The Door Within (12 page)
There appeared to be enough pieces of armor stockpiled in the huge room to equip several armies. Of course, there were weapons as well. Swords, daggers, axes, maces, hammers, bows, and some other spear-axe-looking things Gwenne called halberds. Many weapons stood in barrels or lay across vast tables and counters in the room. Others required more prominence.
On one wall, in a large glass case inlaid with lush red velvet, hung seven mighty broadswords. Aidan’s eyes widened with delight, bouncing from one blade to another. Each sword fanned the passion in Aidan’s heart.
Then, it was as if the lights in the room dimmed and a spotlight illuminated one sword in particular. Aidan stared, drinking in the weapon’s every detail. Its silver blade was over three feet long, double-edged, and honed to razor-sharpness. It glinted iridescent blue when Aidan turned his head just slightly.
Cords, dark and ribbed, wound like a pair of black snakes down the two-fisted grip and disappeared into the silver pommel at the bottom. At the top of the grip was a crossguard of the same silver as the pommel. On the middle of this crossguard was an intricate engraving of a rising sun blazing out from behind the silhouette of two mountains—the very same design Aidan had seen on the tapestries in the castle halls. But engraved with such skill in silver, it took on special brilliance. It was a work of art within a work of art, and Aidan longed for such a mighty weapon of his own.
“Indeed, that lad ’as an eye for a blade!” proclaimed a stout Glimpse who appeared from an anteroom at the front of the armory. He waddled out toward Aidan, lifted an arm in a sweeping gesture, and bowed low. “Kindle, master of all things sharp or dangerous, at your service,” he announced.
Aidan bowed in return. “Uh, Aidan. Aidan Thomas,” he replied. Aidan didn’t think of himself as a master of anything, so he left it at his name.
Kindle, who seemed to have one eyebrow permanently arched higher than the other, smiled wryly and scratched his stubbly beard. He was just a little taller than Aidan but built like an anvil. And though he was certainly quite heavy, it was his broad cannonball shoulders and massive bare arms that gave him the squared appearance. The chain-mail shirt he wore draped over his chest and ample stomach made him look as if he had no legs at all.
“That is an incredible sword!” Aidan exclaimed, nearly drooling. Gwenne joined them in front of the broadsword display.
“That blade, m’lad, is a broadsword fashioned by none other than Naysmithe himself!” said Kindle.
“Nay who?” asked Aidan, perplexed.
Gwenne smiled as if remembering a glad time from long ago.
Kindle cocked an eyebrow and explained. “Naysmithe is the chief metalworker of Alleble. If it can be fashioned from iron, silver, or gold, then Naysmithe can make it. Truly, I say to you, it was Naysmithe who forged
Charrend,
the sword of our King. It is known as the blade that cleaves darkness.”
“Do all swords have names?” asked Aidan.
“Nay, lad, not all swords—only those made by gifted craftsmen and proven in battle. The blade you’ve set your eyes upon is called
Fury
—so named by a knight who wielded it against Paragory in the Cold River Battles long ago. Naysmithe finished repairing the blade only recently.”
“Come, Aidan,” interrupted Gwenne. “We need to get your armor and dagger.”
“Dagger?” Aidan blurted out, looking sadly back to the sword Fury. “But, can’t I use . . . that one?”
Gwenne smiled apologetically and looked to Kindle.
“Sorry, lad,” he began. “That blade does already ’ave an owner, and methinks it will be in use shortly. Besides, a blade that size would no doubt weigh you down exceedingly. When you’re ready, you’ll get a weapon that’ll be just right for you. For now, a dagger. Perhaps, a short sword.”
Aidan’s shoulders drooped. He really wanted Fury. But, of course, it belonged to someone else. Still . . . the sword seemed to call to him, every feature of the blade imprinted in his heart. No dagger would replace it, and a short sword sounded small like Aidan felt among the Knights of Alleble.
The armory keeper looked thoughtful for a moment, rubbing his chin as if considering some highly questionable course of action. Then, he shook his head, deciding “No” was the answer to the unspoken dilemma. With a brief embarrassed smile, he scuttled off behind a tall counter. He emerged a moment later carrying a bundle wrapped in flannel cloth.
