The Knife's Edge by Matthew Wolf Blog Tour and Giveaway

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The Knife's Edge by Matthew Wolf When legends come to life the world trembles from a single name. Ronin. Once-heroes from a different age, they wield elemental powers… wind, water, fire, stone, forest, sun, moon, flesh, and metal. At the same time, a young man discovers his best friend with a sword in her stomach, and dark wings sprouting from her back. Guards rush onto the scene, accuse him of the act, and he is forced to flee. In a new world without his memories, Gray must find his way amid legends and darkness, as he wrestles with an elemental power inside himself. A power all too similar to the infamous Ronin…  

The Return

Kirin ran. Using the tooth of the battlement as a stepping-stone, he launched himself at Ren. Blade arcing, he landed in Water Upon the Rocks, an attack from above. Steel clanged as metal sparked, and his muscles strained against his master’s parry.

Ren’s thin lips curved into a smile, making his peppered beard rustle.  “Keep that up and you’ll have my title before long.”

Eyeing him through the mesh of their swords, Kirin smirked.  “It’s all yours.”  

Immediately, he realized his mistake, but it was too late. His pressure waned as his concentration slipped. Ren’s heavy biceps flexed. Kirin was blown back as if by a gust of wind, feet scraping along the gray stone.  He threw a leather boot to the ground in a Low Moon stance, his knees bent and back straight. At the same time, he tossed a hand to the rampart’s wall.  His palms scraped the stone merlons and he skidded to a halt. He looked up. Ren’s sword hurtled towards his face.  Pressing against the ground, he vaulted backwards, diving beneath the blade’s tip. Landing on the balls of his feet, he peered through his brown hair.

Ren rose to his full, impressive height. Despite the chill in the air, the man was bare-chested, wearing only a pair of frayed brown pants with leather strings.  His frame was tanned dark from the unforgiving sun.  A long scar ran diagonally across his chest. A few more white lines marred his shoulders and arms.  There was not a scrap of fat on him.  Lit by the dawning sun, Ren stood in High Moon.  His back leg was heavily bent, holding the majority of his weight, while his front foot rested lightly upon the ground.  It was a stance most could learn, but few could ever master.  

Kirin rose. “You tricked me.”

Ren broke High Moon. Sword tip to the stone, he leaned on his pommel, lounging.  He was beginning to lose his hair, pate wearing thin, but what was left was plaited back into a komai tail, a black and gray braid of traditional Devari code, but far longer in accordance to his rank.  “Don’t listen to me then, or, better yet, don’t talk back.  Besides, you should know my tools by now—tools which a blademaster should always have at his disposal.”

He scoffed.  “Tools? They are clearly tricks and you know it.”  His palms stung and he saw peeled callouses, raw and pink, like a shaved beet.  “And why do I always seem to get hurt around you?”

Ren shrugged innocently. “Not sure, I don’t get hurt.”

There was a subtle shift in the air, and Kirin focused, becoming acutely aware of his surroundings. Sharpening his senses at will was a skill of the Devari harnessed over years of intense training. Ramparts, crenulated towers, and scaled rooftops surrounded him.  What he felt was the guard changing as hundreds of fresh bodies were beginning their first patrol of the day.

He embraced the Leaf, using his Ki. Suddenly, his veins chilled.  He stood inside a soldier’s cold limbs, felt his stiff joints, and heavy lids from recently shed dreams.   The man excused another tired soul to the hard sacks of the barracks.  With a breath, Kirin retreated from the guard’s body, flowing back into his own.  

What I wouldn’t do for a soft pillow.  He envied them, for a Devari never slept more than several hours. But deep down, he did not envy their softness, or at least, he would not trade for it.  Brushing the dirt from his black tunic and brown pants, he regained his feet and raised his sword. But Ren was looking away, gazing over the bailey’s walls. Something weighed heavily on his master’s features.  There were shadows in the man’s eyes.

“Is it true?” he asked.

“Rumors are rumors, Kirin. Besides, you should not concern yourself with prophecy. As Devari, we are above such things.”

“You’re avoiding the question. I want to know, is it true they are back?”

“Say their name lad.  Only a fool fears a name.”

“I can’t…”

“Then I’ll say it for you.”

