Black Blade Blues Read online

  Black Blade Blues

  Black Blade Blues

  J. A. Pitts

  A Tom Doherty Associates Book

  NEW YORK

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events

  portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination

  or are used fictitiously.

  BLACK BLADE BLUES

  Copyright © 2010 by John A. Pitts

  All rights reserved.

  A Tor Book

  Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC

  175 Fifth Avenue

  New York, NY 10010

  www.tor-forge.com

  Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

  ISBN 978-0-7653-2467-2 (hardcover)

  ISBN 978-0-7653-2793-2 (trade paperback)

  First Edition: May 2010

  Printed in the United States of America

  0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  This novel is dedicated to the three most important people in my life.

  My wonderful wife, Kathleen, who has made my life a joy. I cannot imagine this journey without you at my side.

  My son, John Patrick, who has grown to be a man of integrity and honor. You continue to amaze me with your wit and keen insight into the world.

  And finally, my daughter, Emily Ann, who races through life with passion and a love of adventure. Don’t grow up too fast. We have so many more books to share.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Chapter Fifty-two

  Chapter Fifty-three

  Chapter Fifty-four

  Chapter Fifty-five

  Chapter Fifty-six

  Chapter Fifty-seven

  Chapter Fifty-eight

  Chapter Fifty-nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-one

  Chapter Sixty-two

  Chapter Sixty-three

  Chapter Sixty-four

  Chapter Sixty-five

  Chapter Sixty-six

  Chapter Sixty-seven

  Chapter Sixty-eight

  Chapter Sixty-nine

  Chapter Seventy

  Chapter Seventy-one

  Chapter Seventy-two

  Chapter Seventy-three

  Chapter Seventy-four

  Chapter Seventy-five

  Acknowledgments

  This book would not have been possible without the patience, encouragement, and support of a wide variety of people, some who will likely never know of their influence.

  First of all, I need to thank the fine folks of Fairwood Writers Group who pushed me to be a better writer when I was unclear exactly what that meant—Renee Stern, Brenda Cooper, Patrick Swenson, Darragh Metzger, Leslie Clark, David Addleman, Allan Rousselle, Harold Gross, David Silas, Erin Tidwell, Janna Silverstein, Melissa Shaw, and Paul Melko.

  First readers provide an immeasurable service to us poor writers, and I can’t imagine succeeding without them. Thanks to Jen and Dan Berg, Rob Scott, Alecia Bolton, Chelsea and Owen Wessling, Cynthia and Jeff Wessling, Brenda Cooper, and Jay Lake for their insightful commentary.

  Special thanks to Denise Little for buying the short story this novel is based on and including it in the anthology Swordplay, which came out in 2009. Also, Kris Rusch and Dean Smith, who showed me the possibilities and introduced me to Oregon Writers Network folks who have supported me so well over the last five years.

  Of those who helped this become a reality, I’d like to express my utmost gratitude to my agent, Cameron McClure, who has done an excellent job keeping me informed and sane. Thanks to Claire Eddy for taking a chance on a newbie and being so excited about my work, and to Kristin Sevick for helping wrangle things in such a fine manner. And I would be remiss if I did not mention Irene Gallo and Dan Dos Santos for providing such an outstanding cover. I remain amazed at my good fortune.

  Ken Scholes, my best writing buddy, and excellent friend. Jay Lake, mentor and guide on the road of my chosen career. Thanks to you both for sharing the campfires and braving the dragons on this adventure.

  Finally, I’d like to acknowledge all the strong women who have influenced my life—from my great-aunt Dottie Buffin, who taught me to love science fiction, to Jules Unsel, who taught me the importance of seeing beyond my particular little corner of the world. These women have opened my eyes and filled my life with wonder.

  Black Blade Blues

  One

  THE WARRIOR KING STOOD ATOP THE HILL, THE LIGHT OF A new dawn cresting behind him. His pompadour, tall and proud as a cockscomb, blocked the sun, casting his face in shadow. Tiny shafts of light sprayed from the crystals adorning his glowing white armor. The ebony blade he held above his head drank in the light, casting a halo around his upraised hands.

  “I declare this land free from oppression,” he called. His voice rang. “I claim this, my birthright: this sword, made from the shattered horn of Memphisto, and handed down to me from my father, and from his father before him. With this I cast the goblins from this land.”

  He swung the sword to drag it across the rocky crag and shower sparks down upon the goblin horde at his feet.

  Instead, I watched the sword strike the ferrocrete stage and snap. Fully one-third of the blade ricocheted toward the goblins, who scattered, squealing.

  Actors are so stupid—not supposed to actually hit the stage. That’s what special effects are for.

  “Cut!” Carl called. Carl was the director.

  JJ flung the sword to the ground, sending the goblins into full retreat. “Stupid, useless props!”

