Blood Silver

By J.M. Ney-Grimm

Tricks and cheats lurk at the heart of faie cruelty...

 

Tahearn—a faie knight—hates the love of torment relished by the lords and ladies of the faie court, and refuses to give rein to it in himself. But when the faie queen targets him with her unique blend of pain and pleasure, his desire to retaliate threatens his restraint.

 

Fleeing the faie deeps, Tahearn encounters the bright mortal world and falls in love, not only with its sunlit wildness, but with a healer tending the herb garden where he strays. Engaging in the ordinary pleasures of mortality—baking bread, airing bedclothes, compounding remedies—Tahearn hopes to leave the faie and his own faie nature behind forever.

 

But the faie king declares war on his mortal neighbors when he discovers that his escaped knight yet lives, bringing Tahearn's pastoral idyll to an end. Unless Tahearn eludes the snare set just for him—eschewing both the violence and cold withdrawal in his own heart—he will lose his love, his life, and the bright world he adores.

 

Blood Silver is a fantasy novella filled with knightly chivalry and the eerie glamor of the faie set against the joys of home and hearth. If you enjoy characters who step off the page, humble heroes, and captivating stories, you'll love J.M. Ney-Grimm's fresh fairy tale.

 

Buy Blood Silver and choose love today!

PRAISE FOR BLOOD SILVER

 

"…a nice quick little read. Great characters, interesting story line, good pacing, and well written." —JMD

 

"…I couldn't put it down. It reminded me of Le Morte d'Arthur and Mists of Avalon even though it has nothing to do with the King Arthur legend. This author just brought back those feelings…" —Tricia Schiro

 

"…simple and thought-provoking in a beautiful way. …smart and wise. It's peaceful and otherworldly. I felt like a new fairy tale had been written and that gave me a lot of joy." —Ambrose Crotts

 

"The characters felt real, like they could step out of the pages…" —Stephanie Wachter

 

"It felt familiar like an old fairy tale, but was also very fresh and new." —Erin K.

 

EXCERPT FROM BLOOD SILVER

The king knew. The king's advisers knew. Each knight who would accompany Tahaern onto the field of truce knew. Odhran and Lorcan would both be knights themselves soon. They deserved respect and needed not a child's sheltering.

"I suspect my brother contemplates some act of perfidy," Tahaern admitted.

"Under the banner of truce?" objected Lorcan, offended despite knowing better.

"Even so," agreed Tahaern.

"Will it be enough?" asked Odhran. "Just suspecting—" he paused and corrected himself after a glance at Tahaern "—or even knowing, without knowing what?"

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.M. Ney-Grimm
• Release date: Jul 10, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386037316

J.M. Ney-Grimm

J.M. Ney-Grimm lives with her husband and children in Virginia, just east of the Blue Ridge Mountains. She's learning about permaculture gardening and debunking popular myths about food. The rest of the time she reads Robin McKinley, Diana Wynne Jones, and Lois McMaster Bujold, plays boardgames like Settlers of Catan, rears her twins, and writes stories set in her troll-infested North-lands. Look for her novels and novellas at your favorite bookstore—online or on Main Street.

Book preview

Blood Silver

~ A MYTHIC TALE ~

by J.M. Ney-Grimm

Copyright © 2018 J.M. Ney-Grimm

Cover art:

La Belle Dame sans Merci

by Frank Dicksee

In memoria

my mother

Author’s Note

Tahaern, the hero of Blood Silver, is a knight of the faie folk. As I told his story, I discovered that I didn’t know nearly as much about knightly accouterments and knightly skills as I thought I did!

Much of Tahaern’s tale transpires in the peaceful hamlet of Gleannbaile, but there are sufficient scenes in which armor is donned and swords wielded that my continued ignorance would have hindered my ability to do justice to Tahaern’s experience.

Exactly how did a medieval knight put on his plate armor? If unhorsed on the battlefield, could he scramble to his feet again and fight? Did he truly not require a shield? Was plate armor alone sufficient to protect him? How did a knight carry his hand-and-a-half sword? What is the difference, anyway, between a hand-and-a-half sword and a great sword?

So I went delving for answers. I wanted to get the details right.

If you have questions such as mine, I can wholeheartedly recommend the videos made available to the interested layperson by Ian LaSplina of Knyght Errant, Jeffrey D. Wasson via The Metropolitan Museum of Art, Matt Easton of Schola Gladiatoria, Mark Griffin of FutureLearn, and Skallagrim.

I leaned heavily on the knowledge so generously shared by these re-enactors, living history buffs, medieval weapons experts, and experimental archeologists as I followed my protagonist through the tents of a war camp and onto the battlefield. Any errors are my own, of course.