“Your armor, lad. Wear it well, and may it turn the arrows of any Paragor rat who dares to fire upon a servant of the King!”
Feeling a little queasy with the thought of creatures firing arrows in his direction, Aidan walked into the changing room to put on his armor.
Kindle waited a long time before he decided he’d best enter Aidan’s changing room. Kindle took one look at Aidan and chuckled deeply. Aidan was struggling mightily, attempting to dress himself in chain mail and iron plates.
“That piece of iron you’ve got on yer head,” he said, “it’s made to fit yer elbow, Aidan!”
Aidan blushed and swiftly took the piece (called a
couter
, he learned) off his head. “Don’t feel low, m’lad,” Kindle said with a wink. “Most of this requires another set of ’ands to put on—usually the duty of a squire. So today, allow Kindle to be your humble squire.”
With yet another chuckle, the armory keeper went at once to work arming the embarrassed knight-to-be. It was not a complete suit of armor, Aidan was told, just a training suit for light fencing. Off came Aidan’s favorite pair of Nikes and his well-worn blue jeans to be replaced with a pair of dark brown pants. They were thick and durable but were somewhat elastic and clung to Aidan’s skin. Next, Aidan tugged on a pair of knee-high leather boots and laced them up. Off went Aidan’s half-shredded T-shirt. Kindle then draped a thick overshirt called an
arming doublet
. This was topped off with a long-sleeved shirt of chain mail. The tiny linked iron rings could perhaps turn an arrow or cause a light sword blow to do a little less damage—not a very comforting thought to Aidan! Then, on top of the doublet, the keeper slung and buckled a gleaming breastplate and shoulder harness that reminded Aidan of Robby’s football pads—only these were metal!
On each forearm Aidan wore a cylindrical piece of armor called a
vambrace,
and of course, on his elbows, he wore the
couters.
On his hands, Aidan wore protective metal gloves called
gauntlets
. Finishing his outfit was a thick leather belt with a
buckler
for a sword—or at least a dagger!
Aidan looked at himself in a long mirror. He had no helmet and no shield, but still he couldn’t get over how knightly he appeared. Sure, the weight of it all made him feel like he could barely move, but at least he looked good.
Gwenne also approved of Aidan in his new armor. She beamed proudly as he slowly spun around before her. “You shall make a fine Knight of Alleble,” she said, and Aidan glowed. He was once again dazzled by her sparkling blue eyes and pure white skin.
“Aidan,” Gwenne spoke. Aidan snapped out of the trance. “Let us take our leave of Kindle’s fine armory, for Captain Valithor is waiting.”
“Captain Valithor?” Kindle exclaimed. His eyes were wide, and he brushed a few dark, oily locks of hair out of his eyes. “Oh, lad, I do not envy you your next few months.”
“Days,” corrected Gwenne. “Captain Valithor has agreed to accelerate his training regimen so that we might leave for Mithegard within the week.”
“A week? Sorry for your sake, lad,” Kindle replied. He shook his head and stared at Gwenne with a look that said, “Become a knight in a week under Valithor? It’ll likely kill this one!”
Aidan swallowed. Being a knight didn’t sound so cool anymore.
Aidan and Gwenne walked in silence to the enormous training yard adjacent the castle’s main keep. Aidan’s stomach turned over and over as they walked. Aidan felt he was in over his head. And though the sky was cloudless and the sun rained golden rays down on Alleble, Aidan felt he was shrouded by an enormous shadow. A shadow cast by Captain Valithor.
G
wenne and Aidan navigated a labyrinth of high wooden fences called
palisades
. Gwenne had explained that these rows of tall, extremely pointed stakes were temporary fortifications until stonework could be constructed.
Aidan made a mental note never to try to climb the palisades.
Ouch!
he thought.
Once inside the vast training compound, Gwenne introduced Aidan to an oak of a knight named Kaliam, who was leaning on the pommel of a long broadsword as he avidly watched the combat in the courtyard. His warrior’s armor matched that of the other knights Aidan had seen, but Kaliam’s massive shoulders and rippling arms had no armor except for a pair of black leather
vambraces
that struggled to contain his forearms.