“Don’t—”

“Ronin,” Ren said, interrupting him.

Kirin’s breath caught. He looked behind.  The rampart was empty and he breathed a sigh.  Though he knew the guards would not disturb Devari training and they were safe from prying ears, to speak their name aloud was a crime punishable by death.

“It’s only you and me up here, Kirin.  And as for your question, I’ve outlasted a hundred false returns, each one more absurd than the last.  Though a false return is nothing to smile about.  Each causes its share of pandemonium.  I’ve seen hangings, riots, even full-scale wars at the hands of a False Return.” The man was holding something back.  

“But I’m not asking about rumors.  Though I have heard them all… whispers that the elvin prophet is on her deathbed, that the Patriarch is to decree this coming as a True Return, that Taer and Maldon are shutting their doors to outsiders completely.”

“Taerians have always been a foolish, superstitious lot, and Maldians follow on their heels like a trotting dog,“ Ren said contemptuously, “and I don’t know what you’ve been hearing, but the Patriarch has uttered no such thing.”

He continued undaunted, “All of Farhaven’s magical creatures are fleeing to their sanctuaries.  The whole Citadel is in an uproar.  Things I’d have to be blind to miss.  I’m not asking if something is happening, Ren.  I know something is happening.  I’m asking what you think.”

Ren turned, looking away.  He was silent so long Kirin didn’t think he was going to answer.  At last, he spoke, “This time, something seems different.  I feel there is a deadly sliver of truth within the rumors.  After two-thousand years, I fear the Return has come.”

The Return… The phrase alone was even more terrifying than Ren’s fear.  But the feeling of dread in the Citadel of late had been palpable, nothing short of the Return seemed likely. “The Gates separate Farhaven from Daerval and the enemy has never crossed the Gates, right Ren?”

“Farhaven is safe, lad,” Ren said.  “Don’t you worry.”

Kirin looked out over the Citadel’s curtain wall in thought.  He saw the courtyards with sculpted shrubbery.   The baileys were filled with winding stone paths, training dummies, and rows of haystacks for targets. The morning bell tolled loudly, announcing the calling of Neophytes to their daily duties.  Out over the Citadel, its field of towers, and heavily fortified keeps was a magnificent city; and where the sun beat back the mist, it revealed pockets of the land below.

He saw dirt streets. From this height the people looked like colored ants.  To Kirin, the city was an awning that covered the land, reaching into the dunes of the Reliahs Desert.  It was the great desert city of Farbs, Kingdom of Fire. It was truly breathtaking. Often he wished he could leave the walls and walk among the people.  But such a thing was not possible for a Devari.

“Wake up!” Ren bellowed, and he was glad to sees the years had shed from Ren’s face.  His master’s stance switched from High Moon to Low Moon, one leg sweeping back. Kirin saw his opening, but kept his face blank.  “So are you going to sight-see, or for once are you going to actually hit…”

He didn’t let Ren finish and charged with a fierce cry, sword raised for Heron in the Reeds.  Ren smiled as if he were waiting for it, blade flickering into Full Moon, covering his head.  In the last moment, Kirin gathered his meager power.  Using the element of moon, he summoned a blanket of darkness and flung it before him like a black shield.  It was a weak and dismal spell, but it was enough.  His cry pitched and he dove through the shield.  Ren’s sword appeared from nowhere, but he rolled beneath the man’s blade.  As he landed, he twisted. Fisher in the Shallows. He lashed at Ren’s legs, ready to retract the blow in victory.  Ren had lost. Elation lanced through him.  Abruptly, his master smirked and his hand smacked a block of stone that Kirin had not seen.

A sphere of dark purple appeared from thin air, hovering between them. The liquid darkness swiftly expanded.  It touched his outstretched arm and he recoiled, but it was no use. His muscles twitched as if suffocated in stone, and the darkness swiftly slid over him like a second skin.   

The world turned black as night.

Kirin was weightless and falling.  

Awakening

Gray awoke with a strange, but familiar sensation.  

It was like many mornings, but this time he felt the pressure of eyes on him so heavy it ripped him awake, tearing him from a pleasant dream.  Normally the sensation was reassuring like being tucked inside a blanket, almost as if he were being watched over.  But today the blanket no longer felt sheltering, but suffocating.  He tried to shift his mind from it.  

