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

  Kath gagged. Men eaten alive, she’d never seen such a thing. She turned away in horror.

  Checkered sails flapped overhead, empty of wind. The Sea Sprite slowly turned. The wind caught the sails and the Sprite leaped forward.

  An ominous shape shadowed the deck. A dark pinnacle loomed overhead. They sailed close to a rocky spire, too close. Kath gripped the railing, fearing they’d crash. Juliana shouted orders and sailors scaled the rigging. The ship started to turn but not fast enough. The spire loomed large, a sharp black rock thrust up from the sea like a razor-sharp tooth. Waves battered the base, an angry froth of white. The ship moved closer, like iron drawn to a lodestone, close enough to see orange starfish clutching the dark pinnacle. Kath held her breath, wondering if they’d survived the battle only to be dashed against the rocks.

  Sailors rushed the railing wielding long poles with hooked ends.

  The deck slowly tilted, sails snapping in the wind.

  Sailors leaned out, muscles straining, pushing against the spire with their poles.

  The deck tilted higher, rising towards the dark spire, so close Kath could almost touch the rocky menace. Timbers groaned and Kath heard a terrible scraping noise, wood screeching against rock, the death knell of a ship. Clutching her gargoyle, she whispered a fervent prayer to Valin. The rocky spire loomed overhead, sharp and dark and deadly…and then they were past. The wind took the sails and the Sea Sprite leaped forward, escaping the bay, escaping the north. The deck settled to level, salt spray licking the far side. Kath released a long-held breath. Gray waves stretched to forever, an endless open ocean.

  Kath slumped to the deck. Everything ached, her ribs, her shoulder, her sword arm. Too tired to stand, her gaze swept the deck, taking note of her men. Bloody and battered, they sprawled on the deck, some felled by sleep, while others cleaned their weapons or bound their wounds. A fierce pride flashed through her, exhausted but victorious, they’d won free of the north. Kath turned towards Blaine. “Are you hurt?”

  “Not a scratch from the raiders but the sea damn near killed me.” He shivered, swiping wet hair from his face. “Let’s not do that again.”

  “You should get out of those wet clothes or the cold will finish what the sea started.”

  Blaine groaned. “Too tired to move.”

  She flashed a smile. “Get Dermit to help. That’s what squires are for.”

  Overhead, a sailor shouted. “Sail ho!”

  Kath sat up, peering over the railing, but she saw nothing.

  Sailors scrambled across the deck.

  “Sail ho! A MerChanter raider!”

  Kath leaped to the railing. She saw it then, another blood red sail emerging from behind a distant sea stack. Oars flashing black against the wave-tossed sea, it raced towards them. Kath’s heart sank. Another enemy, another fight, the north was relentless, demanding their death.

  57

  The Knight Marshal

  Sprawled on the snow-crusted ground, the marshal took stock of the others. Twenty-four knights out of more than a hundred, with many of the survivors bearing bloody wounds. The losses staggered him. A litany of names ran through his mind, some of them friends, all of them brothers-in-arms. Yet mingled with the sorrow, he felt a swell of pride. A hundred mounted knights against seventy ogres; it was a feat worthy of legends. Yet how long could the maroon dare such odds?

  Battered and sore, the marshal sat sprawled in the snow, not caring if his armor rusted, not caring about the cold, just breathing in and out, grateful to be alive. He stared up at the wooded hillside, listening for the enemy, for the blunder of ogres crashing through the thorny thicket, yet he heard nothing. Not yet. With the horses spent, fleeing wasn’t an option. He needed to rally his men to a defensive position, but he could not bestir himself, too exhausted to do anything but live.

  Dawn light cracked the sky, a golden glow dispelling the darkness.

  He stared at the sky, mesmerized by the beauty of the glow.

  “Riders approaching!”

  The marshal staggered to his feet. He had no strength left to fight, yet he’d meet his fate standing with a sword in his hands. Leaning on his sword, he stared across the meadow, waiting for succor or death.

  *Wield me!*

  So tempting, but for the hundredth time, he ignored the cursed sword strapped to his back.

  A line of mounted knights galloped into the clearing…all of them wore maroon.

  Tension bled from the marshal’s shoulders. It took all of his strength just to remain standing.

