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

  The hidden door whispered open. She sped past the lich king and down the spiral stairs, torchlight playing across dark stone. The treasury crypt remained just as she’d found it, gold coins spewed across the floor, cedar chests stacked along the far wall, a trove of incalculable wealth, but Kath cared for naught save the winged throne. Silver sculpted into wings, the elegant throne drew her like a lodestone. Whispering a prayer to Valin, Kath dared to sit in the regal seat. Her maroon cloak wrapped close, she held her breath, hoping, praying…but the throne remained dormant. Gripping the armrests, she willed the throne to life…but the shadows held sway. The darkness mocked her. Kath slumped against the throne, her hope dwindling to a whisper. “Come back to me!” but her plea went unanswered.

  For five nights she returned to the crypt, sitting in the silver throne till her torch sputtered to embers, all to no avail. On the sixth night, she brought the monk.

  “What is it you want me to see?”

  “Best if I just show you.”

  “Must we do this in the dead of night?”

  Kath shrugged, taking a torch from the wall bracket. “The less eyes the better.”

  He gave her an odd look, but said nothing more, following her through the marble labyrinth. Zith gasped when he saw the demon-carved hallway, his voice changing from annoyance to a wary interest. “What is this place?”

  “The Mordant’s secret.” She pressed the stone riddle and the hidden door whispered open. “This way. Mind the stairs are steep.” She went first, holding the torch behind her so the monk could see. He lurched down the steep stairs, still awkward from his missing hand, lost in their first battle with the gorehounds. Reaching the bottom, Kath stepped aside, torchlight glittering on gold.

  Zith gasped. “By the gods!” He stepped amongst the coins, turning in all directions, his face full of wonder. “How did you find this?”

  “Duncan told me.” She watched the monk’s face. “Bryce told him.”

  His gaze snapped to hers. “My son?”

  She gave him a solemn nod. “I told you, Bryce still lives. Somehow in that hellish cavern, he spoke to Duncan, whispering the Mordant’s secrets.”

  “Then he still serves the Light.” Pride leavened with fierce resolve flooded the monk’s face. “We best make use of it.”

  “Tell me about the throne.” Kath crossed the crypt to the silver wings. Her fingertips stroked the sculpted metal, so cool to the touch, but there was no answering light. Hearing the monk gasp, she turned to see the wonder in his stare.

  “The Throne of the Star Knights!”

  “So you know it?”

  “Only by myth and legend. Lost a thousand years ago, during the War of Wizards,” Zith shook his head. “We thought it destroyed, melted down for silver.”

  “Do you know what it does?”

  “Does?”

  “What magic it holds?”

  “There are none who know. Its secrets are lost to the ages.” Zith’s gaze narrowed. “Have you woken the throne?”

  Kath shrugged. “I’m drawn to it.”

  “Have you dared to sit in it?”

  She gave the smallest of nods.

  “Show me.”

  Hoping to see Duncan’s face again, she wedged the torch between two chests and then sat in the throne…but nothing happened. Kath smothered her dismay.

  Zith shrugged. “A relic from another time, a forgotten trophy from a battle long lost.” He turned away, his gaze ensnared by the wonders crowding the chamber.

  Kath swallowed her disappointment, watching as the monk circled the crypt, sending coins scattering across the floor like a rich man’s chime. He paused to sniff the air. “I smell oil. Bring your torch.”

  Kath crossed the chamber, handing the torch to the monk. With his one remaining hand, Zith held the torch to the wall, dipping it into a runnel. Light flared along the runnel, illuminating the four walls and spilling into basins. Like magic, the crypt glowed bright. Light multiplied the treasure. Gold glittered from every corner, coins and scepters and bejeweled crowns, the wealth of countless kingdoms spilled careless across the floor. The crypt’s corners held martial splendors, golden helms and scabbarded swords. Imprisoned in gossamer cloaks spun by spiders, they awaited a hero’s hand. Lances leaned against the wall. Rune-forged weapons wrapped in moldering battle banners whispered of ancient glory. Kath’s interest quickened. Zith plucked an uncut ruby the size of his fist from the floor. “Wealth undreamt of,” he let the ruby fall, “a treasure of the ages, but the Mordant does not seek gold…he craves power!”

