Editor’s Note: We are giving Animal a summer break – he has basically filled this slot for 2 years. He will be back after UCS’ story.

Before we get to the story proper, I’m going to say a few words. Yes, this is the newest release I’ve written, almost. (I’ll get back to that). Partly, I’m serializing this novel to support the site, and partly as crass advertising. I figure if I hook you lot, you’ll either want to check out my other work or acquire a copy of this book before the slow drip of installments finishes. But if you’re willing to spend almost a year waiting, you could read it without paying. However, I’m also hoping that the more sociable amongst you lot might pass on word through the power of extroversion (or introversion better managed than mine) to others not in this bubble.

It’s up to you, I’m just a bookseller.

Now, onto the almost. You see, I copied these into WorkPress before the final editing pass caught twelve or so errors in the 133k remaining words. 1:10,000 isn’t a bad error rate. And I’m not risking all the work on making the footnotes function just for those changes.

Anyway, onto the story.

Introduction

However it may appear, I am not at war with the chapbook writers. After correcting the accounts of my travels, I faced a more daunting task. The public at large has come to know Kord Grosz as ‘Kord the Bloodstorm’. My uncle hates that appellation, and the fastest way to get on his bad side is to use that nickname in his presence. The characterization presented by the mass market chapbooks paints Prince Kord as an unstoppable berserker who reduces whole armies to red mist. And these are the ones favorable to him. Those who vilify my uncle paint him as a barbarian warlord worse than the second coming of Jochen the Decapitator. The man I know is a well-read polyglot with an interest in engineering and civic administration. Yes, he is a consummate swordsman who taught me the use of a blade. But that is not the entirety of him.

It took me years of subtle pestering to get Prince Kord to agree to the creation of this volume. The time covered is that which spawned the bulk of the chapbook tales. The recollections are those of Prince Kord himself. One of the promises I had to make was to not put words in my uncle’s mouth. So I will keep my remarks separate from his narrative. The events took place before I was born, so for details, I have to defer to the recollection of the people who were there. But there are times when my uncle was just plain wrong. To reconcile my promise with the truth, I have added annotations to the text where I need to interject.

With only limited further interruption, I present this account from Furst Kord Grosz von Karststadt-Salzheim, starting before he took up the Iron Diadem of Karststadt.

With regards,

Graf Dug FitzHelen von Zesrin, Imperial Navigator.

Chapter 1

The ring of steel echoed through the hall as Lenz Castor redoubled his attack. His face was drenched in sweat and his sand-blond hair had slipped its bond, tumbling dangerously close to his eyes. My guard still turned aside his sword, but I was as tired as he looked. My muscles burned as I tried to fend off the frenetic assault. I was forced again to give ground to avoid a strike toward my middle. A misstep born of fatigue interrupted Lenz. I seized the moment, striking at his blade to clear it and slashing back at his ribs. A brief widening of his eyes told me Lenz saw the blow coming but could not counter it in time.

Lenz staggered back, rubbing the spot where the blunt steel had collided with his torso. He coughed a few times and grinned. “I had you for a bit.”

I saluted with my practice blade. “At least you try.”

“Some times I even win,” he laughed. Lenz and I were evenly matched in skill, but I had a marginal advantage in reach and speed. He had the edge in strength. We both knew this painfully well. I’d been conscripted as a sparring partner for Lorenz Castor zu Ritterblume from the moment I’d been made the ward of his father. Back then, we flailed about with wooden blades to much tutting and chastisement by the Ritterblume swordsmasters. We’d since graduated to blunt metal practice weapons that were heavier than real blades. You could still inflict serious injury, but they were less dangerous to spar with than the real thing. I think Lenz preferred them because they tired my arm faster than his.

I returned my weapon to the racks at the side of the sparring hall, stifling my annoyance at how long the bout had dragged on. My only free time sat wedged between the time I completed my chores and when the sun went down. The longer I was stuck battling Lenz, the later I’d finish. Worse, the more tired I was, the slower I’d complete my appointed tasks. It was looking like I wouldn’t be able to get into the library today. I rankled at the thought and grabbed a cloth to mop the sweat from my face and neck.