  Lothar found him. “Too tough to kill?”

  “Just so.”

  Lothar slid from his horse and the two friends clasped arms. “You had the truth of it.”

  “What?”

  “Bartlet stayed behind, shimmied up a cedar tree. It was a trap. A host of black-cloaked soldiers came charging up the east side of Stonehand. A few tracked us along the ridgeline and fell to our archers, but most followed you down the west side, playing the hammer to the ogres’ anvil.”

  “They wagered we’d fight rather than flee.”

  “Just so.” Lothar’s gaze roved the survivors. “I count twenty-three.”

  “Twenty-four.”

  “A stiff price.”

  The marshal did not answer.

  Lothar leaned close. “Did you wield it?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?” Lothar gave him a sharp look.

  The marshal’s voice dropped to a harsh whisper. “You don’t know this sword the way I do. It begs to be wielded, as if it thirsts for blood.” Shuddering, he made the hand sign against evil. “It whispers like teeth gnawing at my mind.” He shook his head. “The sword is cursed.”

  Lothar stared at him. “But how many knights might have been spared?”

  And that was the question. The same awful damning question he’d been asking himself since they’d reached the meadow. “That way is cursed.”

  “Even if it brings us victory?”

  The marshal scowled.

  Lothar stepped close. “I’ll wield it if you won’t.”

  “We’ll talk no more of this.”

  His friend gave him a measured look. “We best be going. If we linger, they’re sure to find us.”

  “Tell the others to mount up.” The marshal swung into the saddle, the cursed sword bound in furs and strapped to his back, a nagging whisper clawing at his mind.

  58

  Katherine

  The MerChanter raider cleaved the sea, rowing on a killing path towards the Sea Sprite…but this time they had more warning. Kath measured the distance, wondering if it was enough. Hovering near the captain, she asked the fateful question, “Can you outrun them?”

  “If the gods owe you any favors, ask now.” Juliana snapped orders while sailors scuttled to obey. The Sea Sprite jigged left and then right, tacking across the ocean like a frightened hen evading an eagle’s talons. The vast open ocean proved a wild place compared to the placid bay. Massive gray waves rolled in from the deep, tossing the ship between watery hills and deep troughs. Kath’s warriors turned wretched. Clinging to the railings, they spewed their guts to the sea. Kath pitied them, but she could do nothing to ease their suffering. Remaining by the captain, she clutched the railing and stared at the sea. The Sea Sprite slid down a slate-gray wave into a deep gully, massive walls of water on either side. Kath feared the walls would collapse, crushing the Sprite, but the plucky ship gained speed, always climbing the next wave. At every peak, Kath looked back, praying for empty seas…but always the MerChanter followed like a hound locked on their scent.

  For nigh on half the day, they sailed south on a zigzag path, following the dark coastline, but the MerChanter raider held to the hunt. Dark oars slashed the slate-gray sea in deadly unison, the red-hulled raider churning towards them, slowly eating the distance.

  Tension gnawed at Kath. “If we keep on like this, they’ll catch us.”

  “I know.” The captain stared aloft, a calculating look on
her face. “Time to roll the dice. Hard to starboard.”

  Marcus repeated the order in a loud bellow. “Hard to starboard!”

  Sailors climbed the rigging, tending the sails. The Sea Sprite swung hard to the right, heading due west into the ocean deep. Salt spray licked the prow as they beat into a massive wave.

  Beside her, Juliana said, “Now would be a good time for the god’s favor.”

  Kath clung to the railing, the wind whipping her hair. “Why?”

  “An old sea captain’s rumor says that MerChanter raiders never sail beyond sight of the coastline. I’ve never had reason to test it. Pray that it’s true.”

  The Sea Sprite leaped forward like a startled horse, beating a path through ferocious waves. Kath gripped the railing, watching for the enemy ship, praying for it to cling to the coast. For the longest time, she saw nothing but waves…but then she spied the red hull. The MerChanter had turned to the west, black sails straining overhead, chasing the Sprite towards the briny deep. “Damn.” Kath cursed their ill-luck.

  Juliana said, “It’s not over yet. They can still see the coast.”

