Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

King Thorvald Stormson strode into the grand hall of the citadel from the small waiting room behind the dais, his ceremonial crimson cloak billowing behind him. The hall was well-lit by the morning sun streaming through the clear, high windows. He always enjoyed coming in here on a sunny day. Colors danced along the polished white marble floor from the stained glass windows just below the clear ones. They twisted and spun like lovers locked in an eternal dance, their mosaic patterns gliding across the floor. The banners of Mountainfall stood starkly still as they hung from the exposed beams that spanned the ceiling. The polished white marble walls held no smoke stain from the torches nestled in their sconces on the wall. Only master weavers of earth and water knew the secret to achieve such a feat.

As he stopped at the top of the stairs leading down from the dais, he looked at the familiar faces that had gathered to witness today’s knighting ceremony. His cousin and Master of War, General Heath Stormson, stood at the base of the three stairs and was closest to the dais. Standing to the left side of the long crimson runner that went from the base of the stairs to the massive oak doors at the main entrance of the grand hall.

Heath’s tunic bore the colors of the royal family, red with gold trim. Black pants tucked neatly into knee-high black leather boots polished to perfection. His bald head reflected some of the light while his full brown beard, meticulously maintained, seemed to absorb it. Always a man of contrasts, he seemed to enjoy the paradoxical display of his differences. A man of extreme intelligence and brute strength. Blademaster and peacemaker. He was known as a man who could broker peace between lifelong enemies, or just as easily defeat them both on the battlefield. His Stormson blue eyes never betrayed which man he was at any given moment. It was best to appeal to the peacemaker since the other option meant certain death.

Standing next to Heath was Rakin Stormson, the High Priest of the Order of Earth and Water. He was Heath’s older brother by many years. His long white hair was tied back in a ponytail that reached his waist. Face clean-shaven and lined with wrinkles, his Stormson blue eyes betrayed his heritage as well. He wore the ceremonial robes of his office, blue on gray with tidal waves crashing against rocks at his shoulders, trimmed with gold at the collar, cuffs, and hem to denote his rank. At the center of his chest, a rune symbolizing earth and water as inseparable partners hung from a large gold chain that draped from his shoulders. His mind was sharp as a freshly honed razor, and his ability to weave the elements of his Order was unmatched.

Standing slightly to the side and behind Rakin was Tove Falkenburg, his apprentice and a very gifted weaver in her own right. She looked beautiful as always, her long blond hair braided, lay over her left shoulder. Her sea-blue eyes so closely matched that of her blue dress. She always had a charming smile for the king, but today, he knew that smile was for someone else. He knew she was excited to be here, not for the ceremony itself, but for the man that smile was meant for.

To the right of the runner and closest to the stairs in the position of honor was his First Knight, Titus Voth. The massive man matched his cousin Heath in polished baldness, but that was where the similarities ended. There was no guessing what Titus was about, no contrasting possibilities. There was nothing but pure determination and grit permanently etched on his face. Dressed in his black uniform trimmed in gold, he was a man who brooked no nonsense. He couldn’t help but notice the irritated look on his face. Unusual, because the man always looked irritated, but this morning, especially so.

Standing next to Titus was Ambassador Eldrien Altherin. Dressed in a formal forest green jacket with silver trim and a collared white blouse beneath. His pants matched the green of his jacket and were neatly tucked into polished tan leather boots. His violet eyes shone in the morning light, a perfect complement to his long blond hair tucked behind his pointed ears. It was amazing how closely he resembled his Aunt, Queen Vaelith Shal’theris of Iltharion. He had always admired the wicked-looking blade that hung from his left hip. He had tried to find out where he had acquired such an exquisite weapon, but Eldrien always politely refused to reveal its origins. He had been sworn to secrecy by his Aunt and had no intention of breaking her trust.

