The Prince Deceiver (The Silk & Steel Saga Book 6) Page 14

  Master Caleb stared slack-jawed, his face turning white as parchment. "The gods save us!"

  Master Athar startled alert. "What is it?"

  Master Caleb's ink-stained hands shook as he folded the parchment. "It's Castlegard! The mage-stone of Castlegard is failing!"

  "Impossible!" The word burst from Master Athar like a curse.

  Alric sucked a sharp breath, shrinking into the shadows.

  "Yet the codes are correct." Mater Caleb shook his head, his voice full of foreboding. "This message must go to the Grand Master." The two masters rushed from the chamber, worry etched deep on their faces.

  Forgotten in the shadows, Alric trembled. How can mage-stone fail? All his life he'd thought of mage-stone as everlasting. Now it seemed as if the very world crumbled, as if some doom had befallen Erdhe. Perhaps he'd misheard the message, he clung to the notion. Only an acolyte, yet it felt as if the whole world had darkened. Fleeing the monastery, he sought the safety and solitude of the mews.

  25

  General Haith

  General Haith chose to remain behind the walls of Raven Pass. Surrounded by stone battlements and strong guards, the general fashioned the illusion of safety. Spending less and less time in the field, he ordered the maps brought up from the command pavilion and spread across the king's table. Couriers and scouts delivered a steady stream of reports while his aides plotted the positions on the brightly painted vellum. The map told a grim tale. He'd ordered the strength of the patrols tripled, trying to hold the Dark Sword at bay, yet the slaughters never ceased. Markers on the map showed the location of every butchery. Scouts brought fresh reports of patrols slaughtered and hacked to pieces, the ground drenched in blood, yet the scouts swore the enemy left but a single set of footprints. Rumors ran rampant, whispers of a spectral knight mounted on a winged warhorse, an invincible hero summoned from a distant Age. Not a single witness survived to describe this paragon of war, yet the general knew the truth. The rumormongers got it half right. The foe was real enough, a knight of flesh and bone...but the sword he wielded was haunted, a dark nightmare, a drinker of souls, a tool of the Mordant.

  Beside him, his aide swore, "By the Darkness, how can this be? What magic do the knights have that enables one man to defeat so many?"

  The others did not know and the general chose not to enlighten them. Advantage was needed to thrive in the service of the Mordant, and this was a secret he chose to hoard.

  A bedraggled scout appeared at the doorway, bringing word of a fresh slaughter.

  Major Ruggar added another marker to the map.

  The markers formed a deadly pattern, an arrowhead aimed for the heart of Raven Pass. The general feared his lord had left the timing too late.

  “General Haith!” The demonic voice battered against the casement window. “General Haith!” Sharp and insistent, it screeched his name like a herald from hell.

  Pain spiked his chest, proof a gorelabe was near. General Haith rubbed at the rune scribed above his heart, the ever present mark of his master. His commanders stared at him, fear shadowing their faces, for none wanted to face a gorelabe. "Stay here." The general left the chamber alone. Following the summons, he climbed the stairs, emerging onto the windswept battlement.

  “General Haith!” The gorelabe hovered above the crenellated battlements, screeching his name.

  Soldiers along the wall fell prostrate, their hands covering their heads as if to avert the horror of the gorelabe's gaze.

  The winged monstrosity was different from the last one. Instead of a white-winged albatross, this one wore the fleet form of a red-tailed hawk. A tortured nightmare born of darkest magic, the gorelabe retained the hawk’s swift grace while bearing the contorted mouth and eyes of a man. The general studied the fiend, looking for signs of decay. Unlike the vicious gorehounds, who had unnaturally long lives, the gorelabes did not suffer life for long. The soul-corrupted magic that stitched them together could not last for more than a handful of moon turns. He'd seen one putrefy while still alive, the melded flesh fraying at the seams, a fester of sores and rot, but this one looked fresh-made, its red feathers still bright. His lord had been busy. Suppressing a shudder, the general strode towards the malformed creature. “I am here and I serve the Mordant.”

  The hawk gorelabe flew towards him. Hovering overhead, the creature stared down with its unnatural eyes. “Prove yourself!”

  He often wondered if the Mordant peered through the unholy eyes of his heralds. Unlacing his surcoat, the general revealed the dark rune etched above his heart.

