2
The Knight Marshal
A cold wind howled out of the north, a bitter herald of death and destruction, but the knight marshal refused to be cowed. Like an old oak with roots gnarled deep in the soil, he stood unbowed, keeping vigil by a fresh-laid cairn of rocks, the tomb of his king. The world had changed and not for the better. Raven Pass was broken, the Octagon Knights scattered, their king felled by deceit, but honor and courage had to count for something. He tightened his grip on his great sword, watching as the dawn’s first light crested the Dragon Spine Mountains, bringing an end to his vigil…but he did not want to be released. “I never thought to outlive you.” His heartfelt words went unanswered. Sorrow battered his soul like an enemy sword yet duty claimed him. “For Honor and the Octagon.”
Stiff from standing, he bowed to his king one last time and then sheathed his sword and made his way down the hill to the others. He found them clustered around the wagon, three knights, a squire, and the brown-robed healer. Their weary stares speared him with a single question but he had no answer. “The king is dead. I’ll lead the Octagon till another is found.”
His gruff words quelled their question…at least for a time.
Sir Abrax spoke for the others. “What now?”
“I gave orders for the Octagon to scatter and regroup. We’ll meet at Stonehand. Sir Lothar will be named as knight marshal if I fall.”
Sir Abrax flashed a feral grin. “Then we fight?”
Sir Blaze and Sir Rannock fingered their weapons, a deadly edge to their faces. The marshal was not alone in wanting vengeance for the king. He gave them a slow nod. “We lost the first battle but not the war. We’ll bleed the dark horde for the king.” Approval lit their faces, their courage undaunted. The marshal drew strength from their conviction. “We best be gone, we have a war to fight.” He strode to the wagon and took up the king’s blue steel sword, Honor’s Edge, and thrust it into the bedroll affixed to his saddle. At least his lord’s sword was safe. Mordbane lay shattered on the battlefield, the prince’s blue sword broken by the black, but before the fight the king had entrusted his own sword to his squire’s care, a legacy for his heir. “Baldwin, you did well to protect the king’s sword.” The young man burned bright red under the compliment. “But duty calls us in other directions.” His gaze turned to the healer, “Quintus, you’d best unhitch the horses and empty the wagon. From now on we’ll need to be stealthy.” The pudgy healer moved to the traces, the king’s squire leaping to lend a hand. “Baldwin, to me. I’ve a more important task for you.” Surprise flashed across the squire’s freckled face, but he was quick to obey.
“This way.” The marshal led the lad into the woods. In the dim morning light he scoured the ground, using his sword to hack at the brambles.
“Sir, what do we seek?”
“The blade that killed the king.” He heard the squire’s sharp intake of breath. “I think I threw it in this direction.” They split up, searching the thicket.
“It’s here.”
“Don’t touch it.” He scrambled to the squire’s side. The great sword lay among the brambles like a slash of Darkness. Despite the dark color, it was well crafted with dragons coiled around the hilt in an intriguing design. Dark and deadly, the sword was made for a champion’s hand, so tempting to claim it, like a siren’s promise of power. He found himself reaching for it till the monk’s warning blazed in his mind, not meant for the hand of man. Snatching back his hand, he gave the squire a stern look. “The blade’s said to be cursed. Never touch it.” As an afterthought, he added, “Go fetch a blanket from the wagon and a length of rope.”
As Baldwin sped away, the marshal used his sword to lever the dark weapon from the thorns. It fell to the ground at his feet, deadly black against the snow. Crouching, he studied the blade, careful not to touch it. Steel so black it seemed to drink light, but it was the pommel that snared his attention. “By Valin, it cannot be!” The sword held the shape of a legend, an octagon pommel with a pair of coiled dragons gracing the crossguard. Beneath the guard the blade held the final damning detail, the maker’s mark, an octagon surrounding the initials OS. Orrin Surehammer, the first smith to forge a blue steel blade. He staggered backwards, stunned by a legend twisted to a curse.
Baldwin returned clutching a bloodied blanket and a length of rope. “What’s wrong?”
“A legend twisted to an abomination! This sword was forged for Boric.”
