62
Juliana
Black oars cleaved the sea, striking ripples in a listless ocean. Juliana watched the enemy approach, a scar upon the ocean. The red-hulled trireme cruised south with menacing speed, a predator chasing a blood scent. For half a day, her crew watched them draw closer, stalking her ship, relentless and implacable. Waiting seemed like a torture, yet now that the enemy drew near, she wished for more time. So close, Juliana could see the raiders crowding the trireme’s deck. Their fish-scaled armor gleamed bright as a coppery sunset. Gripping tridents and axes, their eager grins flashed in their bearded faces, keen for a fight.
Death rowed towards her ship, death or enslavement, a grim choice for a captain.
Juliana stood upon the rear deck, gauging the distance. A faint breeze had sprung up, gently rippling the sails. The Sea Sprite meandered south, but it was too little too late, as if the gods mocked her crew’s entreaties, but it gave her a chance to maneuver.
“Turn to starboard and hold her steady.”
Marcus bellowed the order. “Turn to starboard and hold her steady.”
Sailors tense with the long wait, leaped to answer the call. The Sea Sprite gently swung to starboard, presenting her broadside to the raider, like a deer offering her throat to a wolf.
Beside her, Marcus fretted. “Are you sure about this?”
Keeping her voice to a whisper, she answered, “I’m sure of nothing.” Louder, she said. “Furl sails.”
“Furl sails!”
The checkered sails were furled, another sign of surrender. The Sea Sprite sat dead in the water, her wings furled, a plump pigeon awaiting capture.
Juliana swallowed hard, tasting bile in her mouth. Keeping her face stone-still, she watched as the trireme approach. Smooth as silk, the enemy ship banked to starboard, the red hull pulling alongside the Sprite. Their port-side oars were shipped, retracting into the hull like a crab pulling its legs into the shell. Grappling hooks sprang from the enemy vessel, piercing the Sprite’s deck. Bound together in a death grip, the two hulls touched with a dull thud.
Enemy raiders leaped aboard her ship. Big swarthy men with braided beards, they wielded tridents and battleaxes, their scaled copper armor gleaming in the afternoon light. Brandishing their weapons, they scowled at her crew. “Kneel and live or fight and die!”
Her crew retreated like sheep before wolves…but they did not kneel.
One of the MerChanters barked a rude laugh. “Kneel or I’ll have southern blood on me trident!”
Juliana rushed to the railing. “We surrender!” The words tasted foul in her mouth, but she had to protect her crew.
“A wench!” The warrior licked his lips, giving her a lecherous stare. “I claim the wench as my spoils!”
Juliana swallowed her revulsion, refusing to be quelled by his lewd stare.
“Stand down, Balthar.” A MerChanter with a weathered face and gray streaking his dark hair sauntered aboard her ship. Gold coins braided his tri-forked beard, a cutlass and three daggers thrust through his belt, all of them gleaming with jewels and polished gold. “Or are you challenging me for the captain’s share?”
If plunder was a mark of rank, then Juliana guessed this was their captain.
The burly warrior scowled. “No challenge from me, my lord, just a request for sloppy seconds!”
The others roared with vulgar laughter, crude and coarse, like jackals at a feast.
Bile resurged into Juliana’s mouth, but she forced it back down.
The MerChanter lord quieted his men with a stern look. “Put the captives on their knees.”
The MerChanters stepped towards her crew, menacing their weapons.
“Kneel!” Juliana barked the command, willing her crew to obey.
Sullen, her men dropped to their knees, laying daggers and long knives on the deck.
The MerChanter lord speared her with his stare. “And who are you, that men obey you?”
Juliana steadied her voice, mustering all of her bravado. “The captain of this ship.”
“The captain!” The lord spat the words while quirking a lewd smile. “A wench for a captain? You land-peoples keep such strange ways. Little wonder you surrendered.” The lord grinned, showing a rich gleam of gold-capped teeth. “I’ve never tupped a captain before.” His voice turned to a hungry growl. “Come here, wench.”
Beside her, Marcus reached for his long knife, but she stilled him with a glare.