Table of Contents

In Time of War

Before the War

The Field of Truce

Before the Declaration of War

War

Faie Blood

Homecoming

Appendices

Footwork

Guard Positions

Sword Strikes

Sources for More About Knights,

Knightly Skills, and Knightly Gear

Author Bio

More Titles by J.M. Ney-Grimm

Blood Silver

~IN TIME OF WAR~

1

Crouched below the generous canvas of a pavilion in the mortal king’s camp, Lorcan burst out, I can’t believe the war’s really over! as he tied off the lace securing Tahaern’s sabaton to its arming boot. I never got to cross swords with the faie king! I never even came near him!

Tahaern controlled a grimace.

Wishing to cross swords with an honorable enemy was one thing. Any squire verging on knighthood might desire it, especially a fiery youth like Lorcan, Tahaern’s junior-most squire. Crossing swords with the faie king—Tahaern’s own devious brother—was to invite . . . treachery. Or worse.

Tahaern breathed in the green scent of the crushed grass underfoot.

He stood with his sabaton-clad foot propped on the seat of his campstool. He was donning armor to sign this treaty, not ceremonial robes, for good reason.

He considered whether he’d actually achieved what he’d set out to accomplish with his support of the mortal king: a secure peace for the people of the mortal realm. Had he achieved it?

Perhaps . . . not.

Lorcan sat back on his heels, his neatly braided queue a rich red in the sunlight filtering through the creamy ceiling of the pavilion. Why did we agree to a truce? We should have fought on! he argued.

Tahaern felt the corners of his mouth straining to turn up. Ah, youth.

At Tahaern’s elbow, Odhran—Tahaern’s senior-most squire and nephew—gave a muffled cough. Or maybe it was a stifled laugh. Certainly one hand covered his mouth, hiding it and the short brown beard—tidily trimmed—that graced his chin.

The leg greave Odhran held ready gleamed with polish, as did the rest of Tahaern’s plate armor, arrayed on a nearby trestle table. The blades of swords in the weapons rack beyond it scattered more scintillas of radiance on trunks, folded cots, and the other paraphernalia of a baggage train that moved often.

The warmth of the light had an almost holy feel to Tahaern.

But everything about the bright world outside the underearth realm of the faie felt holy to him. In actuality, a pavilion in a mortal war camp bore little relation to a chapel, he supposed.

Odhran cleared his throat. I wouldn’t be so sure it’s all over, youngling, he said to Lorcan. The faie king has cried truce and treaty thrice before. Odhran’s nostrils flared in distaste. Each time he’s gone back on his plea, unable to stomach surrender when it came to the point.

Odhran had clearly been listening when Tahaern insisted that faie cunning posed more danger than their prowess in battle. Faie warriors were no weaklings, and the putative faie surrender had been hard fought for by the mortal army. But the faie were ever untrustworthy, and this truce—despite the sacred conventions of such—might be merely a ploy.

Tahaern leaned forward, thinking, and the campstool creaked under his weight.

He’d broken such a perch once, when he’d been so unwise as to sit down fully armored. Faie himself, he stood full half a head taller than the mortal men of King Ruadhan’s army, with a proportionate breadth of shoulder and weight of muscle. The furnishings of the camp would bear him, just, but the addition of all his gear to his person—from close helm through cuirass and cuisses to sabatons—had proven too much for that campstool, which had splintered.

A smart tap on Tahaern’s ankle made him look down.

Lorcan, still kneeling, gestured impatiently. The squire had long since finished tying the laces of the arming boot, and the young man required Tahaern’s other foot.

As Tahaern switched his stance, the campstool creaked again.

Lorcan stretched an arm toward the trestle table with all Tahaern’s plate, retrieving the sabaton at its edge.

Tahaern addressed Odhran’s point. Benin Glanmor—benin was the faie word for ‘king’—made all his prior reversals scant moments after raising the white banner, Tahaern stated. This time . . . I think he must know that if he takes the field again, he will lose far more than the battle.

Lorcan’s face turned up, his blue eyes alight, blazing to rival the dark red of his narrow mustache and the brighter red of his fighting queue. Yes! he hissed. He deserves to lose everything! I hope he does break the truce!

One corner of Tahaern’s mouth did twitch upward at this utterance. Thus spoke inexperience.

He shook his head, just a slight movement.

Lorcan dropped his gaze, turning back to his task. The articulated metal of the sabaton clicked as he fitted it atop the arming boot, swung the hinged heel piece into place, and locked it down with the steel toggle. Then he started threading the laces at the boot’s toe through the matching eyelets of the sabaton.

Lorcan might relish more fighting—of course he did—but Tahaern was weary of it, feeling a fatigue of spirit that lay more heavily than any tiredness of muscle or ache of bone. He longed for home and for the peace that would return him there.

He longed for his wife, awaiting him.

He prayed this truce would last, would result in a signed treaty that would indeed seal the end of the war. He hoped he’d lain down his hand-and-a-half sword. For good.

Odhran handed over the case greave he held to Lorcan, while chiding the younger squire afresh. "The faie king must know that if he fails to honor this truce, the stakes will change. He won’t be fighting merely for victory versus defeat."

