The marshal sighed, the words spilling out of him. “I took it from the signal fire atop Cragnoth Keep. Everything else was burnt and blackened but not the sword. I don’t even know why I took it. Since then I’ve often wondered if Sir Tyrone died a hero or a traitor. Now I know.”
Lothar’s voice turned solemn. “A sword steeped in honor.”
The words blazed with truth. “Just so.”
Lothar stared at him. “What happened?”
“Something unexpected. Something I’ve never felt before.” The marshal stared at his friend, struggling to find the words. “I was beaten. You saw how Baldwin fought. Lightning-quick, he struck like a demon and I was already spent. Just parrying the black sword was taking a grim toll…and then, when I thought all was lost, strength flowed into me, strength and surety…from Sir Tyrone’s sword.”
Lothar’s gaze went wide.
“Do you believe me?”
“Something damn-sure happened; else you’d have died under the black sword.” Lothar’s voice dropped to a whisper. “So you think Sir Tyrone’s sword is bespelled?”
The marshal shook his head. “I don’t know what to think…but it did not feel like that.”
“Perhaps his sword is meant to foil the black?”
“No, it felt like something else.”
“Tell me.”
“It felt like the strength of brotherhood, like succor when it was most needed.”
Lothar chewed his mustache. “Magic?”
The marshal shrugged.
“Magic cost us Raven Pass.”
“Just so.”
“Perhaps only magic will turn the tide?”
“No, I’ll not believe it.”
Lothar scowled. “We’re fighting a war we can’t win and suddenly we have two magical swords. The gods must be laughing.”
“Or perhaps they’ve finally lent a hand.”
Lothar barked a rude laugh. “If they really want to help, they should just smite the enemy.”
“I don’t think it works like that.”
“More’s the pity.” Lothar gave him a shrewd look. “The black sword can win this war.”
“No.”
“One life to save the maroon. I’d count my life well spent.”
“That way is damned.”
“Think on it.” Lothar gathered up the plates and slipped beyond the canvas.
Mired in thought, the marshal tugged on his boots. Swirling his maroon cloak across his shoulders, he shrugged on the harness with Sir Tyrone’s great sword. Stepping beyond the canvas curtain, he reaffirmed the guards’ strict orders and then left the pavilion. Night shrouded the camp, confirming that he’d slept the day away, yet his muscles still ached. Sighing, the marshal made the rounds, knowing the men needed to see him whole and in command. He stopped often, speaking of battle plans and strategies, doing his best to stoke morale. The men feasted on roast horsemeat and baked onions, a hearty meal but the stringy meat was just another sure sign of defeat, their own dead mounts butchered after the battle. Honor and fortitude were not enough; he needed something to turn the tide of war. His mind turned to the dark sword, though he knew it reeked of evil. A dangerous thought pierced him, wondering if it took evil to defeat evil. Shivering, he pulled his maroon cloak close. Visions of dead ogres haunted his mind. The weight of Sir Tyrone’s sword was a comfort across his shoulders, but it could not slay the black sword’s temptation. In the back of his mind he could still hear the sword’s dark whispers, a siren’s song promising sweet victory…if only he dared wield it.
51
Katherine
The Citadel broiled like a kicked anthill, everyone working to hasten the army’s departure. Casks of fresh water were filled, rounds of bread were baked and provisions prepared, while bands of warriors said their farewells and boarded the ships. In the midst of the chaos, Kath slipped her guards and stole away. Taking one of the few remaining horses, she rode alone, cantering along the windswept cliffs. Seagulls wheeled overhead, their mournful cries offset by the muffled boom of waves battering the cliffs below. A killing cold snatched at her breath, frosting it to plumes of white. The north was such a desolate and brutal place, it pained her to leave him here.
