The Silver Portal (Weapons of Power Book 1)

by David J Normoyle

“It’s gold,” she said, “and the latest fashion. They started wearing this style in Yalsomme this winter, and it hasn’t even taken off in Thulum yet.”

  Balti laughed. “She looks like a shiny yellow duck.”

  “Ducks don’t have puffy shoulders like that.”

  “Do too.”

  “You’re stupid.”

  “Take that back.” Balti dived at his brother, sending the two of them rolling across the floor.

  Suma decided to let them fight it out. Better they directed their energy at each other than destroy her outfit.

  The high table was no longer empty. Her older brother, Lucii, was on the right hand of the throne seat, and the Xercian archpriest was talking to Mama. Suma gave Lucii a nod—he winked back at her—then took her seat.

  Servants in black livery with two rows of metal buttons down the front were distributing plates and mugs. Smells of meat and mead carried in on the evening drafts were making the people restless, reminding them of their hunger. The food wouldn’t come out until the Duke arrived, of course.

  A fat man trundled behind Suma then took the seat between her and the duke’s throne. An extra-large chair had been placed there, obviously especially for him, but even so, it creaked alarmingly when he sat.

  Lucii sprang to his feet. “Duke Washmir, may I introduce Sumastra Delmoria.”

  Washmir didn’t say anything but just examined her with beady eyes. He reminded her of a giant bullfrog, warts and all. His tongue came out of the corner of his mouth, rooted against the side of his cheek, then disappeared again. He picked up a knife and rubbed it against the side of his plate, making a grinding sound.

  We get it, you’re hungry. No need to make that annoying noise. Washmir was the most odious being she’d met—except perhaps for Balti when he’d been eight years old. She smiled. He wasn’t much better now, but two years earlier, he’d been such a gross child. She was convinced he had been breeding beetles and worms in a dung patch under his bed. Or something worse.

  Lucii perched upon the seat on the other side of Suma. “You look happier than I expected.”

  “Than you expected? This is the happiest day of my life.”

  Lucii leaned closer and lowered his voice, nodding toward Washmir. “You’ve met him?”

  Suma nudged her head close to Lucii’s ear. “I won’t let him ruin my evening.”

  Lucii shrugged. “It’s your life. I’ve been told to never try to understand women.”

  Several dogs barked as the duke strode through the main entrance. He bent down to greet the hounds. Conversations stopped dead as all gazes turned to him. That’s how you make an entrance. Suma remembered all the work she and the maids had put into her appearance, getting fitted for the dress days before, the thrill that had gone through her when she’d put it on. And then no one had noticed except for her little brothers, who thought she looked like a puffy duck.

  “This is his arena,” Lucii said, also watching the Duke. “He knows all their names, their wives’ names, some of their kids’ names. And he can talk their language.” The Duke paused to slap one soldier on the back and shared a joke with another. “He knows everyone is hungry and can’t wait to dig into the food, yet still he delays, milking every moment. His men all love him and are terrified by him.”

  “Will he speak to me?” Suma asked.

  Lucii chuckled. “Yes, that’s right. I forgot about your strange worship for a father you don’t know. Remember when you thought that whenever he wasn’t in Xercia Castle that meant he was up in heaven?”

  Suma slapped Lucii’s shoulder. “I do. And you told me to ask the archpriest about it, you bastard. I was only seven, and he gave me enough prayers to leave my knees aching. Seriously though, will he?”

  Lucii stood and bowed slightly to a knife-thin man, just arriving. “Baron Cumille, excuse me for borrowing your seat.”

  Baron Cumille was in control of one of the biggest baronies in Delmoria. He had a white mustache and always looked as though he was coming from the funeral of a loved one. “No problem at all, Lord Lucii.”

  “As for your question, Suma, you should wish that he doesn’t.” Lucii returned to his place.

  The Duke continued his slow procession down the Great Hall. Washmir seemed to have lost the energy to grind his knife against his empty plate and held his bloated face low over the table, his eyelids half closed. The Duke surely realized that delaying the food was pure torture for his guest of honor.