He looked around the dawn-lit chamber, reassuring himself with the familiar image.  His room was small and simply furnished.  Each piece of furniture was a rich brown, burnished from time and carved from Silveroots, the long-standing monarchs of the Lost Woods.  His bed was tucked against the wall farthest from the door.  Beside his bed was a small stand, his creation.  A heavy bookcase lined the wall opposite.  It was filled with tomes of Mura’s, most of which Gray had already read.  His favorite book sat on his bedside stand, the pages heavily worn.  He glanced to its leather cover, eyeing the gold lettering: Tales of the Ronin.

He sat up, letting the covers tumble, and then groaned in pain, noticing the welts on his body like purple snakes—outlines from Mura’s training staff.  Suddenly, the door to his room burst open.

Mura stood in the doorway, garbed in forest hues, with soft leather boots suitable for stealth.  A grimace lined his weathered face.  “Still in bed?”  In his right hand, Mura gripped a polished quarterstaff.  

“Still? What are you talking about?  The sun’s barely up.”

Mura grunted.  “Barely and is are not barely different.”
“What?  I don’t even think you know what that means,” Gray grumbled.  “You should know better. Wine ought to be drunk at night Mura.”

“It means if you don’t get out of bed now, I’m going to take that bed out from beneath you, and your feistiness with it.”  Mura thumped his staff on the floor for emphasis.

“All right, hold on,” he slowly pushed back the covers and—
In his periphery, he saw Mura heft his staff.  Not good.  He scrambled out of bed landing in a crouch balanced on the balls of his feet.  His blood pumped and his covers were haphazardly draped across his half-naked body.
“I see you can move when you need to.”   
“Now that you got me up, mind helping me out?  Toss me those,” he said, pointing to the pair of britches next to Mura who glanced down, grimace deepening, then wordlessly used his staff and tossed the pants.

Gray snagged them from the air, and sat back on the bed slipping them on.  Soft and worn, though fitted enough for hunting or stealth, his pants were one of the few articles that remained from his past, along with his much-treasured worn gray cloak. It hung from a hook upon the wall.  He eyed its emblem of twin-crossed swords and wondered again, guessing at their significance.  He often conjured stories about the mysterious insignia, imagining faraway lands.

The thought reminded him of the other item of his past.  He pointedly avoided looking to the cubbyhole behind the bookcase, not wanting to attract Mura’s keen eye.  He had not touched the blade for two years, but he still felt it. Its casing of cloth did nothing to dampen the fear that turned his stomach when thinking about it.  It pulled at him, even now, like a moth to a flame.

“More training today?” he questioned.

Mura grumbled.  “I’m not sure how to answer you when you ask foolish questions.  Of course we train today.  Now finish dressing,” then the hermit paused, revealing a devious smile.  “Oh, and bring your sword.  I want to see it now.”
The door shut behind him.  

For two years, the man had known all along.  Gray dove towards the bookcase and hauled it away from the wall.  There sat an unassuming bundle of white cloth.  It was more than twice the length of his forearm.  He carefully examined the bundle’s surface.  There it was.  A single strand of his brown hair rested on the white fabric.  It was just as he’d left it long ago, as if not a day had gone by.

“Tricky old man,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair.  Grabbing the bundle, he unwrapped the sword.  The bright steel glinted, dangerous and beautiful.   Dried blood, a blackish red, caked its keen edge—just as the day he found it.  Its silver hue glowed beneath the blood

His grip tightened, loathing the blade.  With water from the washbasin, he scrubbed the blade with his bare hands, turning the bowl a dark scarlet, then inspected it under the light of the window.  It gleamed as if brand new. He quickly wrapped the sword, running out of the hut.

An early morning fog was fading, unveiling the clearing.  The hut sat in the center of a glade, surrounded by the dense Lost Woods.   Mura stood near an old stump used for chopping firewood, where a stubborn piece of oak sat which Gray had been unable to hew.

Wordlessly, he handed the blade to Mura.  The hermit assessed the blade, scrutinizing it with a careful eye.  If Mura knew the origin of the blade, he might uncover more of his past.  “Does it look familiar?” he asked.

