The Knight Marshal (The Silk & Steel Saga) Page 34

  And then he saw it, the true reason he’d come. A great mage-stone hand towered at the mountain’s crest, a relic of a bygone age. He’d seen mage-stone before, but only from a great distance. Curiosity pulled him forward. Riding straight to the hand, he dismounted, flinging his reins to a waiting centurion. More than a thousand years old, yet the sculpted stone showed no sign of weathering, no sign of age. Smooth and unblemished, the mage-stone statue stood thrice the height of a tall man, the pale-gray stone glistening in the waning light. The Seeing Eye chiseled in its palm looked crisp and clear as if it was made yesterday, a stone sentinel watching from the mountaintop, undaunted by the centuries. Forever polished to a gleam, he saw his reflection in the great Eye. Mage-stone, a wonder of a lost age, he tugged off his gauntlet, setting his bare hand against the smooth stone. What tales could you tell? What ageless wonders await me in the monastery?

  “Beware, my lord!” Trantor, his personal snargon waddled towards him. Pointed teeth bared, the swarthy duegar stood no higher than the general’s belt. “I don’t like the smell of that.”

  The general stepped back, fighting the urge to wipe his hand on his surcoat. He watched as the duegar sniffed the stone hand, his nostrils spread wide like a hound on the scent.

  “Magic, very old magic.” The duegar circled the hand, sniffing deeply but never touching. “Magic bound to the stone, bound to its making.”

  The general tugged on his gauntlet. “Can it be wielded? Is it a threat?”

  The duegar shook his shaggy head. “The spark is set deep. The hand slumbers…waiting.”

  “Waiting for what?”

  Trantor shrugged. “Who knows? A dead wizard? A live enemy?” The duegar must have felt the general’s anger, for he stepped away and bowed low, wiping the sarcasm from his voice. “No way to tell, my lord. But have a care, the ancient wizards were tricky.”

  That at least was true. Covering his unease, the general snapped an order. “Sniff the camp. I doubt the knights have any magic, but I’ll have it searched anyway.”

  “Yes, my lord.” The duegar bowed and began to turn away.

  “And Trantor?”

  “Yes, my lord.” A quaver rode the snargon’s voice.

  “Take care, lest you lose my favor.”

  The duegar made a deep bow and scurried away.

  “General Haith!” A cadre of centurions approached, a string of prisoners bound between them. Chained and shackled, the prisoners were forced to their knees. Bruised and battered, their faces showed evidence of a lost fight…or abuse by their guards, yet the general recognized most of them.

  “You failed me. Worse yet, you failed the Lord Mordant.”

  The sudden stink of hot urine filled the air.

  Kirkbee tried to stand. “My lord, the scouts misread the signs!”

  The general flicked a glance and a centurion struck Kirkbee from behind, hammering the prisoner to his knees.

  “I expect success from my officers. When you serve Darkness you succeed or you pay. Now it is time to pay.” He studied their faces, fascinated by the way men met their doom. Some wept, others cowered, but two held his gaze, pale-faced but stoic. The general decided to be merciful. “Spare these two. Disembowel the others and feed them to the gorehounds.”

  “No!” Kirkbee writhed against his bonds. “No, I beg you!”

  The general smothered a smile. “Order the men from their cadres to watch so their deaths will be a lesson to all.” His smile deepened. “Start with Kirkbee.”

  Kirkbee groveled on the snow-trampled ground.

  The centurions saluted, dragging the doomed men away.

  Guards released the shackles from the two spared men. Dropping to their knees, they crawled towards the general. Prostrating themselves, they kissed his boots.

  The general indulged them for a few moments and then sent them away with orders to join his personal guard. Mercy shown at the right moment had a way of engendering a fierce loyalty.

  “My lord General!” Trantor returned, waddling with his stunted gait. “I’ve found the stink of potent magic.”

  The discovery ambushed him. “Where?” So far the knights had displayed a shocking lack of magic. The snargon’s discovery was as surprising as it was disquieting.

  “This way, my lord.”

  The snargon led him to the largest pavilion, the one that tilted like a sloppy drunk. Ducking though the canvas flap, the general was assaulted by the lingering stench of too many unwashed bodies. So the commander shared his pavilion with his unwashed men, how noble, how ridiculous. The general’s lips curled in disdain. Power and luxury went hand in hand; to give up one was to abdicate the other. Little wonder the knights were losing.