  When the Duke finally reached his place at the center of the high table, he paused behind his chair, leaning his elbow against the backrest.

  The entire hall took a collective breath and released it as one when he sat down.

  “Let’s eat,” he shouted.

  The servants practically sprinted into the hall, carrying plates piled high with meats of different types, hares and partridges cooked whole, sliced stag and boar. They brought the food to the high table, offering everything first to the Duke. Washmir’s first plate was devoured—Suma wasn’t sure where all the partridge feathers disappeared to. He washed it down with long slurps of mead.

  Suma refused most of the plates and only picked at the food she did accept. She knew she should be hungry since she’d had nothing all day, but her nervous stomach was rejecting the idea of eating. Also, she wanted to be careful not to dirty her dress. She periodically glanced past Washmir—though he did provide a rather large obstruction—at the Duke. It was strange that she had rarely seen her father in close quarters.

  The Duke wasn’t wearing a thick cloak like Washmir and many of the other important nobles. Instead, he wore the clothes of a younger man: a fitted jerkin, pale colored, with a pattern of crosses and swirls; a leather belt; black hose; and black boots tied up to just below the knee. His sword hung at his waist, of course. Everyone knew he never went anywhere without that. His beard was well cropped, and his black hair was brushed back. She guessed he was handsome if men that old—he had to be nearing forty or even past it—could still be thought of that way. Most remarkable of all were his eyes, green like the depths of a pond. They were still and watchful at the same time.

  Once Duke Washmir had taken the edge off his hunger, he took to staring at Suma. She wished he’d say something, not because she wanted to talk to him but simply because she’d feel less uncomfortable. On her other side, Baron Cumille was most at home with a despondent silence about him. Suma wished she was down with Arron and Balti, even with the risk of Balti putting something slimy down her dress.

  The most exciting day of her life was proving positively boring. She’d never read about a banquet that didn’t have at least a sprinkling of fun and excitement. Most of the younger people weren’t close to the high table, but even squinting, Suma didn’t spot anyone likely to be a handsome prince. Possibly, one lurked in disguise, but Suma doubted it. Still, that sort of thing came when least expected, and a rocky journey to her Gwavin or Dondolier would make the whole thing all the sweeter.

  The Duke leaned back to see around Duke Washmir and gestured for Suma to come to him. Terror strapped her to her chair. It’s happening. She forced her limbs into motion, stiffly rising then approaching the Duke, her eyes downcast. She curtsied low.

  “What do you make of her?” asked the Duke.

  The legs of Duke Washmir’s chair squealed against the floorboards as he turned his chair around. “She is as young as you said, certainly.”

  “Young, that’s all? She’s not unpretty.”

  “I guess not. But...”

  “Out with it.”

  “I was watching her earlier. She has a rather unpleasant demeanor.”

  The Duke gave a humorless laugh. “I know you well enough to know you care little about that. Out with it.”

  “She has a... a rather boyish figure.”

  “I’m not fully grown out,” Suma blurted then held her hand to her mouth, realizing she shouldn’t have talked out of turn. But she wasn’t going to allow herself to be discussed like that. Her fifte
enth birthday was still months off, and everyone knew some girls didn’t get their curves until they were older. She arched her back slightly. Following her mother’s advice, she’d padded out the bust of her dress, but still he’d called her boyish.

  “See, she says it herself—she’s not fully grown out,” the Duke said.

  Washmir wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his beady eyes roving up and down Suma’s body. “Now I’ve seen her, we can discuss a dowry.”

  Dowry. Like a cymbal clash inside her head, Suma realized what was happening. They thought she was going to... with Duke Washmir?

  “I won’t marry him,” she said.

  The green of the Duke’s eyes chilled. He stood. “She’s a chatty mare, too. You’ll have plenty of dinner conversation.” His fingers curled around Suma’s upper arm. “However, the wine and rich food has gone to her head, so she’ll have to take her leave from you for tonight.”

  He walked across the back of the high table, and Suma was almost lifted off her feet as he forced her to walk alongside her, his fingers biting into her flesh. Tears filled her eyes, and she blinked them back.

