He turned to look upon the dead, but this time he really saw them. The devil was in the details, chainmail sliced like leather, heads severed from bodies, shields shattered, helms smashed, ordinary swords sheared in half. More than a slaughter, it was an unbelievable victory. One against sixty, it was the stuff of legends. The black sword was a fearsome weapon, a blade forged from legend, one that could do far more than just win battles…one that could turn the very tide of war. The realization hit him like a hammer blow. If the Octagon Knights came upon him now, standing here amongst the slain, they’d hail him as a hero. No one need ever know about the others he’d killed, the ones who wore maroon cloaks. Memories of the slaughtered knights lit a spark of guilt in his mind, but he doused it with cold logic. This was his chance to change everything. By taking up the black blade, he could lead the maroon to victory. He turned toward the woods, hunting for the sword. As if it called to him, he found it gleaming in fresh snow, a black gash against the white. Such a beautiful weapon, black dragons coiled around the hilt, a weapon meant for a hero…meant for a king.
He took up the blade, a perfect fit for his gauntleted hands. Strength flowed through him, strength and determination and a roaring ambition. Lead the Octagon to victory, the thought pierced his mind. Startled, he chewed on the thought. It felt right; it felt like destiny, a calling to become the true heir of the king. He’d wield the dark blade to victory and then claim the octagon throne for his own. King Baldwin, the thought whispered through him till it became a roar. He knew what he had to do. Behind him, the crows took wing, filling the dawn with their raucous caws. Like heralds they flew before him, dark wings riding a tide of death.
15
Katherine
Kath hugged Duncan’s boots close, slowing climbing the cobbled street. The magpie’s tale filled her mind, a tale of courage, betrayal and death. A hero to the people of the Pit, Duncan had lived a hero’s life, yet the gods let him die, pierced by a hundred dark-cursed knives. Kath railed against the cruelty of fate, against heaven’s cold indifference. At least she’d avenged him, dealing justice with a swipe of her sword. Justice…yet it felt so hollow.
A girl shouted, “Look out!”
Someone shoved her from behind.
Kath staggered forward, her sword leaping from the scabbard.
A rock shattered the cobbles where she’d stood, a rock thrice the size of her head. A captured soldier raced towards her, his empty hands outstretched, madness glazing his eyes. “Witch!”
Kath raised her sword, but before she could strike, a blade erupted from the soldier’s stomach. Skewered from behind, the attacker died spitted on Bear’s blade. Putting his boot on the dead man’s back, Bear shoved the corpse from his sword. He turned to glare at the captured soldiers, all of them bearing rocks intended for the bloody cavern. “Anyone else?”
The prisoners looked away, hastily passing rocks from one pair of hands to the next.
Their guards snarled, cracking whips, laying bloody stripes across the prisoners. Rocks moved with renewed vigor, passed from hand to hand, toiling up the human chain.
Behind her, Boar hissed, “They should all be killed.”
Kath turned, her voice sharp with rebuke. “Then we’d be no better than Darkness.”
Boar scowled. “They’ll never change. Soldiers of the pentacle are weaned on cruelty.”
“He’s right.” The words came from the magpie. She stood a hand span away from the thrown rock, her face chalk-pale. At Kath’s stare she retreated a half step.
“So you think they won’t change?”
The blonde-haired girl looked from Kath to the line of soldiers and back again. “The ones taken from the Pit or the poorest tiers might…but not those born to serve the Pentacle.” Mara gestured towards Boar. “The painted warrior has the truth of it. Those born to the Pentacle truly are weaned on malice and cruelty.”
Kath considered her words. “Can you tell the difference?”
“Of course,” the magpie brightened, “by the tattoos on their arms.”
Kath knew those who served the Pentacle bore tattoos but she’d never known the meaning behind the marks. “How can you tell?”
The magpie rolled up her left sleeve. Extending her arm, she revealed a rune tattooed in black ink. “We’re all tattooed at birth.” Her face flushed red. “This is the rune for the Pit, the lowest of the low.”
