The Prince Deceiver (The Silk & Steel Saga Book 6)

by Karen Azinger

  He trod hallowed ground, the gravesite of heroes, the oldest Shield Forest of the maroon. Using his quarterstaff as a walking stick, Quintus wandered amongst the shields. So many were freshly hung that they still glimmered silver, reflecting spears of sunlight, undimmed by the ravages of time. As a healer, death was his enemy, but Quintus always found the Shield Forest to be soothing to the spirit, a place of peace where all those who died under the maroon banner were remembered and honored. Surrounded by centuries of heroes, he walked amongst the rusting swords. A warbler burst into song, adding a feathered melody to the peace of the forest. Other birds twittered overhead, bright feathers flitting from branch to branch. Quintus paused to breathe deep the scents and sounds of the forest, overcome with an abiding sense of peace. Somehow the Shield Forest offered a kind of solace, as if death was not the end.

  Leaves rustled overhead, strummed by a light breeze, calling him back to his task. Quintus continued his quest, studying the forest with an herbalist's eyes. He spied a clump of mistletoe and used his staff to knock it from the branches. White berries budding among waxy green leaves, he added the mistletoe to his collection.

  And then he noticed something odd.

  The birdsong had fallen silent, as if a predator stalked the woods.

  A shiver raced down his back, he felt watched.

  Quintus whirled, nearly tripping over an exposed root. Regaining his balance, he brought his quarterstaff to bear in a cross-body block. The staff felt clumsy in his hands, yet he held it with a desperate grip. Sweat beaded his forehead. He scanned the forest, listening, seeking enemy eyes. Every shield and every sword became the perfect hiding place for foes. His heartbeat quickened. Every shadow seemed to hold menace, the peace of the forest suddenly banished.

  "Whoooooo."

  Golden eyes stared at him.

  Snowman glided towards him on silent wings.

  Quintus sagged in relief. "It's you."

  The great frost owl alighted on the cross hilt of a rusting sword. "Whoooo."

  "What took you so long?" The owl had an uncanny knack of always finding him, even in the most unexpected places. "I'm glad you're back. Did you bring me an answer?" Snowman looked lean, as if the hunting had been thin on his long journey north. Quintus fished the cold chicken leg from his pouch. "Here you go." He offered the chicken leg to the owl's delicate grasp. "You need this more than I do." While the owl feasted on chicken, the drumstick clutched in his formidable talon, Quintus checked the message jess. With shaking hands, he removed the small bone tube. A small parchment was coiled inside, but this was not the place. He thrust the tube deep into his collection satchel. "I'll meet you back at the healery."

  Snatching up his quarterstaff, he hurried north. Taking a direct path, he saw nothing as he strode through the forest, neither shields, nor swords, nor medicinal plants, his mind fastened on the small message parchment coil in his satchel.

  Emerging from the leafy shade, his footsteps slowed, momentarily dazzled by the bright sunlight and the view of the great castle. Slanting sunbeams burnished Castlegard's towering walls to a silvery glow, maroon battle banners rippling in the breeze. Reflections of the battlements shimmered in the deep green moat, casting an image of everlasting might. His heart quailed, for he knew the image was an illusion...unless the message held a cure.

  Desperate for an answer, he beat a straight path across the greensward. The hour was later than he thought, he dared not tarry. Sweating, his lungs puffing like a bellows, Quintus was the last to cross the drawbridge before the guards began to raise it for the night.

  He followed the others through the stone corridor without speaking a word. So distracted was he, that he did not even check the scar on the inner gate. Rushing across the great yard, he returned to the healery. Locking the door, he unburdened his satchels and then circled the chamber lighting every candle and lantern, seeking to dispel every scrap of shadow. With shaking hands, he reclaimed the message tube and drew forth the coiled parchment. His heartbeat thundered as he dared to look. It was in code. Another ominous sign. He unlocked his codex and deciphered the message.

