Chapter 1
Feray decided it was the glorious type of spring day that made a person feel as if anything in all the world was possible. She was twenty-six, happily married, and more content than she had ever been. From the open doorway of her small cottage Feray could see all of the things she loved most. In the inviting sunshine the chickens darted around the yard. Luc was chasing them, his face a bright red as he ran. At four years old he was just fast enough to keep the chickens moving, but not fast enough to actually catch them, although the plump laying hens seemed to enjoy his attention and would allow him to almost snatch them up before they darted quickly out of reach. Luc’s laughter was contagious and Feray couldn’t help but giggle as she watched her son scamper through the grass.
Nearby, in a rock-walled structure, Feray’s husband, Marc, had a hot fire burning in his forge. The morning had been filled with the rhythm of Marc’s hammer on steel. At that moment, as Feray looked over, Marc was settling behind his grinding wheel. She knew enough to realize he was in the finishing stages of a project. Sparks were bouncing all around him and it would only be a matter of time before Luc saw his father and went squealing toward the smithy.
There were birds singing in the trees, and a soft breeze wafted around the homestead. It blew through the open windows of the cottage, giving everything inside a fresh, invigorating scent. Feray had just finished cleaning and picked up the two wooden buckets she used to collect drinking water from the nearby stream. A walk in the sunshine was a welcome chore anytime in Feray’s opinion and she hummed a happy tune as she walked down the wide path that led from the cottage to the stream.
There were squirrels dancing through the trees on the far side of the little river, and Feray’s two draft horses were munching grass in the meadow beside the milk cow. She couldn’t help but reflect on just how fine her life was as she started down the hill toward the stream. She was happy and felt that everything in her life was just as it should be. Her husband was happy and busy. Their son was growing and learning more every day. Feray guessed he would be in the smithy helping Marc soon. He was already curious as to what his father did in the stone workshop. In time, he would grow up hammering steel and learning from his father how to coax iron from stone, how to forge it into steel, and finally craft it into useful items like plow blades and cookware, perhaps even more artistic items like jewelry.
At the stream, Feray bent low, gazing into the clear water that flowed swiftly past the stone-littered banks. The large trout that resided in an eddy between two large stones on the far side of the stream came swimming toward her. It jumped out of the water, twisting and thrashing, before falling back into the stream with a splash.
“Hey, you’re getting water all over me,” Feray said with a giggle. “Don’t make me fetch my net.”
The fish couldn’t hear her, the water was gurgling as it flowed over the stream bed and around the large stones, yet the trout swam quickly in circles, showing off its prowess as if it had heard her.
Feray dipped her buckets into the water one at a time. They filled quickly and she stood up, holding them by the woven hemp handles as the weight of the buckets pulled at her shoulders, but Feray was used to the chore. Every day she carried buckets of water from the stream to her cottage, most days she made the trip several times. The muscles in her arms, shoulders, neck, and back were accustomed to the strain. Her legs moved gracefully under the burden she carried. Feray was more than strong enough to make the journey without spilling a drop.
Back at the cottage, she dipped a large, colorful stein into the water. It was still very cold, and she knew Marc’s work was hot and physical. She carried the mug out to the workshop. The smithy was a round stone building, open on one side with a large, covered, outdoor workspace. Marc was at the grinding wheel, his feet peddling in a slow, steady pace that made the wheel spin fast enough to grind metal, but not so fast that it grew hot and unusable.
“What are you making?” Feray asked before taking a sip of the cool, sweet water.
“A surprise,” Marc said with a wink. “What’s that you’re drinking there?”
“Oh this? Nothing special,” she replied with a smile. “Just fresh water from the stream.”
“Fresh is it? And cold I would think.”
“Frosty,” she teased.
“And would I be getting a drink of it, perhaps?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Why don’t you show me what you’re working on?”
“This?” Mark held up a long slender blade. “This, my dear, is something special.”