Kath studied the rune. “And those born to be soldiers bear a different rune?”
“Yes.” Mara pulled down her sleeve, covering the mark, as if ashamed of it.
Kath crouched by the dead attacker. Drawing a dagger, she slit his left sleeve. Peeling back the dark wool revealed a single rune tattooed on his forearm, different from the one Mara bore. “And this rune?”
Mara craned over her shoulder. “It’s the rune for the fifth tier, the tier of soldiers.”
“So if a man is born in the Pit but is trained as a soldier?”
“Then he’d bear his birth-rune, the rune of the Pit, as well as the rune for the fifth tier, giving him the privileges of a soldier.”
Kath had seen the disparity between surviving the Pit and thriving in the top tiers. “That’s quite a promotion.”
Mara gave her a solemn nod. “Enough to tempt a man who knows better into doing things he shouldn’t.”
Kath stood, considering the dead soldier. “Can you help my warriors sort the fanatics from those who might change if given a chance?”
“I can help sort the runes, yes, but some might still be fanatics, tainted by the priests.”
“Good enough.” Kath sheathed her dagger. “Walk with me.”
Mara fell into step beside her, Bear and Boar shadowing behind.
Kath cast sideways glances at the girl. Her long blonde hair was clean but tangled, her tunic worn to a drab brown, but carefully sewn and patched. On her feet she wore black leather boots laced to her knees, obviously too big for her, probably taken from a dead soldier. Her face was young and girlish, but beneath the shabby tunic she had a woman’s budding curves. She walked with a slouch, as if trying to hide the truth of her age, a riddle wrapped in rags.
“My boots are stolen.”
“What?”
The girl flushed red. “I saw you looking at my boots.”
“So?”
“I got them from a dead soldier.”
Kath shrugged. “More use to you than the dead.”
“In the Pit, boots are a sign of wealth…and betrayal.”
Talking with this girl was like unraveling an endless riddle. “Why betrayal?”
“Because they’re a sign of favor,” her voice was laced with venom, “a sure sign you serve them.”
Curiosity got the better of Kath. “What did you do in the Pit?”
“I was a serving girl, and later a seller of dung patties…and at night, I served…” her voice choked to silence, her face twisting in hate. “Beauty was a curse in the Pit.”
The Citadel was like a cesspool…filled with endless layers of evil. “And now that you’re free of the Pit, what will you do?”
The girl gave her a sheepish look. “I…don’t know.”
“There must be something you’ve always longed to do?”
Mara stopped, her head tilted back to stare at the afternoon sky. “Born in the Pit, I longed for a glimpse of the true sky.” Wonder touched her face. “I heard it was the color blue. And at night, it’s full of stars!” She looked at Kath and flashed a warm smile. “You gave me blue!”
The honest joy in the girl’s face staggered Kath. She could not imagine a life deprived of the stars and the sky. “So now that you can choose, what will you do?”
Mara stared at her. “I’ve never had a choice. How does one choose?”
Kath slowed to a stop. “Are the people from the Pit all like you? Unaccustomed to choices?”
Mara flushed. “We are born to our station. We live to serve. We work to eat. And we obey or die.”
Such a harsh life, the so
ul-numbing yoke of pure Darkness, Kath shivered, making the hand sign against evil. “You still have to work to eat…but now you have a choice. A choice of what you do and how hard you work.”
Mara stared at her. “Yes, but how does one choose?”
Kath could not imagine a life with no choices. Defeating evil was not just about swords. “Look around you. It takes many crafts, many trades to run a city. People need food, and boots, and candles, and clothing. You could be a healer, or a baker, or a candlestick maker.”
“Or a warrior?”
Kath gave her a slow nod. “Or a warrior, but it takes many long years of training if you don’t want to be a dead warrior.”
“And how do you gain these skills?”
“In the south, we have apprenticeships. Master craftsmen take on apprentices who work for food and lodging while learning the skills of the trade. After an agreed upon number of years, the apprentice becomes their own master. Then their success depends on how well they learned the trade and how hard they work.”