  The Duke placed her in front of Mama. “I don’t ask you to do much, Bilenda, but surely you can manage your own daughters.”

  “She won’t listen to me,” Mama said. “She just fills her head with stories and fancies.”

  “Burn the books if that’s what it takes.”

  “I won’t marry him, Father. You can’t make me do it.” She wasn’t going to let anyone burn her books either.

  The Duke’s fingers tightened further, and he lowered his face until it was close to hers. “You have no comprehension of what I can make you do. Be glad that the only thing I want is to find you a noble husband.”

  He released Suma’s arm. “I’ll leave this in your hands, Bilenda. She’ll have a better demeanor next time we need her, and she’ll smile at the altar when the time is right. You’ll both regret it if I have to bother myself further about this.”

  He returned to his seat, leaving Suma standing in front of Mama. The archpriest concentrated on his food, and no one else was within earshot. For Suma, the world had stopped spinning, yet throughout the great hall, for everyone else, the laughter and joking and eating and drinking hadn’t been interrupted.

  “I’m sorry, child,” Mama said, “I did try to warn you. But you don’t know him. Sometimes a demonstration is worth a thousand words. A parent can shield her child from the world, but as you’ve been telling me, you’re a woman grown now.”

  “Oh, Mama.” Suma dashed away. Her tears flooded out. She’d held them back while the Duke’s fingers had pinched into her arm, but they escaped, sliding down her cheeks.

  She was glad the side door was close and hoped she was as unnoticed leaving as she had been entering. Outside in the corridor, she almost crashed into one of the servants. He was carrying a bowl of gravy and only just managed to avoid spilling it as he lurched out of her way. Suma didn’t even slow. She’d thought to return to her rooms, but her feet led her in a different direction. Only when she reached an outer door did she realize her destination.

  The moon was full, shining its ugly, fat face down on Suma when she wanted to remain hidden. However, with everyone at the banquet, no one would see her. Crammed close to an inner wall, the Duchess’s Garden was only a few paces wide and a dozen long. Mama had told Suma she’d had to fight to get a garden even that big. Since Suma had met the Duke, she understood better how hard it would be to get him to do something he didn’t want.

  I called him Father, she remembered. Well, why not! Her brothers had no problem calling him that, why should she? That was what he was, after all. She’d created an aura of mystique in her head about him for no good reason. He was just the Duke of Delmoria and her father.

  A hedge of rosebushes encircled the garden. Suma didn’t want to go around to the small gate, so she pushed between two bushes. She would have given her brothers hell for doing the same, but she couldn’t do any real damage since the flowers weren’t in bloom. Plus, why should I care about some stupid roses? She was to marry the Duke of Washmir. Her life was effectively over.

  Her dress caught on some thorns. She struggled through, ignoring the ripping sound as her dress tore. What good is the dress after tonight? She wasn’t going to wear anything nice for Washmir. How is it that he is old and fat and ugly, yet my figure is the problem?

  Reaching the other side of the hedge, she let herself fall onto her knees. The dark grass was heavy with dew and instantly soaked the bottom of her dress. She fingered the sleeve, half hanging off. Her tears had dried up, but seeing the ruined dress made her feel as though she might start crying again.

  She then saw something, just lying there in the grass within arm’s reach—an axe of some sort. No, not just an axe, a battle-axe. She picked it up. A golden glow flared then faded. Suma glanced up at the moon then back at the axe. She got to her feet. From her chambers, she had often watched the soldiers fight, and she’d never seen a weapon like that. The axe was double-sided, with no decorations marring the smooth metal. It was sheer and elegant. The blade and handle were all of one piece, both metal, white in the moonlight. Suma was no expert in weapons, but in the same way one instantly differentiated an expensive dress from a cheap knock-off, she knew that wasn’t a weapon that would be left lying around.

  She waved it gently back and forth. I should barely be able to lift a weapon this size with two hands, she realized, yet I hold it lightly with one. She took a few swipes through the air in front of her then squealed delightedly. The slice cut through the moonbeams with a soft whoosh.

