Prayers Of Steel

PRAYERS OF STEEL

Volume One of

Chasing the Unicorn

A Novel by J.J. Spencer

©

2023 J.J. Spencer, All Rights Reserved.

PART ONE: OUTSET

CHAPTER 1

"BEGIN"

The bark rang out across the ring, the line of novices and squires alike watching with intent as the mailed hand of the Master-of-Arms cut the air like a blade, the two men poised at either end of the sandy circle gripped weapons and slowly advanced.

The air smelled of steel and sweat, sun streamed through in glorious shafts that bathed the courtyard in a blooming glow of warm spring light, the shift and murmur of men interspersed with the clatter of steel. They were assembled in various states of dress; squires in simple doublets and hose, men-at-arms in jerkins and gauntlets, and full-fledged Order members in glimmering steel and blazing black and white surcoats.

They were here to watch. To judge.

The men on the sands were arrayed in like fashion — unimpressive, functional armor and closed helms covered them, each brutally pragmatic in design. Bart gripped the haft of his axe, his heavy mitten gauntlets more like small bucklers than anything else, his opponent, a lean man of greater years by the name of Bowen, tightened his hands around the hilt of a longsword. Their eyes met through the slats of their visors as they circled, closing the distance slowly.

Bowen struck first, his sword held at a high forward guard as he stepped in hard and thrust hard at Bart's face — the bigger man twisted at the trunk, slapping the blade aside with the thick oak haft of his axe, the sword ringing like a gong in the tense, otherwise silent air as he continued the motion to raise a high guard to Bowen's return stroke — the leaner man redirecting the parry with a deft roll of his shoulders that swung the blade down at an angle towards Bart's neck. The blade rang against wood once more, Bart pushing forward as it did, shoving it aside and bulling his way forward with the momentum gained — driving his shoulder into the smaller fighter, shoving him back off balance, and forcing his sword-arm away from Bowen's core — creating a gap. At once, the big man raised his axe to a crisp vertical ready position and dropped it with aplomb, the bearded axe's blade whistling as it cut the air.

Bowen's years ahead of seasoning assured everyone he was no slouch in a fight, and true to form he recovered with a neat bit of footwork — shifting his weak side back in a step so fluid it was almost invisible and slamming his sword form into a variant of high port arms, catching the axe just beneath the blade and swatting its path aside with an elegant half-moon sweep, leaving the two men once again squared off. They stood at the ready, studying each other.

They clashed again, swings and swipes coming hard and fast, Bart was taller, stronger and every hit clearly rang Bowen's smaller frame, his armor's plates clattering with brassy reports, Bowen was far more seasoned than his larger, younger opponent however, and gave ground to reposition with his own strikes, each so quick and crisp in their execution that Bart was forced to put all of his effort into defense when Bowen pressed the attack. Back and forth they went: swing, parry, riposte. It was almost a textbook match-up of large versus small, where Bart lacked in speed he more than made up for in unyielding brute strength, able to dead stop Bowen's strikes and reverse them — and much the same Bowen's fluid grace kept him coming at the larger man from surprisingly high and low angles, forcing him to improvise and mind his footwork. Each clash was met with murmurs, but no yells, no hooting or shouting from the crowd, they were watching with cold, clinical detachment.

Finally, it seemed to be more than the bigger warrior could handle. Bowen's assault grew faster — more fluid — as the veteran swordsman worked out Bart's weaknesses and began to hammer him with flurries of cuts, thrusts, and decisive blows — which Bart only seemed capable of barely warding off. Bart seemed beaten back, until with a grunt of effort, the bigger man pushed in with a horizontal cut, which Bowen almost casually raised his sword to guard — but it was a ruse.

Bart's aim was not at his body, but his limb, and rather than cut — he hooked the beard of the axe blade over the man's sword arm, and he pulled with great violence. Bowen's eyes flashed wide, white all around behind his visor as Bart heaved him forward, stumbling at the shift of weight — directly into a clenched, steel-plated fist.

Bart's right straight smashed into Bowen's visor like a catapult stone. He felt the shock of the hit rock up his arm into his shoulder, lighting up in barely-felt pain in each joint as he drove his fist into the older man's armored face like he was trying to drive him into the earth. It was a spectacular hit that drew a few gasps from several members of the crowd, Bowen wavered and seemed as if he would crumple, clearly dazed by the blow, and the bigger man drew his axe back, sweeping it at a wide angle to drive it down at the dazed man's head.