  Kath saw the chamber with fresh eyes. The glowing walls made new details clear. An empty armor stand snagged her attention. Empty, a sense of foreboding gripped her, she wondered what other treasures were missing, lost to time…or taken in service to the Mordant. Islands of bare stone sat amongst the strewn coins, showing where cedar chests had once stood, an ominous sign.

  “Look here.” Zith called her to the far side. Dust on a tabletop showed the outline of a two-handed great sword.

  Kath’s eyes flared wide.

  “Did you take it?”

  “No, I took nothing!”

  “Then the Mordant must have it. I’ll wager he took the most powerful items with him.” Zith turned, studying the chamber. “But he intended to return. Look how much he left behind.” He opened a cedar chest, revealing a trove of scrolls. “Every chest, every item must be examined. Who knows what magic lies hidden amongst the gold.”

  “Magic?” Her hand crept to her mage-stone gargoyle, clasping it close.

  “Magic is power.” Zith gestured to the four walls, his voice brimming with excitement. “Look at this chamber, a priceless hoard of knowledge, wealth, and ancient magic! Just think what we might discover!” His gaze caressed the cedar chests crowding the crypt. “Who knows what lies within? Perhaps the perfect weapon to defeat the Mordant.” He circled the crypt, his gaze bouncing across the glittering trove. “We’ll have to test every item, the crowns, the jewelry, the armor, anything could be a focus.” He snatched a jeweled dagger from a pile of coins. “Here, try this.”

  “Try it?”

  “See if you can sense any magic.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Just try.” He pressed the dagger on her, flashing a reassuring smile. “With the Quickner you should be able to sense other magic, perhaps even waken other focuses and wield them. The gods granted you a powerful gift when your hand found the Quickner.”

  Kath took a step backwards, the taste of ashes rising to her mouth. “No.”

  He proffered the dagger, his voice insistent. “Just try.”

  Kath shook her head. “I can’t.”

  His gaze narrowed. “What do you mean, you can’t?”

  She felt nauseous but the truth needed to be told. “I lost it.”

  “You lost it?”

  “It was stolen.”

  “Stolen?” His face paled. “By whom?”

  “By the demons in the bloody cavern.”

  Zith’s face turned pale as ice, the jeweled dagger falling from his fingers. He stared at her as if an executioner’s axe hung above his head. “Tell me.”

  Kath began to pace, the words flooding out of her. “I’m certain I had the Quickner when I descended the long stairs to the bloody cavern. I remember holding it in my hand.” She fisted her hand as if it still held the amber pyramid. “I killed the guards and then the rune-covered door shuddered opened of its own accord…almost as if it wanted me to enter.” She flashed him a wary look, but he did not argue. “I ran inside and found Duncan.” Kath shuddered against a tide of bitter memories. “I tried to free him…but the shadows came alive. Shaped like demons, they reached for me. And I swear they said, Give us the Quickner!”

  Zith sank to the ground as if he had no bones. “They knew…or they sensed it.”

  Kath nodded. “And then the Mordant spoke and the shadow demons attacked. It was only later…much later, that I realized it was gone.”

  S
ilence blanketed the crypt like a tomb, but there was more she needed to say. “I went back.”

  Zith raised his stare, skewering her. “And?”

  “I took Bear and Boar and Blaine and we went back down there.” Kath shuddered at the memory of the demon’s strength. “A shadow demon has it.” She dared a look at his face, scorched by the desolation in his gaze. “The demons are stronger. Much stronger. Our swords could not harm them.”

  “So you ordered the cavern sealed with rock.” His voice sounded as if it came from a grave.

  “Yes.” Kath sank to the floor, idly running her fingers through gold coins. “I’ve failed you. I’ve failed you all.”

  For the longest time, he said nothing, but then he stirred. “No.” His grim tone belied his word.

  Kath looked away, daring to whisper her secret fear. “If the demons have the Quickner, will it serve the Mordant?”

  Zith gasped. “I hope not. I pray not.”

  “Prayers don’t seem to matter any more.”

  The monk rallied. “The loss of the Quickner is a grievous blow, but you’ve gained a great victory by taking the Mordant’s citadel.”