Taking a steadying breath, Juliana sauntered down the stairs to the middeck. She kept her face stone-still despite her galloping heartbeat. A gauntlet of stares feasted on her. It felt like a gang rape, yet she refused to flinch. At the base of the stairs, the MerChanters parted before her. Grinning like drooling hounds, they opened a path to their lord. Juliana looked neither left nor right, keeping her gaze fixed on the sea lord.
“Captain, don’t!” Soothby, her second mate, snatched up his long knife and lunged at the lord.
Snake-fast, the lord sidestepped the long knife, plunging a jeweled dagger into Soothby’s throat. Impaled, the sailor stood transfixed, his eyes widening in shock, blood frothing at his throat. His long knife clattered useless to the deck. Soothby stopped twitching. Sliding from the gilded blade, he slumped dead beside his knife, spewing blood upon the Sprite’s deck like a libation.
The lord cleaned his jeweled dagger. “A jealous lover?”
Juliana struggled to appear indifferent.
The lord’s dark gaze roved across her, lingering on her curves. “A comely wench, a fitting spoil for a MerChanter Sea Lord.”
Under his raking gaze, Juliana felt like a whore put to auction.
Stepping toward her, he leaned close, so close she could smell the fish oil slicking his braided beard.
His gaze delved her breasts.
Repulsed, Juliana struggled not to flinch. “We surrender…so you’ll let us live?” A quaver laced her question. Juliana swallowed, uncertain if it was deliberate or fake.
The captain leered at her. “Those who serve, live.” His right hand mauled her breast. “A comely lass like you can best serve with your legs spread.”
She leaped backwards, her hands clenched.
“A feisty one.” He grinned. “I like a little fight in my captives.”
Two MerChanter warriors moved behind her, blocking her retreat.
“Best if you’re disarmed.” The captain plucked her long knife from its scabbard, letting the blade clatter to the deck.
Juliana felt naked without the knife, yet she forced herself to meet his gaze, putting a plea in her voice. “In my cabin?”
“In your cabin!” He roared with cruel delight. “Or perhaps I’ll take you here, spread across your own deck?”
She gave him a brazen look. “I know how to please.”
“Do you now?” A sharp gleam filled his dark eyes.
From the hungry tone of his voice, she could tell the hook was set.
63
The Knight Marshal
The Dark Sword preyed on the marshal’s mind, clawing at his will, tempting him with promises of victory. He knew the sword was cursed, knew it would most likely eat his soul, but he saw no other way to save the maroon.
At dawn’s first light, the marshal slipped from camp like a thief. Seeking solitude, he rode north, gaining some distance from the others. His horse picked a path through a forest of aspen mixed with ash and dusky cedar. Slanting sunlight speared the towering trees, the first hint of green coloring their branches. Birdsong greeted the sun, a half-forgotten melody so different from the bitter clash of steel. The marshal slowed his horse to a walk, letting the unexpected peace soothe his troubled soul.
*Wield me!*
The dark-damned sword intruded, denying him a moment’s respite. Urging his horse to a canter, he rode till he found a mountain meadow large enough to be devoid of shadows. Securing his horse, he shrugged the harness of his great sword from his shoulders. Sir Tyrone’s sword, for a dozen heartbeats he held the s
cabbarded blade in his hands. A true sword of the maroon, it had saved his life in many battles. He recalled the strange impulse to claim the sword from the knight’s funeral pyre, like a boon from the gods. Unsheathing, the sword, he raised it to the heavens, saluting the Light. “For Honor and the Octagon!” His battle cry went unanswered, nothing but startled birds winging towards the morning sky.
Perhaps he should have left Sir Tyrone’s sword with Lothar, but that would have meant relying on the dark blade for protection, and he wasn’t ready for that. Somehow, in the depths of his soul, the marshal felt the dark sword should only be taken up as a deliberate choice, wielded for the right reasons. He wondered if it would make a difference. Perhaps he deluded himself, a desperate man grasping at straws. Fastening Sir Tyrone’s scabbarded sword to the back of his saddle, the marshal turned and strode to the meadow’s heart.
