Crown of Steel

Prologue

There came a day when everyone’s eyes were turned to the sky to the exclusion of all else. Those who couldn’t see with their naked eyes turned to their televisions, their computers, or even their radios. They watched in helpless, disbelieving, horror as an asteroid half the size of the moon approached with agonizing slowness and ground its bulk into the only orbiting body of this Earth. They watched as the two bodies fought for supremacy of the sky, and they watched them both lose. Then no one watched anymore. They just ran.

Every major and minor fault line around the world began cracking and shifting. Volcanoes, old and new, spewed their ash and toxic gases into the atmosphere. What the earthquakes didn’t shake to the ground, the rain of rock smashed to rubble. And the people ran.

When the tidal waves came, they were large enough to reach far inland, trying their best to pull down the highest peaks and wash away all evidence of the great civilization of man.

The nuclear power plants that dotted the world were not exempt from the destruction, and the radiation man’s arrogance had tried to harness escaped to mingle with the volcanic gases, ash, and dust, to make a devastating soup that would affect all the generations to come.

When the rocks stopped falling from the sky, when the dust settled, millions of people around the world found themselves still among the living, a mere pittance compared to the billions that had crawled across its surface before an asteroid wandered into their skies. But now those people were faced with a far grimmer problem than they had ever faced before. Cities were leveled, farmlands were pulverized and roads broken. Many people had no food or shelter and only a few were knowledgeable enough to improvise. But if mere survival were their only problem, they would have flourished again with scarcely a pause.

Winter came, and then winter stayed. What they faced with their meager skills, was a type of nuclear winter, and millions more died of starvation and sickness before they figured out how to cope. Glaciers grew as the Earth struggled to wash the ash and dust from her skies, and within a few years, a new ice age was well underway. The people were reduced to living in hide tents because caves, if they could find them, were all too easily turned into tombs when the next earthquake struck. The shudders of the Earth’s skin soon became of interest only when they stopped, as the world strove to find a new balance within itself that did not include a moon.

The hurricane winds that swept the surface diluted and distributed the radioactive dust to the farthest corners, but it remained enough of a problem that, though there were deaths at first, they were relatively few. There was nothing the people could do about it. All they could do was keep breathing, and hope to live another day. Only where the nuclear fallout was concentrated did the people see the danger and flee, but it still affected every living thing, and mutations began to show up with each successive generation.

Ten thousand generations later, the deviations were no longer mutations, they were a fact of life. Some people could move objects, and at first, they used their skill to increase their success with the hunt by whatever means they could devise. Some people became sensitive to the noise in other people’s minds, and they used it liberally to tell when people were lying. Some of the more drastic cases of mutation could change the shape and appearance of their bodies, learning to mimic other people or even animals down to the last hair.

As these effects became increasingly pronounced, the nomadic lifestyle of the people permitted them to segregate. Those who could read minds remained on the coast. Seeking refuge from the mental noise, they built boats and sought out islands far away from their fellows, where they continued to change. Those who could shape the bones and cells of their bodies, sought out the heat far away from the forever snows, since they were also much more susceptible to arthritis and osteoporosis. There, they continued to follow a nomadic life, which allowed them to seek a middle ground between the heat their bones craved and the grasslands that could support their livestock.

Most of those who could move objects turned their skill to preserving life. Causing death—even for food—was too frightening for the people to accept; the dangers of their lives were already numerous. They learned to move injured flesh and broken bones, placing them to heal straight and clean. Eventually they learned how to remove infectious materials. They became the healers, and since they did not seek segregation, they could be found in almost any group, valued and revered in many cases.

The greatest majority of the people remained normal. The self-segregation of the shape-shifters and the mind-readers ultimately caused the genes that produced their skills to fade from the rest of the population. And over the next ten thousand years, the three different cultures went their separate ways. The healers, however, so much needed by every group, were spread among them all.

