“But you’ve always been a saber man. Why take up the great sword when there’s gray in your hair?”
So the princeling flexed his muscles, reaching for Lionel’s place. The marshal flashed a predator’s smile, rising to the challenge. “I wanted a sword with greater reach. You understand the value of reach?”
The prince never broke eye contact, but he eased back in his chair. “We’ve seen little enough of you these past few days, and even less of the king. What draws you to the tower top?”
“Snow, rock and more snow.” Gesturing for a squire to bring a plate for himself and Lothar, the marshal tugged the leather gloves from his hands, tucking them into his belt. “It’ll likely be a long winter.”
Ulrich grinned, the right side of his mouth twisted by an old scar. “But if the signal towers hold true, it’ll be a winter full of war. A chance for honor and glory, else why call the captains to council?”
Griffin, a leaner version of Ulrich, answered from the far end of the table. “For the sake of treachery, brother.”
Ulrich scowled and Godfrey shook his head but Griffin’s hooded gaze never wavered. “And then there’s the question of the crown.”
Prince Griffin’s words hung across the table like a battle axe.
The marshal glared, “Prince Lionel’s grave is still fresh-turned.”
Griffin held his gaze, “Yet it is the duty of king’s to have an heir…and our lord father is ever fond of duty.”
Ulrich intervened, wielding his birthright as the eldest. “Rest assured, brother, the king will name an heir, else why has he summoned us to council?”
The marshal knew the princes well, having trained all three to the sword. Ulrich fought like a bull, rushing in at the slightest hint of an opening, while Griffin showed a cautious shrewdness, preferring a slow dance of parries and feints. Godfrey, the third-born prince, was a follower, always mimicking his oldest brother. “The council is called for treachery…and for war.”
Ulrich flashed a wolfish grin. “So there’ll be war then.”
“As sure as winter.”
“And the traitors?” The question came from Sir Gravis. Bald as an egg, his face as tough as boot leather, Gravis was a stern captain and a staunch friend to the king.
“All dead.”
More than a few made the hand sign against evil.
“Does the treachery stop at Cragnoth?”
The marshal met Godfrey’s stare. “That’s the question, isn’t it? How far has the Darkness spread?” A murmur of unease ran the length of the table. “It’s hard to hold a castle when a traitor mans the drawbridge.” The marshal reached for a tankard of ale. Talk of treason left a bitter taste in his mouth.
“They say there was a note,” Prince Griffin’s voice cut like a well-polished sword, “a note pinned to the tower door, sealed with a red hawk.”
Rumors were hard to contain. The marshal nodded, reluctant to speak of the king’s daughter; a mere girl had no part in war. “The note told of Trask’s corruption to the Dark.”
Sir Gravis nodded, “A message from Lionel, no doubt, before they murdered him.”
Ulrich’s stare smoldered. “Yes, the king’s chosen successor, struck down by his own men.” Scorn filled Ulrich’s face, an ugly mix of ambition and jealousy. “Death by treason. That must have been a mighty blow to the king.”
The marshal speared the prince with his gaze. “The king mourns his son.”
“But would he mourn half so much for the rest of us?” Ulrich’s face hardened like tempered steel. “Or aren’t we shiny enough for his liking?”
Ulrich talked like he fought, with broad smashing strokes, but for once his words struck true. The marshal looked away, unable to deny it. The king’s younger sons had been made of finer stuff, something shiny and noble. Tristan and Lionel both carried heroic glows that made other men rise above themselves, willing to dare the fiercest odds. Somehow that shining characteristic had passed over the older sons, as if the mold had been set but the metal wasn’t quite right, leaving men of blunt iron instead of bright steel. The marshal shook his head, mourning the loss. The promise of the younger sons was gone, snuffed out like a bright-burning flame. Sometimes the gods were cruel. He reached for his tankard. “The king needs all his sons.”
“Some more than others.” Ulrich scowled. “They tell me Lionel has his own shield grove, set on the south side of the mountains so that all travelers from Castlegard to the Crag can pay homage as they pass. Seems like a lofty honor for a murdered prince.”