  Kath stayed with the captain, keeping watch on the enemy. It seemed they sailed for an eternity, pressing deeper into the mountainous sea. Towering waves battered the ship like a mighty hand swatting a fly. Her painted warriors flopped on the deck like dead fish, pale and empty. Sailors moved among them, offering flagons of water. Kath widened her stance, riding the waves, like balancing on a bucking horse. She fixed her gaze on the distant coast, the last glimpse of land. The dark horizon dwindled, shrinking to nothing, as if swallowed by the sea.

  Beside her, Juliana muttered, “Now we’ll learn the truth of the rumor.”

  Nothing but waves in every direction, Kath swallowed, gripped by a primal fear. Her knuckles strained white on the ship’s railing. Beyond sight of land, the sea stretched to forever, vast and cold and hostile, every rolling wave filled with deadly menace.

  Juliana sidled close. “You feel it, don’t you?”

  Her mouth suddenly dry, Kath could only nod.

  “Many a captain will not sail beyond the sight of land. Pray that the MerChanters feel it too.”

  Kath prayed to Valin like she’d never prayed before, wondering if the warrior god could hear her amidst the pounding waves.

  The sun began to set, turning the ocean to a violent crimson…as if they sailed into nightmares. Making the hand sign against evil, Kath scanned the waves for the enemy ship. And then she saw them. The dark sails had shrunk small…but they never vanished. “Will they turn back?”

  Juliana shook her head, her face grim. “They should have turned long ago.” Her voice dropped to a harsh rasp. “They’ve got our blood scent. They won’t stop without a fight.”

  “Damn,” Battered by the sea, Kath knew her warriors were in no fit state to fight. “We can’t fight them, not here, not now. What can you do?”

  “Outrun them…or evade them.”

  “Evade them?”

  “When the sun sets, there’ll be naught but a thin crescent moon. With luck, the clouds will shutter the moonlight and then we’ll turn and race for the south. Under cover of darkness we’ll duck between the waves, trying to evade them. With a favorable wind and a lot of luck, we might lose them.”

  Kath stared at the captain. “So it comes down to luck?”

  “Luck and boldness and the wind’s favor.”

  She did not like the odds. “We haven’t had much luck in the north. I’d rather trust to wits and steel.”

  “It may come to that.” Juliana studied the rigging, taking stock of her ship. “At least this strong westerly has outrun their oars. We’ve bought some time.”

  “How much?”

  “A day. Less if the wind dies, more if we evade them.” Juliana gave her a grim look. “Best if you and your men get below. You’ll need food and rest.”

  Kath heard the warning beneath the words. “Just so.” Taking leave of the captain, she made the rounds, careful not to be ambushed by a rogue wave. Salt spray leaped the railings, stinging with numbing cold. Crouched on the deck, she spoke to each of her men, checking their spirits and their wounds, advising them to go below deck, to get dry and stay warm. Despite the rolling waves, she urged them to eat and to rest, for tomorrow their swords might be needed. Wretched with seasickness, yet they gave her dogged smiles. “We’ll keep our swords sharp, Svala.”

  The trust in their faces touched her heart, untarnished despite the sea’s ill treatment. A fierce pride leavened with duty swelled through her. Kath felt the burden to protect them…but the sea was a battleground she did not understand. “Come, we need to get below.”

  Making her way to the ship’s center, Kath pried open the main hatch and descended the rope ladder. Warmth embraced her, the warmth of too many bodies laden with the scent of fear and piss and seasickness. She nearly gagged on the stench.

  Lanterns swung from the ceiling beams, swaying with the ship’s motion. The swinging light somehow made the swaying worse, multiplying the affect. Kath swallowed, forcing down the taste of bile.

  Hammocks crowded the hold, strung at different heights, crisscrossing the space like canvas cocoons. Many were filled, more than a few moaning with seasickness. Across the hold, she saw Blaine peeling off his soaked surcoat, Dermit lending a hand. At least the knight had the good sense to get dry. Kath searched for Zith and found the monk sleeping fitfully, his face as pale as curdled whey.

  “Let him sleep, Svala.” Seffer looked at her, one of the wolf-faced warriors in Neven’s pack. “The sea’s taken a hard toll on the monk.”

  “And you?”

  He shrugged, feigning indifference despite looking green beneath his wolf tattoo. “I’ll live.”