For over a million years, the people struggled and the Earth groaned under its weight of ice. The people did their best to preserve what they could of what they once were. Legends and tales were handed down, along with the skill for reading and writing. Old names were handed down too as one way of remembering the past. Someday there would be libraries again, and someday the people would reclaim their former greatness, if they could just remember enough. But life was hard. The machines of man’s civilization had long since been reduced to dust and their great cities had been smashed to rubble. When the choice came between carrying food or carrying artifacts from the past, food won every time. Eventually, all they had left was the skill to write stories that had lost their meaning, even though all they had to write on was leather. And of course, in times of hardship, this too was left behind. More writings would be created in times of plenty. But life is a circle, be it large or small, and all things come to an end, or perhaps a new beginning.

There is one piece of knowledge though that saw them through all the generations, all the changes, and all the struggles. The skill of crafting steel was passed from father to son, or from man to boy. The group or clan who could forge the best arrowheads, knives and spears were the ones who became strongest; they could, after all, feed their people. It wasn’t long before the wealth of a clan could be seen by the glint of metal seen among their number, be it spears in hand, knife at belt, or simply decorations across the shoulders of it’s weakest members.

As the forever snows began to recede before the warmth of the sun, societies began to grow. Men built solid shelters for their women and children. They applied their steel to the ground to tame crops. They gathered and raise livestock, or fished the rivers and seas. Leaders built fortresses and trained fighters, because, as is inevitable with the race of man, he must need to test the strength of his steel against others, thus kingdoms were carved by the riddle of steel.

What is the riddle of steel, you ask? Here is the answer:

It is invincibility—to strike with all and to be struck by none.

It is peace—to walk without fear, to know that the end is in your own hands.

It is skill—to feel the elegance found in violence, and to know the beauty found in stillness.

Crown

of

Steel

Sixteen and Bored

Harris O’Aidyn was the prince of Pennland, his standing handed down from father to son for a thousand years, ever since the sun returned to warm the land and allow the people to begin to prosper again. But Harris didn’t really understand what it meant to be a prince. He was sixteen years old and he didn’t have a clue. His father, the king, disappeared into his office every day to do whatever it was a king did and his mother, the queen, seldom came out of her rooms on the second floor.

The rest of the people in the palace went about their duties, just like every other day of his life. Fredric, the librarian, virtually lived in the library. From him, Harris learned to read, though that was mostly because the man refused to read to him after he started asking for the books by name. Balion, the arms master, taught him his sword lessons, but he also made it something of a mind game, and succeeded in teaching his young student to go beyond planning each move and fight on instinct—a feat few could master—a challenge Harris couldn’t resist. Duff, the stable master, saw to it that Harris could ride any horse in the stable, but he was an irascible man and Harris never liked him. The cook merely chased him out of the kitchen with threats of hard labor, and when that didn’t work, it was with a heavy wooden spoon.

His efforts to leave the palace grounds and go into the town were a different matter. Every time he tried, no less than four bodyguards would materialize as his shadows. If he told them to go back and leave him alone, they would simply say, Yes, my lord, and continue to follow him wherever he went. The king’s word obviously carried more weight than his did with the palace guard. And sneaking away—well, that’s why there were four of them—the war marshal had learned years ago that Harris could lose one or two guards far too easily.

Aside from that, no one made Harris do anything he didn’t want to do. There were times when his father mentioned that ‘he ought to do this’ or ‘he should know that’ and for the most part, Harris usually ended up doing whatever his father suggested, if for no other reason than to alleviate the boredom. As a result, he was pretty good with a wide assortment of weapons and had read a good deal of the books in the house library. But still, if he wanted to spend the whole day staring out the window, no one bothered him.

Harris understood the definitions of his father’s title, his mother’s title, and his own title—steel reminders of past glories and conquests were displayed everywhere, and he knew them all by heart. But he couldn’t understand what was expected of him. So one day, he said to his father. I needed to learn how to read the books in the library. I needed to learn how to use a sword. And I needed to learn how to ride a horse. All my history tells me these are things I should know, but none of it teaches me how to be a king. What do I need to learn so I can become a good king?

King Aidyn just laughed and said, Your teachers tell me you’ve done very well. But being a king is simple. When I die, you will take my place. There is nothing special to learn.

Harris couldn’t believe being a king could possibly be so simple. What did a king do? In an attempt to learn the answer for himself, he decided to get up early and watch his father be king. He went into his father’s office and perched himself on a windowsills. It happened to be on the east side of the palace, and the morning sun was warming his bones nicely. He stayed there all day. His father greeted him when he entered the room, but otherwise ignored him. He could have been a house cat for all the stir his presence caused. He totally missed the fact that his father shuddered whenever he looked over at him perched on the windowsill; it never occurred to him that his father never went near and of the large windows that filled the outer walls of the palace on every floor.