Yet, Bowen was not made of paper. He dropped down, dipping his head under the swing with such last-minute timing that sparks flew from where the axe dragged a gouge across his helmet's peak, he swung his own fist, a southpaw uppercut that seemed to come screaming out of nowhere with so much speed that it was a literal blur.

A blur that connected with Bart's chin up under the visor of his sallet, smashing into his bevor like a precision thrust from a fencing master, his teeth rattled in his head and his eyes crossed as he lost his balance, up became down and down became up, and he staggered, ears ringing as he lost his footing, and fell to one knee.

"Yield." came the hoarse demand, and a gleam of light caught the dazed warrior's attention. It was very close, he blinked away tears as he cleared his concussed head...

The tip of a blade was mere finger-breadths from his eye, pushed through the slat of his visor. Wisely, he raised his free hand in surrender, letting his axe drop to the floor in a clatter.

"I yield, I am bested." the young, deep voice stated somewhat bitterly, and there was a light chuckle as the blade slid back from his eye, and the smaller man dipped his point down, raising his visor to reveal a clearly broken nose and two gruesomely darkening black eyes.

"I wouldn't say bested, a second faster and I'd be the one kneeling in defeat," he said, reaching forward to grasp the larger man's arm, hauling him to his feet. Bart raised his visor in return, his tongue swirling around his mouth, checking for loose teeth, causally spitting out a rivulet of blood from his split lip, a bruise angrily turning purple from chin to cheek.

"I still lost," he said ruefully, his voice a low thing as he scooped his axe back up, both of them turning to the three center-most armored men, the Master-of-Arms staring down at them imperiously as they both sank to one knee, heads bowed reverently. Bowen shot him a little wink as the Master-of-Arms raised his voice.

"This Trial of Steel is ended." he boomed, an older man, jaw wide as a mountainside, made wider still by his fierce gray beard and shorn scalp, covered in an array of pale, faded scars. Master-of-Arms Bennett. His stern gray eyes were hard, but kind as he looked down at them, the knowledge of years weighing and measuring him in an instant. Bart had seen much of those eyes in the past two decades of his Novitiate. He found comfort in their sternness.

"Novice Bartholomus, you have been bested on the field of combat." he continued, looking hard at the bulky young man; "However, you displayed uncommon valor and ferocity belying your experience and years." he continued... and a slow smile crept over his grim face.

"Yet — you were never supposed to win," he said, Bart blinked and Bowen grinned, turning to him slightly and shifting his armor to display an amulet beneath his neckline. A single spiraling Horn, straight as an arrow — same as the one crowning the patron of their order — surrounded by a circle of geometric thorns. Bart's eyes went wide, a Knight of the Thorn. Bowen was only briefly known to him, Bart spent much of his time among his fellow novices — Knights of the Thorn were the preeminent sword masters of the Order, each of them seasoned warriors with a decade or more of warfare under their belts — and on top of that fully-anointed Paladins, each with the full might of the Lady behind them. Bowen winked again.

"I may have gone a bit too easy on you," he said, grinning and wincing as the expression caused his broken nose to twinge. Humbled by the truth of the man's position, Bart was in agreement. The Master-of-Arms continued.

"The truth of the Trial of Steel is not to test the mettle of your blade." Master Bennett said, stepping forward, placing his hand on the young man's shoulder; "But your resolve. We face you with an unwinnable battle, an insurmountable opponent, and we judge how well you fail." he stated bluntly, Bart's eyes fell, downcast... failure was all too familiar for the brawny novice. He had failed to take well to the sword nor shield and had struggled to maintain the trim physique he'd needed, he'd slimmed down greatly from the husky, doughy lad that'd been given to the order as a squire... but it never got easier.

"Was it my weapon again, Master Bennett?" Bart asked with an honesty in his tone that belied his concerns. Bennett chuckled, armor rattling with it.

"No, lad. Not everyone is built to be a swordsman like Ser Bowen here. He is a rare breed born with a blade in his crib and the taste of steel on his tongue." Bennett assured him.

"I remember it being more that of mother's milk..." Ser Bowen said under his breath, getting a sidelong look from the Master-of-Arms.

"Nevertheless," Master Bennett continued, drawing himself up properly "Failure is hard to accept, harder still to learn from. Many of us who fail, do so fatally. So we teach that. We teach loss, we teach failure. Because one must experience it to learn from it. Weak is the warrior with numerous victories and no losses, for his strength is sharp, straight but brittle like glass."

