The Knight Marshal (The Silk & Steel Saga)

by Karen Azinger

  Blaine waded into the fray, cleaving bearded heads with a single stroke of his sapphire blade. “For Castlegard!” The MerChanters fell back under the knight’s fierce onslaught. Kath fought on Blaine’s right, taking a hard stroke to her shield. Forming a wedge with Bear and Sidhorn, they battled their way into the heart of the enemy. Kath spied Juliana fending off a MerChanter with only her long knife. Juliana ducked a blow to the head, but lost her footing, slipping beneath the MerChanter’s battleaxe. Kath leaped forward, intercepting the axe with her shield. The bone-jarring blow drove Kath to her knees. Gritting her teeth against the pain, she lunged upwards with her sword, taking the raider in the groin. He loosed a bloodcurdling scream, collapsing to the deck. Kath leaped aside, shielding Juliana. “Are you hurt?”

  “No.” Juliana scrambled to her feet, her face pale, her long knife clutched in her fist.

  “The oil!” Kath hissed the command. “We’ve got to cripple the trireme and then get the Sprite away!”

  Nodding, Juliana scrambled up the stairs to the aft deck while Kath battled her way toward the far railing. Stroke and parry, she fought her way forward but it was like swimming against a deadly current. The fighting grew fiercest near the railing, a thicket of clashing steel as MerChanters leaped from the trireme to the Sprite’s deck, howling for vengeance.

  Bear and Sidhorn cleaved a path to her side. Together they fought their way to the first cask. Hidden in the Sprite’s hold, Kath had found three casks of lamp oil crucial to her plan. Sheathing her sword, she quickly freed the cork. Sidhorn heaved the cask to his shoulder with a grunt and then hurled it onto the trireme’s deck. The cask hit hard. Cracking, it spurted a pale puddle of oil.

  A trident snaked towards Kath’s head. She ducked, avoiding the blow. Unsheathing her sword, she lunged forward but her blade skittered on scaled armor. Unharmed, the burly warrior grinned down at her. “A wench!” A lewd smile curdled his ugly face, gold coins winking in his beard. Anger blazed through Kath. She punched him in the gut with her shield and then slashed upward, opening a second smile in his bearded throat. “Pig!” She spat the word as he toppled over the railing.

  A second MerChanter loomed over Kath, but an arrow took him in the shoulder before he could strike. Slipping past the wounded raider, Kath fought towards the second cask, but Grenfir was already there. The owl-faced warrior heaved the cask onto the trireme and then disappeared as the battle closed around him. Beyond him, the fighting was so thick; she could not see the third flask. Two will have to be enough.

  An arrow thunked from above, narrowly missing her head. Blood slicked the deck, making the footing treacherous. “For Castlegard!” She charged into the fray, hacking left and right.

  Flaming arrows streaked overhead like sizzling comets. Kath grinned, praying Juliana’s aim struck true.

  Bryx appeared at her side, darting in to hamstring a MerChanter. As the warrior’s leg crumpled, Kath slashed her sword across the raider’s throat. Cut and parry, she fought to hold her position near the railing.

  Flames erupted on the trireme, licking skyward with a billow of dark smoke.

  “Cut the grapples!” Kath yelled the command. She hacked at the nearest grapple, the pronged hooks sunk deep in the Sprite’s deck. On the third stroke, the rope sliced through, slithering over the side. Kath moved along the railing, slicing grapples while Bear and Sidhorn fought to shield her from the raiders.

  Flames billowed on the trireme.

  Wild-eyed MerChanters rushed the railing, leaping aboard the Sprite. They fought like fiends, wielding battleaxes and tridents with terrible effect. Caught in onslaught, Grenfir and Tomlin were cut down before Kath could reach their side. Howling for their loss, Kath pressed forward, attacking the nearest MerChanter, seeking vengeance with her sword. The Sprite ran slick with the blood of both sides.

  From the aft deck, Juliana bellowed a command, “Release the sails!”

  Overhead, the checkered sails dropped open like a thunderclap.

  “Hard to port!”

  The Sprite was slow and sluggish as a rheumy old man. The checkered sails gave a feeble flutter…but then the Sprite began to slowly turn. A slight breeze puffed the canvas, tugging the Sprite towards the south…but the trireme stayed locked with her prey, snagged by grapples. Kath stared in horror as the burning trireme lurched towards the Sprite, the two ships bound at the prow.