Next to Eldrien stood Knight Commander Davis Brookinsly. Wearing the black and red of the Vanguard, his uniform was trimmed in gold to denote his rank as High Knight of the King’s Vanguard. He was a wiry and wrinkled old veteran of many battles. His uniform, once well fitted over muscle and smooth skin, now hung loosely from his frame. Gray eyes, hair, and beard complemented the polished silver helm he held tucked in the crook of his left elbow. The silver helm was awarded to a Knight when his fighting days were over. It was a sign for all to see that the bearer had proven himself in battle, time and time again. His position in the King’s court was now as a tactician and advisor. For all of his many years, he still maintained the arrow-straight posture that graced him to this very day. No man in the kingdom could match Davis’ steel spine and resolve. Thorvald only hoped he could stand as tall and proud as this man before him when he reached that age.

He felt an affinity for everyone present in the grand hall this day. All of those in attendance had served him with honor and a sense of duty unparalleled by any king or queen’s court that he was aware of. After nodding gracefully to each of those present, he noticed that someone was missing. “Where on Dricarro is Valsigian?” his voice genuinely concerned.

Titus simply grunted in response. His extra irritated expression now explained as he rubbed the sides of his temple with his fingers. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” his voice came out in a low rumble. “I sent Sergeant Dahl to retrieve him from the chapel a while ago, as you requested.” He dropped his hands from the sides of his head, and a look of true concern briefly crossed his face before he regained his usual stoicism. “I don’t know what could be taking them this long.”

Thorvald glanced in Tove’s direction, hoping to glean some knowledge from her reaction to Titus’ statement. Her face only revealed the same concerned look that was beginning to befall everyone else. Just as he was about to send her to find the missing man of the hour, the heavy oak doors grumbled on their hinges and began to swing inward. Once fully open, they revealed two figures highlighted in the rising sun’s light, panting from exertion.

The brightness of the sunlight spilling in through the doors shielded their faces from view. One of the figures, the one wearing white, was highlighted by the sun’s rays. The light reflected off his pure white ceremonial clothing as if he were an angel sent from the heavens. Tove wasn’t the only one who gasped at the sight. The members of the court in attendance, including Thorvald himself, were stunned and awed by the image created by the exact right combination of timing and elements. It was as if Zerathis himself was presenting this man, at this perfect moment in time, in the most spectacular way possible.

The other figure, dressed in the green and black of the Royal Guard, began closing the doors behind him as both men entered the hall. As the light faded with the closing of the doors, the faces of the men came into plain view. Dayne and Valsigian had finally made it to the ceremony that Thorvald knew they had been waiting for since they were boys. By the looks of them, they had just run as fast and hard as they could from the chapel in a poor attempt to make it on time. Valsigian, still trying to catch his breath, began walking towards the gathered group at the base of the dais. When he reached the first members of the court, he dropped to a knee and bowed his head deeply, arms spread out to the sides in a gesture meant to convey apology. “Your Majesty, my deepest apologies for being late,” he stammered, his voice still trembling with the effort of speaking between rapid breaths. He began to breathe more evenly and deeply. “I need to speak with you, in private, if I may be so bold to ask.”

Thorvald studied him for a moment as he considered his request. He looked over at Titus for any sign, any hint of how he should deal with the situation. Titus was irritated, as usual. His expression remained unchanged. There would be no help from his First Knight in dealing with his Squire. He let a hint of irritation creep into his voice, “If you needed to speak to me privately, perhaps you should have been here before the ceremony was to begin.”

“I’m so sorry, Majesty,” he managed to contort himself into an even deeper bow. “I wouldn’t dare ask if it wasn’t incredibly urgent.”

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

“Urgent or not, young Valsigian,” his voice now more clearly displeased. “It will have to wait until after the ceremony. There are urgent matters that those who managed to get here on time need to attend to as well.” He let out a slightly exasperated breath to further drill home the point that he would tolerate no further delays. “Out of great respect for your father and Titus, I am willing to overlook this breech of decorum and continue with the ceremony.” He stepped down the three stairs from the dais. “Rise, Squire Valsigian Hunterson,” his voice taking on the air of authority. “Come and take a knee here among my court,” he motioned with his right hand, indicating the space directly in front of him and surrounded by the members of his court.