  Wings folding to the attack, the gorelabe swooped low. The general braced himself, half expecting the wicked-keen talons to rake his upturned face, but the demonic bird showed restraint, hovering just in front of his face.

  The general quailed inside, but he kept his face stone-cold, knowing any sliver of weakness could be his demise.

  The gorelabe spoke in a baleful voice. "General Haith, it is time!"

  The general's heartbeat quickened. The long anticipated command pierced him to the core, releasing him from the ugly stalemate of Raven Pass.

  “It is time! It is time!” the gorelabe screeched the words, “Time for old enemies to die! Time for the conquest to begin! Time for my Dark Kingdom to be claimed! Divide the army and wreak havoc upon Erdhe! You know our will, you know our plans. Take the cavalry and make all haste for the south. Kill the monks, secure their magic, and defile their cloistered halls. The cursed monks shall meddle no more. Their very name shall be erased from the annals of history and all of their magic shall be mine, mine, mine. Ride hard and let the Mordant's will be done!”

  The general bowed toward the malformed hawk. “The Mordant’s will be done!”

  As if released, the gorelabe began flying in a tight spiral. Its horrid screech changed to an incessant wail, “Feed me! Feed me!”

  General Haith strode towards the nearest soldier. “Your death will serve the Mordant.”

  The soldier cringed, his face glazed with fear, but General Haith did not hesitate. Drawing his sword, he aimed for the neck, offering a swift death, but the soldier flinched away. The sword took him across the face. Keening a terrible wail, the half-faced soldier struggled to escape, crawling across the rampart. The general followed. It took two more sword strokes to hack the head from the body, an ugly death, an ill omen.

  The gorelabe flew to the corpse. Alighting on the chest, it bent its head, lapping at the fresh-spilt blood.

  A terrible silence shrouded the battlement. The cowering soldiers remained so still that the gorelabe's bloody lapping sounded obscenely loud.

  The general sheathed his sword, regretting the ugly death.

  The gorelabe drank its fill and then launched for the sky. Circling twice, its demonic voice echoed through the pass, “It is time! It is time! Serve or die!” With a final screech, it took wing and flew south.

  The general kicked the corpse. “Dispose of this.” He wiped his sword on the dead man’s cloak, disgusted by the show of cowardice. “Feed it to the gorehounds.”

  Turning on his heel, he strode from the battlement. With renewed vigor, he descended the stairs, returning to the command chamber. His officers snapped to attention, poised like hounds for the hunt. The general raked them with his gaze. “You heard the Mordant’s messenger. It is time for the conquest to begin.” He turned his gaze to a bronze-skinned commander, a barrel-chested man with dark eyes and a reputation for being ruthlessly competent. The general smothered a sneer, for sometimes competent meant the most expendable. “Commander Crull, you will hold the pass with half the infantry. If the maroon knights come calling, crush them. Otherwise, keep your force in reserve till the Mordant sends further orders."

  The commander snapped a brisk salute, fist to chest. "Let the Mordant's will be done."

  General Haith's gaze snapped to General Marris. "You’ll take the remainder of the infantry and march south through the heart of Erdhe. Cross the Serpentines, sack Navarre and then strike for Lan
verness. But be warned, for your timing must be perfect. You dare not enter Lanverness without the Mordant's command. A gorelabe will bring more orders long before you reach the queen’s border.”

  General Marris raised an eyebrow. “And what are your orders?”

  General Haith smiled, his hand on his sword hilt. “I will lead our cavalry south, against our lord’s oldest enemy.” His gaze roved across his commanders, seeing his own keen hunger reflected in their eyes. “The time of rape and plunder is finally at hand! Take your battle banners south and strike a heart-blow at Erdhe. The Mordant has loosed our swords for war!”

  “To war!” His officers thundered their reply, keen for rape, pillage, and power. The conquest of Erdhe had finally begun.

  26

  Lothar

  Rain wept from dingy clouds, adding misery to the damp chill. His maroon cloak was sodden, his armor flecked with rust, yet Lothar dared not stop. He needed distance. And he needed to hide his tracks. Enemies prowled the mountains, and not all of them wore black. Lothar nudged his warhorse forward, keeping to the stream's fast-flowing heart. Ice licked the brook's stony banks, the last raiment of winter. His horse nickered in protest, but the icy water was their best ally, smothering their scent and masking their prints.