“So, you are the Twelfth Knight we have heard so much about?” said the Glimpse Kaliam. “A little short and dull for a Knight of Alleble, eh, Gwenne?”
“He is scarcely less tall than I,” argued Gwenne, “and I seem to recall besting you in our most recent duel—O tall one of tall pride!”
Kaliam let out a great, deep bark of laughter. His long ebony hair bounced as he roared, “Well-met, m’lady! A lesson I shall not soon forget. Forgive my rudeness.”
“I will forgive you, certainly, Sir Knight . . . and I will gladly reteach the lesson since you seem in need of tutoring.”
“Nay! That will not be necessary, swordmaiden. My pride has been duly reminded of its proper place.”
Aidan gawked at Gwenne. It wasn’t that he thought of boys as more skilled than girls. After all, a lot of the girls in his school could trounce him in most any sport they played. But to defeat a towering galoot like Kaliam? Aidan gawked some more.
As she left, swordless and shrouded beautifully in the gossamer lavender dress, Gwenne looked vulnerable and soft. Apparently, she was not.
Kaliam turned to Aidan. “Come, lad, some of our party are there by the fire. Let us join them.”
Aidan did as he was told and sheepishly followed Kaliam over to the fire. There was a thick meaty carcass roasting over the flames. A very large Glimpse stood beside it. His back was turned to Aidan, and he gestured vigorously in conversation. But it was not possible to see with whom he was speaking, for he was very wide, draped in rough black fur that made him look part bear. And by his side was an immense hammer.
Kaliam cleared his throat. “Forgive my intrusion, Sir Mallik. A word?”
“Prithee, mention it not.” The beastly Glimpse turned to Kaliam.
Like a frightened pup hiding at his master’s heel, Aidan cringed behind Kaliam.
Mallik was red-bearded. His chiseled face was besieged by a corona of wild coppery hair. His eyes, black as coal, smoldered beneath thick, wiry brows. And, Aidan noticed, they glinted blue at certain angles like Gwenne’s eyes.
Mallik wore a permanent sneer, and his long, braided mustache bounced as he spoke.
“It is a pointless argument—the same one I have endured with Nock and Bolt here for some time now.”
Aidan could now see two other Glimpses seated on a great log beyond Mallik. They were smaller than most of the other Glimpses, though still greater in size than Aidan. Each had long, straight sandy brown hair drawn back tightly. Each wore a circlet of silver like a thin crown above his uncannily arched brows and restless blue eyes. And though they appeared youthful, their stature was proud and manly. Seated side by side, turned just slightly, the two Glimpses looked like mirror images. They were, in fact, twins.
“These two, these impetuous upstarts,” Mallik went on. “Though they gang up on me with their wagging tongues, they are simply in the wrong if they claim that a bow—nay, two bows, even—are better in a scrap than my hammer.”
“With our bows,” the twins protested in stereo, “you need not scrap in the first place. The enemy falls dead ere you draw close enough to be struck.”
“Mallik, Nock, Bolt . . . a wise Glimpse would not come between two such formidable arguments,” said Kaliam. He raised one hand like a referee. “But weapons may play but a token role on this errand. Diplomacy, my good Glimpses.”
“Diplomacy!” Mallik snorted and stroked the haft of his hammer. “Those Paragor rats know nothing of diplomacy. Flowering words hiding daggers—that is their craft. Pity him who falls beneath
my
diplomacy!”
“Have pity on me, Mallik,” said Kaliam. He smiled and bowed. “And have pity on our Twelfth Knight, for he has patiently endured such bravado, first from me and now from you, hammer-meister!”
“Twelfth Knight?” Mallik objected. “He is but a lad!”
Aidan cringed. He felt once again that there must be some mistake. Perhaps now everyone would realize this and send him home.
“My first thoughts were such,” said Kaliam. “But the King has called him here for such a time as this. Dare any of us question the King’s judgment?”
No one spoke. The fire crackled. A knot of burning pine popped.
“And think on this: Were any of us anything before the King called us?”
The twins nodded to each other. “Well spoken!” they said, and in unison they stood and bowed before Aidan.
