Blaine forged ahead, running shoulder to shoulder with Torven, an eagle-faced warrior. The eagle looked his way, flashing a fierce grin. Somehow the blue tattoos seemed more striking in the cold, transforming the painted people into beasts rather than men. Plumes of mist streamed from their nostrils, adding to the illusion. Bundled beneath sheepskin cloaks they wore mismatched armor and scavenged weapons, mostly swords and a few spears. Nearly a third carried dented shields embossed with golden pentacles, the gleanings from past battles. Despite their ragtag appearance, they looked fierce, but Blaine wondered how they’d fight. A grim laugh bubbled out of him, instead of fighting shoulder to shoulder with sworn knights, he was running across the frigid north with a pack of barbarians. They’d gained allies of a sort, but it remained to be seen if they could get passed the god cursed gargoyle gates.
Twelve days of running before he spied his first glimpse of the wall, a long black slash spoiling the grasslands. With each stride, the wall loomed larger. Over forty feet tall, topped with crenelated battlements, the wall cut through the steppes like a statement of power.
Tingold turned north, angling toward the wall. At midday, Blaine spied the gargoyle gates. The grim sight brought him to a standstill. He gaped in awe…till another runner bumped into him. Sketching the hand sign against evil, Blaine struggled to keep pace.
The gate was not what he expected. A paved roadway breached the long black wall. Wide enough for three wagons, the breach might have seemed like an open invitation to the north…were it not for the gargoyles. Twelve gargoyles guarded the gate, massive monsters frozen in stone. Each gargoyle was unique, beaks and claws, wings and fangs, a torment of stone so realistic they seemed poised to strike. Thrice the height of a tall man, the monsters stood perched atop pedestals, rearing over the roadway like a gauntlet of nightmares. Suppressing a shudder, Blaine clenched his fists. It was hard not to reach for his sword, especially since he knew the legend, but he would not be shamed in front of the others.
Tingold came to a halt, staying a good twenty paces from the gate.
Blaine stopped beside him, breathing plumes of frost. The others gathered round. No one said a word; they just stared at the gates. Tingold broke the silence, but he kept his voice to a whisper, as if speech might wake the gargoyles. “Keep your distance from the gates.” He pinned Blaine with a warning stare. “One step on the roadway and the gargoyles will wake.”
Annoyed, Blaine nodded, it wasn’t the first time he’d heard the warning. His gaze roamed across the painted warriors, noting that more than a few had drawn swords, as if steel could defeat stone.
Tingold turned to Kath. “You asked for a gate. What will you have us do?”
But Kath did not say a word. Her gaze transfixed by the gargoyles, she walked towards the gate as if drawn by a spell.
Tingold leaned towards Blaine, his voice an urgent hiss. “What’s she doing?”
Blaine could only shrug.
“If she steps on the roadway, the gargoyles will wake.” The painted warriors stood poised to fight, but none moved to stop her.
Kath strode within a foot of the gate…and stopped. Still as a statue, she gazed up at the gargoyles.
Minutes stretched to an hour and still she did not move. The painted warriors sat on their haunches, staring at Kath. They shared a meal of dried horsemeat and mead. In hushed tones, they wagered on the outcome. A few favored Kath but most wagered on the gargoyles. Bear, one of Kath’s bodyguards, gave a confident grunt, his arms folded across his broad chest. “You’re all wrong. She seeks a vision from the gods and then she’ll defeat the gargoyles.”
Blaine smirked, more proof the painted people were little more than superstitious barbarians…but the confidence of Bear’s voice irked him.
They finished their meal and still Kath did not move. Torven, the eagle faced warrior, took charge. “We must give the War Leader the time she needs. Brevor, Tangor, Clemit and Vin, take the first watch. The rest of you get some sleep. We’ll need to be well rested if the enemy comes.”