  Lothar kept his battleaxe unsheathed. Green cluttered the trees, multiplying the places for enemies to hide, but all else was washed to gray by the downpour. Rain dripped from his helm, a steady annoyance. He scanned the hillside for any telltale glint of arms or armor. His nerves set on a knife-edge, he kept a firm grip on his battleaxe. Sir Tyrone's great sword rode the harness at his back, a gift from the marshal, but that weapon remained an untried riddle. Perhaps it would foil the Dark Sword...or perhaps it would shatter in his hands like any ordinary blade, betraying him to his death. Under the assault of the Dark Sword, Sir Abrax's great blue sword had shattered like kindling, a champion of the maroon slain by a deranged squire. And now the knight marshal wielded that same dread sword. Too many dead, too many riddles, Lothar shook his head, cursing his own memories. He'd fallen into a nightmare and did not know how to waken.

  The stream wound upwards, flowing around a jumble of rocks and boulders, slowing his horse to a crawl. The downpour lessened to a drizzle, but Lothar was so wet and cold it mattered not. And then he saw the axe marks on the pine tree, the subtle sign of the maroon. Steering his warhorse from the stream, he dismounted. He tugged off his gauntlet, surprised by how badly his hands shook. Must be the cold. He fingered the axe cut for sap, relieved to find the mark still sticky, proof the marks were fresh-cut. "We've found our way home." His warhorse stamped and snorted, sending a spray of droplets in all directions. "I know. We both need shelter and food." He gave his horse a reassuring pat and then clambered into the saddle. Taking up the reins, he nudged his weary mount up the hill. The axe marks led to a trail, and the trail led to a mountain meadow.

  Light broke through the clouds, banishing the drizzle, but the pale sun offered little warmth, making a mockery of spring.

  A pair of scouts with nocked bows stepped from behind a stand of green-skirted saplings.

  Lothar raised his battleaxe in salute. "For King Ursus!" The password would surely have changed by now, yet he prayed Rannock had told the scouts to keep an eye open for him.

  The scouts stared down their arrows for a tense heartbeat, but then they relaxed their bowstrings and waved him past.

  He found the main trail. A river of hoof prints marred the muddy ground. He followed them upward to a second meadow. The smell of wood smoke permeated the forest, teasing him forward with the hope of warmth and food. Riding through a stand of birch trees dripping with rain, he emerged to find the camp sprawled before him. Tents and lean-tos, a patchwork of canvas, branches and shields, crowded the mud-swamped meadow. They looked like an army defeated and dispossessed, until one noticed the bright glitter of steel. Their tents were mere hovels, but the knights kept their armor polished and their weapons sharp. Harried and outnumbered...yet the maroon was not broken...not yet. Flushed with a relentless pride, Lothar straightened in the saddle.

  He threaded his mount through the hovels and stone-ringed fires, making his way to the lone pavilion at the camp's heart. Friends and comrades shouted greetings as he passed, but their voices and their stares were laden with too many questions. Lothar answered with a nod and nothing more, saving his answers for the other captains.

  As he neared the pavilion, his squire, James, came rushing to his side. The shock in the lad's eyes told Lothar how bedraggled he looked. "My lord, you need warm clothing and food."

  "After I see the captains." He swung down from the saddle, every part of him rusted and aching. "See that Stalwart gets a full feedbag after you rub him dry." Handing the reins to the lad, he gave the stallion an affectionate pat. "He's more than earned his oats."

  "Yes, m'lord."

  Lothar turned to find Rannock waiting for him. A younger man with auburn hair and a muscular build, Rannock was the champion of the morning star and a captain of the maroon...and one of the few who had helped to bury the king.

  "I feared you would not come."

  Lothar gave him a weary smile. "I nearly didn't."

  Rannock's stare widened, but he held his questions. "Come, we've meat and mead and decisions that need to be made."