The marshal’s voice held a cutting edge. “The king loved Lionel well.”
“I’ll not begrudge the dead their due…but he is dead.” Ulrich’s gaze narrowed. “The king must name a new successor.” He leaned back in his chair, a warrior in his prime. “I’ve always been the strongest, the best sword among my brothers. In times of war, it’s strength that matters most. It’s past time the king chose his first-born to rule.”
“Ayes” circled the table…but not from everyone. Gravis kept silent and so did Sir Mellott and Sir Lothar, while Prince Griffin merely watched through hooded eyes.
The marshal crossed stares with the first-born prince. “The royal house of Anvril has ever ruled the maroon, but it has not always been the oldest who gains the throne.” He lowered his voice, a warning and a threat. “The king alone decides his heir.”
A low murmur rippled through the great hall.
The marshal turned to find the king standing on the stairwell. New lines of grief were graven on his face but his eyes sparked like flint.
Benches scraped against stone. Almost as one, the knights rose to greet their king. “The Octagon!” The shout echoed through the hall. King Ursus moved among them, nodding greetings and exchanging a murmur of words. Even in the winter of his years, the king roused a fierce loyalty among his men. Like a blazing hearth, the warmth of brotherhood swept through the great hall. The marshal stood with the others, proud to serve such a king.
The press of maroon cloaks parted and the king reached the high table. He nodded to the marshal, “Osbourne,” and then took a seat next to Ulrich. His gaze circled the table, keen as sharpened steel. “The signal fires have been lit. The council of captains is summoned for war.”
Knights of lower rank took their leave, nodding to the king, before moving from the high table. The great hall began to clear. The other captains joined them at the high table, Sir Boris of Holdfast Keep and Sir Dalt of the Ice Tower. Each captain commanded a tower or a keep along the Domain. They filled the high table, five captains and three princes, with the marshal seated beside the king. One chair remained empty…the chair of a dead prince.
Stewards poured tankards of ale and offered plates of roast lamb smothered in gravy. Baldwin, the king’s squire, spread a map of the north across the heart of the table, tankards set at the four corners. Their work done, the stewards retreated to the staircase. Logs snapped and crackled in the two hearths, the only sound in the great hall.
The king surveyed his captains. “I led a war host to Cragnoth expecting battle…but instead found only treachery and murder. The Mordant found a way to corrupt Trask and some of his knights. It seems he sought a back door for his army, an easy way into the southern kingdoms.”
The marshal eased back in his chair, watching the faces of the captains. Only Lothar and Boris, the last to arrive, looked surprised.
The king clenched his fist. “This treachery cost us dear, the death of Prince Lionel and a score of loyal swords, but Cragnoth is ours once more. The back door is closed, secured against the north.” His stare circled the table. “But I expect the Mordant will try again, the Octagon is summoned to war.”
Sir Lothar scowled. “A war in winter. The Mordant strikes when it is least expected.”
“Exactly.” The king leaned forward, like a hawk stooped to the hunt. “We must snatch advantage from treachery, heeding the warning.”
Ulrich grinned. “Then you expect another strike at Cragnoth?”
“Of a certainty,” the king cast a sideways glance at his son. “The Mordant never wastes an opportunity. He’ll send a force against Cragnoth to collect the wages of treason.” His fist settled on the map, covering the painted symbol of the keep. “When the Mordant finds his way blocked, he’ll seek another route across the Spines.” His hand swept the length of the Domain, from Castlegard in the east to Salt Tower perched on the edge of the Western Ocean. “With so few men, we must anticipate the strike.” He turned to study his firstborn. “If the Octagon was yours to command, where would you wager the bulk of our strength?”
Ulrich leaned over the map, casting a furtive glance toward Griffin, but the second son remained impassive. “Cragnoth is our smallest garrison. By attacking the Crag, the Mordant proves he strikes at weakness, so I believe he’ll try for a quick victory at Holdfast Keep or the Ice Tower.”
The king turned his gaze toward his second son. “And you, Griffin?”
