The Knight Marshal (The Silk & Steel Saga) Page 13

  “This time, but they’re changing their tactics. And that damn ogre nearly had us.”

  “But a victory none the less.”

  “True, but the cost was high.” The marshal watched as his men worked with quiet efficiency, loading the wounded onto travois, looting the dead and butchering felled horses for their much-needed meat. “At least we’ll eat meat tonight.”

  A column of maroon formed up behind him. Lothar took his position on the marshal’s right with Sir Abrax on his left. Giving a last glance at the dead, the marshal nudged his horse to a walk, leading his men up out of the valley. They rode in silence, their armor jangling, the snow crunching beneath ironshod hooves. The trail snaked upwards, probing deeper into the Dragon Spine Mountains, a fortress of another sort.

  Horses and men both hung their heads, breathing plumes of frost into the crisp mountain air, exhausted from the battle. They reached the crest and followed the narrow trail to a broad alpine meadow, but instead of pristine white, the snow was bloody with corpses.

  A flock of ravens took wing at their approach. The marshal reined his stallion to a halt, shocked by the butchery. Body parts lay strewn across the blood-drenched snow. All the dead had been hacked to pieces, mutilated and defiled. The marshal was accustomed to the gore of battlefields but this carnage was appalling. Not a single body remained whole. Blood and entrails smeared the snow. A severed head lay close, as if flung across the field in warning. The marshal prodded his horse forward, staring down at the ruined face.

  Dead eyes stared wide in horror above a protruding lantern-jaw, an ogre. The marshal studied the field with fresh eyes. Amongst the gore, details leaped out at him, fur cloaks and cudgels and spiked war clubs, black and gold, the colors of the Mordant. “An ambush. They planned to ambush us with ogres.”

  Nothing moved in the killing field, not even the dark wings of carrion birds. A faint wind moaned through the trees like the lament of souls. Instead of a battle, this was a slaughter. The marshal reckoned sixty or more lay dead upon the field, most of them ogres. A single ogre had nearly turned the tide of the last battle…two score would decimate the maroon, yet here they lay, their bodies hacked to pieces as if struck down by a mad god. The marshal surveyed the field, uncertain if he should be pleased…or frightened.

  Lothar reined his horse beside the marshal. “They’re turning our own tricks against us, using ambushes nested within ambushes, but who did this? It’s as if the gods struck them all dead and then tore them asunder.”

  “A vengeful god drunk on blood,” Sir Abrax made the hand sign against evil. “Something’s wrong here, we should not tarry.”

  The marshal gave the knight a stern look. “It’s a riddle, nothing more. We need to know why so many ogres died. Search the field and see if we can find a survivor.”

  As if in answer something stirred at the far end of the meadow. Arising from a pile of corpses, a lone figure waited. Clad in a hodge-podge of maroon and black armor, he looked like a scavenger…or warrior who could not make up his mind which side to serve. Tall with broad shoulders, the hilt of great sword reared over his left shoulder.

  Lothar whispered, “Friend or foe?”

  The marshal had no answer, but a warning shivered down his spine. He swung down from the saddle, his hand itching for his sword. “Let’s find out.”

  19

  Blaine

  Blaine did not trust the palace. Ever since that monstrous thing came calling at his bedroom window in the dead of night he’d been plagued by nightmares. He’d banished the women from his bed and slept with his great sword by his side, but it did not help, so he spent his time hunting shadows.

  Unlike the others, he knew the citadel could be conquered but not tamed. Kath seemed content to brood while Zith spent his time hunting for scrolls and magical trinkets, but Blaine kept his sword sharp. He formed a hunting party, four painted warriors and a guide, a street urchin from the fourth tier. Together they prowled the citadel hunting priests and assassins.

  “This way, m’lord.” Dermit was a quick lad, small for his age, but he had an eye for detail and he knew the citadel’s back ways like a rat knows the sewers.

  The Dark Citadel was as much a city as a fortress, a monstrous beehive of stone riddled with crannies and back alleyways. Blaine had learned that each tier had a distinct purpose, slaves and serfs on the bottom, the ruling tiers near the top, the starving poor forced to serve the pampered rich. Nearly everything about the citadel sickened Blaine, but the hell-spawned tiers helped to narrow the search. Reserved for priests and their acolytes and families, the second tier proved a perfect hunting ground for malevolent shadows.