“And this could happen here?”
“Yes, of course. The upper tiers are full of skilled masters, from blacksmiths and weapon makers, to chandlers, cobblers, weavers, herbalists, seamstresses and scribes.”
Mara looked thoughtful, her brow furrowed.
“Come, I’ll take you to Zith. After you show my warriors how to separate the prisoners by their rune markings, perhaps you can help the people of the Pit gain apprenticeships?”
Mara gave her a slow smile. “I would like that.”
The girl was both clever and brave…all she needed was a chance…and a choice. Kath gripped her sword hilt, shuddering at the foul evilness of the Pit. All her life she’d fought for a chance and a choice…and now she’d help bring both to the north. It felt better than justice…or perhaps it was a different kind of justice. Staring up at the blue of the sky, Kath swore she’d find a way to defeat the Mordant.
16
The Knight Marshal
Snow blanketed the forest, so silent, so cold, so deadly. The marshal surveyed the hillside, checking for telltale signs. Winter made for tricky warfare, the thrice-damned snow betraying every movement. Nested ambushes proved their best weapon, a deadly game of cat and mouse.
He led a troop of thirty mounted knights behind a copse of cedars, a screen of dark evergreen obscuring the path below. Weapons bared, they listened for the signal. Horses stamped and armor jangled, every noise sounding like a shout to the marshal’s ears. Throwing a stern glare at the others, he settled his horse and gripped his sword, the borrowed weapon of a dead knight. For the thousandth time, the marshal pondered his impulse to claim the great sword from the ashes of a funeral pyre. Always a saber man, he’d come to appreciate the added heft and extended reach of the great sword, yet he wondered if the blade had last served a hero or a traitor. He scowled at the futility of his musings. Sir Tyrone was long gone, nothing but ashes blown on the wind. Only the gods knew the truth of it.
Sir Abrax gave him a warning glance, and then he heard it, the muffled tramp of an enemy patrol, but there was no sound of hooves and harness. The invaders rarely risked their horses, one of the few advantages left to the maroon. Lowering his visor, the marshal nodded to the others, poised for the signal.
Bowstrings twanged, answered by the first scream. A warning horn blared from below, cut short in mid-note. “Damn!” the marshal swore. Urging his horse to a gallop, he led his men around the cedars. Silent as death, they fell on the invaders, thirty mounted knights against fifty foot soldiers.
His warhorse slammed into the nearest enemy, bowling him backwards. The marshal dropped the reins, guiding his horse with just his knees. Wielding the great sword with two hands, he lay into the enemy, cleaving heads from bodies with a single stroke. The battle lust took him, his breath sounding harsh in his helmet. His one-eyed gaze reduced to a narrow visor-slit, he turned left and right, searching for foes. A spear stabbed towards his face, but he hacked it away. Swords clanged around him, blood spattering the freshly fallen snow. An enemy attacked on his blindside, landing a solid blow to the chest. He swayed in the saddle, gripping with his knees, thanking the gods his armor held. Beating the sword away, he regained his balance and found himself deep within the enemy’s ranks. Hands grabbed at his legs, determined to pull him from the saddle. He swung his sword like a scythe, desperate to gain some space. Trained for battle, his horse reared, hooves lashing at the enemy. Screams died beneath those iron shod hooves yet the enemy pressed close. A soldier clawed at his stallion’s bridle till the marshal slew him with a single stroke. Another grabbed at his boot, but he kicked him away. Striking left and right, he fought to win clear.
“To the marshal!” Sir Abrax led the charge, his great blue sword cleaving a swath through the enemy. The others thundered around him, a spearhead of maroon pushing back the black.
The enemy broke and ran.