  “And Danya?”

  “Still sleeps.” He gestured across the hold.

  Neven sat with his back against the ship’s curved hull, surrounded by a nest of bedrolls, Danya’s head cradled in his lap. Kath crossed towards him, ducking beneath hammocks. Bryx raised his shaggy head, looked at her, and then slumped back to the deck. The wolf looked miserable, like most of the men in the hold. “How is she?”

  Neven stroked Danya’s hair. “Still asleep, still peaceful, as if she hasn’t a care.”

  Kath regretted bringing her friend south, but at least she was spared the sea’s malady. “Perhaps you should have stayed in the Citadel.”

  Neven gave her a level stare. “We gave our word, Svala.”

  She nodded, wondering if Danya’s magic would work at sea. Angered by the thought, Kath rebuked herself, dismissing the idea as unworthy. Danya paid a steep price for their victory at the Dark Citadel. “There’s another raider chasing us. The captain’s will try to loose them in the dark. If it comes to another fight, we’ll need every sword.”

  “The wolf band will fight with the maroon.”

  “My thanks.” She looked at Danya. “Keep her safe.”

  “Always.”

  Kath worked her way through the hold, passing word of the MerChanter ship. Towards the rear, she found her two badger-faced squires, Talbert and Conit. Both looked bright-faced and alert, as if their youth protected them from rollicking sea.

  “Svala, we saved a hammock for you!”

  Kath was not used to having one squire, let alone two, but the orphan lads had insisted on following her south. Sitting perched on the swaying hammock, she tried to look solemn as they tugged off her boots and eased her throwing axes from her shoulders. Conit thrust a bowl into her hands filled with dried meat and biscuits while Talbert offered her a wineskin. She took the wine, savoring the rich taste, a fine vintage from the Mordant’s personal stock. Kath wasn’t hungry, but she forced the food down while listening to the two boys chatter about battles and victories.

  “We haven’t escaped the north.”

  Conit looked at her. “The Svala will find a way.”

  Such confidence. “If a battle comes, I want you two to stay in the hold.”

  Both
lads looked indignant. “But Svala, we can fight!”

  “I know you can fight. I want you two to help protect Danya. Her magic is important.”

  The lads looked at each other, as if weighing her order, and then they gave her a solemn nod. “We can do that.”

  “Good. Now get some rest.” Swinging her legs into the hammock, she pulled up a wool blanket and curled on her side, swaying back and forth to the ship’s motion. Rocking like a cradle, the hammock should have been soothing, but sleep eluded her. In her mind’s eye, Kath refought the sea battle, recalling every warrior lost. Seven dead and twelve wounded, she shuddered at the loss of friends and comrades. Her painted warriors had gained a hard-fought victory…but her men had taken a mauling…and that was before the wretched seasickness claimed them. They weren’t fit to fight. The knowledge haunted her. Despite their stalwart courage, they’d lose without some clear advantage. Ships were so confining, an island surrounded by wind and wave. Kath tossed and turned, desperately seeking a solution. Exhaustion finally claimed her. She fell asleep…and woke to nightmares.

  59

  General Haith

  General Haith urged his horse to a canter. Lifting his helm’s visor, he enjoyed the brisk winter wind whipping against his face. The horses needed exercise, but in truth, the general wanted to view the enemy’s camp for himself. Sometimes the smallest details carried the most potent insights. Farther up the trail the gorehounds howled, their twisted cries echoing against the mountaintops. He’d sent a vanguard ahead, a formidable force to sweep the forest. All reports indicated the enemy was long gone, fled the trap, leaving less than a hundred dead. Heads would roll for this failure, but first he’d view the camp and gauge the details for himself.

  His escort followed the trail upwards, riding through a thicket of aspen before reaching the balding mountaintop. General Haith slowed his stallion to a walk. Blackened fire rings and hovels built of cedar branches littered the mountaintop, proof of an army camp hastily abandoned. Hovels built of branches; the enemy did not even have tents for their men yet they persisted in fighting. The Octagon displayed an uncommon tenacity. The general might have admired his foe…if he hadn’t been ordered to annihilate them. Near the crest sat three maroon pavilions, one of them leaning like a drunkard. So the officers had a modicum of luxury, but now even that was abandoned.