Mura’s peppered hair swayed. “I’m afraid not.  Where’d you get it, boy?”

Such a simple question, but when Gray reached into his mind to answer, he saw nothing of his past.  As if it was shut behind a door that he didn’t have the key to.   “I don’t know,” he replied.

Running a finger along the blade’s edge, Mura shrugged.  “Your past is your own, lad.  I’ve never asked, and I never will.”

Gray gripped the hermit’s arm, stopping him before he continued, “I wish I knew.  I have nothing to hide from you, but I simply can’t remember.  My last memory is holding the blade when I entered the woods.  Other than that…”

Mura rubbed his jaw. “Sometimes things are forgotten for a reason. Now put your sword away.  We won’t need it today.”

“I doubt it’s much good anyway,” Gray agreed.  

Mura twisted and the blade arced faster than light.  It cleaved the stubborn hunk of firewood, slicing like molten iron through paper.  The two halves tumbled to the forest floor.   “It can cut well enough, but this is a weapon of death, and it has seen much blood. I’m afraid it would not suit for our practice today.”

Gray tried to hide his surprise.  “Then we’ll train with staffs?”

Mura winked, handing back his sword, disappearing into the hut. He came back with two strange looking blades, constructed from light wood.  Mura handed him a blade.  “Today I want to test your skill and limits with a sword.  These are made of yen boughs, so they should only smart a bit.  It won’t do to be slicing each other to ribbons just yet.” Mura turned, walking away.

“Wait, where are you going?” he asked.  “Aren’t we sparring here?”

Mura looked back with a wink. “I have something else in mind.  Today, we’ll train like never before.”

 

The Spire

Karil shoved another set of riding clothes into her pack and turned from her bed.  Her room was still, but her heart was not.  Even the serene night mocked her frantic mind.  

From the window above her bed, azure scrolls lit her room.   An ornately carved bookshelf sat in the room’s corner. In the center, a wide-table, its stout legs made of silveroot, flowing as if alive with liquid silver.  Elvin craftsmanship fit for a princess.  A tranquil scene, but still her hand trembled, for beyond these walls lurked danger.  Her gaze jumped to the plum-colored door made of heartwood.  Heartwood was harder than most human metals—it would take a small army to break it down, but she knew that wouldn’t save her.  He will be here any minute, she prayed.

She looked down and saw the polished stone in her palm.  The rock was carved with a pattern of a leaf, stunningly real, as if the leaf had shed its skin upon the emerald stone.  It was a gift of her fathers, something she had long forgotten, and childhood memories flooded through her.  Only things I can’t live without, she repeated.  She set it aside, placing it in a pile of books, jewelry, and precious things likely never to be seen again. Surely it’s too small to matter, she thought and quickly tucked the smooth stone in her bag.

The hard rap of knuckles sounded on the door.  Karil grabbed a fistful of her split- riding skirt.  Three knocks.  She remembered their code and rushed to the door, unlocking it. Rydel flowed inside like a tempest.  He passed her wordlessly and strode to the window.  His grand hando cloak of black and forest green fluttered as he moved.  Karil knew the cloak silently demanded respect, for he was one of only ten elves who bore the same shroud.  He took the room in two giant strides, throwing back the drapes.

Outside, lights from the kingdom glowed. Hues of amethyst and sapphire lit the forest.   A vast canopy was obscured by mist and cloud.  Far below, tiny white dots blushed where twisting paths wound throughout the forest.  The whole kingdom appeared as if stars were flung amid the trees. Each tree was a towering guardian, their trunks the width of cities.  Below, a staircase glimmered, as if made of shimmering glass.  It encircled the main structure they were in, the massive Spire, twining all the way up the Great Tree.

“Is it time?” she asked, stepping forward.  Her voice was strong.  She was glad for that—the tears shed were all but a memory.  Rydel was quiet. His slender elvin eyes, a piercing green, watched the staircase. His sharp ears pricked, as if hearing sounds her half-elf ears could not.

Karil joined his side. “What is it?  What do you see?”

“I see them.  They are coming.”  Rydel turned.  He grabbed her shoulders.  “We must leave, now.”