Awe flooded the lad’s face, “The first blue steel blade!”
“Just so,”
“But why is it dark?”
“It’s been corrupted, perverted by evil.” A shiver of foreboding raced down the marshal’s back. It was said that blue steel blades held their shape forever, never dulling, never melting, refusing to be reforged, but somehow the Mordant had corrupted the very metal of the sword, turning the sapphire-blue steel to darkest black. He wondered at the power required to corrupt the very nature of steel. “Somehow the Mordant tainted the sword with evil. An octagon-forged blade turned black, sent against us like a curse.”
“But Boric’s blade was lost long ago.”
The lad saw the truth of it. “Lost centuries ago, yet the Mordant saved it for our time. Saved it to slay a king.” The weapon screamed of power and planning and foul intent. A legend-forged blade yet it lay at his feet as if cast aside by a demon, waiting for a knight to take it up. The marshal looked away, refusing to be tempted. “The monks have the truth of it. This blade was not meant to be wielded by men.” He used the blanket to wrap the sword. Even through the thick wool, he could feel the blade’s keening cold, like a malevolent force trying to suck the life from him. Shuddering, he bound the blanket-wrapped blade with rope, fashioning a strap for carrying across the back. Finished, he turned to the squire. “I have a task for you, a final service to your king.”
“Anything.”
Seeing the eagerness in the lad’s face, the marshal hesitated, but he had no knights to spare. “Take the sword to Eye Lake. Get one of the fisher folk to row you out and hurl it into the deep. Perhaps the lake can cleanse the blade of taint, or at least keep it hidden, locked away in the watery depths.”
Baldwin saluted. “As you command.”
For the first time he noticed the hint of red stubble on the lad’s chin, nearly a man grown. King Ursus had talked of raising his squire to a knight. “You served the king well. This is a man’s task that I ask of you.” He settled the rope strap across the young man’s shoulders, the blanket-wrapped sword riding high across his back. “Ride swift and hard and cast the gods-cursed blade deep into the lake. Let no one interfere with your mission. And when you return, you’ll be raised to a knight. The octagon has need of every sword.”
Baldwin’s eyes blazed bright. “It will be done.”
They returned to the others and the marshal saw the squire mounted on the swiftest horse. Saluting with his fist to his chest, Baldwin set spurs to his warhorse and rode for the south, soon swallowed by the trees.
A hushed stillness settled on the forest. The marshal turned to the others. “Mount up. The sooner we get to Stonehand, the sooner we wet our blades against the enemy.” They swung into their saddles; the healer perched bareback on one of the dray horses. Swords held at the ready, they rode through the winter-bare woods following the ridge till they reached a snowy knoll overlooking the valley. The marshal dismounted, Sir Abrax at his side. The two crept forward till they gained a view of the valley. A grim sight awaited them. The enemy army choked Raven Pass like a black pestilence, but instead of a slavering horde, they marched in disciplined ranks.
Beside him, Sir Abrax grunted. “I’d not have believed it.”
The marshal knew what he meant. “More proof the Mordant rules with an iron gauntlet.”
“It will make the horde harder to defeat.”
A hundred thousand boot prints marred the valley below, churning the snow to mud. Finding the view too grim for words, the marshal had no reply.
&nbs
p; Sir Abrax scowled. “Looks like they’ve claimed the wall. Little good the Whore will do them.”
But the marshal saw their strategy. “The Whore will help them hold the pass while their foragers ransack the other walls. They’ll be feasting on our winter stores whilst we go hungry.” His stomach chose that moment to rumble, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten in over a day. “We need to find the others.”
They edged backwards, keeping their heads low. Remounting, they followed the ridge south, always keeping well within the trees, the horses forging a path through the lightly crusted snow. Single file, they rode throughout the day, hunger gnawing at them like a second enemy. By twilight they ran out of ridge, descending a steep trail to the flat lands.
A low growl echoed through the woods. Instead of retreating, the marshal turned his horse toward the sound. They emerged from a stand of white-barked aspen to find a pack of wolves feasting on a fresh-felled stag. A dozen wolves snapped and snarled over the kill. Sir Abrax drew his great sword, “Looks like we’ve found dinner.”