In the corner of my eye, a splotch of blue made me pause and turn. The blue was a velveteen dress worn by Gisela Castor. It was trimmed in intricate patterns of silver thread, designed to draw the eye up to her face. She had the sharp features common to the rest of her family, and her hair was a pale blonde kept in a long braid. The way her deep blue eyes were on me was unnerving. I kept my expression stoic and pretended not to notice. She was Lenz’s sister and effectively my foster sister. I put the cloth down and walked out of the room. I did my best to appear not to notice the gaze, though it all but burned into my back.

The Castor estate was a series of large, airy buildings inside a short curtain wall on the high pasture of Ritterblume. The land was named for the small white flowers that were endemic to the area. Some people compared their appearance to that of mounted knights. I never saw the resemblance. The lands of the Ritterblume were ill-suited for tillage, but made decent pastures for raising horses. The Castor family was famed for the quality of the steeds they raised. So when a feral male got in among the herds, it was treated almost as a catastrophe. I’d been forced to raise the resulting whelp under the guise of teaching me proper care and handling of horses. Little did we know the monster that runty foal would grow into.

Weighing in at over a ton with withers that rose above the top of my head, the horse was a massive, brutish example of its kind. Most of his hide was speckled gray, but his mane, tail and points were black. I hated the damn thing. Of course, as long as it remained at the estate, it fell to me to tend to the horse. Most called him Graymire. My repertoire of derogatory terms for the creature was inadequate to my opinion of being forced to deal with it.[1] The estate had three stables, each connected to a separate span of pastures. Two of these held mares and geldings. The third was a bachelor herd containing the intact stallions. Graymire was kept in this stable, in the stall furthest from the door. It kept him from being casually observed. It also meant he was less likely to sell.

I collected the oversized bridle fitted for Graymire and advanced to his stall. The damn horse nuzzled the side of my head. I’d barely cleared the post and Graymire’s nose was prodding my temple. I reached up and patted the side of his neck before he tried to steal my glasses to get my attention. The slab of muscle under the dense mat of short fur was unyielding, but the beast turned when I pushed his muzzle away from me. He obediently backed away from the stall gate as I unlatched it and stepped inside. By any measure of physicality, Graymire grossly overwhelmed me. But I’d been there since the day after he’d been foaled, and he’d been conditioned to accept my lead. I merely had to hold up the bridle and he lowered his head to allow me to put it on him.

I led the beast out of the stables so the hands could muck his stall. They were afraid of Graymire, and it doomed them to never be able to enter his stall unless I removed him first. The first thing Jost Castor had taught me about horses was that they could sense fear. When they did, it made them instinctively assert dominance. If you conceded, they would never respect you, and you would never be able to command that horse. For all of his size and power, Graymire was still just a horse. I walked him around the edge of the pasture. He had to be let out of his stall regularly for his sanity’s sake, but those times were balanced between being permitted to run free within the enclosure, being led around like this, and being ridden under full tack.

The breeze blowing across the pasture dried the sweat from my shirt. Before my mind could start to wander, I spied Lenz leaning on the fence and motioning for my attention. I led Graymire over towards him.

“Something up?” I asked.

“There’s going to be a tournament at Farcairn. Half the Empire and the Five Kingdoms is going to be there.”

“And?” I asked with a raised eyebrow.

“I thought you’d be excited. I’m going to petition my father to let us go,” Lenz said.

“Farcairn is on the other side of the Empire.”[2]

“No,” Lenz said in an exaggerated tone. “It’s only at the end of the Small Sea.”

“The ‘Small’ Sea was named for its width, not its length.”

“And we’d just be sailing from Salzheim.” Lenz headed off as if that were a rebuttal to the undisputed length of the Small Sea. Salzheim might be near the middle of that ribbon of water, but that didn’t make a voyage to the far end a short one. I comforted myself with the conclusion that Jost Castor would reject Lenz’s petition on the basis that we were too young and Lenz wasn’t even a proper knight yet.[3] The expectation that I would get dragged along behind him on such a trip was nothing new. I’m fairly certain I’d only been taken on as a ward because Lenz had no actual brothers. Forcing me to tag along with practically everything he did was a common pattern.