“So soon,” she said, “Somehow I thought there would be more time.  Is everything ready?”

Rydel grabbed her pack.  “The horses are waiting in the stables.  All that is required now is to get to them, from there I have cleared a path out of the woods.” She heard the unspoken message in his words.  If we can make it there…

“How many?” she asked.

“A dozen in the halls, maybe more, and hundreds scattered around the grounds of the city.”  She saw his hesitancy, as if he was afraid to speak the rest, “What we feared has come to pass.  Dryan is seizing upon the chaos of your father’s murder.  Elves are joining his side in droves.  There will be hundreds, if not thousands looking for you soon.  You are the only thing standing between Dryan and the throne now.”

“And what of our supporters?”

“Most are dead or swayed to his side.”

“Then Dryan has won,” she whispered.

“No.  Not yet.  It will not be long before the entire kingdom is crawling, and then all hope of escaping will be lost.  But there is still a chance if we leave now.”

If all things good can go to ruin so quickly, what did it matter?  Karil rested a hand upon the windowsill.  “I can always trust you, can’t I Rydel?”

Rydel answered without hesitation.  “Forever, my queen.”  Karil tensed. The title was daunting, but somehow he made it sound true and good.

“Lead the way,” she ordered and he nodded.

They left her quarters and swiftly navigated their way through the labyrinth of halls, taking the least used routes.  Though they moved quickly, they were high in the Spire, where all the nobility resided. They turned a corner and saw shadows nearing.  They threw themselves against the wall.  The shadows revealed themselves as servants trailing robed nobles.  Karil breathed a sigh.  For a moment she considered gathering them as allies.  Judging by their robes that were shades of green, they were of the House of Nava, a staunch supporter of her father.  She shook her head.  No one could be trusted.

As they ran, she caught glimpses through wide windows of bright lights like dashing sprites in the night. Rydel abruptly pressed her against the wall.  Karil waited, listening, the elf’s rock-like arm holding her in place. He pulled them back further, moving into a carved niche, tucked behind a standing vase of Merilian Silver.  She looked but saw nothing.  The halls were silent.  Then, around the bend, something shifted.  Karil’s breath caught as a guard in black elvin plate-mail appeared, as if melting from the wall.  He had been hiding in plain sight.  His eyes skimmed just past their hidden nook.  At last, he moved down the hall. Now she knew what pursued them.

The Terma.

As a girl, she had both looked up to and been afraid of these elite guards that protected her father.  Even back then, she would cling to his leg when a Terma entered the room.  Her father would simply stroke her hair as she trembled.  The Terma lived and breathed their training, with the skill and agility of a hundred normal elves.

However, there was another rank, a secret echelon.  The black-armored Terma were one rank below Rydel, and it was said that difference was the span of chasms.  For there was no one higher than one of the Hidden, those who bore the hando cloak.  But one against hundreds?

As they wove through the halls, she kept to Rydel’s side, watching the dark corners.  Four more times Rydel halted them.  Each time a Terma slunk out of the shadows, always impossible to see until revealed.

At last, they reached the stables.  Relief flooded her.  She entered.  The dawn light lit the rafters and stacks of hay.

Rydel returned, guiding their horses.  She saw Rensha, her white mare, and was glad for the familiar face.  She stroked the horse’s muzzle and Rensha nickered.  Rydel swiftly strapped down the saddlebags.   She normally rode her cormac—faster and more intelligent creatures that were more attuned to the spark, but such a creature would be far too conspicuous beyond the gates and within Daerval, a land without magic.

Karil nimbly mounted Rensha.  Rydel took to his large black warhorse and together they turned towards the wide archway when the ground rattled.  Abruptly, the door behind burst open.  Shards of wood rained down.  Rensha spooked, bucking in terror and she fought to gain control of the frantic animal.

“Karil! Run!” Rydel shouted.

She slammed her heels into Rensha’s flanks, bursting towards the open archway, but her charge was brought to a sudden halt as she was flung forward.  When Karil gained her senses, she was on the ground.  Twenty or so elves in black armor poured into the stables, surrounding them with silent, deadly ease.  She saw the one that had flung her from her horse.  He stood before her, tall and muscular.  Where Rydel was broader of shoulder and arm, this elf was slender like a blade, with long straight blond hair that draped over his shoulders.  He held Rensha’s reins casually with one powerful arm as the creature bucked. His other hand gripped a long, curved dagger.  Karil swallowed with a rush of comprehension.