Throughout the day, the secretary came and went at spaced intervals, and after hearing a brief explanation as to its significance, the king signed whatever paper the man set in front of him. Interspersed between these visits, the occasional townsman would appear, escorted by a gate guard. The man would present some grievance like, My neighbor’s dog killed my wife’s cat, or So-and-so started a fight in my inn and won’t pay for the damages. The king issued some order on the grievance, and that was all that happened, all day long. Long about midafternoon, when the secretary stopped bringing in papers and no villager was waiting to see him, the king rose to leave.

Harris was still confused. He jumped down from his perch and intercepted his father. What were all those papers you signed today?

Oh, nothing of real great concern, Harris. You were there; you heard what my secretary said. They were just the tedious every day happenings—reports, requests, acquisitions, expenditures and such.

But Father, when will you teach me how to decide these matters? I know you will live for many years yet, but how else will I know what is best if you don’t teach me?

You don’t really need to know anything special, said Aidyn as he draped an arm around Harris’s shoulders. You know right from wrong. The people who come to you will tell you what is best for their particular problem, and if there happen to be two sides, just do as your advisers suggest or make some decision.

But Father, you didn’t read a single one of those papers. You could… You could be waging a war and not know it until the enemy was pounding on our very gates.

Cornelius is a very efficient war marshal. He keeps me informed on such matters. The barbarians to the north—ever quarrelsome among themselves—have no time for us. Our trading ships conduct their business along our coast undisturbed, there is no crossing the mountains to the west, and our neighbors to the south have their own problems. As a matter of fact, I received a message from them a few days ago. They are seeking a treaty with us. So you see, all is well.

What do they want?

"They want aid against the desert nomads to their south, of course. I want nothing to do with it."

But Father, shouldn’t we do something? They turn on us?

They’ll never turn on us, son. The nomads are too much of a problem for them to invite trouble on yet another border. Besides, they were offering one of their daughters for you to marry. You’re not looking to get married already, are you?

Harris was horrified and stunned all at once. No! I don’t even know any girls. What…? How…? How can I marry one?

Yes, well, I think we’ll have to remedy that problem.

The king disappeared up the stairs chuckling, leaving his son behind gaping in shock.

Harris headed to his rooms to prepare for the evening meal, but his steps were rote. It didn’t take him long to discard his father’s mention of a future wife. With the closest candidate an unknown distance away, he was certain it must have been a joke. His mind went back to his original problem. By definition, his father ruled over a larger group of people, but he had trouble identifying the larger group. His ancestors had pitted their steel against whole armies, but there was no army here. There was the cook, who also made sure the three housemaids and four houseboys got their work done. There was the arms master—Harris wasn’t at all sure what he did when he wasn’t conducting a lesson with one weapon or another with his one student. The librarian kept the books dusted off. And the stable master managed his father’s horses, ensuring their health and planning the occasional breeding. Then there was Cornelius, the war marshal, who commanded a dozen palace guards, and also oversaw the town’s peace—hardly worthy tasks for a man of such stature. Then there was the town’s populace, which consisted of about seventy-some odd adults, most of which had a small family.

Harris bypassed his room and climbed up to the roof to see if there was anything he’d missed, but there was nothing in sight. It didn’t quite fit with the hints he had gleaned from the library, but if this was it, then this was it.

Late one afternoon, one of the kitchen boys burst into the armory just Harris was putting away his gear after a lesson. Before scarcely skidding to a halt he said, Strangers are here. I been looking everywhere for you. His eyes looked like they might pop out of his head, and his entire frame was quivering with more than being out of breath, but with what? Fear? "King Aidyn sent me to find you. They came to see you."

Harris frowned. He couldn’t remember strangers from beyond their little valley ever finding them, though he did recall a message mentioned by his father once, so the messenger must have found his way through.

Where? he asked. Why would any stranger want to see me? He was beginning to become just as alarmed as the kitchen boy.

They’s waiting for you in the king’s office.