  Flames spread along the trireme, turning the ship into an inferno. Kath cringed from the heat, fearing for the Sprite.

  “Cut the grapples at the prow!” Kath screamed the command, but her voice was swallowed by the din of battle. “Sidhorn, Bear, with me!” Painted warriors formed a wedge around her. Fighting with grim ferocity, they battled a path towards the last grapples. Flames roared on the trireme, spilling a terrible heat onto the Sprite, like hell come calling. Kath reached the nearest grapple and began hacking at the rope, desperate to sever the two ships.

  67

  The Knight Marshal

  The marshal spurred his horse to a hard gallop, the dark sword clutched in his mailed fist. Thundering down the mountainside, he wove a path through the trees. Spying an obstacle, he veered towards it, urging his stallion over the fallen log. They took the jump at a flying gallop, clearing the log with room to spare. Standing in the stirrups, he loosed a triumphant shout. Flushed with exhilaration, he scanned the forest for a foe, keen for a true test of the dark sword…and then he remembered.

  He slowed his horse to a trot, shaking his head at the reckless ride. Lifting the dark sword, he glared at the midnight-blade. “You are not the master. I am,” But the blade did not reply.

  Angling his horse toward the northwest, he eventually found the path. By midday, he reached the Broken Keep. An ancient ruin, little more than a circle of timeworn stones, the broken tower served as a landmark in the forest wilderness. Slowing his horse to a walk, he rode to the hill’s crest. Dark stones crowned the hilltop like broken teeth, the remnant of another age. Spying a gleam of armor, the marshal fought the urge to attack. Rounding the tumbled tower, he found Lothar sitting upon a toppled stone, basking in the sunshine.

  Lothar glanced his way, but otherwise he remained relaxed, his hands empty of weapons. “So you’ve claimed the sword.”

  “I have.” The marshal lifted the sword, a flash of darkness in the sunlight. “And it is like no other I’ve ever held.”

  “Yet you remembered.”

  The truth came hard to his lips. “Just.” The marshal dismounted, standing over his friend.

  “You should have let me bear it.”

  The black sword came up, the tipped aimed at Lothar’s heart, but the knight-captain remained statue-still. By dint of will, the marshal lowered the dark sword, his voice a low growl. “Mine to wield.”

  Lothar gave him a measured look. “Yes, it’s done. And now you’re keen to wet the blade.”

  The marshal grinned.

  “Brannock’s found a patrol for you. Forty soldiers with two ogres among them.”

  Only forty, he quelled his disappointment. “A fair test of the blade.”

  Lothar scowled, “Sounds like a death-wish to me.”

  “I have to know.”

  “And the other sword?”

  The marshal gave him a puzzled look.

  Lothar gestured to the marshal’s saddle. “Sir Tyrone’s sword.”

  Disdain flashed across his face. “A mere pig-sticker compared to the dark blade.” Slashing the bindings, he threw the scabbarded sword toward the knight. “Yours to wield.”

  Lothar caught it. “I’ll keep it safe for you.”

  “I’ve no need of it.”

  “All the same.”

  “Forty, you say, and two ogres?”

  Lothar nodded.

  The marshal swung back into the saddle…but something gnawed at his mind. The words struggled to his lips. “Watch over the maroon.”

  Lothar nodded.

  Their stares locked, a friendship remembered, so many years of d
uty and honor and battles well fought.

  *Wield me!* The marshal shook his head, trying to keep his mind clear. “You best point me towards that patrol.”

  “Brannock will lead you.”

  A brown-clad scout ghosted out of the trees. Saluting, he kept his distance, standing on the edge of the ruins, a longbow in his fist.

  A single archer, not much of a threat, the marshal silently soothed the dark sword. Turning his horse towards the scout, he said, “Lead the way.”

  The scout set off at a loping run. The marshal followed at a steady trot. They plunged down the hillside, forded a swiftly flowing stream and then turned towards the southwest. Brannock led him to a cliff overlooking a valley. Crouched on the rocky outcrop, the scout pointed below. The marshal nudged his horse forward. Peering over the edge, he saw the dark-cloaked patrol toiling up the mountain path. Forty with two ogres, the marshal grinned, eager to wet his sword.