Valsigian quickly rose from his supplicated position and bowed to his king, “Yes, Majesty.” He strode forward, arms held out to the front, hands open and palms up to show to all in attendance that he came to his king unarmed as dictated by tradition. As soon as he reached the indicated spot, he knelt on his right knee, back straight, head held high, with his hands folded on top of his knee. Thorvald noticed the haunted look in Valsigian’s eyes at that moment. The boy was terrified of something. Perhaps he should have granted his request to speak in private. He decided that it was too late now; whatever it was, it would have to wait.

The sound of ringing steel filled the now quiet grand hall as Thorvald slowly pulled Tyr free from its scabbard. The blade continued to sing for a moment after being fully drawn. It’s high-pitched ringing softly subdued after the passage of a few seconds. A testament to the craftsmanship and materials, the Starfall forged blade possessed. The blade was black as night, while the razor-sharp, honed edges glistened with silvery light.

Tyr had been made from a deposit of metal that had been found thousands of years ago in the far northern reaches of the Ayan Empire. The ore had been a gift of peace between the once rulers of both lands. Back before the eternal war had begun, that had been raging on and off for almost as long. It was rumored that there were only two blades forged from the strange ore. One for the King of Mountainfall named Tyr, and the other for the Emperor of Ayan named Von. The two swords were brothers, forged by the Master Blade Smith of Starfall and the High Priest of the Order of Wind and Fire, working together for days without rest.

Legend tells that the crafting of the blades required so much of the Blessing, and forge temperatures so hot, that the birth of the blades forever destroyed Starfall’s greatest forge. Within days of the forging, both men who had crafted the swords fell ill and died within hours of one another. The feat had never been tried again, and even attempting to do so had been banned by the rulers of Starfall. To this day, the law still stands. It is engraved on the sealed doors to the great forge where the High Priest and the Master Blade Smith were interred. The whereabouts of Von are now a mystery. It was last seen in the hands of Obsidia’s husband, Emperor Glennus Trall, when he was slain during the battle of Raven’s Keep. Only his blood-covered armor had been recovered and presented to his grieving widow.

Valsigian closed his eyes and bowed his head in preparation for the knighting ceremony as Tyr’s last ringing sounds died out. Thorvald held the massive great-sword in both hands, cross-guard at eye level, point to the ceiling. Looking to the heavens, he began to speak the solemn oaths of knighthood, his voice deep and resonant, “Lord Zerathis, I bid you to hear the oaths about to be sworn in your name on this day of honor.” He looked back down at the young man kneeling before him, keeping his voice clear and loud, he continued, “Do you, Valsigian Hunterson, vow to use your strength to protect the weak, use your body to shield the innocent and stand steadfast against the enemies of this kingdom, as all knights before you have sworn to do?”

Valsigian took a deep breath, and his hands unintentionally moved in the direction of his ribs before he stilled them. His voice revealed a tinge of pain, but finished strong, “I swear it on my father's name, First Knight Aldric Hunterson, my King.”

Thorvald laid the flat side of Tyr’s blade atop Valsigian’s left shoulder. “I hereby decree that you are named, Protector of the realm.” He twisted his wrist to bring the honed edge of Tyr’s blade to rest lightly on top of the same shoulder. “Let your blood be a symbol that your vow has been sworn and accepted.” As he spoke the words, he relaxed his grip and let the full weight of Tyr’s massive blade cut through the white linen shirt and sink into the flesh below. Fresh red blood began to flow from the cut, seeping slowly into the shoulder and upper sleeve of the pure white garment. Tove made a quiet but audible gasp at the sight of his blood. She held a hand to her eyes, not wanting to witness any more blood being shed. Valsigian, to his credit, didn’t even wince at the pain. This was the first blooding of the ritual. By the end, his entire shirt would be soaked with his blood.

Raising the sword back to the ceiling, he began the second oath. “Do you, Valsigian Hunterson, Protector of the realm, vow to swear your service, your honor, and your sword, to the Kingdom of Mountainfall, to its King, and to the members of the court that have been placed above you, until your last breath?

“I swear it upon my honor, that I will serve the kingdom and all who are appointed above me, until my dying breath, my King.” his voice became stronger, full of purpose. He looked up at his king, the fear once present in his eyes had been replaced with resolve, as he prepared for the second blooding.