Without taking the time to splash water on his face, he hurried to his father’s office where he found him and Cornelius entertaining three strangers.

Harris was immediately struck by how very different these men appeared compared to his father and most everyone else he knew. They of course wore their steel on their arms or shoulders as rank might indicate, while his father’s steel was displayed in every corner of the palace, and especially here, but the greatest difference was between them was in their faces and bearing. Two of the strange men appeared to be older even than Cornelius, who, next to the cook’s uncle, was the oldest person he knew. They were quite trim and stood very straight. Their faces were a dark brown, but the dark ended above the eyes. The sun heavily accented white lines around their eyes and mouths. His father, by comparison, was overweight, balding, and startlingly pale.

Cornelius was in better shape, but he too had seen very little sun, and if appearance was anything to judge by, he hadn’t sat in a saddle for years. The thought made Harris realize that he’d never seen the war marshal anywhere near a horse, nor had he ever seen his father step outside of the palace doors, whereas these strange men looked like they seldom stepped down from a saddle, let alone into a building. The youngest of the three looked just as hardened.

Harris, here you are, boy, greeted his father. These men are from Carolinas. I told you about them. He waved his hand toward each man as he named him, starting with the youngest. This is his Highness, Prince Jonathan, third son of King Carroll. Lord Jasper, the king’s ambassador. And this is Lord Leonas, high advisor to the king. He introduced his son in the same manner. My Lords, this is my son, Prince Harris. Harris, continued Aidyn, King Carroll and I have agreed that both you and his young daughter are too young for marriage, and the ties that would accompany such a joining are too all-encompassing at this time. Instead, we have agreed to a mutual fosterage. So Prince Jonathan will stay here, and you will go in his place to Carolinas where you both shall remain until you reach your majority at the age of twenty. Go now; pack your things. You will be leaving the day after tomorrow at dawn.

Deliberately given no opportunity to speak, Harris knew he could say nothing without sounding like a child, so he bowed a brief greeting to the visitors and left.

A few moments later, he heard running footsteps behind him and was surprised to see Prince Jonathan running to catch up.

You didn’t know this was going to happen, did you? said Jonathan.

No one tells me anything around here, said Harris. I hope you don’t mind being bored. Nothing ever happens here.

Surprised at Harris’s cynicism, Jonathan could only say, No lessons?

You can find any lessons you want, if that’s what you like, just go to the library. Fredric’s always there to teach you whatever you want to learn or answer any question you may have if it comes from a book. If you like weapons practice, go to the armory and Balion, the arms master, will see to it that you get lessons in whatever weapon interests you. Or go to the stables, if you want to go riding. You can do anything you want. No one will bother you with anything more.

Why? Jonathan was incredulous.

Why what? That’s just the way it is. Is it different where you come from? They arrived at Harris’s room. This is my room. He splashed water on his face and combed his wet fingers through his hair.

Nice room. It’s bigger than mine, said Jonathan as he poked around at the various items in sight and tested the view from the windows.

Really, said Harris as he flopped down on his bed. Do you have any brothers? I know you got at least one sister. Restlessly he rolled off his bed and opened his armoire. What do you think I should pack?

Jonathan curled up on the corner of the bed. Just clothes, I guess, unless you have something especially made for you or something you’re partial to. I have two older brothers and four sisters. He sighed and twisted a steel cuff, Girls are such a pain. I bet you’re thankful our fathers decided against marriage.

With surprise, Harris pulled his head out of the cupboard and asked, Why?

Equally surprised, Jonathan said, Oh, you know. All girls ever talk about is dresses, colors, flowers and such. The only girl I really like is my sister, Sorsha; she’s older. She’s eighteen and in the military with my brother, Aiken; he’s twenty.

A girl? In the military? I never would have imagined. Harris tried to picture one of the maids dressed in armor and holding a sword. He dived back into his cupboard to hide his grin.

Yeah, well, she ranted about it until Father finally made a deal with her. If she could satisfy the officers that she was good enough to pull her own weight, she could join. Father made sure they didn’t cut her any slack, either.

Which one was supposed to be my wife? Harris asked, half-afraid all the girls in the family were like this Sorsha.