  The snargon waddled to a curtained chamber in the rear corner. “We found it here, my lord.”

  The general ducked into the curtained alcove. A small, cramped space, yet it held a few humble comforts. An empty armor stand, a low pallet for a bed, a plank table, an abandoned goblet…all spoke of an officer’s quarters…not a knight commander’s, yet it was the only luxury in the camp. “Where?”

  The snargon squatted by the pallet. His head bent to the ground, he sniffed deeply like a bloodhound on the scent. “Here, my lord.” The ugly little duegar closed his eyes, his face suffuse with delight as if sniffing ambrosia. “Dark magic, powerfully Dark magic.”

  “Dark magic? But where would the knights get…?” And then the general understood. He bit back his question, a smile twisting his face. The Dark Sword, so the Mordant’s trap had snared its prey. At least in this, his lord would be pleased. “Well done, Trantor.” The general turned, issuing orders. “Burn it. I want everything burned, a beacon of futility for the enemy.” He strode from the pavilion and swung into the saddle, an escort of sharp-faced centurions forming around him. Turning his stallion, the general took a last look at the pitiful pavilion and the ancient mage-stone hand. His curiosity satisfied, he turned away, secure in the knowledge that he served the winning side. The Lord Mordant cast a long and fearsome shadow. All of his enemies would die screaming.

  60

  Katherine

  Kath startled awake. Something was wrong. She reached for her sword and nearly flipped from the hammock. Clinging to the canvas, she took stock of her surroundings. The others slept, lying in their canvas cocoons, soft snores echoing through the hold, but the ship did not creak, and the hammocks did not sway.

  The hammocks did not sway, a premonition of dread slithered down her spine. Kath rolled from the hammock and tugged on her boots. Shrugging on her throwing axes, she threaded her way through the hammocks and scrambled up the rope ladder. Cold sea air poured through the hatch, easing the warm stink of the hold. Kath winced at the bright sunlight, proof she’d slept through the night and into the day. Emerging on deck, she half expected the ship to be deserted, but it was not. Sailors lined the railing, staring out to sea, keeping a tense vigil.

  Kath climbed from the hold into a startling silence.

  Gone was the billowing wind and frothing whitecaps, replaced by an eerie stillness. Instead of mountainous waves, the slate-gray sea lay smooth and flat, unnaturally calm, as glassy as a mirror. Kath stared slack-jawed. It seemed impossible, as if some ancient wizard had ensorcelled the sea, taming the ocean’s wild ways…or the Sprite had sailed off the world’s edge straight into a nightmare.

  Flat as a millpond, the ocean stretched to infinity.

  A chill gripped her, so bone-numbing cold it seemed otherworldly. Shivering, Kath said, “What is this?”

  No one spoke. No one made a sound. Even the seagulls were gone, as if they’d abandoned the ship. Overhead the sails hung limp and lifeless. The Sea Sprite sat still as death, marooned upon a listless sea.

  Unnerved, Kath made her way to the rear deck.

  Juliana stood at the ship’s wheel. Clad in the same clothing as yesterday, her face looked haggard, her red hair tugged from its binding making a ragged halo. She gave Kath a hollow-eyed stare. “We’re clapped in
irons.”

  The phrase meant nothing, but the captain’s grim tone said it all. “And the enemy?”

  Juliana shrugged. “We fled south under the crescent moon…till the winds died. Now all we can do is wait.”

  “Wait?”

  “For the winds to speed us home…or the enemy to find us.”

  Worry riddled the captain’s voice. Kath turned her gaze to the listless sea. “Is this natural? Or some arcane spell?”

  “A spell?”

  “By the MerChanters, to trap us.”

  Juliana’s gaze widened, ambushed by the question. “If they have that kind of power, I’ve never heard of it.” She gave Kath a harrowing look. “Pray that you’re wrong…although the lack of wind clearly favors the trireme.” Her gaze scanned the dead calm sea. “Sometimes this happens, the wind dies and the sea calms…but it is rare, very rare.”

  “There must be something we can do?”

  “Pray.”