  The overhead lights came up, and the soundstage appeared, shattering the image of a vengeful King of Rock and Roll and his mighty sword of doom.

  I love my job.

  “Everybody take fifteen,” Carl said into his megaphone. “Sarah, do not kill the actors.”

  Several of the stagehands chuckled and cast sideways glances my way. I counted to ten. Honest I did. At least seven, I’m almost positive.

 
Seventeen extras in horrid rubber goblin suits began to waddle out to the lot, lighting cigarettes, their large costume heads under their arms.

  I stormed over to JJ. “You idiot! You aren’t supposed to actually hit the stage.”

  “Damn thing’s too freaking heavy,” he whined. “Can’t we use a lighter prop? Maybe one that doesn’t break?”

  I knelt down, looking at the pieces. For a moment, I wanted to pummel JJ with the flat of the blade. I’d only likely bruise him. Likely.

  Behind me, Carl sighed. “Do we have another black sword?”

  “No,” I said. Here goes a second career down the toilet.

  “Well, it’s too damn heavy,” JJ groused. “Maybe you can make one out of Styrofoam or something.”

  I just stared at the back of his sweaty, overstyled head as he sauntered toward the gaggle of women waiting along the back of the soundstage.

  With a sigh, I picked the sword up firmly by the handle. The broken blade lay forlornly on the rocks. It was a bad break, snapping midway to the tip. Be a bitch to repair this one. Reforging a sword was tricky business.

  I do the blacksmithing thing for a living, so I had some idea what I was talking about. Being prop manager here was my night gig.

  Not like I’d planned this life. I took welding in high school, and loved working with metal. I went to college to get away from my family—well, mainly my father—but didn’t find any satisfaction in it. Da was convinced I’d come home after college and fit the mold he wanted.

  The blacksmithing school I went to saved my life, frankly. My father wanted me to get married and squeeze out half a dozen puppies, be a good homemaker, adore my husband, go to church. . . . I’d rather gouge my eyes out.

  My farrier school gave me a reference to Julie Hendrickson, the blacksmith master I work for. She’s supercool, but the pay doesn’t cover all my bills. Student loans really add up.

  I found the movie gig by accident. Carl hassled me at a local science fiction convention. He thought it was cool I was a blacksmith. We chatted—ended up he made movies, needed someone who was creative at making things, and here I am.

  My two careers meshed together pretty well. Julie had no problem letting me use the forge after hours as long as I covered the expenses and cleaned up when I was done. Tonight’s wages would cover fixing the black blade, and maybe help me afford to make a few more for the upcoming conventions.

  Cons were a good place to sell weapons. Everyone who showed up wanted to be a hero, or be rescued by one. I was only too obliged to support the fantasy. Whatever made people happy, ya know? Of course, I’d be on my own for this effort. Julie was a farrier, and a good teacher, but her weapon skills sucked.

  Which was a shame, actually. You could make a decent amount of scratch if you had made good weapons or armor. There was always someone willing to buy a cheap sword, but the real money was in the collectors and the cosplay folks. They liked the real thing. Costume players—cosplay. Anyway. They wanted to look the coolest, have the best accessories. I did my level best to fill that niche. Most shows had crappy knockoff weapons made in Pakistan, so I had a market.

  But this sword, my black beauty, she was a special blade, not some beater we used in the Society or used to play dress-up. The Society for Creative Anachronism folks would never risk their precious weapons like this. Reenactors were crazy authentic, and treated their gear better than their spouses in some cases. The group I ran with—Black Briar—they were on the normal end of loony. Still, they thought I was nuts to risk a blade of this quality on a movie shoot.

  Maybe they were right. I never should’ve risked the black sword here with ham-fisted JJ.

  I carried the broken blade into the props cage and gently placed the pieces into the crushed velvet nest I’d hand-built for it. Who knew the case was better constructed than the blade?

  “We won’t need that sword again for a few days,” Carl said, walking up behind me. “Why don’t you take tomorrow off, see if you can repair it?”

  Closing the case, I snapped the latches and hefted it up by the handle. “I’ll do what I can,” I said, smiling at him. “Plus, there’s an antique auction in Seattle tomorrow. I’m hoping to get over and see if they have anything interesting.”

  Carl laughed. “You’re quite the weapons nerd, Beauhall.”

  I stuck my chin up, tilting my head to the side. “You making fun of me, boss?”

  He stepped back, hands in front of him, palms out, laughing. “God, no. I would never tease a blacksmith. I mean, with arms like yours . . .” He trailed off. “And any woman who collects swords, no chance.” He gave me his best Boy Scout grin. “Too many sharp pointy things to be concerned about.”

  I smiled. He was cute, in a baby-faced sort of way. Not a bad director, either. More Ed Wood than Woody Allen, but his films didn’t make me want to hurl. “All right, boss. I’ll see you on Wednesday then?”