  Bitterness rode her voice. “You don’t understand. We’ve taken the Mordant’s city, but the viper’s lair is empty, the monster fled south. And now we’re trapped here, trapped by winter. Yes, I have an army, an army that’s tasted victory, but none of them can ride, and even if they did, there’s only enough mounts for a hundred or so. Winter is cruel in the north. I dare not lead them into the frozen steppes, or sure as hell, winter will kill them all.” She glared at him. “The Painted People deserve better. I’ll not use them so.”

  His gaze softened. “True enough. But there must be a way.”

  She felt the weight of duty crushing her shoulders. “Then the gods will have to provide, for I do not see it.”

  They settled into a grim silence.

  “I made a mistake coming here.” Her voice sounded small in the chamber. “Instead of victory, it feels like a trap. It feels like a tomb.”

  “You must not give up hope.”

  “Hope?” She shook her head in disbelief. “I do not see it, for we’ve lost so much! Duncan is gone, Danya is locked in a magical trance, you lost your hand…and now the Quickner is stolen…such a steep price. It does not seem like we won anything.”

  “There is always a price, yet this victory achieved much. An entire city is freed from the grip of Darkness. You saw the horrors of the Pit. You cannot regret your victory. And you’ve given the Painted People a better future, released from the Mordant’s shadow.” He gestured to the crypt. “And you’ve gained all this. The Mordant has been dealt a grievous blow, though I doubt he’ll learn from it.”

  His words intrigued her, slipping past her misery. Kath sat cross-legged, her maroon cloak gathered close. “Learn from it, what do you mean?”

  “After a thousand years of victory, I doubt he’ll learn from his mistake.”

  Kath stared at him, weighing his words.

  “Just look at this chamber,” Zith picked up a fist of coins, letting them fall in a shower of gold. “The Mordant never gives up power. He never intended to lose this hoard or his citadel. The Mordant never anticipated your victory, he never anticipated you.” The monk grinned. “Don’t you see? You’ve proven he’s not infallible, that he can be defeated...that he does not see you.”

  Kath thought back to the chamber of weeping rock, how Duncan told her to hide, how the Mordant spoke to Blaine. A shiver passed through her. “You’re right. He does not see me.”

  Zith nodded. “He overlooks the blade bearer.”

  Her hand went to her belt, to the hilt of the crystal dagger.

  “The gods grant a strange power to those who are overlooked, the power to do the unexpected.” His eyes blazed. “Do the unexpected. Defeat the Mordant.”

  Kath nodded, her voice solemn. “I promised Duncan.” Her stare roved the crypt. “Somehow I have to find a way south…but in the meantime, we must wrest an advantage from this victory.”

  “The scrolls might hold a clue, a manifest to the plundered trove. Perhaps we’ll learn what magics the Mordant has hoarded…or what he’s taken with him.”

  More magic, a shudder raced down Kath’s spine recalling the Mordant’s power in the bloody cavern. “Down in the cavern, the Mordant spoke through Duncan. Even from a great distance, he wields a terrible power.”

  Zith nodded. “The Mordant is a formidable foe, his power magnified by dark magic. For centuries, he’s hoarded focuses, seeking to rival the power of the ancient wizards. This crypt is proof of it.”

  Kath shivered. “We need to know what we face…and we need an advantage.”

  “Perhaps the Mordant’s hoard will betray him.”

  Kath prayed for it to be so. She offered the monk a hand. “Let’s see what secrets the Mordant left behind.” They spent the long night sorting through treasure, searching for a glimmer of hope.

  6

  The Knight Marshal

  Stars glittered overhead like the souls of fallen heroes, but the knight marshal took no comfort in the heavens. The gods had forsaken the maroon, their only hope residing in cold hard steel. As if in rebuke, the west wind battered his face, crusting snowflakes in his bearded stubble. Chilled to the bone, the marshal pulled his maroon cloak close, urging his horse up the steep trail. The healer and three knights followed close behind, their saddlebags bulging with venison stolen from wolves. The marshal grimaced at the thought, feeling more like a hounded brigand than a leader of knights.

  At least they’d found the right trail. An army of hoof prints dinted the snow, more proof that winter was a second foe. He’d have to figure a way to foil the snow prints, or better yet, turn the tracks to an advantage, another worry to nag at his mind. Little wonder most sane commanders avoided winter wars.

  A pair of maroon-cloaked knights stepped from the trees. Both held spears while the taller one carried the curved horn of a sentry slung on a baldric. Grim-faced and hollow-eyed, they nodded as he rode past but not a word was spoken.