The marshal gave him a stern look. “Careful. Voices carry.”
Sir Abrax nodded, lowering his visor.
Silent as snow, the three knights charged the wolves; their armor gleaming in the fading light, their swords raised high. A great gray wolf whirled to meet the charge. Fangs bared, he stood his ground, menacing a deep-throated growl, but fangs were no match for Castlegard steel. Sir Abrax took his head with a single sword stroke while Sir Rannock rode amongst the others, his morning star carving a deadly whirl. The wolves broke and ran. Sir Abrax pulled his warhorse to a halt. “Knights against wolves, how the mighty have fallen, but at least we’ve gained a meal.” He peered down at the bloody carcass. “Does anyone know how to dress a deer?”
Silence reigned, they were knights not huntsmen.
The healer caught up to them, bouncing on the back of his horse. “I’ll do it.” Quintus slid from the horse, pulling a packet of leather-wrapped surgeon’s knives from one of his many pockets. “Skin and muscle are much the same, though some are tougher than others.” The knights stood guard while the healer carved the stag. Beyond the hill, the wolves howled a mixture of frustration and anger. One shaggy-maned wolf stood sentinel, a gray shadow on the hilltop.
Quintus finished his work, blood up to his elbows. “I’ve salvaged as much as I can, but the meat will need to be well cooked.” He knelt, scrubbing snow on his forearms. “A pity we don’t have salt.”
“There’s many things we don’t have.” The marshal threw the healer a spare blanket. “Wrap the meat in this; we need to be off.” They remounted and the marshal led them deeper into the flatlands. Behind them, the wolves yipped and howled, reclaiming the carcass.
They rode for the better part of an hour. Coming across a clump of boulders, the marshal called a halt. “This is as good a shelter as we’re likely to get. We’ll rest here and dare a small fire. Carve the venison into strips and cook all of it. From now on every fire will be a risk.”
They picketed the horses and scrounged for firewood while the healer cut the meat into strips. In the lee of the boulders they coaxed a small flame to life, setting the venison to cook on sticks. Sir Rannock filled his helm with snow and set it near the coals. Sitting in a circle, they watched the meat like starving wolves. Too hungry to wait, they burned their fingers on half-cooked venison, the juices staining their beards. The marshal was just as impatient as the others, cramming his mouth with venison. The sizzling strips proved tough and stringy but they filled his empty stomach. Reaching for the helm, he quenched his thirst on snowmelt. No one spoke. His hunger finally sated, the marshal watched his men, three champions of the maroon reduced to skulking like brigands, eating meat stolen from wolves…but at least they lived, surviving to fight another day.
Sir Abrax noticed his stare. “So we’ll camp here tonight?”
“We dare not tarry. We need the dark to slip past the enemy. We’ll sleep once we reach Stonehand.”
“A long ride.”
“Then we best get started.”
Dousing the fire with snow, they filled their empty saddlebags with cooked venison and mounted their weary horses. By the light of the moon, the marshal led them east, sneaking across the mouth of the pass, hooves crunching on snow. Twice they paused, hearing the clink of armor, but no challenge came their way. In the small hours of the morning, they reached the forest on the far side, the trees offering the promise of cover against the dawn.
Weary from the long night, the marshal let his horse pick a path up into the snow-dusted foothills. He struggled to stay alert but his mind kept wandering, hammered by fatigue. So much had changed in so short a time. Only two days ago he’d fought atop crenellated battlements, holding the Mordant’s hordes at bay till the gates were sundered, shattered by foul magic. Two days for his world to be upended; the Octagon defeated by trickery and gods-cursed magic. Now his men were kingless, scattered in retreat, riding through the night like brigands. Somehow he had to find a way to restore the maroon to glory. Honor and courage had to count for something. “By Valin, I’ll not let the Octagon fail!” but the oath sounded hollow in the night. He stared at the stars, so cold and distant, wondering if the gods cared.