In the clear light of day, beyond reach of any shadows, he knelt, laying the bundled sword on the ground. A quick slash of the bindings and the furs and cloaks came unwrapped. The dark sword gleamed deadly in the morning sun, steel so black it seemed to drink the sunlight. Repulsed by the dark-damned steel, yet his gaze drank in the details. Coiled dragons entwined the cross hilt, the pommel fashioned into an octagon. Orrin Surehammer’s maker’s mark etched deep on the blade, as clear as when it was first forged. The sword was a masterpiece, forged to be wielded by heroes. Boric’s sword, the first blue steel blade…corrupted to Darkness. Anger blazed through him. The sword was a trap, a taunt…yet a part of him longed to wield it. A mere squire slayed sixty ogres, what could a sworn knight do? Yet Baldwin had changed, paying a steep price for the sword. He stared at the dark blade, a promise and a threat. For the sake of the Octagon, he’d take the risk. “Valin help me.”
He reached for the sword, grasping the hilt.
Pain flared through his gauntlets, a crippling cold. He hurled the blade from his hands.
It landed in the shadows.
He glared at the sword, realizing the dark blade was going to make him work for it. The marshal strode towards the blade, lying at the edge of the meadow. Naked branches cast shadows like grasping hands reaching for the sword. The marshal reached for the blade and then stopped short. The cursed blade was touched by shadow. Refusing to start in darkness, he levered his boot under the blade and flipped it towards the meadow’s sunlit heart. He kicked it with his boot till it fell in sunshine, a dark slash across the snow-patched ground.
Once more, he reached for the hilt. Pain lanced his hand, a searing cold, but this time he was ready for it. “By Valin, you will serve me.” He tightened his grip, enduring the biting agony. So cold, he half expected to see ice forming on his gauntlet. Gritting his teeth, he endured the agony, fearing his hand would blister and blacken to frostbite. Just when he reached his limit, the pain receded and strength flowed through him. The marshal gasped in surprise. Strength roared up his sword arm pouring into him…and with it came a heady elation, like a warrior’s flush of victory after a hard-fought battle.
Grasping the sword with two hands, he claimed it for his own.
Raising the blade to the heavens, he swung it in the classical forms. Slash of the eagle, the diagonal cut flowed into strike of the snake. The marshal danced the steel, stepping through the forms. Perfectly balanced, the dark sword cleaved the air with a deadly whistle. An extension of his will, it felt right in his hands. Laughing, he marveled at the five-foot blade. Light enough to be wielded with one hand, the dark sword blurred through each stroke, keening a deadly whistle. Twisting and turning, the marshal worked the forms, finding joy in the ancient patterns. A sense of jubilation roared through him. He was the knight marshal of the Octagon and this was his sword! Slash and cut, he ended with strike of the dragon.
The world came back in a rush. Sunlight warmed his face. He noticed the shadows had lengthened, nearly reaching his boots. He wondered how long he’d danced the forms…yet he was not tired. He was not tired! The marshal took stock of his body, realizing his shoulder no longer ached…and neither did his knee. He stared at the dark sword, a boon from the gods.
Laughter roared out of him…but then he caught himself, wondering if he was drunk…drunk on dark steel. The marshal sobered, but the feeling of elation did not leave. “You serve me now.” The sword’s strange whispers had fallen silent, as if the blade acquiesced…or bided its time, but the marshal put the grim warning from his mind.
Keeping the sword in his fist, he strode toward his horse. It was time to find the others. It was time to turn the tide of war.
64
Katherine
Dangling from a knotted rope, Kath hung from the side of the Sea Sprite. She’d needed a place to hide her warriors, but the open deck was too exposed. With the sea tamed to a dead-calm, she dared to hide her men on the outside of the hull. Twenty-two painted warriors dangled from knotted ropes, waiting for the order to attack.
Kath tightened her grip. Blind to what was happening on the deck; she listened to the sounds of the ship.
The cold gray sea lapped gently at the hull below, indifferent to their plight.
Overhead, sailors climbed the rigging to furl the sails, sending a signal of surrender.