The prince did not hesitate. “The mountain trails are perilously narrow at Holdfast and treacherous with snow at Ice Tower. An army would take the better part of a month to cross at either point.” The prince’s gaze narrowed, a thin smile on his face. “Since the subtly of treason failed at Cragnoth, I believe the Mordant will abandon a dagger in the back in favor of a battering ram.” He fingered his close-shaved beard. “I believe he’ll empty the north, bringing his full force against us at Raven Pass.”
A murmur of unease circled the table.
“A full assault in winter,” Sir Gravis shook his head, his voice skeptical, “the Mordant has never been so bold.”
Prince Griffin answered. “Winter is the perfect cloak for trickery. While most men sit by their hearths, polishing their swords, the Mordant will march in full strength against us.”
Sir Gravis persisted. “But in the dead of winter? His supply train will triple in size just to keep his army in wood for fires, let alone food.”
“He’ll not bother with a supply train.” Every stare turned toward the king. “He’ll use the winter as a goad to his army.”
Sir Lothar tugged on his mustache, a frown creasing his face. “Victory or death. They’ll have to punch their way south or freeze to death in the steppes.”
The king nodded. “Exactly.”
“Ruthless, very ruthless,” Lothar chuckled but the sound held no mirth. “And the Octagon will bear the brunt of the madness.”
“As always.”
“Where will he strike?”
“Castlegard will never fall, he’ll not wager an army against mage-stone walls. And all the other trails are too narrow.” The king’s gaze settled on his second-born son. “I agree with Griffin, he’ll strike at Raven Pass.”
Ulrich scowled but he did not argue.
Sir Gravis leaned forward. “Then you’ll be wanting our men.”
“Your men, your spare arms, and your supplies.” The king swept his hand across the map, his fist coming to rest on Raven Pass. “We’ll gather our strength at the pass, leaving skeletal forces everywhere else except Cragnoth Keep.”
Sir Lothar frowned. “A dangerous gamble.”
“A calculated risk.” Confidence filled the king’s words, but the marshal saw the worry shadowing his eyes. “We’ll make our stand at Raven Pass.”
Ulrich grinned. “As captain of the pass, I pledge to lead that stand to victory.”
The marshal caught his breath, the prince presumed too much.
The king turned toward his oldest son. “Cragnoth Keep needs a captain. You’ll take command of the Crag while I lead our forces at Raven Pass.”
“But Raven Pass is mine to command!” Ulrich bristled, his fists clenched. “And besides, the Crag is insignificant.”
“The Crag was good enough for your brother.” The king’s eyes darkened with anger but Ulrich was blind to the warning.
“You steal my chance at glory…and the crown.”
The other captains pushed back from the table, gaining a safe distance.
The king stood, a thunderstorm on his face. “Every son of mine must serve before he’s given the honor to lead.” He loomed over his firstborn, his voice brimming with anger. “Have you forgotten how to serve?”
Ulrich weathered the king’s stare, but his voice was sullen. “No, Sire.”
“Remember your oath. You swore to serve the maroon.”
A spark of rebellion kindled in Ulrich’s eyes. “I swore to fight.”
“And so you shall. You’ll have your fill of it.” The king’s voice struck like a slap. “Tell him, Griffin.”
“The first battle will be fought at Cragnoth, when the Mordant comes to harvest his deceit.”
Mollified, Ulrich nodded. “Then honor of first blood is mine.”
The king turned his back on his firstborn, stepping toward the blazing fireplace. “You’ll take command of the Crag and crush the attack. Then bring the bulk of your men to Raven Pass to reinforce the wall. If the Mordant turns his full might against us, every sword will be needed.”
“And the crown?”
The king stiffened, his broad shoulders cloaked in maroon. For half a heartbeat, the marshal thought he’d turn and strike his son, but the king chose to answer, a touch of weariness in his voice. “The crown is earned by deeds not bluster. Leadership, strategy, honor and courage, these are the measures of a king of Castlegard.”
A hushed stillness settled over the great room. Pine logs snapped and crackled, releasing a pungent scent. The king kept his back to them all, facing the fireplace, casting a long shadow across the room. “More questions?”
A chorus of “no’s” rippled around the table.