Bart's head lowered still, his father would be so disappointed, He'd felt the desperation in his moves before, he'd fought his hardest but towards the end it was all... reflex, he'd abandoned the form and tactics of battle for fluid solutions — and it'd lost him the duel — yet the Master's hand raised up and cupped his cheek, he looked up reflexively, and met the old man's kind eyes.

"Rise, Novice Bartholomus." The master-of-arms said, offering his other hand.

"Rise and greet me as a brother."

It was then the cheers finally sounded. Clashing of fists against breastplates, squires hooting, and Bowen's grin practically split his face in half, broken nose be damned. Bart took the hand, and the Master-of-Arms hoisted him effortlessly to his feet.

"You weathered failure with the stoicism of a fortress, we Masters-of-Arms have watched you for some time now, Brother Bartholomus. We've seen your tenacity, your flaws holding you back, and yet you persevered time and again at great cost to your pride." he grasped his hand fondly.

"You are humble, and you are steadfast. Over-matched and out-maneuvered and you still struck like a thunderbolt," he said, grinning at Bowen, who had also risen. "I daresay the Ser here hasn't had his bells rung like that in some time."

"Not since the Grey Plagues and their Purges, Milord," he stated blandly, sniffing with a wince. "The boy has the strength of an oxen, and a jaw about as hard," he said, idly shaking his hand out to the laughter of the surrounding men. Bart felt his back straighten a bit with pride.

"With this, we admit you to our order. No longer are you Novice Bartholomus, instead you attain now the title of Ser Bartholomus, Knight-Brother of the Radiant Order," he said, drawing his own sword, raising it in a salute, then touching it twice to either side of the youth's head.

"May you serve our Lady in White with honor, humility, and a humble heart."

Bart bowed his head and murmured his thanks, his face flushed around the bruising, overwhelmed with pride and gratitude. Tears glimmered in his eyes, but he raised his chin again and smiled through his open visor.

"I will my lord. Until the Pale Dawn calls me," he replied in the ritual response. It was then... he felt something inside of him... click. As if something long loose had welded firmly together, a warmth suffused him for a moment, and he blinked it away in mild bemusement.

"Well, no sense in leaving two men bleeding on the carpet, Hospitaller Davis, if you would?" The Master-of-Arms asked, stepping aside for a narrow, blade-like man to his side, wearing a surcoat of darkest black emblazoned with whiter edging and a spiraling geometric horn device vertical across its breast — topped by the Lidless Eye of the White God. His severe Darrowmite features were clinical but his face was kind, offset by the traditional tonsure of the Hospitaller: his hair shaved close on both sides and left long on top, like a Unicorn's mane. He raised a hand and there was a brief glow as he touched the two warriors in turn — a thin golden outline of radiance that limned his hands, and flowed up each of them to sink into their flesh like sunlight, that warmth again as the positive energies flooded Bart's body, soothing the pain and the swelling in his jaw abating rapidly, he glanced to his left and saw the same treatment done to Bowen, and watched the bruises drain away from his smashed face like water from a sieve, leaving him completely intact. The Radiant Order were indeed paladins, sworn to The White God and his servant, The Lady in White — the Unicorn of Love, one of the three Holy Beasts who strode the land, Godshome's might made flesh. The Radiant Order served her directly, their oath: was to preserve life and rout the unclean and rotting from the land, and in return, she granted them the power to heal and cleanse the weak, wounded, and sick.

"There." he said, his voice soft as he drew himself up straight, the Hospitaller bearing statuesque as he inspected them both; "Good as new, though I can't do much for that nose of yours, Brother Bartholomus," he said, looking critically at the young man's mostly hidden face.

"It's fine Milord, I'm used to it," he said, the newly-christened Knight-Brother's only visible defining feature was his hooked, crooked nose — broken at an early age, and never properly healed. There was a story behind it, one he was proud of — but that was for another time.

"My thanks, Brother Davis. Your healing always feels so much warmer and more vibrant than mine own." Bowen said with exaggerated mirth, the healer rolling his eyes mildly as he hooked his thumbs back into his swordbelt.

"You would do well to spend more time meditating on the blessings of our Lady in White, rather than chasing maidens and tankards, and then it might deign to warm you as mine does," Davis said with an equally exaggerated sniff of imperious disdain — Bart paused for a moment before he saw Bowen's wicked grin, and the gleam in Davis' eyes, realization dawned on the new Knight and he averted his eyes for a moment.