Feray wasn’t sure what to say at first. Her husband was holding what was obviously a sword, although it was more graceful than any weapon she had ever seen before. It was as long as Marc’s forearm, from elbow to fingertips. The blade had a wonderfully exotic shape, almost like a leaf, narrow at the hilt, then gently curving out slightly before swooping back in toward the tip. There ghostly lines and swirls in the metal, which had a bluish tint.
The hilt was undecorated and there was no handle on the long, narrow tang, but it was obviously a weapon. What surprised Feray wasn’t the craftsmanship of the sword, but the fact that he had made a weapon at all. Marc wasn’t an armorer, he made useful, everyday items which he then traded in the village. Making weapons without the earl’s consent was considered a crime, and even though there was no reason to worry that anyone would ever find out about the sword, just knowing Marc had broken the law sent a shiver through her, and made the day seem less cheerful.
“You're making a sword?” she said.
“Not just any sword,” he said, obviously excited. “Just look at it.”
He held the weapon toward her. Feray set the mug of water down where her husband could reach it, and then took the sword. She couldn’t deny the beauty of the weapon. It was lighter than she expected, the proportions were perfect, and she could see just by looking that the weapon already had a honed edge on either side of the blade.
“It’s a fine weapon,” she said, studying the wavy lines and swirls in the steel. “Why does it look like this?”
“It’s a new technique,” Marc said. “A way of binding scraps of metal together. The more layers we start with, the more design there is in the steel. Isn’t it beautiful?”
“Yes, of course it is, Marc. But it’s a sword. I’m not sure beauty is what they’re made for.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Marc said. “Who says a fine blade can’t be both a work of art and a useful tool? The great thing about the steel is that it’s harder, more durable than a regular sword. That weapon will last for centuries.”
“It’s against the law to forge weapons outside Glory Keep,” Feray said, finally revealing what was really bothering her about the sword. “The earl could throw you in the dungeons, or worse.”
“That law isn’t official,” Marc argued. “King Olmas never endorsed it. And besides, it’s to keep people from making weapons to sell to the earl’s enemies, not to stop a man from forging a blade for his family. This will be Luc’s sword one day. And I have other plans for it as well.”
“What plans?” Feray asked.
“Well, I was thinking I could take it to the festival.”
“No,” Feray said before her husband could finish.
“Just let me explain.”
“Explain what? You’ll be arrested and carried away. Have you gone mad? You’re not a knight or even a squire, Marc.”
“No, I’m not. But just listen for a moment, will you,” he said, moving closer to his wife. “The law says I can’t carry a weapon, so I won’t. It will be wrapped up in our belongings. If I get a chance, I plan to show it to the earl, maybe even the king. I’ll explain that it was an experiment and that I can teach their armorers how to forge them. For a price, of course. It could really improve our fortunes.”
“Or it could land you in the stocks,” Feray said. “I don’t like it.”
“Of course you don’t, you’re a sensible woman. But you married a dreamer, dear,
and I want to show the kingdom what I’ve done with my life. I’m not just a pot maker you know.”
“I do know that,” she said, pulling him close. “But you’re my dreamer and I want you around for always.”
“I’m not going anywhere, my love. You have my heart. I wouldn’t get far without that.”
“It worries me, is all,” Feray said. “It’s a risk.”
“All of life is a risk,” Marc replied. “Yes, this is a sword, but I only forged a weapon because that is the best use of this new technique. It makes steel the likes of which hasn’t been seen before. It’s too difficult a technique to waste on plow blades, or nails, or kettles. But it makes a kingly blade, so why not take advantage of the opportunity to show what it can really do?”
“Alright,” Feray relented. “I trust you. But don’t go chopping anything off. And Luc doesn’t touch it until he’s older.”
“How much older?” Marc asked.
“Eighteen at least,” she said. “Maybe twenty.”
“Oh, is that all,” said as he began to tickle her.
“Stop that,” she cried, before being overcome with laughter.
Like a siren’s song, Luc came running to his parents, anxious to find out what was making his mother laugh so hard.
“You want some of this?” Marc said, snatching the four-year-old off his feet and tickling his ribs until the boy squealed.