  Kath shook her head, frustration lacing her voice. “The gods help those who help themselves.” She stared out at the glassy sea. “How long will this last?”

  “Only the gods know.”

  Kath studied the mirror-flat ocean, so unnatural, so eerie. It seemed such an ill turn of luck…but this was the north…where Darkness held sway. She shivered making the hand sign against evil. Kath prowled the ship, staring at the sea from every angle. Not a breath of wind rippled the ocean. The strange calm was unnerving. At least the glass-flat sea would give her men a chance to recover from the wretched sickness. Returning to the rear deck, Kath stood by the captain. “What will happen if the enemy finds us?”

  “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  “The wind. Without wind, we have but two choices. Fight or surrender.”

  “Surrender?” Kath was shocked to hear the word.

  “It is said that if you fight the MerChanters and lose, then they’ll slay everyone onboard, but if you surrender, they’ll keep those fit to serve as slaves.” Juliana gave her a bitter grin. “Live to fight another day.”

  Those fit to serve...the words echoed in Kath’s mind, a death knell for Danya and Zith. A chill raced down her spine. She hadn’t brought her friends south just die beneath a MerChanter’s trident.

  “Of course, it’s only a rumor.” Juliana shrugged. “Rumors about the MerChanters hugging the coastline were clearly wrong. Few who meet the sea raiders live to speak of it.”

  Surrender was unthinkable…but without an advantage, her men would lose a straight-up fight. A straight-up fight, the thought sparked an idea. “How many archers onboard?”

  Juliana cracked a wane smile. “Born and bred in Navarre, most of us are archers, middling at best, but archers nonetheless.” Her smile fled. “But we’ve only three bows among us.”

  Kath’s voice strangled on the number. “Only three?”

  Juliana shrugged. “We’re merchants not warriors.”

  The answer stunned Kath. A dozen bows might have turned the tide of battle. Desperate for a solution, she prowled the deck and then she searched the all the holds, poking in every nook and cranny, seeking an advantage. Such a small ship, surrounded by an endless ocean…it seemed like a trap waiting to snap shut. The crew knew it. Brittle and on edge, they jumped at the slightest sound.

  “Ship ho!”

  The warning sang from the crow’s nest.

  Kath raced to the railing, praying for a friend, fearing a foe.

  Juliana pointed toward the northeast. “There!”

  “Ware the northeast!”

  In the distance, a red hull glided towards them, black oars beating the mirror-flat sea. Time had run out.

  61

  The Knight Marshal

  The maroon won another hard-fought battle, but it did not feel like a victory. Corpses littered the ground; so many the trampled snow ran red with blood. The knight marshal stood upon the slaughter field, leaning on a bloody sword. His gaze scanned the battleground, taking the reaper’s tally. For every four dead, three wore black cloaks, proving the prowess of the maroon. But what did prowess matter against an endless horde? So many battles, so many dead…the losses kept mounting. The truth stared him in the face, the bitter, harsh truth. All the valor in the world could not change the outcome. If the Octagon kept fighting this way there’d be nothing left save cripples and lads too young to shave. The marshal shuddered at the thought. He’d not do that to the maroon. He’d not let the Octagon be whittled away to nothing. Not on his watch.

  Sheathing Sir Tyrone’s great sword, the marshal trudged a path among the dead.

  *Wield me!*

  Strapped to his back, the dark sword whispered its siren’s song. The marshal grimaced, fighting the sword’s temptation.

  Crows cawed from the winter-bare trees, awaiting their feast. The marshal crossed the field, studying the dead, looking for friends, looking for the living. Lothar sat on the far side, cradling his battleaxe, a wicked cut bleeding above his left eye. The marshal suppressed a grin. “You still alive?”

  Lothar shrugged. “Just another scar to impress the ladies.”

  His friend’s jest could not leaven the truth. “We lost too many.”

  “I know.”

  “We can’t keep fighting like this.”

  Lothar gave him a solemn nod. “I know.” His voice dropped to a harsh whisper. “I’ll wield it if you won’t.”

  The marshal scowled. “If anyone pays the price, it’ll be me.”

  “Are you sure there’s a price?”

  “I’m sure.”

  Snowmelt dripped from the trees, ten thousand teardrops raining down, as if the forest wept. Like harp strings plucked in mourning, the sorrowful sound echoed in the marshal’s soul. “Winter is fleeing. Soon we’ll be wallowing in mud instead of snow.”

