Everything was going as it should, yet Durendal was worried by the two principals. Neither seemed quite right, somehow. Most Primes approached their binding with a glow of excitement and fulfillment, but Harvest looked miserable and unsure. The Marquis’s air of contemptuous bored amusement might be an acceptable affectation at court but was no way to approach a dangerous elementary ritual. He still seemed to expect some meaningless fakery.
Master of Rituals nodded to Byless, who stepped over to remove Prime’s shirt for him. Only a week ago, Durendal had done that for Pendering. If Harvest was a borderline Blade, young Byless needed at least a year’s training yet. Surely Grand Master must soon advise the King that the supply of ready candidates was running out? And in that case, if they wanted to keep at least one in reserve for emergencies, how long might Durendal have to wait for his own call?
Prime turned. Durendal went to him, smiling cheerfully and trying to ignore the pale lips and eyes stretched too wide. Oh, let that only be an illusion of the firelight! He put a thumb on Harvest’s hairless chest to locate the base of the sternum, although all the bones were clearly visible. He made a mark with a piece of charcoal directly over the heart. He went back to his place at earth point.
Harvest stepped forward and took up the sword, barely sparing it a glance. He jumped up on the anvil and raised the blade in salute as he swore the oath—to defend Nutting against all foes, to serve him until death, to give his own life for his ward’s if need be. Words that should have rung through the Forge like glorious trumpet notes came out as a mumble. Durendal disliked what he saw on Grand Master’s face.
Prime sprang down and knelt before the Marquis to offer the sword—which Nutting accepted with an air of bored indifference—and then backed away and sat on the anvil. The Marquis followed to aim the point of the sword at the smudge of charcoal. This was the culmination of the ritual, but even now he seemed to be expecting some sort of trickery. Durendal and Byless closed in to assist. Harvest took several deep breaths, raised his arms. Durendal took a firm grip on one and Byless on the other, together holding him steady for the thrust. The Marquis hesitated, glancing around at Grand Master as if suddenly realizing that what he had been told must happen was not some elaborate joke or fake.
“Do it, man! Don’t torture him!” Grand Master snarled.
The Marquis shrugged and spoke his three words of ritual: “Serve or die!” He poked the sword into Harvest’s chest.
No matter how good the conjuration, that must hurt. All Blades admitted that the binding had hurt, although briefly. In this case, the prospective ward did not strike very forcefully, for the point failed to emerge from Harvest’s back, and yet the spurt of blood was much heavier than usual. With a faint moan, Harvest let his head droop. He did not wrench back at the friends supporting him, which was what Pendering had done the previous week. Instead he pulled forward, causing them to stagger off balance. He pulled harder and harder, as if he was trying to double over. What was the fool playing at? Had he fainted? Durendal and Byless resisted, took the strain, then stared at each other in horror as the awful truth dawned. Three knights ran forward to help them lower the body to the floor. Nutting screamed shrilly and dropped the sword.
The conjuration had failed.
Now it was Second’s turn to try.
6
The candidates were warned early in their training that binding could kill, and there were even records of Second dying as well. The conjurers blamed such failures on mistakes in the ritual, but Durendal had witnessed a hundred bindings now and was certain he would have noticed any deviation from standard procedure. He assumed the problem had been lack of will. Harvest had been reluctant to serve, Nutting skeptical and indifferent. Harvest had distrusted his own ability, while Nutting had wanted a Blade as a plume in his hat to flaunt around the court, not as a vital defender. Two unenthusiastic principals had combined to create disaster.
Durendal’s first concern was to l
ook at the wound. The charcoal mark he had made had been blotted out by the blood, but the hole in poor Harvest was exactly where it should be, so the error had not been his.
Then, while knights and seniors milled around, removing the body and making ready for the next attempt, he headed for the Marquis, who was down on his knees near the door, miserably retching between frantic protestations that he could not possibly go through all that again. Grand Master and Master of Rituals stood over him, blocking any further effort to flee, lecturing him before he had even recovered his wits.
“With so many spirits assembled, we have raised the potential to levels where discharge of the elemental forces—”
That sort of talk wouldn’t work on a pseudo-aristocratic pimp.