“I love you, Marc,” Feray said.
“And I love you,” he replied, pulling her close for a kiss.
“Gross!” Luc declared.
Feray and Marc both laughed at their son, then the tickling began in earnest.
Chapter 2
The mood in the darkness was tense. The only light was from the ring of torches and a glaring bonfire near the earl’s elevated platform. Uthar and his son Ian were there, but neither were the center of attention. King Olmas was in the earl’s grand chair, a heavy wooden throne covered with animal skins and pillows. He was an imposing figure, much taller than the average man. Some people called him the Raven King, others the Vulture. The king’s shoulders were stooped, his long neck was thin, and his large nose curved down like a beak. When he wore his thick, royal robe he looked like a giant carrion bird that was perched on a branch waiting for disaster to strike so that he could swoop down and feast on the remains. He was painfully thin, with sunken eyes and only a fringe of short, gray hair around his ears.
Earl Uthar, in contrast to the king, was a large man, with a barrel chest, massive arms, and a thick mane of dark hair that was only starting to show streaks of gray. As one of the most powerful rulers in Floralon, he was King Olmas’ chief rival. It was well known that Earl Uthar could count on the support of the southern earls, while the king’s supporters were in the north. Uthar knew that the king would like nothing better than to find an excuse to cast Uthar down and replace him with a less threatening earl. Uthar was no fool, and perhaps his allegiance was only a facade, but he gave his superior no reason to strike against him. Which was why Uthar had arranged for a tour through his ancestral holdings, known officially as the Darnish Counties. His people could celebrate a visit from the king, while Uthar showed that he was not involved in anything that could be construed as traitorous.
All around the ring of torches Uthar’s knights and men at arms were mingled with the large retinue of knights, nobles, and warriors who had accompanied the king. In Floralon, the high kingship was held by the strongest of the nine earls, which often led to civil wars among the rulers of the counties. It was only a matter of time before Uthar launched a campaign to wrest control from King Olmas, but the king was a crafty ruler and Uthar knew he would only get one chance to win the crown. If he failed, King Olmas would not hesitate to throw Uthar into one of his many dungeons and afflict the Darnish Counties with costly sanctions in order to keep them weak. Uthar’s son Ian was not ready to rule, he had not tasted battle or outgrown the humors of childhood. He was a man of twenty-two years, yet he still looked and acted like an overgrown boy. There was little Uthar could do except to bide his time and remain in power until his son became a man.
Unfortunately, Uthar’s attempts to have more children had failed. Some said he was cursed, but Uthar believed his inability to father more children was due to a wound he had received in his youth. Uthar was a big man, his father and grandfather had been big men, with big appetites and ambitions. Ian was the opposite. He was thin, handsome, cruel, and worst of all, complacent. Uthar had no illusions that if he could manage to win the throne by subduing King Olmas and the northern earldoms, Ian would let the hard-won sovereignty slip through his delicate fingers as soon as he inherited the throne. The possibility that Ian was not Uthar’s own flesh and blood was something that the Lord of the Darnish Counties had accepted long ago. His wife’s indiscretions were not a subject the earl wanted to delve into. She had been removed after failing to provide Uthar a second child many years ago. If she had cheated on him, she had been punished and Uthar could scarcely afford to be without a natural heir. Being a powerful lord gave him the opportunity to threaten King Olmas, but an earl without an heir would soon be threatened by the nobles who served him.
“You are in for a treat, Lord Uthar,” the king said. “Orin’s prowess is unequaled.”
“As I have heard,” Uthar said. “You must be proud.”
“I am pleased the way one is pleased to have a fine hound, or comely chamber maid,” King Olmas said. “Orin has no honor, he was cursed in the womb, but the boy has his uses.”
Uthar had heard the stories of the king’s firstborn son. Orin had been born with nothing but a stub for a left hand. His right was scarcely better, with one long protrusion more akin to a fin on a fish than a human hand, and one short knob of a thumb. Still, the king had another son, Prince Alvee, who was moving among the crowd of nobles and knights, making jokes and joining in the revelry while Uthar’s heir skulked on the platform nearby.