At the edge of the sea cliff, beyond reach of the Citadel’s shadow, the burial mound stood twice the height of a tall man. Weapons and battle banners piled high, a tribute for a fallen hero, yet it did little to salve her heart. Tethering her horse, Kath knelt by the grave. There should have been trees overhead, a great grove of grandfather trees to guard his bones and hum his name for all eternity. Duncan would have wanted that, but none grew north of the Dragon Spines, another reason to curse the north. Kath wondered if the Treespeaker knew. Tugging off her gauntlet, she thrust her hand beneath the snow crust, delving into the fresh-turned soil, as if she could reach him. “Duncan, my love, my heart, my husband…” a single tear coursed down her cheek. For the longest time, she knelt by the grave, remembering his smile, his voice, his touch. She yearned for the past; she yearned for a future by his side, anything but this. Memories of her wedding night filled her mind, tenderness and longing overflowing her heart. She swayed, remembering every touch, every kiss. Shadows lengthened and the seagulls screamed a mournful cry, yet she noticed neither.
A sheepskin dropped across her shoulders. Startled, Kath reached for her sword, but her hand was too cold to obey.
“Svala, you will freeze to death.” Bear stood behind her, his tattooed face full of concern.
Kath staggered to her feet, suddenly crippled by the biting cold. “I did not hear you.” Shivering, she pulled the sheepskin close.
“Your senses yearned for the Otherrealm. But it is not your time to cross over.” He tucked the wool blanket around her, rubbing warmth into her arms and hands. “You are needed. You have much to do.”
Pins and needles lanced her, a rude return to life. “Yes, the gods must have their due.”
“Svala,” his voice held a hint of reproach, “this man you loved would not want this. He died a hero, be joyful in his memory.”
“But I ache for him.”
“That is fitting, but while your heart will always miss him, you must still drink from the joy of life.” Bear gestured to the burial mound. “You must drink for him as well as yourself, else you do him a great disservice.”
His words struck like the truth, filling a hollow in her heart. “When did you get so wise?”
Bear flushed beet-red, his voice turning to a low mumble. “Something the Ancestor told me when my wife died.”
She hadn’t even known he’d had a wife. Shame and sorrow gripped her in equal measure. Kath felt her face flame red. “I’m sorry.”
He shrugged. “It was long ago.”
“Did you come to bid farewell to Boar?” A smaller, fresher mound sat beside Duncan’s, another bitter loss in the war against the Mordant.
“Svala, I came for you.” Bear nodded towards the smaller mound. “Boar is in the Otherrealm, feasting in the hall of heroes.” He untethered the horse. “Come, we should return.” He gave her a leg up, and then he took the reins, and began leading her back to the Citadel.
“Wait.” Kath turned in the saddle. Closing her eyes, she thought of Duncan, whole and unharmed, muscles clad in black leathers, a warm smile on his ruggedly handsome face. Her voice dropped to a soft whisper, pitched to carry to the Otherrealm. “I’ll look for you in the Light.” She held her breath, listening hard, but the only answer was the booming waves and the seagulls’ cries… the sounds of life. Perhaps Bear had the truth of it. Perhaps she needed to live for the both of them. Nodding farewell, Kath turned in the saddle and rode back to life and to duty.
52
Katherine
Voices drifted up from below, feeble as gnats compared to the waves’ incessant pounding. Kath leaned on the cliff-top rampart, watching the last of the ships come and go. A captain bellowed orders as men scurried across the sea-drenched dock. Tethered by ropes, the great ship bucked l
ike a wooden beast angry to be loosed. One by one, the merchant ships took turns at the stone dock, loading men and provisions before setting sail for the south. Most were already loaded and gone, their sails billowing in a diagonal line across the storm-tossed bay. She watched as the lead ship entered a haze of iron-gray sleet at the bay’s mouth. For a fleeting heartbeat, the ship stood bold against the storm, but then it disappeared, as if swallowed…or fallen from the edge of the world. Kath studied the sea with fresh eyes. Storm and wave, the ocean held a mighty ferocity unlike anything she’d ever experienced. For the thousandth time, she wondered if the sea was the only way south.
“Svala, are you sure about this?” Bear stood behind her, his voice laden with doubt. “Men are not meant to trod the sea.”
“The gods heard our need and sent ships north so we could defeat the Mordant. The sooner we reach the south, the better.”
“As you say, Svala.”
Chainmail tugged at her shoulders, but the added weight felt like a comfort. Kath favored fighting leathers like her lord father, but the treacherous nature of the Citadel had taught her the value of chainmail. With her axes strapped to her back and her sword belted to her side, the added weight felt right. A sixth sense warned her that the dark fortress would not let her leave without a fight. Glaring up at the oppressive battlements, she made the hand sign against evil.
