The Pact of the White Blade Knights Read online

  The Pact of the White Blade Knights—The White Order#1

  Copyright © 2019

  BARBARA RUSSELL

  Cover Design by Rebeca Covers

  Edited by MW Editing and Chrissy’s Book Shelf

  Acknowledgement

  A big thank you to Chrissy for her precious suggestions and sharp eye. You can find her at https://www.chrissysbookshelf.com/

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the authors’ imagination or are used factiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living, dead, or undead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorised electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

  Your support of the authors’ rights is appreciated.

  Published in New Zealand

  This book is written in British English

  Also by Barbara Russell

  For Adults

  The Three Kisses Challenge—Auckland Steampunk # 0.5

  The Heart Collector—Auckland Steampunk # 1

  The Slasher—Auckland Steampunk # 2 (Coming soon)

  Her Flame—Auckland Steampunk First Class#1

  His Talent—Auckland Steampunk First Class#2 (Coming soon)

  For Young Adults

  A Knight to Celebrate—New Camelot Series # 0.5

  A Knight in Distress—New Camelot Series # 1

  A Damsel in Shiny Armor—New Camelot Series # 2

  Knight of Swords— New Camelot Series # 3 (Coming soon)

  Clockwork Victoria (Coming soon)

  Arabian Days

  The Good Inside Me

  The Martian Zombie

  For Kids

  Dearest Mummy—A Pharaonic Adventure

  The Boy Who Killed Santa Claus

  The Doom and Despair Entertainment Agency

  The Girl with the Dragon-raccoon

  Short Stories

  Miss Princott’s Time Travel Agency

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  About the author

  Contact me!

  Bonus content

  Prologue

  Nicaea, Anatolia, 1096

  BLOOD AND DEATH. They were the only thing the Monk could see, smell, and taste in the White Blade chamber bathed in the fiery scarlet light of the sunset. He stepped over a dead knight whose throat had been ripped open. Glassy eyes stared at nothing, piercing his soul like a spear of pain.

  The Monk’s crimson cowl swished about his ankles as he crouched and closed the knight’s eyes.

  Be at peace.

  He’d arrived too late. The enemy had slaughtered his White Blade knights. Some of them were still breathing, but didn’t have many heartbeats to live. It was his fault. His agony to carry forever.

  He stepped farther into the marble room, his sandaled feet silent on the blood-stained tiles. Sprawled on the stairs that led to the altar lay Captain Sebastyon Sancerre. His chest rose slowly, blood gurgling on his gaping mouth.

  Sorrow clenched the Monk’s heart. Proud and mighty Sebastyon shouldn’t have ended like this, barely alive, blood oozing from a gash in his abdomen. He was the light of the Order of the White Blade, brave and honest, a true leader and a fine crusader. Strong and reliable like the earth.

  Sebastyon shifted his unfocused gaze on the Monk. “I, I failed.” No reproach or anger flashed in his golden eyes, only regret to not have protected his knights.

  “No, you didn’t.” The Monk knelt next to him and held his trembling hand. “I’m sorry.”

  Sebastyon let out a rumbling noise and a cough. “D-don’t be.”

  It wasn’t fair. Wrath rose with choking swiftness inside the Monk. Justice was balance, harmony, peace, and there was nothing peaceful in what had happened here. He’d sacrifice his soul, renounce his power if he could help his knights. Ancient magic charged the air and itched along his skin.

  He leaned closer to Sebastyon’s ear. “What if I grant you another chance to live, eternal life to fight evil with your body, soul, and heart? What would you say, warrior?”

  Sebastyon swallowed and gave his answer.

  Hope rekindled in the Monk’s chest. Perhaps not everything was lost. He put a hand on Sebastyon’s forehead and moved to the next dying knight.

  Aleximanus, the clever one. He was the spirit, the essence of life itself, insatiable, unbreakable. His torn body convulsed when the Monk stroked his head, sapphire eyes widening. The Monk whispered his question. Another chance to live, to fight.

  Aleximanus’s answer slurred out of his bloodied lips.

  The Monk hurried to the next warrior.

  Fierce Étienne, stubborn and reckless, the deadliest knight of the Order. Fire burned inside him so savagely only Sebastyon could restrain it. The captain was the only man Étienne listened to. Now Étienne was bleeding from many wounds, too many arrows had stabbed him. The Monk shifted closer to Étienne, and asked his question.

  Étienne shook when he gave his answer.

  Pleased, the Monk placed a hand on Étienne’s forehead and attended to the next knight. Isharamat, the fair one. Her beauty was known in all the four corners of the world. Her emerald eyes and dark skin, now caked in blood, had driven more than one man mad. She was the water, always able to adapt, relentless in her shifting.

  He caressed her cheek. Half of her face had been smashed by a blow, probably a sledgehammer. Her long dark eyelashes fluttered when he bent closer.