3
Katherine
Kath startled awake, her hand reaching for her sword. Give it to us...the spectral voice slithered through in her mind, a memory and a threat. “No!” The shout rose unbidden to her lips. Unsheathing her sword, she stared at the shadows. A feral fear clung to her, planting a deep seeded dread. Like so many nights before, she woke plagued by nightmares…but this felt different, this was a memory. Her heart pounding, she clutched her gargoyle, relieved to find it on the leather thong around her neck. Duncan’s warrior ring was there as well, but what of the other? Grabbing her clothes puddled on the floor, she ransacked the pockets, turning them inside out, nothing!
Perhaps it had fallen out.
She clung to the slender hope. In the dim light, she knelt, frantically running her hands across the cold marble floor, praying to find it. Nothing! Worse yet, she could not feel it.
Closing her eyes, she took deep calming breathes, straining to sense the magical bond…but her efforts were for naught, as if the link was severed. The stink of her own fear filled her nostrils. Quelling her panic, Kath tried to remember the last time she’d held it. She remembered sheathing her sword and reaching for the amber pyramid…in the cavern of nightmares! Fear spiked through her. She couldn’t have lost it there! Memories of the demons’ grasping hands shredded her denial. A chilling thought seized her. Zith had warned her countless times that the Quickner could not fall into the hands of Darkness…and now she’d lost it…in the worst possible place. Her dread fought a tug-of-war with a desperate hope. Perhaps she could get it back. Shoving her stockinged feet into her boots, she hastily dressed. Grabbing her throwing axes, she crossed the marble hallway to bang on the nearest door. “Wake up! I need you!” Her fist beat against the door.
Bear was quick to answer. Clad in fighting leathers, weapons studded his belt. “Svala?”
Sometimes she wondered if he slept with his sword. “Wake Boar and get Blaine.”
A moment later, Boar emerged, his great axe in his hand. Nodding towards her, he jogged down the hallway to the Mordant’s opulent chambers. When they’d first explored the palace, Kath had shunned the Mordant’s chambers, repulsed by the thought of sleeping in the enemy’s bed, but Blaine had leaped at the chance. The knight claimed the honor, reveling in the obscene decadence. He’d fought like a hero, so she could not gainsay him the indulgence, but she did not want it for herself.
“Svala?” Bear waited patiently at her side. “What do you need?”
“To return to the bloody cavern.”
Bear raised a bushy eyebrow in shock, or perhaps protest, but he said nothing.
The other two men came jogging down the hallway, a jangle of weapons and chainmail. Blaine looked sleep-fogged, cracking a large yawn. “What
’s so urgent?”
“I can’t find the Quickner.”
He stared at her. “But the monk said…”
Dismay rode her voice. “I know.”
“Where?”
“It has to be in the bloody cavern…or on the steps to below.”
Blaine gave her a chilling look. “You really want to go back down there?”
“No…but I need to find it. I need to get it back.”
He gave her a grim nod. “Lead the way.”
Kath turned and led the three men toward the outer doors of the palace. Braziers lit the hallways. A painted warrior stood guard in the cavernous entranceway, leaning on a spear. At a nod from Kath, the guard put his shoulder to the great gold-clad door and shoved. Cold seeped inside, a deadly chill.
Kath slipped through the narrow opening, stepping from warmth into winter. A bitter wind howled out of the north, cold enough to freeze bone. Hugging her maroon cloak close, she ran across the great rune-carved courtyard, her long blonde hair whipping behind like a battle banner. She dreaded returning to below, but she needed to reclaim the Quickner. A sickle moon hung low in the night sky, grinning among the stars as if mocking her loss. Ahead, the great dark monolith thrust up from the heart of the courtyard like a monstrous tombstone. A cleft in the stone gave entrance to the netherworld. Muttering a quick prayer to Valin, Kath darted through the cleft and then skidded to a sudden halt, teetering on the top step. Darkness gaped below, pitch black and impenetrable.
The torches had gone out…and no one dared relight them.
Retreating a step, Kath bumped into Blaine. “The torches are out.” It seemed like an ill-omen…or a threat. The darkness felt alive, a brooding menace lurking below. “We can’t go down there without light.”
The Knight Marshal (The Silk & Steel Saga) Page 3