  Lothar shrugged. “Not as cold but just as miserable.”

  He offered his friend a hand, tugging him to his feet. “We’d best see to the wounded.”

  Lothar grunted in agreement, his face set in a grimace. Dealing the mercy stroke was a terrible task, but they both knew it had to be done. Together they walked the field, checking the wounded. Those too far gone to save were given a clean stroke. Better a quick knife from a brother-knight than a tortured death in the enemy’s hands. The maroon left no wounded upon the battlefield.

  “Water…give me water.”

  They followed the weak croak to a mound of dead. Pulling black-cloaked corpses away, they found a friend sprawled at the bottom. Sir Towlin lay on his back, a gray-haired veteran leaking blood from half a dozen wounds. The worst was a gaping axe cut at his side, dark blood pooling in the melting snow.

  The marshal knelt. Gently lifting his friend’s head, he held the water skin to the knight’s pale lips.

  Sir Towlin sucked on the water till he turned his head away. “Wish it was…brandy.”

  The marshal forced a smile. “You deserve brandy. You fought valiantly.”

  “Slipped in the damn snow…lucky axe stroke…but I took his damn head.” Blood bubbled at the side of his mouth. “Hurt like hell at first…doesn’t hurt any more.”

  The marshal held his friend, knowing death hovered near. “Your deeds will be remembered.”

  Something quickened in the knight’s eyes. “Will they?” His gaze locked on the marshal like a drowning man clinging to a rope. “Will they remember? Will anyone…live to tell the tale?”

  The question pierced the marshal like a fatal sword stroke, sealing his decision. “Yes.” The single word held the heavy weight of a dire promise.

  “Good.” The knight closed his eyes…and died.

  The marshal gently lowered his friend to the ground. Whispering a prayer to Valin, he closed his friend’s eyes for the last time, placing a sword in the dead man’s hands. “Valin keep you.”

  A scout’s warning whistled through the forest.

  Lothar hissed, “From the south!”

  The marshal stood. Fearing an ambush, he scanned the
battlefield, but the alpine meadow offered nowhere to hide and it was too late to run. Bellowing a desperate order, he unsheathed his sword. “Form a shield wall!” Plucking a maroon shield from a corpse, he ran to join the others. A hundred knights, many of them wounded, answered the marshal’s call. Staggering to the battlefield’s heart, they formed a crescent. Shields overlapping, they faced south, presenting a defensive barrier. Weapons held at the ready, they crouched behind the shield wall, braced for another dance with death.

  Three short whistles followed by one long, the marshal sagged with relief. The scout signaled friends approached.

  The knights lowered their shields, more than a few slumping to the ground. The marshal took a deep breath. Flicking a glance toward Lothar, he stepped forward to meet the others.

  Hoof beats approached from the south. A tattered maroon banner topped the rise, followed by two hundred mounted knights. The lead knight raised a bloody morning star in salute. His shield battered and his horse lathered, Sir Rannock pulled his mount to a halt. “Found the bastards just where you said they’d be. We took them from behind and rode them into the ground.” He flashed a deadly smile. “There won’t be any ambushes today.”

  The marshal nodded. “Losses?”

  “Twelve dead.”

  The marshal added them to the grim tally he kept in his head, a heavy burden. “We’re moving camp to Twin Boulders. We’ll meet you there.”

  Crows cawed from the trees, dark wings launching towards the battlefield.

  The marshal glared at the telltale birds. “To linger here is to invite the enemy.”

  Sir Rannock saluted. “We’ll meet you at the boulders.” He turned his mount and the others followed him west.

  Squires trudged up the far hill bringing the horses.

  “Mount up! We ride for Twin Boulders.” The marshal swung into the saddle, suppressing a groan. Everything ached, his sword arm, his back, his bruised ribs, but he’d lived to fight another day, while so many others remained sprawled upon the battlefield, food for crows. Taking a last look, his gaze swept the meadow. Nothing moved save the hungry birds. Too many dead, the truth plagued him. In the back of his mind, the dark sword whispered its temptation, *Wield me!* This time, the marshal chose to answer. “Yes.” Asking for a trot, he turned his horse to the west.