  Three times he read the message before consigning the parchment to the candle flame. "The mage-stone magic is tied to intent. Darkness has corrupted the Octagon. Restore honor to the maroon. Aid comes in the form of a sword." His hands shook as the small strip of parchment went up in smoke. Restore honor to the maroon, the message made no sense. The maroon knights fought with valor. He saw it in the wounded, in the maimed veterans who found ways to serve, in the war-weary knights who returned to the battlefield. Beleaguered and sorely outnumbered, the knights fought a desperate winter war against an evil foe...so how had Darkness corrupted the maroon? And what was he supposed to do about it?

  He paced a path across the healery, wracking his mind for an answer to the riddle. "Restore honor to the maroon," he repeated the words of the message, but they made no sense. And then it hit him. "For Honor and the Octagon," the knights' words whispered out of him, hitting him like a lightning bolt. He stood statue-still, his hands shaking, his mind whirling. Mage-stone magic is tied to intent. Quintus shook his head at the elegant beauty of it. He'd always thought the words were just a battle cry, a heraldic motto, an inspiring phrase, but in truth they were so much more. Honor was the very bedrock on which the great mage-stone castle was founded. Honor was something the Dark could never understand. Something that could not be faked or mimicked for true honor went bone-deep. He marveled at the elegant wisdom of the ancient wizards. The answer had been right in front of him all along...yet it was also a riddle. How was he supposed to restore honor to the maroon...and how exactly had the Octagon's honor been lost?

  Only a healer...the knights don't even know I'm a monk! Befuddled, Quintus sat at his desk, watching the candles burn to wax puddles, feeling as if the weight of the great castle had collapsed on his shoulders. Shadows crowded the room as night knocked on his window, yet now that he had an answer, he knew not what to do.

  35

  General Haith

  The Darkflamme whispered overhead, snaking against a pale gray sky. Twelve feet of black silk ending in two tails of bright red flecked with gold, General Haith rode to war under the forked battle banner of the Mordant. Clad in armor worthy of the fearsome standard, the general wore the helm and breastplate of the Skeleton King. Treasures hoarded from a distant Age, the helmet was forged like a menacing skull, the breastplate adorned with a skeleton's steel ribs. Forged with arcane runes, silver cast over steel, the ancient armor was a work of high magic. Imbued with raw terror, the armor was fearful to behold. Even his own men shuddered at the sight, keeping their gazes averted. The general grinned, knowing fear was a powerful ally. The relics of Darkness rode to war, a vanguard of nightmares come to reap the souls of Erdhe.

  After the gorelabe's message, General Haith had wasted no time in escaping the lethal trap of Raven Pass. Keen to evade the Dark Sword, the general quickly assembled his elite force. He took all the horses, two thousand cavalry followed by a hundred Taals running to keep pace, their spiked cudgels balanced on their meaty shoulders. He'd also brought a cadre of fifty duegars, most of them snargons to ward against the magic of the monks. The stunted dwarves rode behind mounted warriors, carried like baggage lest they slow the force. Over two thousand strong, the cavalry formed the fleet spear tip of the Dark army, an agile strike force shot like an arrow into the heart of Erdhe.

  Ironshod hooves thundered behind him in a storm of war. The general was confident in the prowess of his force, yet he kept his most potent weapon in his saddlebag, a gift of magic from the Mordant. His lord spared no weapon to win this war.

  General Haith set a hard pace, knowing the timing was crucial. They rode south till they reached the Snowmelt River. Swollen with the spring melt, the river raged white and frothy. Cold and formidable, the Snowmelt denied their way south. Relying on captured maps, the general avoided the raging river, leading his force east towards Eye Bridge.

  Th
e Domain of Castlegard held few roads, as if the wild tangle of wilderness was part of the knights' defense. Thick forest shrouded the northern riverbank, the trees bursting with springtime leaves. Sunlight dappled the ground, painting an uneasy mix of light and shadow. General Haith kept his hand on his sword hilt. The forest made him uneasy. Shuttering his view, closing in on all sides, the dense green felt unnatural. He barked orders, sending a vanguard of his best scouts in every direction. He mistrusted the trees, for there were none to contend with in the north. The flat openness of the steppes was his preferred fighting field, where a man could see forever and numbers mattered more than strategy or stealth. Riding through the leafy green, he half expected an ambush hidden behind every towering cedar, but Darkness favored them. His army met no opposition till they reached the bridge.