Four guards loped away, taking up a square pattern around the troop, keeping watch over the steppes. Bear and Boar moved close to Kath, sitting at her back like a couple of faithful watchdogs. The others made a camp of sorts, laying bedrolls on the frozen ground. Flagons of mead were passed but they went without a fire. Blaine sat cross-legged, chewing on a salty strip of dried horsemeat. A few of the men talked, while others diced or honed their weapons, but most crawled into their bedrolls, grown men huddled together for warmth. Blaine pulled his two cloaks close, the maroon beneath the sheepskin, and kept watch on Kath. A mere slip of a girl, she was dwarfed by the gargoyles. For the thousandth time he wondered why the monks had chosen her instead of a seasoned warrior. King’s blood ran in her veins but she was still just a girl and her magic seemed a pitiful weapon against the mighty statues. Perhaps their journey north was nothing more than a fool’s errand.
The sun began to set and still Kath did not move. Blaine crawled into his bedroll, seeking warmth. He must have slept, for when he woke; the dawn’s red light streaked a cloud strewn sky.
Torven crouched next to Blaine, offering a flagon of mead. “She hasn’t moved.”
Blaine tilted the flagon, taking a long pull of fiery liquor, a blaze of warmth settling in his stomach.
“It is perilous to wait near a gate. A patrol could come at any time, or worse, the gore hounds.”
Blaine shuddered. “So what do we do?”
“Talk to her. Perhaps you can persuade her to move from the gate and return when she’s ready.”
It seemed a reasonable suggestion. “I’ll see what I can do.” Returning the flagon, he crawled from his bedroll. Shivering against the cold, he settled his blue sword across his shoulders and walked a few paces away to make his toilet. His piss raised a cloud of steam into the morning air, more proof the north was a god forsaken land, not worth dying for. Finished, he turned and studied Kath. The girl hadn’t moved, her two faithful guards sitting at her back.
He closed the distance, his stare roving from Kath to the gargoyles. As far as Blaine could tell, the statues hadn’t moved either, but he did not trust them. The gargoyles set his teeth on edge. Cast in stone, the huge hulking brutes seemed to leer down at him, claws extended for the kill. Making the hand sign against evil, he sidled close to Kath, staying a good sword’s length from the roadway. Blaine kept his voice to a hushed whisper, yet it sounded loud to his ears. “What do you see when you stare at them?”
Kath startled, as if woken from a dream. She turned and cast a weary glance toward him. “I see souls imprisoned in stone.”
Blaine shuddered. “Another nightmare from the Mordant.”
Kath nodded, her stare returning to the gargoyles. “Just so.”
He stood at her back, not sure what to say. The silence lengthened, as if she’d forgotten him. He moved a step closer, peering over her shoulder. In one hand she held the crystal dagger, in the other, the amber pyramid. Her fingers flicked, rotating the small pyramid against the palm like a talisman or a prayer bead. Somehow the gesture worried him. “Do you know what to do?” His words sounded harsh to his ears but he couldn’t take them back.
“Yes, but I’m afraid.”
Her answer sent a shiver down his spine. “Afraid of the gargoyles?”
“Afraid I’ll become them.” She turned and stared up at him, and just for a moment, her eyes held a world of pleading.
He caught his breath, but before he could respond the look was gone, her face wiped clean, as calm as stone. Unsure what to say, he gestured back at the others. “Torven says it’s dangerous to linger near a gate. A patrol might come. Or hellhounds.”
Kath nodded, her face solemn. “Yes, I’ve run out of time.” She took a deep breath. “Will you help me?”
“How?”
She pointed to the nearest gargoyle, a fearsome beast with the fangs of a lion and the wings of a bat. “I need to get up there.”
“Up there?”<
br />
“Yes, on top of the pedestal.”
Blaine did not want to go anywhere near the gargoyles. “Won’t it wake?”
“It might, but it’s a chance I’ll have to take.”
He noticed the others had drawn close, crowding behind him, judging him with their barbarian eyes. Feeling their stares he knew he didn’t have a choice. “My sword is yours.”
She gave him a half smile. “I don’t need your sword, just a leg up,” but then her face turned grim. “Don’t touch the stone, don’t even brush against it.”
He nodded, finding it suddenly hard to swallow.
Looking past him, Kath nodded to the others. “Get back from the gate. Keep well away from the gargoyles,” her voice trailed to a whisper, “for I know not what they’ll do.”
Bear and Boar pushed forward, their weapons unsheathed. “Let us fight for you.”