That would be Kandice, but she’s only twelve, so you don’t have to be worried about her for a little while yet. Mother hit the roof when Father told her about the offer. Father couldn’t offer Sorsha now that she’s in the military. By our laws, she can’t marry until she is twenty. She can’t even be betrothed without her consent.

Um, Kandice doesn’t want to be in the military, does she?

No, she’s too shy. Sorsha tries to teach her something about fighting anyway. She says, ‘No sister of mine will be totally defenseless.’ Kandy is so tiny, though, that she may be defenseless, no matter what. I didn’t see any girls around here. Do you have any sisters?

No sisters, no brothers, replied Harris. The only women around here are the housemaids; you won’t see them much. Mother has a personal maid too, but she’s older. Harris gave up on the closet. Come on, I’ll show you the way to the stables. We can see what horses I’ll be taking. How many horses will I need, anyway?

Jonathan was surprised that his new friend would need to ask such a question. Have you ever gone anywhere at all?

No, just into town, or out riding once in a while, but never far, said Harris.

Wow! Do you even know where the other lords in your kingdom live or what they do?

What other lords?

Jonathan could only stare. Well, all I can say is, ready yourself, boredom will be the least of your worries. Your saddle sores will keep you too busy.

Saddle sores? I don’t understand, said Harris. I know how to ride. I haven’t been saddle sore since I was little.

That’s good, because you’ll be covering a lot of miles in the saddle. I can only assume you’ll be doing what I used to do. One of my responsibilities was to visit all the holdings. I keep all our lords loyal by knowing them and knowing what they need. That way, they can’t take advantage of Father too much.

That must be what Cornelius, father’s war marshal, does here; he’s never very far from father when he’s seeing the people, said Harris.

The two boys continued to compare the differences between their lives, finding humor wherever they could. They were well on their way to becoming good friends. Harris was looking forward to stretching his wings and getting involved in the things Jonathan described, while Jonathan was already planning to stick his nose where none had gone before.

At the entrance to the stables, Harris called out, Duff? Duff, where are you?

Coming, my lord, called a scratchy voice from the dark interior of the barn. When the wiry old man stepped into the light, he bowed as the rank of his young visitors dictated. What is your pleasure, my lord?

Duff, my father tells me I’ll be traveling to Carolinas, and Prince Jonathan will be staying here. I would like to see the horses I’ll be taking on the trip, and I would like to show Prince Jonathan the horses he will be riding while he’s here. They must be strong and durable. I think Jonathan will do a good deal more riding than I ever did. He also tells me I’ll be riding far more than I ever have before.

Your father has already sent word of your coming journey, and I have selected these three chargers for you to take with you. Each has been selected for tractability, endurance, and their high-quality bloodline. I also picked out these two sturdy horses for packing, Duff explained as he indicated the horses in a separate corral. How much gear will you be taking?

Certainly not enough to require two pack horses. Some clothes, my armor, my weapons—that’s all. Now what will Prince Jonathan have to ride?

I’m sure Prince Jonathan brought his own horses, but he will be welcome to try out any of Lord Aidyn’s stock that happens to be in the paddock. Will there be anything else, my lord?

No, that’ll be all, thank you, Duff.

Once out of hearing, Jonathan said, Those are fine horses. How many does your father have?

I never really counted, said Harris. I suppose there’s about twenty or twenty-five all together in the paddock out back—minus five now.

Jonathan was perplexed. Twenty? Twenty-five? My father has several hundred under his personal brand, and that’s not even counting those used by the military.

Throughout the rest of the day and the next, the two boys cemented their friendship as they explored the different points of interest in the palace. Both of them were hungry, in their own way, for a friend who was more than just a peer.

A Whole New Life

Early the next morning, just as he was finishing dressing, someone knocked on the door. When Harris opened it, the war marshal bent to pick up a large chest and carry it on into the room. These belonged to your grandfather. Your father wants you to wear them with pride. After depositing the chest on the end of the bed, he flipped the latch and opened it.

Harris had never seen anything like it before. Some of the pieces resembled parts of armor, but there was very little defensive quality. Then he realized their visitors were wearing something similar, though of a very different style.