  His scouts brought warning, an armored force guarded Eye Bridge.

  Dismounting, the general followed his scouts to a forested knoll overlooking the stone bridge. The sight that greeted him was almost laughable. With only two bridges spanning the raging Snowmelt, the general expected formidable fortifications to protect the crossing, a gatehouse bristling with weapons, perhaps catapults mounted on towers, but instead, the bridge was clearly built for peaceful times. Three graceful arches of stacked stone spanned the mighty Snowmelt, wide enough for two wagons to pass side- by-side. The stone bridge had no gates, no towers, no ramparts of any sort, proving the south was a soft land lulled by peace. Armored soldiers patrolled the bridge but their numbers were not daunting. Felled logs formed a feeble barrier on the road. Desperate for some defense, the soldiers had felled two massive trees, dragging them to form a chevron blocking the northern roadway. The general barked a laugh. "Logs, they seek to stop Darkness with logs!" His voice reeked with disdain, amused by the pitiful defense. "Come, I've seen more than enough."

  Returning to his army, the general swung into the saddle, barking orders to marshal his forces. He ordered the Taals to the front, a chevron of muscle pitted against a chevron of logs. His cavalry formed behind, the lethal follow-through to the Taals' brutal punch. Snapping his visor closed, he urged his stallion to a fast trot. Battle banners snapped overhead as they rode in deadly silence, a dark pestilence sweeping across the sunlit land. Without preamble, they thundered down out of the foothills and onto the roadway.

  Trumpets flared in warning from the bridge.

  The enemy scrambled into position, raising shields and spears. A ragged flight of arrows bit the sky. Peering through his visor, the general grinned, defying death. Ironshod hooves pounded the roadway, hurtling towards the bridge. Sharp-tipped arrows plummeted down, scouring shields and armor, but the volley was too thin to slow the dark tide.

  The Taals surged ahead, massive brutes wielding spiked war clubs. Bellowing a war chant, they barreled into the roadblock. Putting their muscled shoulders to the logs, the malformed giants pushed, their huge thighs churning forward.

  For ten heartbeats, a brutal stalemate prevailed, the massive logs pitted against the monstrous strength of the Taals...and then the logs moved.

  Pushed by the Taals, the massive logs became weapons.

  Men screamed, crushed to death beneath the felled trees.

  The Taals pushed harder, shoulders rammed against the barrier, rolling the logs. Screams turned to tortured howls. Rolled backwards, the logs crushed the defenders, opening a gore-strewn pathway to the bridge.

  The general unsheathed his sword, spurring his warhorse to a gallop. "For the Mordant!"

  His vanguard closed around him, shields set and swords lowered. General Haith led a thunderous charge, galloping toward the breach in the log barrier. A few desperate arrows launched from the enemy. Too little, too late, the arrows skittered harmlessly off shields and armor. Trumpets blared a warning and the Taals opened a path to the enemy. The general and his cohort surged past the strewn logs, barreling into the enemy's lines. His force hit like a battering ram. The enemy crumpled backwards, falling beneath ironshod hooves. Bellowing his war cry, General Haith pressed the attack. "For the Mordant!" Leaning forward in the saddle, he slew the enemy with sweeping sword strokes. His foes shrank back, cowering at the sight of his ensorcelled armor. Even the most stalwart soldiers hesitated, assaulted by terror. A skilled swordsman, the general reaped every advantage. His sword grew bloody with gore.

  His force pushed onto the bridge, but a knot of resistance formed on the left side, stubbornly resisting the Dark tide. At the heart of the resistance, a gleam of silver snagged the general's gaze. Bright armor often marked a senior officer. A hero rallied the enemy, thwarting his forces. The general's gaze narrowed, cut the head from the snake and it will quickly die. General Haith angled his warhorse towards the erstwhile hero, cutting his way into the heart of the resistance. "Fight me!" He bellowed his challenge towards the silver-clad hero. The enemy turned, his face going slack-jawed. Having gained a good look at the general's armor, the silver-clad hero faltered. Terror widened his eyes. The shiny knight hesitated. Hesitation in battle was death's prelude. Grinning, the general slew him, taking his head with a single swipe of his sword.