  Dermit led them to the main seminary. A soaring temple of dark marble crowned by a pentacle, it might have been impressive if not for the battered doors and the heads rotting on spikes. Empty eye sockets glared down at them, the putrid flesh sagging with rot, distorting the faces into gruesome nightmares. Blaine pushed his way through the broken doors. Tingold and Ruthgar followed carrying torches. Corwin and Tomkin came last, their swords drawn. Torchlight danced across the cavernous hallway, revealing a scene straight from hell. Headless bodies in priests’ robes sprawled across the floor. A few were young, little more than boys, yet they shared the same grim fate as the priests.

  Steps led to a great altar smeared with excrement and stripped of anything valuable. The stench was appalling. Something skittered in the corners. Blaine drew his great sword and crouched for battle. Red eyes glowed in the corners, but they were nothing but rats emboldened by the feast.

  Blaine smothered his nose against the horrid stench. “This is useless. The crowd’s already wrought their vengeance.”

  “No, m’lord, you’ll see.” Dermit picked a path through the dead. Along the far wall, another battered door gaped open like a startled mouth. They passed through the door, making their way through a warren of narrow hallways and sleeping cells. More dead littered the hallways, but the somehow the stench was not nearly as bad. Perhaps the bodies weren’t as ripe. Towards the back, the rooms grew more opulent. Bright mosaics decorated the floors, gilded braziers stood in the corners, the shadow of pilfered tapestries on the walls, but everywhere Blaine saw signs of death and looting. “We’re wasting time. This place has been thoroughly ransacked.”

  “No, lord, we’re nearly there.”

  And then they found the chapel. Sunlight filtered through stained glass windows, illuminating the chapel with an eerie red light. A gilded mosaic soared along the back wall, the image of a man in dark robes wielding a glowing staff, a nimbus of red light surrounding him. “The Mordant!” Blaine stared up at the looming figure but the face was shadowed and obscured, as if the mosaic kept a secret, yet the image screamed of menace and frightening power, a formidable foe etched in history and obscured by legend.

  Beside him, Corwin hissed. “The altar!”

  And then he saw it. Instead of gold and other precious offerings, the dark altar was laden with food, great rounds of bread and lidded pots that smelled of stew. Tugging off a gauntlet, Blaine touched one. “Still warm.”

  The others gripped their weapons, suddenly alert.

  Blaine looked to the boy. “Someone brings food?”

  “For the priests that hide. Follow the food and you’ll find the skulkers.”

  “But why do they bring it?”

  “Out of fear…or seeking favor.”

  Blaine felt betrayed. “But I thought the priests were hated?”

  “And so they are.” Dermit gave him a cautious look. “But some think the priests will rule again…when you leave.”

  Tingold swore. “By the nine hells, the priests will never rule.” The wolf-faced scout flashed a crooked grin. “Especially when they’re all dead.”

  Blaine nodded. “Just so. But we have to find them to kill them.”

  They searched the chapel. Someone had made an effort to wipe the gore from the marble floor. Bloodstains showed where corpses had been dragged to the outer room. Bla
ine supposed those in hiding did not want to eat with their dead. Tingold knelt by the far wall. “Look here!”

  Blaine crossed the room to crouch by the scout. Tingold held a torch near the floor, illuminating a bloody boot print half severed by the marble wall, as if someone had walked through the stone. “A secret passage!”

  Tingold nodded.

  Blaine put his shoulder against the wall and pushed, but it remained firm. “Must be a trigger somewhere.” He turned to the boy. “Do you know about this?”

  Dermit shrugged. “The priests are full of secrets, most of them nasty.”

  He heard the warning in the boy’s voice. “Find the trigger.” Blaine climbed the dais to the altar. A pair of onyx gargoyles supported the altar stone, twisted monsters with misshapen heads, eagles mixed with lions and dragons. He ran his hand across the carved stone, prying and pushing. The head turned. Stone grated against stone, and the far wall swung open releasing a breath of musty air.

  Blaine whirled, his blue sword held at the ready, but there was nothing but darkness lurking beyond. Steps led down, every other one marked by a bloody boot print. The trail disappeared into the depths. “Let’s find the bloody bastards.”