***

I managed to get through my assigned tasks before the sun kissed the horizon. With the first real smile of the day on my lips, I ran to the library. The Graf of Ritterblume had a decidedly martial tone to his responsibilities, and the bulk of the works in the family library reflected that. There were, however, a few treatises on the arcane. These had been restacked of late to reside near the west window. I was the only one with an interest in reading them. Since my free time only ever came in that time just before sundown, keeping them at that end of the building made the most sense.

I pulled the one I was working my way through from the shelf and flipped it open to the ribbon marking my place. The ill-used spine creaked a protest, but I wasn’t going to let the fact that it had grown hidebound deter me. After all, I’d learned to read a whole language just to get at the contents of these books. The old tongue had fallen into disuse even among scholars, though most could still read it if the need arose.[4] Lenz’s tutors had been quite happy that I showed an interest in it when their official pupil was apathetic.

I reread the section yet again, trying to tell myself that I could do what was being described within the pages. On previous attempts, I had conjured sparks of light or puffs of smoke, so it was not impossible. I just had to focus. I held my left hand, palm up, towards the window and away from anything flammable. Pushing all other thoughts from my head, I stared at the space within the cage of my fingers. With my attention on that spot, there was a flutter in reality as a swirl of magical energy almost coalesced into something visible. I took a few deep breaths and relaxed my aching limbs. Trying again, I redoubled my efforts.

A single mote of energy appeared, and I transfixed it with my willpower. I commanded it to grow. It sputtered and flared, becoming a swirl of midnight purple no larger than a candle flame. A toothy grin split my face. Once I had the energy, holding it proved easier than calling it. I held my tiny swirl of energy and turned back to the book. The mote was the anchor to which other energies could be summoned. From the sound of it, it was the basis for all of the techniques outlined within these pages.

My eyes widened as I saw that the mote had expanded to the size of a fist almost of its own accord. Without my attention on it, the mote had started to run away from me. I focused on dissipating the midnight purple energy, carefully dispersing it back to the aether. Once it was gone, I lowered my hand and released the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. Yes, I could do it, but I had to be careful. Burning down the library would not help convince Jost to let me attend one of the academies of the arcane.

Out the window, I saw the distinctive cloud of a galloping rider on the road. He was still a ways off, but headed this way. The sight of the sun sagging from the sky behind him drew a sigh from my lips. It wasn’t just the loss of light to read by, but I had to be dressed for dinner soon.

***

Most people would give a blank stare if someone mentioned ‘Slagveld Mark’, though ‘The North Tower’ would spark recognition. Indeed, many people referred to anything north of Salzheim as ‘The North Tower’,[5] despite there being three separate domains within that region. The Drowned City, Ritterblume, and Slagveld Mark were so remote as to be represented only by the northernmost element of their combined areas. The Drowned City was a political nonentity due to it being permanently flooded. Its original name was Gelbenkap. The Graf Jost Castor zu Ritterblume was the de facto first among equals in the area. Bonifaz Kirchner technically claimed a more important title,[6] but he kept himself locked away behind the walls of Karststadt, where he was oft forgotten. Kirchner ruled Slagveld Mark, which was a bulwark against the non-human tribes north of its mountains. Or rather, it was supposed to be.

The dust-coated rider fell to one knee in the middle of the granite floor of the great hall. The great hall was modelled after the wooden feasting halls of old, only larger and wrought from stone. Carved posts arched up the walls, bearing geometric designs up into the gloom at the roof. Two rows of iron-ringed fire pits split the hall between the central aisle and the great stone tables along the sides. They were more ornamental than their forebears, as the cooking was done elsewhere. Jost Castor shifted in his throne and moved his cloak to further hide the fact that his belly was sagging. His once blond beard was now white, and his eyes were fogged by years. He motioned for the rider to rise.