  Lothar ducked beneath the canvas flap, nearly swooning from the welcome warmth. A squire knelt to tug off his muddy boots, while another took his sodden cloak. A thick carpet covered the ground, a rare luxury brought from Castlegard, but the pavilion bore not a stick of furniture. The captains sat cross-legged around a brazier, leaning on bedrolls. He took a seat among them, his gaze roving the circle of faces: Sir Rannock, Sir Blaze, Sir Adelmar, Sir Varlin, Sir Krismir, with a fresh scar marring his handsome face, and Sir Gravis, the old sad-eyed veteran. Their numbers had dwindled, too many of their best left to rot as corpses on unnamed battlefields. This winter war had cost too damn much, yet he feared the reaper's grim toll was not fully paid.

  Sir Blaze set a mug of heated mead in front of him and then handed him a bowl filled with savory stew. Chunks of venison and dried carrots swam in the thick broth. Meat, Lothar lunged for the bowl. He plied his spoon, wolfing half the bowl before he realized how badly his hands shook. A few of the captains stared, while others looked away.

  Rannock nudged him. "Eat. You're half starved."

  "Tell me of the maroon."

  The others gave their reports, speaking of smaller battles, scarce supplies, and too many wounded.

  Lothar finished the bowl and ate another, and in between he sipped the warm mead, sweet as mulled honey soothing his throat. Warmth pervaded him, and he began to feel almost human. Finally replete, Lothar leaned back on a bedroll and met their stares. "I feel your questions."

  Rannock began, his face grim. "The scouts you traveled with returned with tales of slaughter. They claim the marshal fights like a whirlwind. They say he defeats hundreds, all of them dying beneath the Dark Sword." Rannock leaned forward his face intent. "Hundreds defeated by one!" He made the hand sign against evil, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Is it true?"

  "True." He felt their stares. "All true."

  "They say no foe can stand against him."

  Lothar hesitated. "Also true...so far."

  A ripple of murmurs circled the captains.

  "When the scouts returned alone." Rannock speared him with his stare, "we feared you dead."

  Lothar cupped his hands around the mug of mead. "The marshal refused our aid. So I sent the others away. But I kept watch...from a distance."

  "And?"

  Lothar considered the question, knowing the canvas walls were thin. "The marshal needs our help no longer. Somehow...," he shook his head as if he still did not believe it, "somehow the Dark Sword leads him to nearby patrols, as if the cursed blade can sense a foe." He stared at the others. "He's making his way west. He'll engage the enemy at Raven Pass."

  Rannock and Gravis both gaped
, but Krismir, the youngest captain, blazed with intent. "Then we must ride for Raven Pass! We can't let the marshal fight alone!" He stared at the others, seeking support, but none would meet his gaze. Krismir rounded on Lothar. "Give the order! We must ride for Raven Pass!"

  So full of courage and glory, yet how little you understand. Lothar shook his head. "We have other orders."

  Krismir's gaze narrowed as if sensing a trap. "What orders?"

  "I met with the knight marshal. I spoke to him. He orders the maroon to retreat to the east." It was a half-truth. He hoped his friend would forgive him for it. "We're to ride east and make our stands at the bridges and at Castlegard. With the Snowmelt in full spate, the enemy will need the bridges to reach the south."

  Krismir refused to be silenced. "We can't let the marshal fight alone."

  Lothar's patience snapped. "We have orders!"

  Krismir glared, their stares crossing, but the younger man gave way.

  Lothar bridled his anger. "No one doubts your courage, but would you deny the marshal this glory?"

  Krismir's jaw fell open but no sound escaped.

  "He does this for the maroon." Lothar glared at the others. "The marshal risks his life, his very soul, to give us fighting odds."

  Gravis understood. He raised his mug, his voice solemn. "To the marshal."

  The others raised their mugs and tankards in salute. Flasks of mead were passed and the mugs were refilled many times. The talk turned to small things. Lothar dozed, feeling the tug of sleep combined with safety, but he woke with a fierce need to piss. Too weary to rise, yet the need could not be ignored. Pulling on his boots, he stumbled out into the chill night air. The cold hit like a bracing slap, breaking the groggy grip of the mead. A horse nickered from his left, setting his bearings. He walked in the other direction, knowing the piss trenches were always on the opposite side of the horse lines. A crescent moon gave him just enough light to see by. He found the trench and arched a golden stream to the bottom, groaning with relief. Binding his trousers, Lothar heard footsteps from behind.