The Knight Marshal (The Silk & Steel Saga) Read online

  Ruthgar swore, “By the all the gods, how do we fight such magic?”

  Blaine gripped his blue steel sword, “With heart and steel and determination…and truth.” He nudged the corpse, “Their foul sorcery is the very reason we dare not lose this war.”

  The others stood, reclaiming their torches and swords.

  Blaine cleaned his sword on the priest’s robes.

  Dermit edged forward, his voice a hiss. “I’ve seen this one!” His eyes widening, the boy took a sudden step backwards as if the corpse might bite. “That’s the high priest, Gavis! You’ve killed the high priest!”

  Blaine took a closer look. The dead priest’s face was sallow, his dark beard unkempt, but his robes were of the finest make, plush black velvet with golden runes embroidered on the collar and sleeves. And his staff and sickle were both clad in silver, gleaming wicked in the torchlight. “The high priest, eh?” Blaine hefted his blue sword, striking the head from the body. Lifting the grisly trophy by the long dark hair, he handed it to Dermit. “Go and spike this above the outer doorway. If the people see the high priest is well and truly dead then maybe they’ll believe the priesthood is finished.”

  The lad took the dripping head, holding it well away from his body. “Yes, m’lord.”

  “And then run to the palace and find Zith and Fanggold. Tell them to bring more swords so we can clean out this rat’s nest.”

  “Yes, m’lord.”

  The boy started to turn away, but Blaine said, “And Dermit.”

  “Yes, lord?”

  “You did well, showing courage befitting a squire of the Octagon.”

  The lad flashed a blazing smile, “Yes, m’lord!” and then he sped down the long hall.

  Blaine turned to the others. “Shall we see where this leads?” The two painted warriors growled their assent, keen for vengeance. Hefting their swords, they prowled down the corridor, their boots whispering across dark stone. Blaine tightened his grip on his blue steel sword, remembering the pain of the priest’s fire. Invoking Valin, he silently swore to slay every dark-damned priest lurking in the citadel…and then he’d find a way south and kill the Mordant.

  20

  The Knight Marshal

  A lone raven circled the slaughter field. Cawing twice, it swooped low over the feast of corpses but it did not land. Dark wings beat skyward, shunning the dead as if they were tainted. The marshal scowled, telling himself that he did not believe in ill-omens.

  Beside him, Lothar muttered, “Perhaps ogres aren’t to its liking.”

  “Perhaps.”

  An orange sun sank in the west, loosing twilight upon the mountains. Dismounting, the marshal tossed his reins to a waiting knight. “Lothar, Sir Abrax with me. Perhaps the survivor knows the riddle of the dead.” His gaze flicked to Sir Dalt and the host of knights riding at his back. “The rest of you keep a sharp lookout. The enemy has shown a penchant for tricks this day.” Sir Dalt gave a grim nod, sending riders along the column with fresh orders.

  A lone survivor stood amongst the carnage. He wore an odd mishmash of armor, silver mixed with black and gold, but a knight’s maroon cloak hung from his shoulders. The clash of colors suggested a mercenary, or a scavenger…or worse, a turncloak. Too weary to sort through the riddle, the marshal strode towards the stranger. “Come, let’s hear his tale.”

  Sir Abrax took his blindside, while Lothar stayed on his right. Snow crunched beneath their boots as they crossed the blood-soaked field. Bodies lay hacked to pieces, entrails and heads strewn in a gross display of butchery, as if killing alone was not enough. A terrible stench clogged the air, the awful stink of severed bowels, bad enough to make a veteran gag. The marshal had trod many a battlefields but this one reeked of evil.

  The stranger waited at the heart of the field. Tall with broad shoulders, he stood with boots spread wide, his gauntleted hands hooked in his belt, a sheathed great sword rearing over his left shoulder like a threat. If the stranger bore any wounds, he showed no signs of it. A knight’s maroon cloak hung from his shoulders, but the marshal did not recognize his face, wondering if the thick, ruddy beard obscured a traitor’s brand.

  Stopping two sword lengths away, the marshal spoke first, thrusting straight for the heart of the matter. “Who are you, stranger, and how did you survive this slaughter?”

  The stranger remained mute as stone, his dark gaze glowering beneath his helm.

  Sir Abrax growled, “Answer the Lord Marshal.”