  Leaving the scout behind, he forged a path along the ridgeline, gaining a lead on the enemy below. Satisfied with his position, he put spurs to his horse and galloped down the steep hillside. Branches beat against his chainmail, as if to hold him back. Putting spurs to his mount, he bulled through the low scrub, emerging at the crest of the trail. The marshal slowed his horse to a stop. Bred for battle, his warhorse stamped and snorted, pawing at the dark earth. “Soon,” he soothed the horse as much as himself. Taking a position in the center of the trail, the marshal blocked the way forward, the dark sword gleaming wicked-keen in his gauntleted fist.

  He heard them before he saw them, the tramp of heavy boots, the clangor of armor, and the harsh breath of men climbing a steep rise. The first foe came into sight, a plumed helmet over dark armor, the black shield inscribed with a golden pentacle. The leader saw him and paused, a startled look on his face.

  The marshal raised the black sword in salute.

  The black-cloaked leader hesitated, reaching for his sword.

  “Prepare to die!” The marshal charged. His warhorse rammed into the leader, forcing him backwards into the others. Leaning from the saddle, the marshal swung the dark sword like a scythe. With a single stroke, he took the man’s head. The headless body took one last lurching step before crumpling to the ground. Head and helm bounced down the trail, a fitting herald.

  Exhilaration roared through the marshal. “Fight me!” He galloped into the enemy, hewing left and right. His progress slowed as the weight of numbers pressed against him. Frustrated, he leaped from his horse, the better to slay them. Surrounded by enemies, the battle became a blur. Slash and turn, he moved through the forms, killing and evading. The dark sword thrummed in his hands, power flowing through him like a heady elixir. He dealt death like a god. The battle slowed, as if his foes fought in rusted armor. So slow, the marshal anticipated their every move. Strike and evade, he cut a path through their numbers.

  An ogre approached, towering over him. The malformed beast wielded a spiked war club with deadly force, rending the earth with each blow…but to the marshal’s one-eyed stare its movements appeared dull and slow, as if the beast swam through molasses. Avoiding a head-high swing of the war club, the marshal glided within the ogre’s reach, slicing an arm from the shoulder. Blood gushed and the beast roared, the war club falling useless to the ground. Another cut and the marshal took its ugly head.

  Raising the black sword in triumph, he felt invincible, he felt like a god. “Fight me!” The challenge roared out of him. Spying the second ogre, the marshal cut a path towards the hulking brute. The dark sword moved in a blur, slicing through flesh and bone and sinew. The ogre charged, smashing his war club in a head-high swing. Ducking low, the marshal slipped inside to hamstring the beast. The ogre toppled forward, crashing to the ground like a felled tree. The marshal leaped atop the beast’s back. With both hands, he drove the dark sword down, plunging through armor and bone. Heart’s blood fountained up. Wrenching the dark sword loose, he roared his prowess. “Fight me!”

  A space opened around him, nothing but the dead and dying. The remaining soldiers cringed away. Dropping their weapons, they fell to their knees, begging for mercy.

  “Spare us!”

  “We yield!”

  “Mercy!”

  “No!” Anger roared through him. He craved blood not meek surrender. “Fight me!”

  Enraged, he attacked, slicing at heads and hands, forcing the kneelers to reach for their swords. A few picked up their weapons, offering a feeble defense, but others simply cowered, covering their heads with their hands. Consumed with battle lust, the marshal slew them all, the kneelers and the sword wielders, hewing left and right, striking till there were no more to kill.

  He staggered to a stop.

  The trail was littered in corpses, heads and limbs, butchered and hacked, all dead save him. Surrounded by death, the marshal realized he was not even winded. Unscratched, unharmed, unscathed, he felt invincible. Elation thrummed through him. Victory was his. He raised the dark sword to the heavens. “I am a god!” His shout echoed against the mountains, a challenge hurled to all of Erdhe. “I am the god of war!”

  68

  Katherine

  Kath cut the last grapple, willing the Sprite to separate from the trireme. A blistering heat beat against her, the crackling flames too near the ship. Checkered sails rippled overhead, stirred by a faint breeze, a mere tease of wind. The Sprite began to drift south, opening a small sliver of sea, but it was not enough. Sparks erupted from the trireme, releasing a belch of dark smoke. The MerChanter ship burned with infernal heat. They needed distance or both ships would be lost.