She gave them a soft smile. “Loyal and brave, you’ll both fight by my side in the citadel but not here. Honor my wishes and stand with the others. Swords, no matter how stalwart, cannot prevail against stone.” Kath hefted the crystal dagger, holding the milk-white blade aloft. “This is the only weapon that can damage such a foe…and by the will of the gods it’s mine to wield.” Sunlight danced along the blade. For half a heartbeat she seemed more than a mere girl.
The others backed away, their faces fierce with blue tattoos. Hands on weapons, they stood thirty feet from the gates, every stare locked on Kath.
Sighing, Kath sheathed the crystal dagger, and then turned her stare toward Blaine. Any trace of uncertainty was buried beneath a mask of stone. “This way.” She led him around the back of the nearest gargoyle. “This one will do.”
Even from the back the stone beast looked menacing.
“Give me a boost up but then get away. And take care, lest you touch the stone.”
“What are you going to do?”
“What I must.” She gave him a half smile. “End a nightmare or die trying,” but the smile did not reach her eyes. “Tell Duncan I love him.”
He stared at her, lost for words.
“It’s time.” She drew him toward the monster’s pedestal, stopping a dagger’s length from the stone.
The beast’s malformed shadow loomed overhead.
Blaine’s mouth went dry but he did not flinch. Lacing his hands together, he bent down as if to give her a boost onto a tall horse. Kath set her left boot in his hands and leaped up. He pushed, straining to give her extra lift.
She vaulted upward, her hands catching the lip of the pedestal.
Blaine edged away, expecting the beast to pounce, but the gargoyle remained frozen.
Kath swung up onto the pedestal, dwarfed by the stone beast.
Steel hissed from leather. Blaine unsheathed his blue sword, but the gargoyle remained lifeless.
Kath stood on the pedestal, staring up at the gargoyle. The monster reared over her, thrice the height of a tall man, a nightmare cast in stone. Kath drew the crystal dagger, her voice a whisper, “For Honor and the Octagon!” She touched the dagger’s tip to the statue’s flank. Crystal touched stone yet the gargoyle remained quiescent, nothing but a statue. Kath stepped forward and disappeared into the gargoyle.
“By the gods!” Blaine staggered backwards, his sword clutched in his fist. She’d disappeared into the stone! He hadn’t known what to expect, but not that, never that! His heartbeat thundering, Blaine joined the others, his stare locked on the gargoyle.
At first he thought it was a trick of his eyes, but then he was sure. The statue moved! Muscled rippled beneath stone as the beast awoke. Wings unfurled and claws reached for the heavens. Jaws of a lion, claws of a dragon, wings of a bat, the great stone beast rose to its full height. Its huge jaws stretched wide and then snapped shut, as if it had swallowed something it did not like. The beast clawed at its own belly, stone raking against stone. It writhed upon its pillar, its claws making an ominous sound, but it did not roar.
And then it suddenly stilled…frozen once more.
Blaine held his breath.
The steppes went quiet, not even a breath of wind stirred.
The world seemed to wait.
The gargoyle shuddered. The great head reared back, jaws gaping wide.
Blaine thought he heard a sound, like the release of a long held sigh.
Without warning, the gargoyle exploded. Bits of stone blew in all directions. A piece of jaw thunked into the steppes. A clawed talon landed near Blaine’s left boot. He staggered backwards, his hands raised to guard his face.
The rain of stone stopped.
The dust cleared.
Kath stood alone on the pedestal, the crystal dagger raised to the heavens.
“Svala!” All around him, the painted warriors knelt, a single word on their lips like a prayer. “Svala!”
They knelt, but Blaine would not bend the knee. Instead, he kept watch, his blue sword gripped in his fist.
Eleven more gargoyles remained. Blaine expected the others to fight, but instead they knelt. They knelt, their clawed hands extended in supplication.
Kath leaped from the empty pedestal and strode to the next gargoyle. The great beast wrapped its hand around her waist and lifted her to its chest, clasping her close as a lover. Kath melted into the statue. This time the beast did not fight. Throwing its head back, it uttered a long held sigh…and then shattered into a thousand pieces.
Kath stood alone atop the pedestal.
All around him, the painted warriors cavorted and laughed, shouting the word “Svala!” like a prayer or a triumph.