“Excuse me.” Durendal elbowed the two knights aside in a way he would not have believed possible even five minutes ago. Detecting the preliminary intake of breath that would become a roar from Grand Master, he said, “This is my problem!” He hoisted the Marquis to his feet by his padded jerkin, spun him around, and steadied him before he toppled over.
Nutting rolled his eyes in horror when he saw who was manhandling him. Even in the ruddy light of the Forge, his cheeks were green. “No! Not you, too! I can’t, you hear? I can’t. The sight of blood nauseates me.” His boots scrabbled on the rock, but he did not go anywhere with Durendal holding him.
“You prefer to die?”
“Argk! W-what do you mean?”
“You killed one of our brothers. You expect to walk out of here alive?”
The aristocratic vapidity made a croaking noise. Master of Rituals opened his mouth to protest, and Durendal aimed a cow kick at his shin.
“You only thought you needed a Blade yesterday, my lord. You most certainly need one tonight. Without a Blade you can’t possibly leave Ironhall alive. Do you want me or not?”
“Leave him, Prime—we’ll let the juniors have some sport with him.” Grand Master had caught on. Master of Rituals, who had not, looked as if he were about to have a seizure.
“Please?” whimpered the Marquis. “I need protection! I’m no good with a sword.”
“Come then, my lord.” Durendal hustled him through the crowd of sullen watchers to a trough where water trickled endlessly from the rocky wall. “Rinse your mouth, drink, compose yourself.” He gestured at the on-lookers—the dismayed and the enraged—waving for them to leave. He ducked Nutting’s head, pulled it up, and wiped the splutters away with his sleeve. By that time the others had moved more or less out of earshot. He put his nose very close to Nutting’s.
“Now listen, my lord! Listen well. The King wants you to have a Blade and now I am Prime. My name is Durendal, in case you’ve forgotten, a name revered for more than three hundred years. I chose it so I would have to live up to it and I did. I am the best to come through Ironhall in a generation. If you want me, I am yours.”
The Marquis nodded vigorously.
“I would rather see you die to avenge poor Harvest,” Durendal said truthfully, “but I won’t feel like that after I’m bound. I can get you out alive if I have to fight our way out, and probably not even Grand Master could say as much.” He wondered if he was flying too high now, but Nutting seemed to be believing every word of this rubbish.
“What went wrong?” he moaned.
“Mostly Harvest wasn’t quite ready. I am.” Was this human chicken even capable of playing his part in the ritual? He was shaking like a broom out a window. “And you did not strike hard enough.”
“What?”
“You didn’t strike as if you meant it, my lord. Next time—when you put the sword in my heart—remember you are fighting to save your own life. Ram it all the way through, you hear? That’s how the King does it. Push till the point comes out of my back.”
Nutting moaned and began to retch again.
7
Somehow love point seemed inappropriate for the still-sniveling Marquis, but he was back there. Now Durendal stood opposite, at death. He was flanked by Byless and Gotherton. He wondered if they would be strong enough to restrain him when his reflexes took over, and if a man could cut himself to shreds from the inside out. The singing was over. The Brat had trilled the dedication, whey-faced and staring at Prime with owlish eyes, as he laid another sword on the anvil.
Master of Rituals had invoked the spirits, and either he had summoned far more than before or else Durendal was just more attuned to them. He sensed the haunted chamber quivering with power. Spirituality fizzed in his blood. Strange lights dancing over the stonework made every shadow numinous. His hand itched to take up the superb weapon gleaming on the anvil.
The Marquis had shrunk till he looked like a shivering, cowed child compared to the awesome Grand Master. Could a real man serve such a craven nothing all his life without going crazy? Could Durendal endure to be only an ornament, as poor Harvest had put it? Yes, by the spirits! This was what he had aimed for, worked for, struggled for—to be one of the King’s Blades. If his ward was useless in himself, then he would still have the finest protector in all Chivial. Perhaps a man might make something out of that worthless human rag if he tried hard enough, or perhaps the King had some secret, dangerous mission in mind for him. With real luck, there would be a war, when a young noble would be expected to raise a regiment and his Blade could go into battle at his side.