  The stranger cocked his head as if considering. “Survive this?” He spread his arms wide, encompassing the dead. “You stand upon a field of glory. I ambushed these ogres. I slew the enemy. I’ve come to save the Octagon.”

  Sir Abrax gaped, “One man? You’ve taken too many blows to the head!”

  The stranger’s voice turned cold. “I don’t lie, Sir Abrax.”

  Shock riddled the knight’s voice. “You know my name?”

  The stranger merely nodded.

  The marshal had a bad feeling about this.

  Sir Abrax scoffed, his voice dripping with scorn, “One man, fighting alone, and you claim to have slayed a whole troop of ogres? You lie!”

  “I speak the truth!” With liquid grace the stranger unsheathed the sword strapped to his back and held the blade aloft. Black as sin, the sword seemed to drink the light, metal-forged dragons curled around the hilt. “Behold Boric’s blade, the sword of legend returned to the Octagon!”

  The marshal staggered backwards, “The cursed sword!” His gaze was drawn to the dark blade, feeling its power, feeling its pull. Tearing his gaze from the sword, he studied the wielder’s face. The survivor had Baldwin’s voice, and the squire’s ruddy coloring, but somehow he’d gained a man’s growth in merely a moonturn. No longer a lad, he sported a thick beard and broad shoulders and stood a head taller than the marshal. “By all the gods, this cannot be!” Something was very wrong here, as if the Dark God himself came stalking the Octagon. “Baldwin.”

  It was a statement, not a question.

  Baldwin smirked as if pleased to be recognized.

  “I gave you orders.”

  Baldwin sneered. “Discard this weapon? I think not.”

  “That sword slew the king!” Anger rode the marshal’s voice, hiding his fear. “That blade is cursed! I ordered you to throw it in Eye Lake.”

  “Cursed!” Outrage rode Baldwin’s voice. “I say it is blessed! Look around you! With this sword a single knight slew an entire troop of ogres! Who among you can match such a feat?” He lowered the dark sword, holding the tip level with Sir Abrax’s heart, a challenge and a threat. “You wield a hero’s blue steel sword, yet how many ogres have you killed? One? Two?” Baldwin spread his arms wide, “Or sixty?”

  Lothar hissed, “He’s right! This sword could decide the war!”

  Sir Abrax growled, “It’s a trick, a trap set by the enemy. I don’t believe it.”

  “Believe it!” Baldwin’s roar echoed against the mountains. “Use your eyes…and then use your knees.”

  A cold fist gripped the marshal’s heart. “What?”

  “You heard me.” A sneer claimed Baldwin’s face. “With this sword I have the power to save the Octagon. Against Boric’s blade no foe can stand. By right of conquest, I claim the king’s crown. Kneel to me!”

  The marshal voice turned deadly cold. “Surrender that blade.”

  “Surrender!” Baldwin’s face contorted in rage. “I bring you victory and you sneer at it!” Quick as a snake, he swung the black sword toward the marshal. “Kneel to your king.”

  The marshal’s voice seethed. “You are not my king.”

  Sir Abrax attacked. Sapphire-blue steel descended in a mighty killing arc…but the black blade met the stroke. The two swords clashed with a tortured shriek. Sparks flew between the blades, the combatants locked in a fearsome blur. As champion of the sword, Sir Abrax had few peers, yet Baldwin parried every blow, the black sword moving with uncanny speed. Stroke and parry, the two swords fairly f
lew at each other, sparks dancing along the edge. With every clash, the blue sword screamed as if in agony. Sir Abrax attacked with lightning speed but Baldwin countered like a demon possessed. They fought like champions; they fought like mortal enemies, trading mighty blows. Baldwin attacked with an overhead swing. Blue steel blocked the black, the two swords meeting in a ferocious clash. And then the impossible happened. Screaming in mortal pain, the blue blade shattered!

  The marshal gasped, “No!”

  Unhindered, the black blade sped downwards, sundering the knight’s armor, cleaving deep into his chest, his heart’s blood fountaining across the snow.

  Shocked, the marshal gaped as Sir Abrax fell.

  Baldwin wrenched the black sword loose with a scream. “You should have knelt!” His face contorting in hate, he attacked the knight’s body, hacking at limbs and head, making a bloody mockery of the dead.