  The marshal nudged his horse up the trail, his stallion blowing plumes of mist into the chill morning air. Softly falling snow muffled every sound yet he heard the jangle of arms and armor before he saw them. The trees fell away revealing a balding mountaintop, the white snow bloodied with the remnants of an army. Men huddled around meager camp fires, while others slept wrapped in their maroon cloaks, their swords close by their sides. More than a few bore wounds, blood seeping through make-shift bandages. The brave sat side-by-side with the battle-shattered; the first honing their weapons while the latter sat empty-handed, staring with vacant eyes. Defeat was such a bitter thing, something he’d never thought to taste. Looking at the bloodied army, he realized defeat was a disease, leeching the heart from the men. Victory was the only cure and it fell to him to find it. Taking a deep breath, the marshal squared his shoulders and rode among his men, nodding to friends and comrades-in-arms, sharing words of encouragement. His appearance caused a stir, a ripple of murmurs spread in hushed tones. He knew what they sought. All too keen he felt the absence of the king.

  The healer dismounted to tend the wounded, but the other three stayed at his back. “Come, we need to find the captains.” Holding his mount to a walk, the marshal picked a path among the maroon, seeking the officers. He found them at the summit, ringed around a campfire, sitting in the shadow of the great mage-stone hand. Stonehand, the massive statue captured his gaze, thrice the height of a tall man. Unweathered by wind or snow, the ancient mage-stone sat boldly at the mountain’s crest, a relic from another age. For half a heartbeat, the great hand seemed to glow. Startled, the marshal reined backwards, but then he realized it was just a trick of the light, the dawn’s first rays rearing over the mountaintops. Chagrined, he glared at the statue, its meaning lost to the ages, nothing more than a rallying spot for a routed army.

  A campfire illumed the statue’s base, snapping and crackling with the pr
omise of warmth. The officers stood at his approach. A squire leaped to hold the marshal’s horse as he swung down from the saddle. Lothar was first to greet him. Gripping him close, the leather-faced captain whispered a harsh question. “Is it done?”

  “Yes.” The single word was laden with sorrow. Lothar looked away, smitten with grief, but the others still held a wild hope in their questioning gazes. One by one, the marshal greeted the knight-captains. Sir Dalt of Ice Tower, Sir Gravis of Sword Keep, Sir Varlin of Dymtower and Sir Krismir of Shieldhold, but two of them were missing. The marshal turned to Lothar. “Sir Boris?”

  “Dead from an arrow at the Shieldbreaker. Saw him topple off the wall myself.”

  “And Sir Kilgar?”

  “Took a nasty sword cut in the retreat from the Whore. I sent him with the wounded back to Castlegard. I expect he’ll lose the arm.” His voice dropped to a husk. “We’ll be needing to make some promotions.”

  “Too many, I fear.” Every man lost was a blow to the maroon, especially the officers. Reminded of the king, his gaze went to the squire holding his horse. Caught listening, the young squire blanched pale and then began to lead the horse away, but the marshal stayed him with a word. “Wait.” Rounding the far side of the stallion, the marshal tugged the king’s sword from his bedroll. Honor’s Edge gleamed sapphire-blue in the morning light, the monk’s crystal set in the pommel.

  The marshal felt the weight of their stares. More than any crown, this sword symbolized the king of the Octagon. With both hands, he held the great sword aloft, a last tribute to his king. A solemn hush smothered the mountaintop, for the masterless sword told its own tale. One by one, the knights stood in homage, a bitter groan swirling through their ranks.

  Sir Gravis was the first to speak, his voice rough with chained emotion. “So it’s true. We all hoped…”

  The marshal shook his head. “The king took a grievous wound, a sword thrust to the lungs.” Their faces turned gray, knowing it was a killing stroke. “We raised a cairn for him on the far side of Raven Pass.” He waved the squire away with the horses but kept his three companions close. Cradling the king’s sword, he took a seat at the fire. “There’s more you should know.” His one-eyed stare swept the officers, holding them to silence. “Our king was felled by treachery.” Anger leaped through his brother knights, their hands closing on their sword hilts. “I got a good look at the Skeleton King before I slew him. Twin scars marred his face, the brand marks of a broken octagon.” Anger rippled around the fire. “It was not the Mordant who slew our king, but one of our own.”