The invocation ended. At last it was his move, his moment, his triumph—five years he had worked for this! He turned to summon Gotherton forward, felt Gotherton’s fingers shake as he unbuttoned the shirt. He winked and almost laughed aloud at the disbelief he saw flood over the boyish face. In that oppressive heat, it was a relief to shed the garment, to flex his shoulders, and spin around. He winked at Byless also when he came, and this time was rewarded with a stare of open admiration. Why were they all so worried? Things only went wrong once every hundred years or so. He was not poor Harvest! He was the second Durendal, come into his destiny. He felt the thumb press on his chest, the cool touch of charcoal.
Now for that sword! His sword. Oh, bliss! It floated in his hand. Blue starlight gleamed and danced along the blade and a bar of gold fire burned in the cat’s eye cabochon on the pommel. He wanted to whirl it, caress it with a strop until it would cut falling gossamer, hold it in sunlight and admire the damask—but those luxuries must wait. He sprang up onto the anvil.
“My lord Marquis of Nutting!” The echoes rumbled and rolled—wonderful! “Upon my soul, I, Durendal, candidate in the Loyal and Ancient Order of the King’s Blades, do irrevocably swear in the presence of these my brethren that I will evermore defend you against all foes, setting my own life as nothing to shield you from peril, reserving only my fealty to our lord the King. To bind me to this oath, I bid you plunge this my sword into my heart that I may die if I swear falsely or, being true, may live by the power of the spirits here assembled to serve you until in time I die again.”
Then down to the floor and down on one knee.
Sallow and trembling, the Marquis accepted the sword, seeming ready to drop it at any moment. Durendal rose and stepped back until he felt the anvil against his calves. He sat.
Grand Master pulled the Marquis forward. He needed both hands to raise the sword this time. It wavered, flashing firelight, and the point made uncertain circles around the target—idiot! It would do no good if it missed Durendal’s heart, no good at all. He waited until the terrified noble looked up enough to meet his eyes. Then he smiled encouragingly and raised his arms. Byless and Gotherton pulled them back, bracing them against their waists. He must try not to thrash too hard when the shock came. He waited. He could hear Nutting’s teeth chatter.
“Do it now!” he said. He was about to add, “Do it right!” but the Marquis shrieked, “Serve or die!” and thrust the sword. Either he remembered Durendal’s instructions or he lost his footing, for he stumbled forward and the steel razored instantly through muscle, ribs, heart, lung, more ribs, and out into the space beyond. The guard thudded against Durendal’
s chest.
It did hurt. He had expected pain at the wound, but his whole body exploded with it. Through that furnace of agony he became aware of two terrified eyes staring into his. He wanted to say, “You must take it out again quickly, my lord,” but speaking with a sword through his chest proved difficult.
Grand Master hauled Nutting back bodily. Fortunately he remembered to take the sword with him.
Durendal looked down to watch the wound heal. The trickle of blood was astonishingly small, but then it always was—a heart could not pump when it had a nail through it. He felt the healing, a tickling sensation right through to his back, and also a huge surge of power and excitement and pride. Byless and Gotherton had released him. The Forge thundered with cheers, which seemed like an unnecessary commotion, although he’d always cheered for others in the past. A binding was routine, nothing to it.
He was a Blade, a companion in the Order. People would address him as Sir Durendal, although that was only a courtesy title.
“You didn’t need us!” Gotherton gasped. “You barely twitched!”
They could be thanked later, and the Brat, the armorers, and all the others. First things first. He rose and went to recover his sword before the glazed-looking Marquis dropped her. Now he could inspect her properly. She was a hand-and-a-half sword with a straight blade, about a yard long, the longest he could wear at his belt without tripping. She was single-edged for two-thirds of her length, double-edged near the point. He admired the grace of the fluted quillons, the delicate sweep of the knuckle guard, the finger ring for when he wanted to use her as a rapier, the fire of the cat’s-eye pommel that gave her her balance, which of course was perfect, neither too far forward for thrusting nor so far back that he would not be able to slash. The armorers had created a perfect all-around weapon for a swordsman of unusual versatility. Had they laid her among a hundred others, he would have picked her out as his. He admired his own heart’s blood on her, then slipped her through the loop on his belt. He would name her Harvest—a good name for a sword, a tribute to a friend who’d been treated badly by chance.