The rider’s face was weary and drawn, his eyes darting nervously about. He remained silent until an annoyed Jost commanded him to speak. His voice trembled as he did so.

“We came upon a plundered caravan on the Salzheim road,” he said. “Among the dead, we found remains of goblins slain by the guards, and there were signs that some of the people were dragged off as captives.”

“Goblins?” Jost asked, sitting up straighter.

“Yes, my lord. The remains are unmistakable.”

Consternation furrowed Jost’s brow. It was the duty of the lord of Slagveld Mark to keep such interlopers out, or at least spread alarm of an incursion he couldn’t stop. There had been no such word from Karststadt.

“Thank you,” Jost said. “The castellan will arrange a room for you. When I have mustered a force, I expect you to show them where this attack happened.”

The rider’s nerves caused his nod to jitter. One of the guards approached the rider and steered him from the hall.

“Where is Kirchner?” Jost all but cursed under his breath.

A shrivelled old man leaned toward Jost and spoke in soft tones. “Goblins move fast over even rough ground.” Othmar Schlesser had been Jost Castor’s boyhood tutor, and had been kept around as an advisor. I doubted that even Othmar knew how old he was.

“I am aware of that. Though this could be an opportunity for our spur-less youths to whet their blades against a real foe.”

“Without a mediating influence, they are liable to fall into an ambush,” Othmar said. The annoyed sigh coming from Jost said that Othmar’s advice was not always of sage quality.

“Yes, Othmar, I know,” Jost said, gesturing for Othmar to step back. “Lorenz.”

Lenz stepped forward to move into Jost’s field of vision. “Father?”

“I’m sure you were eavesdropping. Othmar has gotten louder as his hearing has gone.”

“I was not-” Jost cut him off with a gesture.

“You and Kord will lead a cohort of riders in this expedition.”

I fell into place beside Lenz, cursing my luck. Lenz was all but grinning at this development. Lenz leaned towards me and whispered. “This beats a tournament.” I shot him a sidelong glance, but said nothing. Jost began conferring with another member of his retinue. From my new position, I couldn’t see who it was, and their murmurs were too quiet to hear. Somehow, I doubted I was going to get a lot of reading done in the near future. As my thoughts started to turn inward again, Jost turned back to us.

“Lorenz, Kord, to save time, the two of you will ride at dawn to the pledged households to collect your cohort. I will continue to organize the muster here so that we will be ready to set out upon your return.”

“Yes, Father,” Lenz said.

“I understand, Lord Castor,” I said.

Jost raised his brow at my tone. “I know why Lorenz is trying not to grin so wide it splits his head open, but your melancholy has me puzzled.”

“I will do what is asked of me,” I said. A flash of irritation crossed the Graf’s face at my failure to address his actual statement. If we had been in a more private location, he would have pressed the issue.

***

My sleep was a fitful one, with visions of grisly demises rolling through my mind. At various times I saw myself run through with a spear, pulled from the saddle and hacked apart, riddled with arrows, or disemboweled and left to slowly die amidst the knight flowers. The prospect of getting close enough to someone to stick a sword in them did not excite me. At that distance, they were close enough to do the same to me. Why this wasn’t the first thought that came to Lenz was something I couldn’t grasp.

I was already lying awake when one of the servants came around to wake me. I got dressed and descended to the great hall. The stone tables were covered with arms and armor in a way that made it look like the armory had puked all over them. Flickering firelight skittered off steel, sending reflections dancing along the architecture. Lenz was already there. I could tell he was fighting to suppress his excitement. I fought to suppress my dread. To avoid obsessing over the matter, I turned my attention to the immediate task. Approaching a table lined with swords, I was intercepted by an armsman.

“These are spoken for.”

Lenz waved me in his direction, and I walked over.

“You honestly think we’d send you into battle with an ordinary sword?” Lenz asked.

“I’m still surprised I’m being sent into battle at all.”

Lenz frowned at me, then shook his head. “You’re messing with me,” he said. I let him believe that. It was less of a hassle than arguing over the matter.