“You do not worry that he could be hurt?” Uthar asked, as they waited for the fighting to begin.
“The best thing that could happen would be for Orin to die in combat. A man without honor can wish for no more than a glorious death.”
“Of course, but still, he is your son,” Uthar said, reminding the king that he had sired a cripple.
“Prince Alvee is my son,” Olmas said in an almost casual tone, but Uthar caught the slight undercurrent of irritation. “Orin is a hound, well trained and useful. You shall see.”
At that moment a man walked into the ring of torches and the crowd fell silent. Uthar had never seen anyone like Orin. The man was huge. Taller even than his father, but with a straight back, wide shoulders, and thick cords of muscle. He was shirtless, revealing the mass of scars across his back, shoulders, and chest. On his head he wore a leather skull cap that came down over most of his face, with little slits for his eyes and nose. Fur-lined breeches and thick, knee-high boots covered his legs. His left hand stump was covered with a leather cuff, but there was nothing on the right hand. It looked oddly deficient, but every other inch of the man screamed of his lethal efficiency.
Uthar held up two fingers. Of the knights and fighters in his war band, Uthar had half a dozen men who excelled in close quarter fights. Some were big men who preferred to wrestle their opponents into submission. Others were smaller and fast as a viper strike. They were able to subdue much larger men with their knowledge of pressure points, or by crippling their opponents with lightning-fast blows. Uthar would normally trust his men in any match up, but the sight of Orin unnerved him a bit. Perhaps, he considered to himself, it was the leather mask that hid his face. It was hard to believe the hulking man was actually human.
A horn sounded, and the fight began. Uthar felt a stab of worry. Wrestling matches, feats of strength, and mock battles were common enough, especially when visiting nobles paid Uthar a visit. But the earl couldn’t help but feel this fight was something more than just a contest. Orin was a monster, and it didn’t take much insight to
realize he was hungry for blood.
The crowd began to cheer as the contestants circled one another, sizing up their opponents. Uthar could hear people calling for bets, or shouting encouragement to the fighters. Uthar was quiet. He felt as though he had been led into a trap by the king, who would use his monstrous offspring to kill Uthar’s best fighters and fill his war band with fear. No one would be anxious to fight the king once they saw Orin tearing their friends to pieces.
The fight began just as Uthar expected. His two fighters spread to either side of the giant Orin. One started for the big man’s right, then stopped suddenly as the man on his left darted in. Both of Uthar’s fighters were heavy men, and very strong, but Orin was unequaled. He stopped the charge of the man on his left as if he were a child. When the man on his right came hurrying to join the fray, Orin twisted his hips and sent the first man flipping over and crashing into the second. They both hit the ground hard, sending up a cloud of dust. Orin calmly backed away and waited for the men to get back to their feet.
Even from a hundred paces away, Uthar could see the outrage on the faces of his men. The crowd was screaming and shouting, some cheering, others calling encouragement, and still others were laughing as they ridiculed Uthar’s champions.
The two men charged Orin again, this time dashing forward side by side, each diving for one of the giant’s legs. Orin bent at the waist and took the full brunt of the charge without being driven back even a single step. He wrapped his long, muscular arms around the necks of his opponents from above. The two fighters were scrambling hard, their boots digging into the turf like angry bulls about to charge, while their hands locked around Orin’s massive legs in an attempt to lift the big man off his feet. Orin raised up, his massive arms tightening on his opponents’ throats. Their efforts quickly became a desperate attempt to break free of the bigger man’s grip.
Uthar couldn’t believe the raw strength of the king’s son. Orin had no hands to grasp together, yet his own fighters couldn’t break the bigger man’s grip. They threw wild punches and tried to drive their knees into Orin’s legs or groin, but with one massive heave Orin lifted both men off the ground at the same time, hoisting them a full six feet up before slinging them back into the ground.
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