Cornelius helped him put the pieces on. First there was a wide torque made of wedge-shaped fingers of steel. They were held together with heavy cords of interchanging burgundy and royal blue. In place, it extended to the edge of his shoulders and then down his chest and back, and it was surprisingly heavy. Next to come out of the chest were wide cuffs for his forearms and longer ones for his lower legs made in the same manner. Then Cornelius lifted a wide girdle out of the chest. It was tailored to fit his hips and ribs, and not be loose at his waist. This piece had seen some wear. This makes wearing a swordbelt more comfortable, or so they say. I have something like this and I never cared for it, said the old war marshal.

This is all for show then? asked Harris.

Oh yes, everyone likes to strut their family wealth at special occasions. Your father wore it for his wedding as I recall.

Next to come out of the chest was something more than a crown and less than a helmet. Made in the same way as everything else, the metal pieces were shaped to fit the head. It reached down to his eyebrows and would have covered sideburns if he had any, then up around the ears and around the back, mostly tracing his hairline. Over the crown of the head was the only non-linier metal part in the entire collection. A round plate, slightly domed to fit the skull was stitched to the upper ends of the bands that went around the rest of his head.

The next thing Cornelius carefully lifted out of the chest was a thick bundle of cloth, widely quilted in the house colors. It will still be cold out there on the road. You might want this to start with anyway. He carefully shook out the folds of a heavy woolen short cape and swung it around Harris’s shoulders. The neck was wide enough that an upper two inches of the torque was still visible, but the folds from there were voluptuous.

As Cornelius buttoned the front closed, Harris found the wide slits for his arms, and then touched a few of the two-inch steel studs that decorated the entire surface. My armor isn’t this heavy.

The weight of your responsibility can never be taken lightly.

Then Harris understood. This might all be just decoration, but it was also a reminder that he represented his father’s kingdom. He looked at himself in his mirror, squaring his shoulders under their weight and lifting his chin. I want to make a good impression. How do I look?

Like a prince. I’m proud of you, son.

Harris took a deep breath and left his room with Cornelius at his flank.

After everyone was mounted up, Harris looked around. He’d lived here all his life, and never really looked at things much. The big four-story palace with all its windows, it had been his whole world; somehow it looked different today, smaller maybe. The mountains in the back seemed to loom over the palace in a very foreboding way. And his father, the man who had been such a giant in his life, looked small now, so out-of-place standing there in the frame of the big double doors. All the little shacks and sheds around the courtyard looked like a child’s forgotten toys scattered across the bottom of the toy box.

By the time they stopped for the night, Harris was more than ready. He’d ridden a lot so it wasn’t all that he was sore, but never in his life had he gone in one direction at a single monotonous pace for so many hours. They set up camp at a big river, the first he’d ever seen. Seeing his companions shed their fancy display of metal as soon as alighting, Harris followed suit, and then he went to explore the river.

The flow of the water so enthralled him that he just stood there and looked at it up and down, over and over again, trying to take it all in. And the mountains, way far upriver, were spectacular. He’d been watching them all day. They’d always been out there whenever he wanted to look at them, but it seemed like he’d never really seen them before. Here, where he was standing, everything was lush and green with the fresh colors of spring, but the mountains looming on the horizon, were still very white with snow. And the smells—the crushed grass from their campsite, the smoke from their fire, the food cooking, and the water at his feet—it all smelled so fresh, so new, so…open. This newness all around him was so entrancing that Lord Jasper was eventually forced to personally come retrieve him in order to eat.

Over the next three weeks, the mountains grew marginally farther away and there was less snow on top of them. The rivers they crossed were still all wonderful, but nothing could compare to the first one. And as they traveled, the wide-open world had many wonders to show him.

He saw fields of new crops on all sides, none of which he recognized. He saw animals of all sorts. Most he’d never seen before—at least not alive. Pigs, cattle, goats, sheep; his brief lessons in husbandry had his head swimming. He’d eaten pork and beef all the time without ever knowing what the animal looked like.

When Jasper told him that the coat he was wearing was woven from sheep’s wool, he couldn’t imagine how. He could see no resemblance between what was on the sheep and what was on his back. And then, when Jasper told him where the milk he loved so much came from, he seriously considered never drinking any more, but quickly discarded the idea; he liked milk too much to give it up.

He could tell that Lord Jasper was getting impatient with all his questions, but he