  “No!” Without thought, the marshal unsheathed his great sword. Leaping forward, he braced to parry the black, protecting his friend’s body. The dark sword never slowed, descending in a mighty blow. The two swords met with a hideous clang. Ordinary steel parried the black with a deafening screech. Pain shuddered down the marshal’s arms, nearly hammering him to his knees. His sword bucked in his hands, but it did not shatter. Across the blades, he locked stares with Baldwin. “Drop your sword!”

  Baldwin’s face twisted in hate, so contorted he seemed more fiend than man. “Kneel!”

  “Never!”

  Baldwin attacked, raining blows with frightening speed. The marshal retreated under the onslaught, desperate to keep his sword raised. Instead of a squire, he fought a demon. Other knights joined the battle, rushing to his aid, but somehow the demon held them at bay, parrying every blow while focusing his rage on the marshal. Baldwin fought like a whirlwind, the black sword relentless in his hands. Outmatched, the marshal could only dodge and parry, struggling to stay alive. Heavy blows hammered his arms, pain shuddering through his whole body. His chest ached from the beating, his sword vibrating in his hands. He feared his blade would shatter but all he could do was fight. Sweat poured out of him. His breath grew ragged and his legs turned to lead. Parry and retreat, he struggled to keep his footing, his strength bleeding away with every blow. Death stalked him, chased by a cursed sword, but then an otherworldly voice whispered through the marshal’s mind, *For honor and the Octagon!* A second strength flowed from the sword into his arms. Shocked, the marshal nearly dropped the blade but a warrior’s instinct kept his hands locked on the hilt. Death whistled close. Parrying the blow, the marshal scrambled backwards, tightening his grip on the sword. Flushed with renewed vigor, the marshal attacked. Beating back the dark sword, he looked for an opening. Baldwin sneered, loosing a fearful blow at his head. The marshal ducked low and saw his chance. Lunging upwards, he aimed for a chink in the armor. His blade struck true, driving into Baldwin’s armpit. With all his might, he rammed the great sword heart-deep.

  Baldwin stared wide-eyed, a gurgle of blood at his mouth. “How?” He crumpled to the ground, the black blade falling from his hands. The marshal kicked the cursed sword aside and then yanked his own free. Holding the tip to the squire’s throat, he said, “Yield.”

  Other swords surrounded Baldwin, forming a thicket of death.

  “Yield!”

  The battle-madness bled from Baldwin’s gaze and his features seemed to soften, revealing the lad hidden beneath a man’s tangled beard. “My Lord Marshal…how?” Bewilderment filled his gaze, followed by pain.

  The marshal knelt. “Why did you do it?”

  “To…save…the Octagon.”

  Relenting, the marshal removed the lad’s helm and cradled his head. “You served the king well.”

  A tear trickled down Baldwin’s face. “Failed…you.”

  “No.” The marshal held him close. “The fault was mine. Your service to the maroon will be remembered.”

  “Remembered…” Baldwin gasped in pain and then his life fled, soaking into the blood-trampled ground.

  A bitter wind whistled through the naked trees, a lament to the dead.

  The marshal closed the lad’s eyes, whispering a fervent prayer to Valin

  A jangle of arms and armor surrounded him. The marshal looked up to find a circle of maroon knights standing guard, their weapons bared, their faces grim with questions. More than a few bore fresh wounds.

  Lothar was the first to lower his weapon. “Corbin and Tancil are both dead, slain by this fiend.”

  Two more knights dead, yet the battle had taken only mere moments, as if Baldwin had possessed the strength of ten demons. The marshal knew he was lucky to be alive. Standing, he surveyed the field. Sixty dead ogres, they were all lucky to be alive.

  Sir Dalt gestured to the slain squire. “What happened? He fought like a demon.”

  The marshal stood, swaying from exhaustion. “The black sword is cursed. We dare not wield it.” He glanced down at Baldwin. “This was my mistake. All those who died here today will be accorded full honors.” He cleaned the blood from his sword. “Check the dead, for we dare not tarry.”

  Sir Dalt gave him a questioning look but the marshal stopped him with a glare. Saluting, the knights moved to obey.