  Tingold went first, a sword in one hand, a torch in the other. Dermit started to follow, but Blaine stopped him. “You wait here.”

  The lad shook his head, a stubborn look on his face. “A squire would never leave his knight.”

  “Stop badgering me, boy. You’re too small, you’re too scrawny, and a squire’s position must be earned.”

  “But you need me!” Hope and pleading warred across the lad’s face. “None of you know the citadel the way I do.”

  Blaine gave in. “Fine, but stay out of the way.”

  Dermit flashed a rogue’s grin. “Yes, m’lord.”

  Blaine went second, followed by Dermit. Ruthgar and Corwin and Tomkin brought up the rear. The air held a musty stale smell. After the rotten carnage of the upper halls, the stale smell was a welcome relief. The two torches cast circles of light, revealing rough cut stone instead of dressed marble. Blaine wondered if the stairs led to a dungeon, or maybe a storage chamber turned hiding hole. The stairs leveled off and they came to a large vaulted room cluttered with treasure. Rolled tapestries, gold candlesticks, silver incense burners, cedar chests, an inlaid screen, an ebony chair, religious icons, all of it haphazardly stacked against the far wall as if it had been hastily snatched from the chambers above. Taking a deep breath, Blaine caught the bitter scent of Vetra, the toxic smoke the priests used for their rituals. “Smell that?” He took another breath to be sure. “They’ve been here. And not too long ago.”

  Tingold circled the chamber, spilling torchlight across the treasure. “Look at this loot. The thrice-cursed priests pilfered their own halls.”

  Blaine opened a small silver box. Jewels winked inside, sapphires, emeralds, garnets and topaz, a duke’s ransom in cut gems. “Why is evil always awash in riches?”

  “It’s their nature,” Corwin answered, “the bastards are better at stealing, especially the god-cursed priests.”

  “No reason they should have all the reward.” Blaine emptied the gems into his belt pouch. He flipped a large sapphire to Dermit. “For your help.”

  The dark-haired lad flashed a grin, tucking the gem into his pocket.

  Surveying the stacked treasure, Blaine spied a long narrow chest of carved wood, a curious shape for a box, just the right size for a great sword. He pried the lid open, disappointed by the find. A silver staff topped by a pentacle sat nestled in dark velvet. It looked like something Zith would take an interest in.

  Dermit hissed. “Don’t touch it, lord!”

  Blaine stayed his hand. “Why?”

  “Priestly stuff can have strange powers.”

  “What kind of powers?”

  Dermit backed away. “Scary and hurtful.”

  Blaine shut the lid. “We’ll leave it for Zith.”

  Corwin growled, “We’ve found their loot, now let’s find the bloody bugg…” his words ended in a strangled scream. Dropping his sword, he clutched his throat, pulling a bloody dart from his neck. He held it towards Blaine, foam flecking his mouth, his eyes already dead.

  Something snicked through the air. Blaine whirled, catching a glimpse of moving darkness. A heavy weight thudded onto his back, a thin wire looping over his head. The wire cut into his throat, drawing blood while threatening to strangle him. Blaine dropped his sword, clutching at the wire, struggling to breathe. Desperate for release, he flung himself backward, crashing his assailant onto the floor. The wire loosened. Blaine tore it away, turning to grapple with the enemy. Clad all in black, his assailant was small in stature but he had a barrel chest and a blacksmith’s strength. Gloved hands closed around Blaine’s throat in a death grip. Blaine bucked against the deadly choke, one hand reaching for the dagger sheathed at his belt. His assailant rolled on top. Fingers closing like iron bands around Blaine’s throat; the enemy straddled him, flashing a malicious grin…that suddenly went slack. The assailant slumped forward, blood blooming on the back of his head. Blaine flung the limp form away. Pulling a dagger from his belt, he pounced on the assassin. His dagger plunged down. Once, twice, thrice, his dagger bit deep, making sure the attacker was dead. Gasping for breath, Blaine looked up to find Dermit standing over him with a golden candlestick in his fists.

  The lad looked pale as death.

  “You saved me.” Blaine’s voice sounded hoarse.

  Dermit nodded, dropping the candlestick. “An assassin,” the lad pointed to the dead assailant, “an assassin of the ninth rank.”