Irritation crossed Lorcan’s face. He popped the greave open and fitted it over the woolen hose sheathing Tahaern’s calf, the hinges going at the outside of the leg, the buckles to the inside. He checked that the mail sewn to the hose at the front of the ankle lay flat. Then, forcing the flange of the front greave-half under the edge of the back, he went to work threading the leather straps through their fasteners.

Busy buckling, he countered his fellow squire, annoyance evident in his tone. Of course Benin Glanmor will be fighting for victory over defeat. What else is there to fight for?

Odhran had fetched the other greave from the trestle table. He waited to answer Lorcan’s question until Tahaern had lowered his greaved leg and raised the hose-clad one.

Annihilation, he said, shortly, ignoring Lorcan’s reach for the greave and fastening it on himself.

So? said Lorcan impatiently, rising to grab the cuisse for Tahaern’s left thigh from the trestle.

You just don’t get it, do you? said Odhran, his tone bitter.

Lorcan, bending to fit the cuisse on Tahaern’s leg, jerked upright again, mouth opening for furious words.

Tahaern spoke first. He suspected the squires sensed his own hidden unease. They generally got on well together. Best to diffuse this quarrel before it gained momentum.

If the faie king breaks this truce, we won’t believe him a fifth time, he explained.

Odhran started to add his own gloss, and Tahaern waved him silent.

Which means, Tahaern continued, that Benin Glanmor will then have no recognized way of surrender. With all validity of the truce broken, our King Ruadhan must fight on until every last faie knight lies dead and dying, or at least wounded beyond pursuing battle.

Oh. Lorcan’s lips formed the word silently, and then whitened around their edges as he placed the articulated knee joint of Tahaern’s cuisse over Tahaern’s knee, fitting its lower eyelet over the pin on the already-placed greave. Annihilation, he whispered in echo of Odhran.

It’s an ugly thing, agreed Tahaern. He’d never seen such a scene himself, but he could imagine it well enough from the mercy cuts he’d granted in the wake of this war’s battles. Wending one’s way through an entire army of fallen enemies . . . would be far worse than ugly. But there was no need to lead Lorcan’s imagination through such a nightmare.

Judging by the slight trembling in the squire’s fingers as he threaded the lowest cuisse buckle through the upper staple of the greave, the young man might be imagining too much already without such guidance. He glanced up with an extra tension in his gaze before he settled to buckling the cuisse straps that went at the back of Tahaern’s thigh.

Tahaern was faie, a truth that had intimidated the mortal armsmen when he’d first come among them. Even the knights had looked askance at him, though they’d hidden it better. Aside from the faie reputation for unreliability, they’d had additional cause for concern.

Benin Glanmor was Tahaern’s brother. How could mortal men know that Tahaern’s enmity toward Glanmor was even stronger than their own? But now, nearly twelve moons into their war against the faie, they knew Tahaern for an ally and looked to him when the fighting grew most fierce.

He’d proven himself true to their trust. He’d brought them to this morning’s victory. If it did so prove to be victory.

But judging from Lorcan’s congealed expression as he finished the last cuisse buckle, in this moment the squire was seeing Tahaern as all faie, not ally.

Tahaern gave the young man’s shoulder a shake. Hey, it’s me, he said, not some stranger.

Lorcan heaved a sigh and grinned. He shook his head. I’m sure glad you’re on our side, is all, he said.

Odhran, stepping forward with the other cuisse, snorted. Envisioning him riding beside Benin Glanmor, were you?

Well, you try imagining it! reposted Lorcan.

Hah! I don’t have to, answered Odhran, bending to the cuisse buckles. I’d just been unhorsed in yesterday’s battle, and lay on the ground directly behind an unhorsed faie knight exactly as Tahaern charged him. On Baelius. That was Tahaern’s favorite steed. I’ve never been so scared in my life!

Tahaern wasn’t sure Odhran did feel fear—he was so phlegmatic—but let the squire tell his story the way he wanted to.

How were you not trampled? asked Lorcan.

Odhran shook his head. "I think he’s been holding out on us, because he never taught me that move!"

Tell! ordered Lorcan.

Threading the laces from the arming doublet through the upper eyelets of the cuisse, Odhran’s lips curled up. Baelius jumped over me, light as you please. But on the take-off, our knight here—Odhran nodded at Tahaern—reversed his sword and beat aside the faie’s blade with pommel and guard. Then reversed his sword again, and fast enough to skewer the guy while Baelius was still in the air.

Hah! repeated Lorcan, "He has been holding out on us!"

Both young men were laughing. Some of Tahaern’s concealed tension eased. He’d come to love these two like the sons he’d never sired.

And he’d brought the more impulsive Lorcan heart whole through this war; the more level-headed Odhran, too. Both were gallant and chivalrous, without letting these virtues hinder their effectiveness on the battlefield. Both were sound of limb and body. He’d achieved that much at least, whether this truce proved to be victory. Or not.

Odhran was