  A trident thrust towards her face. Kath ducked, lurching backwards. Regaining her balance, she slashed at the MerChanter, but the looming enemy had the advantage of reach. Reeking of fish oil and sweaty leather, he barked a berserker’s mad laugh, attacking with wild abandon. Towering over her, he stabbed at her with his trident, the triple barbs flashing orange in the flickering flames. Kath hacked at the deadly prongs, deflecting the blow. Stroke and parry she beat him back.

  A sharp pain pierced her chest. Transfixed, Kath crumpled to the deck, her sword slipping from her hand. Her vision wavered, shuttering to darkness. The world flickered and blurred as if it was about to unravel. Something was wrong, terribly wrong.

  Steel clanged in front of her face.

  The song of swords snapped the spell.

  Shrugging off the pain, Kath startled alert.

  A trident speared towards her.

  She flinched backwards.

  A sword blocked the trident. Torkin grinned at her. “Just paying my debt, Svala.” The wolf-faced warrior forced the MerChanter back with a vicious slash.

  While the two men grappled, Kath scrambled for her sword. She rubbed her aching chest, but found no wound, no sign of blood. Befuddled, she swallowed her uncertainty and sprang to battle. Fighting beside Torkin, she lunged towards the MerChanter, seeking a chink in his armor. Her sword slid beneath a bronze scale, piercing his side. Jerking away, he snarled, jabbing at her with his trident. Blood blossomed on his armor, yet still he fought. Enraged, he hurled his trident at her. She dodged the barbs, but was yanked backward, strangled by her cloak. A glance behind showed the trident pinned her cloak to the railing. Steel whistled towards her head. Trapped, she raised her shield blocking the blow. The battleaxe struck an arm-numbing blow. Wood splintered into a hundred shards. Deflected by her shattered shield, the axe shaved past her, narrowly missing her shoulder. Hurling the useless shieldstrap at her enemy’s eyes, Kath drew a dagger from her belt. Pinned against the railing, she snarled up at the MerChanter, a sword in one hand, a dagger in the other, a poor match against a battleaxe.

  The half-moon blade flashed sinister, reflecting the flames.

  Kath braced for the blow.

  A sword skewered the MerChanter from behind, the blade erupting from his gut. Surprise flashed across his bearded face as the light died from his eyes.

  Bear shoved the corpse from his sword and then r
eached for the trident pinning her to the railing. Tugging the prongs loose, he hurled the forked weapon into the sea. “Are you well, Svala?”

  “Well enough.”

  Canvas snapped and timbers creaked. The Sea Sprite began to move, slowly pulling away from the flaming trireme.

  Across the deck, the wolf howled, a feral call to battle.

  As the two ships separated, Kath hoped the MerChanters would surrender, but instead of yielding, they fought with a desperate ferocity. Steel clashed and blood flowed. Corpses from both sides littered the deck. Standing shoulder to shoulder with Bear and Sidhorn, she cleaved a path into the enemy…and then she found herself facing Blaine. Kath lowered her sword. “Is it done?”

  “Near enough.” He gave her a weary grin, blood dripping from his sapphire sword.

  The sounds of battle fell silent, replaced by the moans of the wounded.

  Kath looked around her, finding too many friends among the dead and dying.

  Blaine grinned. “Another victory.”

  Kath felt no elation. “Give the dead to the sea and tend to the wounded.”

  Suddenly too tired to stand, she crumpled to the deck. Everything ached, her arms most of all. Too tired to think, too weary to move, she stared out to sea. As if by magic, waves appeared, breaking the wind’s stalemate, bringing the ocean to life. The Sea Sprite gained speed, scudding south. Across the widening distance, the trireme collapsed in hellish flames, a pillar of dark smoke marring the sky.

  A shadow blocked the sun.

  Kath looked up to see Juliana watching her.

  “You’d best get that armor off.”

  Kath shook her head. “I’d rather sink like a rock than be eaten alive.”

  “Sometimes the sea offers hard choices.” Juliana nodded, respect in her voice. “Your battle plan turned the tide.”

  “Your flaming arrows helped.”