Discipline held within the maroon. The knights slowed their mounts, refusing to give chase. Breathing hard, the marshal lifted his visor to better survey his men. Sir Brock was bent over his horse, his armor rent showing a nasty wound in his side. Sir Keifer was blanched pale, his left arm dangling at an unnatural angle. If any of the others were wounded, he could not tell, yet the trampled snow ran red with blood. More than thirty of the enemy sprawled along the trail. Thirty for two, it seemed a fair trade, till he considered the size of the enemy horde.
“Sir Zakery and Sir Tradon, see the wounded back to the main camp.”
The two knights saluted, escorting the wounded up the steep mountain trail.
A handful of archers ghosted out of the forest, maroon octagons sewn on their leather jerkins. Saluting the marshal, they set about pilfering the dead. A deplorable practice but such was the necessity of a winter war. The maroon needed supplies, especially food and arrows. Anything scavenged was a welcome addition to their meager stores.
Benford, the lead archer approached. “We’ll take what we can and then head for the ridge.”
The marshal nodded. “Choose your trail wisely. The last time they brought their cursed hellhounds.”
A flicker of fear kindled in the man’s face but it was quickly smothered. “We’ll follow the streambed before turning north.”
“See that you do. Archers are scarcer than arrows and we’re not like to get more.”
“Yes, m’lord.” Benford saluted, melting back into the snow-dusted trees.
The marshal turned his horse away, picking a path through the dead. “Come, we’ve got more battles to fight.” The others fell in behind, Sir Abrax riding on his blindside.
With the battle over, the pain intruded. The marshal pressed a fist to his breastplate, plagued by the ache beneath. His armor had held but his chest felt bruised, making every breath painful. Other hurts vied for his attention. His right arm began to stiffen and his left knee ached from the infernal cold. He was getting too old for the battlefront, but the maroon needed every sword and the men looked to him to set an example. Swallowing his pain, he kept his horse to a walk, giving the men and their mounts a chance to recover. At least there was no need to rush. The enemy would follow, of that he was certain, but they’d come afoot, howling for vengeance. The key was to pick the next spot, an ambush nested within an ambush, Lothar’s solution to thwarting the traitorous snow.
More flakes began to fall, veiling the mountains. The trail snaked up and around a rocky outcrop and then plunged back down into a narrow saddle-shaped valley, the perfect spot for the second ambush. The marshal let his horse pick a path across the snow-crusted valley. A sixth sense warned he was being watched, but the marshal quelled his unease, knowing the rest of his archers hid in the wooded hillside, awaiting the second ambush. He scanned the hillside but saw no telltale signs, just winter-green blanketed in white. Snow continued to fall, bringing a hushed peace to the valley but it was an illusion, an added trap for the enemy.
The valley narrowed to a funnel, the woods dense on either side. Smoke from
campfires drifted toward him, a dead giveaway. Emerging from the pinch point, he found Lothar and three hundred knights encamped in a meadow, all of them armed and armored, awaiting the next battle. Sentries saluted as he passed, snow crusting their maroon cloaks. The marshal swung down from the saddle and turned to find Lothar striding towards him, relief scrawled across his face. “I gather the ambush went well?” The leather-faced captain offered him a steaming mug.
The marshal tugged off his gauntlets and wrapped his bare hands around the mug, savoring the warmth. “Brock and Keifer were both wounded. We traded two knights for thirty of their foot. The others broke and ran.”
“Will they come?”
“They’ll come.” He sipped the soup and nearly spat it out. “Bloody hell, it tastes like old saddle!”
Lothar chuckled, “We had to throw something in the pot! Besides, it’s hot.”
The marshal glared but then took another sip, knowing he’d get nothing else. “You’ll need to put those fires out; I smelled the wood smoke halfway up the valley.”
“The men have orders to douse them on your arrival.”
He looked around and saw that it was true. Despite the cold, discipline held. Lothar steered him towards one of the snow-doused fires. The other knights saluted and then withdrew, giving their commanders a respectful distance. The marshal eased down on the felled log nearest the glowing embers, grateful for the residual warmth.
“You’re limping again.”
The Knight Marshal (The Silk & Steel Saga) Page 10