“You have your orders. There’s no time to waste. See that it’s done.”
The captains stared at the king and then nodded to the marshal. Wood scraped against stone as they pushed back from the table and took their leave. Ulrich hesitated, staring at the king’s back, but he turned without saying a word. Sir Lothar lingered the longest. Nodding to the marshal, he followed the others.
The marshal remained alone with his king, the only sound the crackling of the hearth fire. “What troubles you, my lord?”
“I felt this coming, Osbourne, felt it in my very bones, yet the warning did not come in time to save Lionel.”
The king turned, a haunted look in his eyes.
“And now you feel it again?”
The king nodded, “Something worse comes. A great doom from the north.”
“And the hammer blow will fall on Raven Pass?”
“Even Griffin can see it. He sees it but he cannot sense it.” The king’s voice sounded weary. “My sons tussle for a crown when so much more is at stake…proving none are worthy.” The king stared at his marshal, a strange mixture of grief and iron conviction writ upon his face. “We must anticipate the attack, Osbourne, throwing the full weight of the maroon behind a single bulwark. A desperate gamble…the gods help us if I’m wrong.”
“You’re never wrong, sire, not when it comes to war.” The marshal drew a slow breath. “Then we fight at Raven Pass. And the fate of the southern kingdoms will turn on a single battle.”
The king stared into the fire. “We gird for war, Osbourne, and we dare not lose.”
6
Katherine
Kath added kindling to the campfire, needing to be sure the flames would not die. The others slept, soft snores coming from their bedrolls. Duncan had already slipped away, but she’d promised him a half turn of the hourglass before she followed. She knew what to expect…or at least part of it. In the Deep Green she’d peppered Duncan with questions about the customs of his people. Weddings were simple affairs, two people pledging their lives before an old growth tree…and then they slipped away into the forest, both coming to the wedding bower…naked. Kath’s heart raced just thinking of the last part. A wild excitement engulfed her but beneath it ran a current of fear. She knew she was being skittish but she could not help it.
Moonlight broke throug
h the clouds, silvering the glade. Kath smiled, taking it as a blessing from the gods. Deciding she’d waited long enough, she took a deep breath and cast one last glance at her sleeping companions. Only the wolf remained awake. Bryx grinned at her, making a soft chuffing sound, as if he knew her intent. She bowed toward him, trusting the wolf to stand guard. Shrugging her axes from shoulders, she decided to keep her sword. Kath blushed at the thought, knowing a bride should never bring a weapon to her wedding, but the sword was too much a part of her. Turning her back on the campfire, she stepped toward the forest.
Bright moonlight lit her way across the glade. Stepping past a curtain of moss, she entered the forest. Her eyes adjusted to the gloom. A tangle of branches shrouded the moon, leaving barely enough light to see by. Kath shuffled forward, avoiding thick-trunked trees and low hanging shields, and then she saw it. A single candle glowed in the forest. Duncan! He could see in the gloom but he’d brought a candle just for her, a beacon in the darkness. The simple gesture melted her heart. She followed the candlelight and found him waiting by a gnarled oak tree.
“Beloved,” he held his hand toward her.
He’d never called her that before. The single word shimmered in her soul. Kath stepped into the candlelight and took his hand. At first touch, a jolt raced through her. She knew he felt it too, a promise of the pleasure to come. Clasping his hand tight, she stared into his mismatched eyes.
Duncan smiled. “I found the oldest grandfather tree in the forest. My people believe the older the tree, the deeper the roots, the more binding the vows.” He voice was laden with meaning. “The roots of this tree delve deep.”
Kath tore her gaze from Duncan to look at the tree. An immense live-oak, the trunk was wide enough to hide a horse, the branches thick and gnarled, and amongst the branches hung half a hundred shields. Tears crowded Kath’s eyes, as if the heroes of the Octagon had come to witness her vows. “It’s perfect.”
Duncan nodded. “As if the gods arranged it, your people and mine.”
She gave him a solemn smile. “What must I do?”
“We keep one hand clasped,” his grip tightened on her left hand, “and place the other on the tree.”
The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga) Page 6