“So, if I’m not going to be using a sword-”

“I said ‘ordinary’ sword,” Lenz said, interrupting me. He turned and pointed to the table behind him. It was mostly covered with armor. The biggest, most obvious items were the two shields. One bore the herd of horse flowers heraldry of Ritterblume. The other was emblazoned with a Raven Coast Roc. The scale of the black-winged, white-bellied bird was shown by the ox in its talons. That bird only ever showed up when I had to do something unpleasant. It was said to be from the reputed homeland of my ancestors. No one knew where the Raven Coast was, nor if it really existed.[7] The only place anyone in the Volkmund saw the Roc was in the ensign of my family. Next to the shield was a long, narrow wooden box. Highly polished, with the same bird inlaid into its lid, I could guess what it was before I opened it. I was not surprised when it contained a sword. The blade was long and straight-edged. Not as wide as heavy blades, but not as narrow as a rapier. There was a narrow line of gold along the edges of the fuller, and purple stained runes up the groove itself. The hilt was a Roc with its wings bent down to form a basket around the grip.[8]

I flipped the box closed again. It looked almost gaudy, certainly not something anyone with a modicum of dignity would carry. It also looked brand new, which meant I’d be insulting one or more of the Castors by saying so aloud. Fortunately the rest of the kit looked more practical. There was a mail coat that would reach my hips, a breastplate, vambraces, greaves, one pauldron and a sallet. It wasn’t the heaviest plate around, but armor was always a tradeoff. The more you wore, the more it restricted your mobility.

“You’re even more morose today than you were yesterday,” Lenz said.

“I didn’t sleep well.” It was a functional half-truth to fend off further inquiry.

“Get Graymire saddled up. The fresh air should help.” Lenz clapped a hand against my back and gave me a push towards the door.

“Why can’t I borrow a normal horse?” I asked.

“Is Graymire sick?” Jost’s voice made me flinch.

“No.”

“Is he injured?”

“No.”

“Why should I loan you a horse when you own a perfectly healthy one?” Jost asked.

“Own?” I asked. “I wasn’t aware I owned any horses.”

A perplexed expression crossed Jost’s face, then it morphed to anger. “I know you’re not this stupid, boy.” He jabbed a finger into my chest. “I gave you that horse when it was a day old. I let you keep it in my stables because you live under my roof. Go get him ready to ride.”

I headed outside, trying not to cringe and slink. I’d buried my foot deep in my mouth, and burned with embarrassment. Graymire was only too happy to be let out of his stall. I focused on fitting his tack in place rather than on what we were going to do.

[1] He says this, but I’ve never heard him use any.

[2] This is the first of many cartographic errors Kord makes. While he admits to some later, I am a cartographer by trade, and cannot let them pass. Ritterblume is closer to Farcairn than it is to most of the Volkmund.

[3] For our Valayan readers, not every knight in the Volkmund serves as a squire before being knighted. However, the age of accolade is still generally twenty-one. At the time of these events, Prince Kord and Lenz Castor were only eighteen.

[4] As best as I can tell, he’s referring to Old Imperial Dwarfish.

[5] While this statement sounds absurd now, Prince Kord insists it was ‘true at the time.’

[6] An argument over this statement almost scuppered the volume. Regardless of whether one regards Markgraf to be higher or lower than Pfalzgraf, the Markgraf Slagveld did not hold any form of Imperial Immediacy. Within the walls of the palace of Salzheim, the Pfalzgraf Salzheim had no liege other than the Emperor. Speaking as one with Imperial Immediacy, this puts him well above the mediatized Markgraf Slagveld.

[7] Again, this is a case of ‘it was true at the time’. The rediscovery of the Raven Coast was still a half-decade off at the time of these events.

[8] In an apparent effort to downplay his knowledge of swordsmanship, Prince Kord has avoided calling the blade by its proper type – a Stirnberg Rapier. It is a relative of the common rapier with a thicker and broader blade built for less emphasis on the thrust and greater overall versatility. They are not popular because of their nonspecialized nature and heft. However, Price Kord always had a particularly strong sword arm, even if Lorenz Castor was slightly stronger.

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