  Blaine flicked a glance to the others. Corwin and Tomkin were both dead, felled by poisoned darts, a coward’s weapon. Ruthgar was tying a cloth around a bloody gash on his arm while Tingold cleaned his sword, a dead assassin at his feet. “Took two of us to kill the bastard.”

  Blaine retrieved his blue sword. Sheathing it, he cleaned his dagger, pausing to take a good look at the dead assassin. Small in stature and clad in supple black, he wore a baldric of nine throwing knives across his chest. “How many assassins are in the citadel?”

  Dermit shrugged. “No one knows…but they only serve the most high.”

  “The most high what?”

  “Priests.”

  A shiver raced down Blaine’s back.

  Ruthgar said, “We could use a few more swords.”

  Blaine shook his head. “If we leave, they’ll bolt.” He nodded towards the far door. “Let’s see what’s ahead.” Blaine sheathed his dagger and drew his blue steel sword.

  To his credit, Dermit did not balk. The lad picked up Corwin’s torch, and followed Blaine through the far doorway. Tingold and Ruthgar came behind, their swords drawn. The narrow passage twisted left and then right, torchlight glinting off of rough stone. Twice Blaine caught the faint scent of Vetra, but the chambers were empty. They passed several sleeping cells, nothing in them but bedrolls…and then the passage seemed to darken. Blaine edged forward, his sword held at the ready. So dark, the inky blackness seemed to repel the torchlight. Blaine strained to see, yet saw nothing. Hairs prickled at the back of his neck.

  A voice from the darkness whispered, “Imbolith flamous an!”

  Flames erupted on Blaine’s hands. Fierce heat bit through his gauntlets, scorching his hands with unbearable pain. Screaming, he dropped his sword. Slamming his hands together, he tried to beat out the flames, but instead of dying, the fire grew. Flames raced up his arms, engulfing his face. His hair ignited, becoming a glowing nimbus. Maddened by pain, Blaine beat at his face, shrieking in agony. Heat engulfed him, a terrible blistering heat. Blaine felt like he was melting, roasted within his chainmail. Blackened and burned, he felt the skin peel from his face. Howling, he fell to his knees writhing in agony, surrounded by fire.

  A figure approached, a man in dark robes. “I will make a dark sacrifice of you, knight of the Octagon!”

  Blaine fought against the agony. In the back of
his mind, a voice whispered, *Remember the Mist! See the truth!* Blaine fought the pain, struggling to understand. *See the truth!* He looked at his arms, looked through the flames and saw fire engulfing his hands yet nothing burned! Nothing was charred, nothing was melted, and nothing was singed. Lies wrapped in sorcery! He knew the truth, yet pain shuddered through him.

  The dark priest approached, a silver staff gripped in one hand, a sharp sickle in the other. “Kneel before me, for I will have your life’s blood!”

  His blue sword lay abandoned on the floor. A searing agony roared through Blaine, yet he made himself move, lunging for the sword. His hand felt charred and ruined, yet he gripped the hilt, swinging the blade upwards. The point took the priest in the throat. He rammed the blade deep, bright blood spraying wide. The priest gaped, a startled look on his bearded face. The staff and sickle fell from lifeless hands, clattering on the stone floor.

  The flames disappeared…and so did the pain.

  Shuddering, Blaine crumpled to the cold stone floor. For the longest time, he lay twitching next to the bloody corpse, gasping for breath, tortured by the memory of mind-numbing pain. Strength slowly returned. He checked his hands and his face, but nothing was blackened, nothing was burned, only a terrible memory. Relief washed through him.

  Blaine struggled to stand. The terrible darkness was banished. He could see the two torches sputtering against the stone floor. The others looked stunned, yet they seemed unharmed, twitching like fish dumped fresh-caught onto dry land. “Are you hurt?”

  Tingold gasped. “I thought I was on fire!” His hands patted his face as if to be sure it was still there. “What in the nine-hells was that?”

  “Sorcery, foul sorcery.” Blaine kicked the staff, a clatter of silver on stone.

  “But how did you know…”

  “…the fire wasn’t real?” Blaine shrugged. “I’ve seen its like before, at a monastery deep in the south. I didn’t know it then, but it was a warning of sorts.” He shivered, remembering the Guardian in the Mist, silently thanking the old bastard for the painful lesson. He stared down at the dead priest, no different than any other corpse. “The priest tortured us with lies, sorcerous lies.”