Kath felt a dull thump shudder through the hull, as if the Sea Sprite was repulsed by the raider’s lethal touch…and then she heard the grim thunk of grappling hooks. Sweat trickled down her back despite the biting cold. Kath smeared her doeskin boots against the Sprite’s outer hull, seeking a better perch, fighting to ease the strain in her arms. Looking left and right, she nodded at Blaine and Sidhorn, giving them a reassuring smile…but lower down the rope, she caught the look of terror on Tangar’s face. The hawk-faced warrior had lost his grip. Slowly sliding down the rope, he struggled for a better hold, but the rope slipped between his gloved hands.
None of her painted warriors could swim. Kath reached for him, but he was too far.
Her own grip slipped.
Tightening her hold, she watched in horror, unable to save him. Tangar fought to regain his grip, but the weight of arms and armor slowly dragged him down. Kath held his gaze, trying to leech the terror from his eyes. She heard his muffled gasp as the cold water lapped around him, slowly swallowing him whole. The hawk-faced warrior held her stare, even as the sea reached his chin. Flashing a fierce grin, full of defiance, he slipped below the sea without a sound, not even a splash to mark his passing.
Such bravery, Kath closed her eyes, stunned and angered by the loss. By Valin, your courage shall not be forgotten.
Kath’s hand slipped.
Tightening her grip, she stared aloft, anxious for the signal to attack.
65
Juliana
The MerChanter captain flashed a lusty grin. “And where might your cabin be?”
Juliana gestured to the door tucked next to the aft stairs. “There, next to the stairs.”
His gaze followed her gesture. “Good enough.” He grabbed her arm as he snapped commands. “Balthar, fit the prisoners with shackles and chain them below. Gallwax, plumb the hold for treasure. Corway, secure the ship while I have my way with the strumpet.”
“Aye, Lord.” His men scrambled to obey, scattering across the deck.
“Come here, wench.” The captain pulled her close, his breath stinking of sour ale. “I expect a rollicking good time,” his gaze turned deadly, “or I’ll turn you over to my crew for sport.” His tongue licked the side of her face. Repulsed, Juliana squirmed away, but she did not get far. His fist clamped tight on her arm, pulling her close. “You’ll do more than squirm when I take you.” Laughing, he tugged her toward her cabin. As he reached for the latch, Juliana dove to the side.
The door slammed opened.
A snarling mountain wolf burst from the cabin. Loosing a primal howl, Bryx attacked. Teeth slavering, the wolf lunged for the lord, clamping his jaws on the MerChanter’s throat. Blood sprayed across the deck. Bryx snarled, smothering the lord’s nerve-shattering scream with a vicious growl.
The MerChanter warriors cringed backwards, stunned by the wolf, as if some monster summoned from lore had appeared aboard the ship.
Teeth bared and hackles raised, the big mountain wolf straddled the lord, shaking the corpse like a rag doll. Blood spatters rained on the raiders.
Chaos erupted across the deck.
66
Katherine
At the sound of the wolf’s howl, Kath scrambled up the rope. She reached the railing in time to see Bryx straddle a MerChanter, his teeth savaging the man’s throat to bloody shreds. The other MerChanters stood frozen, staring slack-jawed at the blood-spattered wolf as if he were a demon summoned from the netherworld.
Fierce and savage and totally unexpected, the huge mountain wolf evoked a primal fear, providing the perfect distraction.
Vaulting the railing, Kath leaped lightly to the deck, her sword whispering from its scabbard. Blaine was on her left, Bear on her right. She tugged her octagonal shield from her back, settling it on her left arm. All along the length of the Sprite, painted warriors climbed the railing as silent as death. Weapons bared, they fell on the MerChanters.
Kath’s sword slid beneath the brigantine armor, deep into a MerChanter’s back.
The man’s dying shriek roused his comrades to battle.
Snarling in rage, the MerChanters erupted in motion. Whirling, they brought their tridents to bear. Steel clanged against steel as the ship’s deck became a battlefield. Arrows thunked down from above, skewering the raiders. Sailors snatched up their long knives, lunging at the enemy. Bryx loosed a chilling howl, adding to the chaos.
The Knight Marshal (The Silk & Steel Saga) Page 35