“What is it, Svala?”
“Nothing, we need to be gone.” A sack held her few possessions, a small octagonal shield, the War Helm wrapped in a sheepskin cloak, spare clothes…and Duncan’s boots. Duncan, his name echoed in her soul. She gripped his silver warrior ring worn on a chain around her neck.
A shuffle of many footsteps came from behind. Zith strode towards her, his midnight blue robes billowing in the wind, his empty left sleeve pinned at the elbow. Eight of her maroon band followed the monk, struggling to carry four massive chests.
Kath gestured to the chests. “Plunder from the citadel?”
Zith gave her a rare smile. “Secrets and power plucked from the Mordant’s treasury crypt.” His face clouded. “I hope I chose wisely. Without the Quickner, it’s impossible to winnow the magical from the mundane.”
Kath paled, her hand reaching for her gargoyle. So much had been lost in that bloody cavern; she prayed it wasn’t a fatal mistake.
Zith’s voice dropped to a conspirator’s whisper. “If we can’t wield them, at least we can deny them to the Mordant.”
“Just so.” She watched them pass, struggling to carry the heavy chests down the steep cliff-carved stairs.
Neven came next with four wolf-faced warriors. They bore Danya on a litter, strapped and cocooned in sheepskins. The mountain wolf, Bryx, trotted close by, never far from Danya. Kath stopped them, her gaze fixed on Neven. “Are you sure?”
“We promised, Svala.”
Swathed in sheepskins, Danya looked pale yet serene, despite being lost in a magic-induced trance. Kath did not want to risk her friend, but she could not afford to leave her behind. “Look after her. And tell me the moment she wakes.”
“As you say, Svala.”
Blaine strode towards her, shimmering in his silver surcoat, the hilt of his great blue sword rearing over his shoulder, looking like a hero from the bards’ songs. A dark-haired lad walked in Blaine’s shadow, wearing a pilfered helmet too big for his head. A short sword belted to his side, the lad struggled to carry a large sack.
Kath gestured to the boy. “Who’s this?”
“My squire, Dermit.”
She raised an eyebrow, the lad’s naked face proving his origins. “A squire from the Dark Citadel?”
“Just so.”
She’d taken two squires herself, two badger-faced lads, both orphaned by the fight to capture the Citadel. “Castlegard will forever change if we ever make it home.”
“We’ve a long way to travel ere we worry about that.”
“Just so.” She noticed Blaine wore chainmail under his surcoat. “So you feel it too?”
Blaine gave her a grim nod. “The dark-cursed fortress makes my shoulder blades itch.” He gave her a level stare. “I’ve seen things here I’d sooner forget, yet the war is far from over.”
Kath knew what he meant. She carried nightmares of her own, too many nightmares. “All the more reason we dare not lose.”
“Just so.” He stayed by her side, staring down at the storm-tossed sea.
The rest of her maroon band straggled from the Citadel. Clad in captured armor burnished bright, their belts and baldrics studded with weapons, they carried sacks bulging with the spoils of war. Kath smiled, certain their sacks held weapons, armor and wool, instead of gold, silver and silk. She liked them all the more for it. “Are you ready to chase the Mordant south?”
“Yes, Svala.” Sidhorn gave her a hearty grin. “But you’re not to leave just yet.”
Her maroon band surrounded her, smiles on their tattooed faces. They were plotting something. Kath gave Sidhorn a narrow gaze. “Why?”
And then she saw the others streaming from the Citadel’s north gate, a thousand warriors or more, led by Royce and Thera. The lion-faced war-leader hailed her. “We’ve come to see you off, Svala.”
Royce was solemn but Thera flashed a warm smile. “You wear our War Helm, but we’ve heard from Sir Blaine that kings in the south fight under banners…yet you have no banner…till now.” Thera gestured and a lanky lion-faced lad stepped forward bearing an iron standard. Royce cut the bindings with his sword and a banner unfurled. Twelve feet of maroon silk shimmered in the wind.