"Maidens? Hardly, more like their mothers." Bowen said, laughing. As he unbuckled his helmet, pulling it free from his head, he had dirty blonde hair and a thin mustache and strip of beard along his chin that gave him a decidedly rakish look, around them the assembled novices and squires were milling about as they received orders from the instructors, and others went about their prescribed tasks for the hour, the five observers exchanged a few nods and excused themselves as the Master-of-Arms cleared his throat.

"Brother Bartholomus, now that you have taken the oath in its finality, there's some small ceremony as you know, but today you must make an effort to be ready for your pilgrimage," he said, clapping the man on the shoulder, Bart brightened at this.

"To meet the lady? To get my powers?" he asked excitedly, his bevor-covered face almost childish in its glee, the Master-of-Arms laughed softly from his belly, grinning at the young soldier.

"Eager, are we? I'm sure you've all heard stories of her now," he said, looking around as they were left mostly alone by the other novices and instructors, behind them drills starting with staves among the squires.

"Aye, no fairer lady have I ever laid eyes upon." Bowen said, laying his hand on his chest dramatically; "Her gaze was like liquid fire to my soul, a luminous glow that bore me away to Godshome on wings of bliss and jo-OW!" he said as the Hospitaller casually reached over and pulled on his mustache. Hard.

"That's enough of that, don't fill Brother Bartholomus' head with your frippery. The Lady in White is a creature of pure holy power, and she should be respected," he said, his eyes clearly warm with his own memories of the meeting.

"Frippery he says, the man who fell asleep during his meeting with her." Bowen groused, rubbing at his upper lip and throwing a rude gesture at his friend, who glared at him.

"I did not 'fall asleep', the Lady bid me to rest so she could impart upon me the healer's touch, were you not just praising my 'warmth' a moment ago?" he said, drawing a chuckle from the master-of-arms, who looked back to Bart with a raised eyebrow.

"Lad, we are not at arms, pray; remove your helmet before you sweat the color out of your hair," he said with a quirk of his lips, shifting his formal armor with a pull at his gorget, the older man clearly a bit uncomfortable in the heavy steel plate. Bart blinked and scrabbled clumsily at his helm and bevor before the realization that he was still wearing his gauntlets sank in, Bowen smirked as he pulled them off, and then unhooked the helmet from his head, pulling it off with a puff of exhaled breath.

His broad build extended to his features, the young knight's jaw wide and his chin firm, beset with a deep cleft in a way that seemed to somehow exacerbate the youth of his face. His signature crooked nose was angular and broad at the tip beside the break — both that and his deep-set eyes a gift from his mother's coastal heritage. His hair was similarly a gift of that sunny land along with his tanned skin: curly, black, and cropped close to his skull — though currently lathered in sweat. Clean shaven save for a thick mustache perched under his crooked nose, its ends curling up ever so slightly, much like the rest of his hair, and making the thick planes of his lips and cheeks stand out.

"Ah, a fine mustache," Bowen said, twirling his own thin, waxed topiary gaily with a grin, Bart smiling a bit and smoothing it with a finger, dumping his gauntlets in his helmet.

"A proper knight always had a good mustache in the stories, didn't they?" he said, looking between the seasoned warriors, feeling the weight of their years in their gazes, all three grinned and laughed, it was true enough all of them save Davis' clean shaven face bore similar grooming.

"Aye lad, you wear it well. It'll look good with your formal armor, rather than this drab training raiment." the Master-of-Arms agreed, rapping his dented, unadorned breastplate with a knuckle, Bart nodded, standing up a bit more straight as Davis and Bowen fell into another conversation about something called a 'keg stand' and how Davis found the entire thing deplorable, the Master-of-Arms pulled him away, walking towards the novice barracks with him.

"We'll set about fitting you for your armor, in the meantime, go collect your things and meet the steward by the barracks door, he'll set you about settling into your private chambers. Good work, Ser Bartholomus," he said, clapping his back again with the emphasis on the new title, he felt butterflies flutter through his guts as he nodded, clapping his fist over his heart in salute to the man, who nodded and turned to some other novices, clearly waiting on their instruction, barking orders of attention as Bart gathered his practice axe and returned it to the racks, stepping lightly along towards the barracks.