Truesilver by DJ Edwardson

Author:DJ Edwardson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: DJ Edwardson

A cheerless light reached through the bailey window into Strom’s quarters, but he needed no light to finish dressing. His leather jerkin fell easily over his arming jacket, and his legs sank into his boots with familiar smoothness. He draped his white tabard over his shoulders, where it settled like a second skin. Last came his belt and his sword, Verisguard, the one part of his dress which, he had to confess, had never grown comfortable. He wore the symbol of the bladewardens more as a burden than a mantle of authority. Though grateful for the honor of defending the fane as his chosen champion and the commander of his armies, the weight of leadership grew heavier with each passing day.

As a symbol, Verisguard may have grown burdensome, but it served its other, more primal purpose as well as ever. Though dim with age and possessing the plainest, most unadorned of hilts, it had never failed him in battle.

A knock on the door pulled Strom from his thoughts.

“Yes?”

“My lord, the messenger from Madrigal arrived in the night. You asked to be informed of it first thing in the morning,” said the voice at the door.

“Very good. I shall meet with him in the great hall.”

“Yes, sir.” The man’s footsteps on the flagstones faded into the bowels of the fortress.

Strom rattled the sword in its sheath. Perhaps it was some good news at last. Perhaps it would soon be time to unsheathe Verisguard once more.

He rose and made his way through the drafty corridors of the keep. The cold, solemn stones were the only things that observed his passing. Old memories followed him as he walked. The face of Antirith, bladewarden before him, loomed cold and marble-white in his thoughts. He had died at Roving in the Battle of Fane’s Falling along with so many others, but none more noble.

“I should have been the one,” Strom thought. “But my doom shall come another day.”

At last he reached the western guardroom. Roardin stood waiting for him, his promptness as unfailing as the sun.

“Swordswain.” Strom returned the soldier’s salute, arms crossed over the chest.

“Bladewarden, I trust you slept well,” Roardin said. His short black beard was streaked with gray, but his cold blue eyes glittered keenly. The mail beneath his white tabard was dull and in need of repair, but he was too often on patrol to attend to it. He and Strom had spent most of yesterday riding the western Clefts, scouting for haukmar harriers.

“I do sleep,” Strom said. “But never well. Not while the fane shackles my hands and refuses to unleash the full power of his army to vanquish the haukmar threat.”

“Perhaps the messenger brings good tidings.” Roardin’s voice was hopeful, though his face betrayed him. “Shall we see what news from Madrigal?”

“Yes, Roardin, let us see. Lead the way.” Strom motioned toward the door. Four glinthelms, the lowest rank in the Verisian army, accompanied them, bearing spears.

The great hall opened before them. The vaulted ceiling echoed with the booted rhythm of their entry.

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