  “What if I grant you another chance to live, eternal life to fight evil with your body, soul, and heart? What would you say, warrior?”

  Isharamat gave her answer with her last breath.

  The Monk brushed a long tendril of raven hair from her mangled face and walked over to the last still alive knight, Artemis. She was the air. She could be gentle like a summer breeze, or terrifying like a hurricane. Always changeable, always fickle, but for her commitment to the Order. She tried to stand up when her gaze set on him, a hand pressed on the stab on her chest.

  “Shush.” The Monk caressed her golden head as he asked again the same question.

  Among coughs and spits of blood, Artemis replied.

  The Monk stood and smiled because every knight had given him the perfect answer.

  And now he had his sin-eaters.

  Chapter 1

  London, 1884

  HOPE WAS A false friend. It made one believe things could change, that they could get better. But it wasn’t true
.

  Clenching the letter in her gloved hand, Hazel climbed the sweeping stairs of the British Museum of London two steps at a time. She grabbed a fistful of her long skirts and lifted their hems, squinting at the ray of sunlight pouring through a stained-glass window.

  We regret to inform you that your service at the museum is no longer required. Hope you are well. Sincerely, the committee of the Royal Archaeological Society.

  The words were written in bold black letters on the creamy paper as if the note was an invitation to a ball rather than a dagger to her heart.

  No longer required. She’d been given the sack.

  There had to be a mistake. She couldn’t have been dismissed so easily, and she couldn’t afford to be unemployed. The thought tied a knot of panic in her throat, and she paused on the landing to catch her breath. Her stays, despite being light and flexible, pressed on her ribcage. She leaned against the cold wall, disregarding the bustle on the small of her back.

  London was no place for an unemployed, unmarried, and unprotected, seven and twenty-year-old woman. Without a family to help her, without friends, she’d end up in Whitechapel, earning her meals on her back, begging for scraps from silk-dressed ladies.

  “No.” She meant to whisper, but the word erupted from her mouth like a shout and echoed in the high-vaulted ceiling.

  The museum was closed this early in the morning, and the lack of tourists and students milling around with their loud chatter amplified every noise.

  She marched towards Leon’s office, striding along corridors and passageways she knew like the cracks on her porcelain cups. They were embedded in her mind. She could find her way blindfolded. Hours of working in the museum’s dusty chambers, translating ancient texts, restoring relics to their original beauty, and cataloguing centuries-old artefacts could do that.

  Her heels smacked on the hard marble floor, and the quick click-click matched the wild rhythm of her heart. Hazel unlocked the ‘staff only’ door with the key she’d give back soon. She forced her feet to not speed up along another hallway and paused in front of Leon’s office’s door, patting her hair in place. Appearing all flushed and dishevelled wouldn’t help her cause. One of the members of the bloody Royal Archaeological Society, Sir Morris, had often stated that women were too hysterical to study history and archaeology. His words in the righteous tone that only pompous aristocrats used replayed in her mind. She wouldn’t prove him right.

  Her knock on the door wasn’t soft though and carried all the rising anger in her blood.

  “Come in.” Leon’s voice held a bored note.

  Well, she was going to spice up his morning. Unable to refrain the storm brewing within her, she barged inside in an unladylike way that would’ve granted her a slap on the cheek from her mother.

  Leon glanced up from his desk, a dark brow arched in annoyance. “Hazel, I didn’t expect you here today.”

  “I didn’t expect to receive this.” She tossed the vile letter that had haunted her last night’s sleep on the desk, right over a document full of important-looking stamps and signatures.

  “I see.” He twitched his mouth as if she’d showed him a dead rat, dark eyes narrowing. “I told the administration to not send it until I spoke to you first.”

  “It doesn’t change the fact they gave me the sack. What happened?” Her voice shook. “I thought my job here was considered helpful and professional. I thought you appreciated my skills.”

  “Listen.” He rested his elbows on the armrests and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I tried to defend you against the committee, but they”—he loosened his collar— “they don’t believe a woman should be admitted to the Royal Archaeological Society, and without being a member of the association, you can’t keep the job.”

  “This is outrageous.” She couldn’t find better words to describe her indignation, but with her pulse beating in her ears and her legs trembling, rational thoughts were slipping from her mind. “I can, I can do something else. I can take care of the archive, or simply cataloguing the articles. My father was a member of the society after all.” Ridiculed, despised after having published his theory on a secret society of immortal crusaders roaming the earth, but a member nevertheless.

  He cradled his shaven chin. “I said the same thing, but Sir Morris was adamant. He seems to have a personal dislike towards you. Just like he wasn’t particularly fond of your late father.”