  Leaving the dead to the others, the marshal stepped towards the black sword. It gleamed dark and deadly, lying in a bloody patch of snow. Lothar crouched beside it, peering at the blade. “Baldwin spoke true. The blade bears the mark of Orin Surehammer and the coiled dragons fit the legends.”

  The marshal shivered, fearing the awe in his friend’s voice. “The blade is cursed, Lothar. It cannot be wielded.”

  “Yet a mere squire single-handedly slayed sixty ogres. It begs to be wielded.”

  The marshal nodded. “Yet we dare not.”

  “But we cannot leave it for the enemy.”

  “No.” And there-in lay the trap, for the cursed blade truly was a two-edged sword. “Go and get two cloaks from the dead. Two black cloaks, I’ll not soil the maroon with this curse.”

  Nodding, Lothar moved among the dead while the marshal stood guard over the sword. Even without touching it, he could feel its allure, like a siren singing his blood to a battle lust. Shuddering, he gripped his borrowed sword of plain Castlegard steel, resisting the pull.

  Lothar returned with two bloodstained cloaks and a wolf pelt.

  “Spread them on the snow.”

  Lothar spread the wolf pelt fur down, and then the two black cloaks, one on top of the other. The marshal kicked the black sword with his boot, levering the blade onto the cloaks. Kneeling, he rolled the sword into a bundle. Even through the wad of cloth and fur, he could feel its power.

  Lothar stared at the bundle. “What now?”

  “We guard it. We resist it. And we keep fighting.”

  Lothar gave him a measured look but he did not argue.

  A knight brought their horses. Strapping the bundle to his cantle, the marshal pulled himself into the saddle. “Mount up! We still have a long way to ride.” The knights formed a column behind him, maroon cloaks fluttering in the wind. The marshal nudged his stallion to a walk, picking a path through the carnage, but his gaze kept returning to the black sword bundled in fur and tied to his saddle. Such a weapon could truly turn the tide of war, but at what cost? A shiver raced down his spine. The marshal sent a silent prayer to Valin, begging the Warrior God for the strength to prevail.

  In the South

  21

  Bryce

  The great ship sped south under a cloud of fear. Rows of oars struck the water with a relentless beat, but the slate-gray sea stretched to forever. Locked within the Mordant, Bryce watched through his spy hole, noting the terror etched on the crew’s faces as they fingered their sea charms. Even the captain averted his gaze, avoiding the stare of the dark-robed passenger. Sailors were a superstitious lot, but in this case they did right to fear.

  Five times the Mordant took possession of the trireme’s rear deck. In the dead of night the oldest
harlequin stood upon the open deck and called on the power of Darkness. And every time, Darkness answered. Red lightning speared down, striking the Mordant’s upraised hands, surrounding him with a nimbus of power. Cowering within his prison, Bryce watched and hid and watched again, awed and frightened by the fearsome display. Steeped in the powers of Hell, the Mordant performed ghastly rituals, twisting souls and flesh into monstrous forms, creating foul abominations. Captured albatrosses and a hapless sea eagle were melded with sacrificed men. Part man, part bird, the twisted abominations arose from the ship’s deck, taking wing toward Erdhe to work their master’s will. But for each unholy melding, the Mordant paid a steep price. Collapsing in a magical stupor, his stunted attendants, assassins cloaked as servants, carried the Mordant to the captain’s cabin and saw to his needs.

  While the Mordant languished abed, swathed in misery imposed by spent magic and the sea’s rocking motion, Bryce took his chance. After each summoning, the bonds of his prison seemed to weaken, as if the workings bled away the Mordant’s power. Careful to avoid detection, Bryce pushed at his prison walls, seeking to reclaim his body. He battered at the void, desperate to escape, all to no avail. Locked in his prison, he railed at the gods, till failure made him seek a subtler way. Yearning for movement, craving a single touch, he strained to remember that one time in the Mordant’s treasury crypt when he’d slipped his bonds and felt his body. Stilling his mind, Bryce imagined his hand lying upon the blanket, the feel of rough wool beneath his fingertips, the caress of a breeze across the hairs on his hand. He imagined his fingers moving…and then he felt the coarse wool. He felt it! Elation thrummed through him…till a devastating suspicion struck like a cold sword. Fearing a trap, a trick of the Mordant, Bryce retreated into his prison, curling into a ball, waiting for retribution…but none came. Emboldened, he dared to plan his escape.