Kath stared in surprise. Dyed a deep maroon, the banner was a perfect match for her cloak, yet it differed from any of the Octagon’s standard. Stitched in bright gold, the banner bore an emblem unique to the north. The detailed embroidery was amazing. Proud and bold and shimmering in gold thread, the War Helm blazed across the banner, a perfect image of the ancient helmet embroidered on the Octagon’s maroon.
Thera smiled. “You came from Castlegard and your color is maroon, but you have claimed our War Helm, and we have claimed you. It is fitting that you go south with our war sigil on your standard. May the gods smile on your journey as they smile on your sword.”
The lad hefted the standard, waving it in the wind. Silk snapped overhead, a long shimmer of maroon with two spiked tails of gold. “Svala!” The shout roared from a thousand voices.
Kath stood humbled by their acclaim. “I’m honored.”
And then they knelt, more than a thousand bowing toward her.
“No!” Kath shook her head, her voice raised. “You dared to fight the Darkness and you won! Stand, for you’ve earned the right as warriors of the Light.”
A thousand warriors roared to their feet, their weapons raised in triumph. Someone shouted, “Victory for the Svala!” A multitude of voices echoed the cry, “Victory for the Svala!”
Kath bowed toward them, both humbled and proud.
Royce raised his hand, stilling the throng. Turning to Kath, he said, “You wear the War Helm well. May victory ever follow your sword.”
Kath clasped arms with the lion-faced leader. “Keep the north safe.”
“We will.”
She turned to the raven-faced healer. “Thank you for your wisdom.”
Thera nodded. “May the blessings of the Ancestor protect you.”
“And you.” Kath reached for the standard, but Sidhorn stepped forward.
“Allow me, Svala?” The big warrior stood hunched, a sheepish look on his chiseled face.
“It’s yours to carry, Sidhorn.”
He took the standard, raising it high, his face beaming with pride.
Bear nudged her from behind. “We best be going, Svala.”
“Just so.” Kath took a last look at her friends and then turned her back on the Dark Citadel. She would miss Thera and Royce…but her destiny lay in the south. Halfway down the cliff-carved steps, she blamed the cold wind for her watering eyes. Her cloak billowed by the frigid wind, her maroon ba
nner rippling overhead, Kath made her way down the ice-rimed steps. Gray waves battered the cliff’s base, shivering the steps with a relentless pounding. A single ship bucked against the dock, the first to arrive and the last to leave, a red-haired sea nymph with a saucy smile carved on the prow.
“Hurry,” a pair of swarthy seamen urged them towards a boarding plank, “the captain wants to be away.”
The ship seemed alive, bobbing against the dock.
The plank seemed awfully narrow, bucking up and down, a short drop to the frigid sea.
“Best to do it quick.”
Gripping her sack, Kath leaped on the plank and skipped upwards. Near the top, the plank and the ship suddenly dropped, leaving Kath treading air. She toppled forward, nearly falling into the sea. A strong hand grabbed her arm. A burly seaman pulled her over the railing. “Welcome aboard.”
The deck rolled beneath her feet. “Is it always like this?”
“Depends on the sea.”
Another seaman took her sack. “I’ll stow this for you. The captain invites you to the aft deck.”
“Aft?”
The seaman cracked a gap-toothed smile, a gold earring dangling from his left ear. “Rear to you landlubbers.”
“Thanks.” Kath moved away from the plank. Staggered by the ship’s bucking motion, she felt awkward as a rum-soaked drunk. Clinging to the railing, she tried to get her bearings. The Sea Sprite had three masts tall as fir trees. The sails were furrowed, ropes running like spider webs from the lofty crossbeams to the spindled rails. Pennants snapped overhead, the red and blue checks of Navarre. All around her, the ship bustled with sailors securing ropes and stowing casks and crates. Feeling lost, and more than a little bewildered, Kath climbed the stairs to the rear deck, relieved to find Juliana and her first mate, Marcus, locked in conversation.
Juliana cast a distracted glance her way. “Welcome aboard.” She gave Kath an appraising stare. “You’ll get your sea legs soon enough, but stow the chainmail. Armor is a death knell at sea.”
Kath knew she had much to learn about sea travel, yet she was reluctant to relinquish her armor. “I’ll wear it till the Citadel is out of sight.”
The Knight Marshal (The Silk & Steel Saga) Page 30