Tyr had now been laid atop his head, flat of the blade resting gently on his hair. “I hereby decree that you are named Guardian of the kingdom.” Thorvald raised the blade slightly, rotating his wrist, and he swiftly and precisely sliced the top of Valsigian’s left ear. The blood began to flow freely, trickling down the back of his neck and soaking into the back of his shirt. Tove’s reaction to the second blooding was a little more muted than the first. Her hand had lowered from her eyes and now only covered her mouth. Valsigian didn’t even flinch. “Let your blood mark your oath and seal your vow.”

Placing the flat of Tyr’s blade on top of Valsigian’s head once again, Thorvald began the third oath. “Do you, Valsigian Hunterson, Protector of the realm, Guardian of the kingdom, swear to speak no untruths to your superiors, uphold the laws of this kingdom, and obey all rightful orders issued to you upon punishment of death if you disobey?”

“I swear it upon my life, that I will obey the lawful orders of my superiors, I will stand in opposition to any who would violate the laws of this land, and that I will speak the truth no matter the cost,” his voice resonant with promise and truthfulness. He lowered his head once again, in preparation for the third blooding.

“I hereby decree that you are named Justicar of Mountainfall.” Tyr once again moved in a flash. “Let your blood reveal the truth of your words and seal your vow.” The cut to the top of his right ear was just as precise. The blood trickled down the front of his neck and began staining the front of his shirt. Tove looked away, her discomfort at the sight of so much of Valsigian’s blood was wearing on her. The ceremony for raising a Damsel to a Dame didn’t require a blooding ritual. This was the first knighting ceremony she had attended after being elevated to Rakin’s apprentice. Thorvald wasn’t sure he would see her at any other in the future, judging by her reactions here today. He didn’t know the girl to be squeamish. Perhaps it had more to do with who was being blooded, and not so much the blood itself.

The fourth and final oath was specific to Mountainfall. There were no other kingdoms, empires, or nations that required this last pledge. Thorvald didn’t raise Tyr back to the ceiling to recite this last passage. He spread his feet into a fighting stance, sword raised above his left shoulder in a two-handed grip. This final oath was absolute; there was to be no mercy in the swearing of this vow. If any man about to be dubbed Knight of Mountainfall refused to swear this last vow, the penalty was immediate death.

The silence in the room was palpable; only the sound of banners being ruffled by the morning breeze coming through the rafters disturbed the sanctity of this moment. The King’s voice carried a tone of warning, a not-so-subtle reminder of what consequence awaited any man who refused to swear. “Do you, Valsigian Hunterson, Protector of the realm, Guardian of the Kingdom, and Justicar of Mountainfall,” he paused, placing tension in his muscles, tightening his grip on Tyr, preparing to deliver a lethal blow that would cleave Valsigian’s upper body in two from neck to hip. “Hereby swear, to prevent by penalty of death, any and all who would dare trespass into the Mystic Mountains?”

Valsigian looked up at his King, tears streaming down his face. His eyes betrayed no fear, just acceptance. His voice was strained with disappointment, “I can not swear this vow, my King.”

Thorvald’s eyes widened in shock. Everyone in the room gasped at Valsigian’s response. Tove began to weep openly, knowing what was about to befall the man she loved. “Then you leave me no choice, Valsigian,” sadness and displeasure plain in his voice as he uncoiled the tightness he had wound into his muscles. He intended to make this as painless as he could; there was nothing more that he could do. He was bound by the law, just the same as all who lived in his kingdom. There were to be no exceptions. As his eyes began to well with tears, he prayed, “Forgive me, Zerathis, I’m so sorry, Aldric.” He unleashed the full fury of a swing so deathly destructive upon Valsigian, he was sure the young man would be dead before he realized what was happening. Tyr felt like a lead weight in his hands as the sword tore through the air, heavier than it had ever felt before. It was nothing compared to the weight of having to perform his duty. Time seemed to slow as the blade moved ever closer to its mark, every inch crushed his soul.