  Weapons weren’t used to cut through wood, she knew, but Suma could not resist experimenting further. She aimed at the trunk of the nearest rosebush. With a thunk, the wood split open, and the bush fell down on top of her. She didn’t even try to get out of the way, amazed that the axe sliced cleanly through with virtually no resistance. She batted at the bush with her left hand just before it hit her. Thorns cut into her hand, and the bush hopped several paces away.

  Weirder and weirder. She lifted the rosebush and threw it without putting much effort into the attempt. It flew halfway across the yard. Suma darted to the gap in the hedge that she’d created and surveyed the yard then the castle walls, looking for watchers. Apparently, no one had seen her. She glanced back at the axe. Moonlight glinted all along its edge, and she couldn’t resist smiling. She’d never heard of anything like that, but it had given her the power of a strength-mage.

  She remembered Duke Washmir, and the smile fell from her face. A magical weapon didn’t affect marriages. Or did it?

  Men were important because they learned weapons and fought in wars. Father had been watching her brothers train out in the yard all their lives. What if the Duke’s daughter fights better than his sons? He wouldn’t see her as a mare to be sold off, then.

  She thought about her favorite stories and the heroes and heroines in them. Gwavin and his Lara. Dondolier and Princess Eveleen. The heroines didn’t always have it easy. They had their struggles before their princes found them. It wouldn’t do for Suma’s prince to find her married to an old man.

  Suma touched her upper arm, where a bruise was beginning to form, remembering the Duke’s cruel fingers and the chill in his stare. As Lucii had reminded her, when she was younger, she had mistaken the Duke for Mezziall up in heaven. She raised the axe up before her. If she had to stand up to God himself to find her Gwavin or her Dondolier, that was what she was going to do.

  Chapter 5

  Simeon ducked low in the hedgerow, hiding. He wasn’t going to perform the ritual and let himself be raised to manhood, not even if everyone in Pizarr took turns beating him. Mud squelched close by. A branch was sticking into Simeon’s thigh, and his leg muscles protested the crouch he’d settled into. Better lack of comfort than a beating, though. Or worse.

  He couldn’t keep taking those beatings. Bruises patterned his flesh, two of his teeth were loose—on
e sure to fall out—his tongue was cut so badly that eating was painful, and a thin wound on his left arm was beginning to fester. At least his head was clear again. It had rung like a bell for almost a full day after his previous encounter.

  Low voices stole up the hillside. He wasn’t sure how well hidden he was—when he’d heard them coming, he’d scampered across the fields and thrown himself into the first hiding place he’d seen. His tribemates hadn’t been in view to know which direction he’d gone, so he was surprised they were so close already. However, he hoped they would pass right by him, with a bit of luck.

  A leg slashed through the nettles, striking him in the shin, and he yelped. Another kick followed, that one missing Simeon but spraying nettle leaves across his face.

  “Okay, okay. I’m coming out,” he said.

  Simeon crawled out. Three of his tribe awaited him: Freid, Abel, and Gorms. They hadn’t brought just their feet and fists. They carried weapons.

  Simeon started to stand up, but a punch in the face from Freid, followed by Gorms’s kick in the stomach, left him on his back, winded, sucking for air.

  “The tribe isn’t messing around anymore,” Freid said. He had been Simeon’s best friend—or perhaps second-best friend, at the end. He hadn’t been among those who’d beaten Simeon on the other occasions. He’d kept himself apart before.

  “Oh, is that what you’ve been doing?” There was a strange taste in Simeon’s mouth. He turned to the side and spat. A glob of blood with a tooth in the middle landed in the mud.

  Gorms laughed.

  Freid ignored him. “There is only one way this ends. You know it. I know it. Your birth mother knows it. Hell, the whole village knows it.

  “My birth mum?” Tarla had been an ally. Of sorts.

  “How do you think we found you so fast? She rushed out to us and pointed to exactly where you were hiding.”

  “That’s disappointing.” He was truly on his own. Will she keep letting me stay in her house? Where can I go if she doesn’t?

  “Can we get on with this?” Abel asked. “I enjoyed beating the piss out of the fool the first few times. Now it’s just getting tiresome.”