  “You’ll be bringing me a new ebony blade?”

  “We’re still doing wide-angle shots?”

  “Yes, close-up shots aren’t until next weekend.”

  “Okay, I’ll have something you can use.”

  He grinned, but said nothing further.

  I gave him a moment. “So, I’m not fired?”

  “Not today.”

  “Great,” I said. “We’ll see how Tuesday goes.”

  Jennifer, the DP, came over shaking her head, complaining about the lighting. She was one of those high-maintenance photography directors who was worth every minute of time she sucked out of Carl. She’d have him tied up forever. The hangdog look on his face as I snuck away almost made me feel sorry for him.

  Thing about Carl’s films: most of the shoots happened after hours because nearly everyone had a day job, just to make ends meet. Tonight’s was no exception. I had arrived here in Everett’s industrial area, north of Seattle, around six forty after a hard day at the smithy. A quick shower at home, some decent clothes that didn’t smell like smoke, and a drive-thru meal in me—I was good to go.

  Carl worked a deal with the city to keep costs low so we shot from seven until midnight on good nights. Tonight was not a good night.

  Two

  IT WAS TWO THIRTY IN THE MORNING BY THE TIME I WALKED across the parking lot under sodium lights. As I was loading the case into my Civic, one of the goblins, a rather tall guy, black hair and beard, broke away from the smokers and sidled toward me. I didn’t recognize him, but extras came and went with some regularity.

  “Excuse me, miss,” he said in a heavy Nordic accent.

  “Something I can do for you?”

  “I’d like to ask you about your sword,” he said, speaking to my face instead of staring at my breasts. Just made eye contact. It was refreshing.

  I closed the hatchback, gripping the car keys in my left hand. “She’s a beauty,” I said, and meant it. I liked that damn blade. But the craftsmanship left a lot to be desired.

  “She?” he asked, taken aback. “You believe the sword to be female?”

  “Oh, are you of the camp that all swords are phallic because of the sheath thing?” I asked him.

  “I . . . Well . . .” He blinked furiously. “I just wanted to know where you got it.”

  Ah, a groupie. “I bought it in an estate sale, a couple years ago.”

  “Sweden?” he asked.

  I laughed. Like I could afford to travel. “Why Sweden?”

  “Because, you realize, the blade is Swedish.”

  Gotcha. I loved meeting other weapon geeks, but especially loved when they got things wrong. “It’s Scandinavian. And I bought it in Seattle. There is a rather large Scandinavian population here.”

  “Well.” He smiled. “I see how you Americans would mix up the lot of us—Swedes, Nords—Vikings all.”

  “Actually, Beauhall is Swedish, so I get the connections.”

  “My error,” he said. “I was led to believe you were Celtic.”

  “I get that a lot.”

  I stood there, holding
my keys, waiting for this to go . . . well, anywhere. He fidgeted a bit, scuffing his boots on the blacktop.

  “Well, nice to have met you,” I said finally, and walked around to the driver’s side door.

  “Why do you degrade it so?” he blurted out.

  I looked back at him, standing in the circle of light cast by the streetlamp. He was gawkish and his skin almost glowed it was so white. Black beard, black hair. Something about him struck me as odd.

  “Degrade what?” I asked.

  “Fafnir’s Bane.”

  A song ran through my head. It was one my girlfriend Katie sings sometimes at those science fiction conventions we attend.

  I met a Swedish guy in Dublin

  who was going to school in France

  said he’d show me Odin’s Gungnir

  if he could get inside my pants.

  “Fafnir’s Bane?” I asked. Seriously? Norse myths and fairy tales? “You mean Gram, Sigurd’s blade?”

  I smelled stone then, like a gravel road when it first starts raining. I’ll never forget that. The guy stepped toward me, keeping on the other side of the car, his eyes huge, drinking in the light. “Yes,” he hissed. “You have become the caretaker, the guardian. Of those who have held that sword, I would expect you to be different.” He paused, drawing in a rattling breath. “I can smell the forge on you.”

  Now I was insulted. I’d showered and everything. “Look, I’m exhausted. I’d be happy to talk swords with you after I’ve had some sleep. You could come by the shop one day this week, if you like—”

  I fumbled in my wallet and pulled out a slightly bent business card.

  “—and discuss it further.” I held out the card.

  He straightened, ran his thick fingers through his hair. “I sleep during the day. Work nights.”

  Yeah, I bet he did. This was annoying. “I gotta go.”

  I took a step back, and he reached for the card. He had big hands, rough from hard work. When his fingers touched mine, I caught a flash of heat and the distinct smell of hot metal.

  The contact was brief, but for a split second there was a connection. Forge and hearth, hammers and tongs. This man worked metal, worked it with his body and his soul. It gave me a chill.