  She pressed her lips together. Of course, Sir Morris didn’t like her. Having slapped him when he’d tried to grope her breasts wasn’t the perfect beginning of a friendship. The storm inside her now was a full hurricane. Telling about the incident to Leon wouldn’t solve anything. She couldn’t prove it’d happened, and they’d say she were trying to throw mud on a well-respected member of the Royal Archaeological Society to keep her job. No one would believe her. Sir Morris had told her as much.

  “I need a job.” She didn’t care if her voice sounded pleading now. She was desperate. “I have nothing left but this job.”

  “I know, and you’re a talented, expert translator.” He folded the letter carefully, taking his time. “I promise you, I’ll help you find another job soon, but not here, and if you need money, I can lend you some pounds. After I lost my family”—he swallowed and touched the portrait of his dead wife and daughter on the desk—“I know what it means to be alone.”

  Compassion dripped from his words, melting her heart, but independence was freedom. “I don’t want charity. I want a job.” A job she was good at. A job she loved.

  He nodded. “There are a few private collectors of ancient artefacts who might need a person with your knowledge. I’ll make a list and give it to you.”

  It wasn’t much, and working for a private employer meant odd pay and odd hours. But beggars couldn’t be choosers.

  “Here.” She dropped the staff key on the desk. “I don’t need it anymore.”

  He pushed the folded letter towards her.

  Instead of accepting it, she snatched a copy of The Guardian lying on a corner of the desk and opened it on the job vacancies page. “You can keep the letter.” She gathered her skirts and pivoted towards the door, carrying wounded pride and a crumpled newspaper.

  ~ * ~

  AFTER ALMOST EIGHT centuries, Tyon had learned one thing about himself: he was an unfeeling bastard. And he didn’t give a damn about it. Reining his anger had become harder of late, especially in the last five years, and despite the vow he’d taken when he was a knight to use reason first, he was tired of always being the patient one, of always playing by the rules. The rules had destroyed the Order of the White Blade, its knights scattered and lost.

  His steps pounded on the gravel path of Hyde Park with the same wrathful rhythm he’d used when going to war. His black coat flapped against his legs as he crossed an emerald meadow sparkling in one of the rare sunny days of London.

  A young man rushed past Tyon. His coattails flared behind him like a banner. Hatred burst from him in scorching waves, itching along Tyon’s skin. Hate and evil were easy to sense like the smell of rotting flesh.

  Tyon paused. He concentrated on the man’s head and released his power. His chest warmed when energy swirled within him and tickled his nape. When he’d answered the Monk’s question back in Nicaea, he hadn’t imagined it meant being blessed with a long life and power beyond his comprehension. As if it’d helped keep the Order together.

  He narrowed his gaze, and evil materialised. A dark glow of malevolence twirled around the man’s head. It whispered of desire of vengeance, murder, and will to hurt. A tight fist of disgust clenched Tyon’s gut. Unless he intervened, this man would kill someone.

  He inhaled deeply, letting the fresh morning air in his lungs. The fragrant scents of wet soil and late summer flowers mingled with the stench of the man’s putrid soul as Tyon devoured the evil.

  Sin-eaters. That was what he and his knights had been for centuries. Cleansing humans from their darkest thoughts and giving them back a pure, u
nblemished soul. A second chance to do the right thing, to help their good grow, to turn their backs to sin. If only they understood that.

  Ex tenebris, ad lucem. Ex umbrae, ad solem.

  From the darkness to the light. From the shadows to the sun.

  The ancient chant rolled off his tongue. The more Tyon breathed in the more the man’s pace slowed, his shoulders slumped, and the scowl on his face softened. A new radiance shone from the man’s body when the dark glow turned into a golden spark. Tyon staggered on his feet as the evil rushed through him to be buried in the ground. Once, after eating a sin, he’d felt elated by joy, intoxicated even. Now he saw his power as a curse. Without his fellow knights, eating sins weakened him instead of reinvigorating him. He closed his eyes and waited for his pounding heart to slow its pace and for the foul taste in his mouth to fade before resuming his walk.

  Sitting on a bench in front of the Serpentine, a man in a tailored tweed suit and bowler hat fed breadcrumbs to the ducks. Blond hair, crisp blue eyes, the accent of a gentleman educated in Eton—no one would guess the man was almost as old as Tyon, a traitor—Aleximanus son of Baldwin of Vermandois.

  Tyon snorted a laugh. Feeding ducks. It was ridiculous watching the most powerful sin-breather on Earth, the one who mastered the seven capital sins, throwing bread to squeaking birds. He strode closer to him and entered the holy circle of land consecrated by the Monk himself centuries ago before Londinium became the smoky and foggy London. A place where sin-breathers and sin-eaters could meet to negotiate.

  Killing each other in this sacred ground was forbidden. One of the too many rules of the Order. Energy caressed his skin when he stepped through the invisible barrier enclosing the sacred place.

  In this part of the park, the grass grew better, faster, and greener than the rest. Even the birds’ chirping sounded more cheerful, and the sunlight shone brighter.