“So then, Dryan has no intention of letting me live,” she said.  The blond elf grinned, showing uncharacteristically human-like emotion.  Karil’s blood ran cold.  “I see.  That’s clever of him, crushing all opposition here in the quiet, where the chaos will flow over and wash away his questionable deeds.”

The elf sneered as he approached.  “Oh, you misunderstand.  You’re not a threat to an elf like Dryan.  Nevertheless, dead is always simpler than alive.  Rumors are easy enough to quell.  You have been too outspoken for your own good.”

Anger rose inside Karil.  “You’re more of a fool than I thought,” she replied.  “Dryan has no claim to the throne, and never will.  Who would ever believe him?”

The elf laughed openly.  “You don’t get it, do you?  They will believe what we want them to believe.”

Karil took a calm breath. She summoned her ka.  It was weaker than most elves because of her half-blood, but undetectable for that same reason. In the corner of her vision she saw Rydel.  Surrounded by ten other elves, he looked like a cornered tiger.  He flashed her a look. She nodded. With a fierce cry, she lashed out, pulling every shred of her power into one invisible cord. A root from a nearby tree plunged upward through the thick ground, sending a shower of dirt into the air.  Startled, the elf bounded backwards.  He cut at the tubers, but the roots were quicker.  They shot out, snaring his legs.  The elf was thrown to the ground.  At the same time, Karil leapt to her feet and bounded into Rensha’s saddle.  

Behind, she heard the cry and clash of Rydel with the other elves, but she didn’t spare the time to look, trusting her companion.  She bolted for the open door, when Rensha bucked again as if colliding with a brick wall.  She turned and saw the blond elf held the reins.  His face twisted, muscles cording with strain.  Three more guards were approaching fast behind her.  In one swift movement, she unsheathed her slim dagger and slashed the elf’s hand.  He unleashed the reins with a cry and she broke free.  Suddenly, Rydel was at her side, riding hard.  

Twenty more elves alighted from thin air and she pulled her reins short. Too many, she thought.

A fierce battle cry rang through the clearing, and the Terma froze.  Karil followed the sound, but saw nothing.  When suddenly more elves burst from the woods.  Her heart rose as she glimpsed their green armor. The two forces clashed and cries pierced the night.  Green armor upon black, swords flickered like a blur.  A Terma was thrown into Rensha’s flank. The animal bucked wildly.  She gripped the reins and clung to her mounts back.  Through the haze of swords and tangle of Rensha’s mane, she saw him once again.  

The blonde Terma cut down a green armored shadow with menacing ease.  The other elf fell to his knees clutching his chest, vainly trying to stop the flow of his gaping wound.   The Terma lifted his sword to finish the job.  Karil wasted no time.  Holding Rensha’s mane in one vise-like grip, she lunged for her dagger, hurling the blade.   It flew over the crowds and sunk into his back, biting deep between his shoulder blades.   She watched him fall and then unsheathed her sword and looked around, but in a matter of seconds, the fighting was over.

Bodies littered the ground, mostly the Terma.  She turned to her defenders.  Their breathing was heavy, faces ragged.  They wore green cloth, loose and light with a few added pieces of leather armor, piecemealed together.  It was the garb of the Lando, as they had started calling themselves.  In the common tongue, it meant Liberators.  Karil noticed the last subtle difference in their armor.  Small trinkets the size of her finger were pinned to their breasts.  She recognized them as the shattered pieces of her father’s crown.

Rydel approached.  “Are you all right?”

“Fine now.”

Rydel looked to the elves, with a note of respect.  “They saved us again.  But the Terma are not done,” he said.  “You know as well as I, that was only the first.  More will be coming, and soon.”

She nodded.  The elves now stood in a file, all facing her.  As one they clapped a hand to their chest, and spoke in unison, “Tel Merahas.”  Then they took to one knee, their armor rustling in the quiet night.