Blaine watched as Kath moved from one gargoyle to the next. Each time the gargoyle gently lifted her to its breast. When she entered the last beast Blaine dared the roadway, walking to the beast’s pedestal. The last gargoyle shattered into a rain of stone, but somehow the pieces missed him.
Covered in rock dust, Kath stood on the pedestal, pale as a ghost, dark shadows beneath her eyes.
“You did it.” He reached up to help her down. She felt light in his arms, as fragile as glass.
“Put me down.” He set her on the ground and she stepped away as if she could not bear to be touched. Sheathing the crystal dagger, she stared up at him, but there was no triumph in her eyes. “They wanted to die.” Shuddering she seemed to come back to herself. “Have Torven send the signal. Tell Danya to bring the army.”
She turned to walk away but he couldn’t let her go. “Wait.” The question blurted out. “What did you see inside the gargoyles?”
She gave him a bleak look. “Hell.” Turning, she took two steps and crumpled to the ground.
51
The Knight Marshal
The retreat was a ragged rout, a wild gallop half a league up the valley. Wounded limped on spears while many knights rode double. Riderless horses careened past, freed from their stalls. Baldwin carried the king’s standard, a rallying point for the knights. The marshal rode in the rear, trying to being order to chaos.
They regrouped at the third wall. A relic from a bygone age, the twelve-foot wall served as the last line of defense for Raven Pass. Crudely built from mud and undressed stone, the ancient wall spanned the valley but it offered a meager defense. Without towers, trenches, or battlements, the marshal knew it would be a bitch to defend. Little wonder the men dubbed it the Whore.
Still, it was the only wall left to them, so they took refuge behind it, counting their numbers and licking their wounds. The marshal posted a handful of lookouts but otherwise he let the men rest.
Stragglers poured in at sunset. Grim-faced, their maroon cloaks tattered and torn, they trudged to the wall, beaten but not cowed. Most told tales of fierce fighting within the hallways of the second wall, yet the enemy did not follow. The marshal figured the victors were enjoying the spoils but he doubted they’d have long before the horde came calling.
Cold and weary, he pulled his maroon cloak tight and kept moving, taking the pulse of the men. So many faces were missing; comrades and friend
s lost to the battle, yet his duty to the living left no time to mourn.
He found Lothar sitting around a makeshift campfire, a bandage on his head. They grasped arms like brothers, the fierceness of their grip belying their gruff words. “So you still live.”
Lothar quirked a lopsided grin, “Too tough to kill.”
“What happened to your head?”
“A chunk of the bloody wall up and hit me.” The levity bled from his face. “I never knew stone could just disappear like that.”
The marshal nodded, “Magic and monsters, just as the healer said.”
“Makes you wonder what the blue robed monk might have told us.” Lothar’s voice turned to a growl. “I’d like to have another chance to talk with that monk.”
“And I’d like to have ten times the men, but we make do with what we have.”
Lothar’s face turned grim. “So you think they’ll come on the morrow?”
“Aye, they’ll come.”
Lothar’s voice dropped to a hushed whisper. “Fight or flee?”
“That’s the question.” He gestured to the west. “The king sits at the big campfire up that way. You can’t miss it. Meet me there.”
Lothar gripped his arm, worry in his voice. “The king?”
The marshal hesitated. “I’ve told the others he was struck by a stone when the wall sundered. But the truth is…he was shattered by Ulrich’s death…his last son slain by the horde.”
Lothar swore. “By Valin’s sword!” He fingered his battleaxe, his gaze grim. “Will he fight?” His voice dropped to a hush. “Will he lead?”
The marshal just stared. “I have to see to the men. I need to know what’s left.” He gave Lothar a pointed stare and then made the rounds, taking stock of the men, their morale, their supplies, and their horses. He found more heart than he expected. Huddled under maroon cloaks, the men sat around campfires, sharpening their weapons and mending their armor. Weariness hung across them like a pall, but most refused to give up. Stubborn courage was ever the strength of the Octagon, and it hadn’t failed them this day. Magic had betrayed them; else they’d still be on the walls. But he couldn’t dwell on what was lost.
The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga) Page 41