Her heart welled with pride and sorrow. Every one of them had abandoned everything to protect her, to protect the side of light against the tide of darkness.  Her people. Most of them were young, but their youthful faces were far different than two days ago.  Whatever softness had once been there had been hammered out. She regretted it all, feeling somehow that it was her fault.  Yet such was the times, her father would have said.  She swallowed, choking back her emotions. “Twice you have protected me.  Words can never express my gratitude for your brave acts, both two days ago, and tonight.” She let the words hang in the air. She felt Rydel’s presence and knew the gap for their escape was closing, but it was because of these elves she had survived. The elves waited for her command, and she felt the weight of all their fates.  “Time is short.  I would wish to say more, and though I do not want to I, we must leave now.”

“Then we will accompany you,” said one, immediately standing.

“We will have your side,” said another, a slightly older guard with longer ears and deeper-set eyes, but with equal fervor.

She shook her head firmly.  “You all must stay.  With Rydel, I can make it past the border. I would ask one more thing of you, as your queen.”  The words tasted bitter on her tongue, a taste she would gladly spit out for another.  Her first order as queen was to strip them of their pride, but she knew she must.  “You must forsake your pledge to me until I return.  Furthermore, for now, you must wear your normal armor.”

They looked hurt and confused.

She pointed to the small trinkets.  “I know what it represents to you.  You fought with great pride that day, but the honor you hold is not in some trinket upon your breast.  Just as the power my father wielded, and your love for him did not derive from the crown he bore.  So please, spread the word: take up the normal armament of the guard, and assimilate back into the ranks.”  And live. She swallowed hard at the command. She knew she was doing it for them, but she also knew many of them might have chosen death, instead of losing their pride.   And many of them had died.  Yet she would not allow anymore, at least not because of her.

Karil felt Rydel, urging her to leave.  She owed them one more thing…  “Not far from now, where we stand, I will be back to take the throne, and on that day I will call for you to fight and take back what is rightfully ours.” Pride returned to their faces.

“My queen,” Rydel pressed. At the same time, Terma guards appeared like shadows from thin air, attacking from every angle, but the Lando charged.

“Sirvas!” they cried as one, cutting a path through the enemy.  The dark armored Terma faltered, taken back by the sudden retaliation, but only for a moment, and the tide was quickly turning in favor of the dark elves.

A shout rose, “Run, my queen!”

One elf, the older of the bunch, gripped Rensha’s reins in one hand. “Heed your own words.  Live, my queen. One day we will see you again, and return the honor that has been stolen from you.  I swear to you, we will not see your father, the true king, die in vain.” He clasped a fist to heart and dove back into the fray.  The Lando bellowed as they were sliced down, but still they fought.

“Karil!” Rydel shouted.

At last, guilt wrenching her, she turned, dashing through the opening they had created for her.  Rensha’s hooves pounded as she raced into the woods, away from her kingdom.  Karil chased the image of Rydel’s whipping cloak, heading towards Daerval, with the bloody cries of elves loud in her ears.

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Praise for The Knife's Edge "A truly engaging story!" - Tracy Hickman, New York Times Bestselling Author and creator of the Dragonlance Series "Amazing, I am so happy when I find books that keep me up all night. This is a tome of light, among darkness. Never a boring page, action packed and loved the story. Can't wait for the second book. And I want to know more about all the characters." - Tor-Ole Halverson "This book has everything any epic fantasy lover is looking for in a book, mesmerizing characters, fantastical creatures, sword fights, magic, mystery and even comedy. For some the beginning of the book might seem to be slow, but the further you read, it gets better on each page. Matthew Wolf does an excellent job describing every scene, every character, every feeling and the consequences the character take to submerge you into this wonderful world he has created. I just can't wait for book 2 to continue with this epic saga that I just fell in love with!" - Dominique   Author Matthew Wolf Matthew Wolf is the author of the Ronin Saga. Or maybe he's a Ronin. Either way, he's involved somehow. Aside from epic fantasy, he enjoys woodcrafting, outdoors, a bit of a health nut (Kale is good!), and trains in Kung Fu. His childhood of traveling the world and studying Old English and Japanese influenced the schemes of the Saga, and the world of Daerval. He is a graduate from UCSB with a Literature degree with a specialization in Medieval Literature and Japanese.

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