  All around him, men screamed and died. The enemy retreated, giving way in the wake of his onslaught. "Fight on!" General Haith stood in the stirrups, rallying his own men, but the enemy was not yet cowed.

  A frantic flare of trumpets summoned more foes to the bridge.

  Swords and spears struggled to bar the way, more grist for his reapers.

  The press on the bridge thickened, a lethal clash of swords. The dead and the dying multiplied, their bodies trampled beneath ironshod hooves. The Taals pushed forward, fighting alongside the cavalry, wielding their spiked war clubs and heaving enemies into the river. The general's vanguard showed no mercy, forging a relentless path across the bridge. Blood soaked the cobbled bridge, weeping red into the Snowmelt.

  Horns blared and the fighting slowed to a grind. The enemy surged, desperate to hold the bridge, but the dark tide could not be contained. Standing in the stirrups, the general gave the enemy a good look at his armor. Soldiers flinched away while others dropped their weapons, stricken by a mind-numbing terror. Grinning like death, the general roared his battle cry, cutting a bloody swath with his sword. "For the Mordant!"

  Echoing his cry, his vanguard spurred forward, taking advantage of the armor's effect. Hacking left and right, they cleared a path across the bridge. And then they were through. Open road loomed ahead. They'd gained the south side of the river.

  "Sound the charge!" The general shouted the order and a trumpeter blew a strident blast, summoning his host to a gallop. General Haith put spurs to his mount, leading his army south. Trumpets repeated their blare, calling his men away from the fighting. The general cared not how many of the enemy survived, or if they reclaimed the bridge, what mattered was that his army had crossed the Snowmelt, and now the tender south lay open to him like a whore with her legs spread wide.

  Beneath the Skeleton Helm, he grinned, flushed with power...and triumph. Everything his lord had predicted had come to pass. The Darkflamme fluttered overhead, snapping like a serpent's tongue scenting the vanguard's next victim. Terror clad in steel, General Haith rode south, keen to claim his prize.

  36

  The Knight Marshal

  Slaying patrols was not enough. Not enough challenge to test his skills, not enough blood to slake his battle lust, not enough souls to satisfy the Dark Sword. He needed more, much more. Consumed by an insatiable need for victory, the marshal rode west. Like a hound loosed to the hunt, he galloped towards the horde. Souls that wield swords, somehow he sensed the multitude massed within Raven Pass, a challenge worthy of the God of War.

  Twilight dimmed the sky to darkness as he reached the ridgeline overlooking Raven Pass. Campfires lit the pass, tens of thousands of glowing fires strewn the length of the valley. Competing with the very stars, the fires beat back the night with a warm buttery glow, proof he'd found the horde...but he'd expected more. Their numbers seemed dwin
dled, diminished since the last time he'd spied them from the ridge. Perhaps they'd been decimated by the winter war, or perhaps the army was split, dispersed to other battlefields, either way the marshal found himself...disappointed, as if fate sought to diminish his glory. He consoled himself with the thought that their numbers still qualified as a horde. A smile split his bearded face. He'd come to wage an epic battle worthy of legends. He'd come to prove his prowess against a vast horde. His destiny was finally at hand.

  W...a...i...t.

  He shuddered as the command whispered through him.

  Wait...wait...wait.

  Something bade him wait. Something insidious, something more than the Dark Sword.

  The marshal snarled like a mastiff straining against a chain. He yearned to wade into the enemy, to test his sword against their numbers. Thirsting for battle, he fought the voice, railing against the prohibition, yet he found himself obeying. Unable to attack, unwilling to leave, he made camp on the ridge top. Wrapped in his bedroll, he spent a fitful night beneath the stars. At dawn's first light, he saddled his warhorse and readied for battle, but once again the voice spoke.

  Wait.

  The command drove him to a rage yet he could not disobey. Needing to kill something, he ranged the length of the ridge, seeking prey. For nearly a fortnight, he prowled the ridge, hungering for the horde, yet the prohibition held. And then it came to him, a way to outwit the voice.

  Deciding to make it easy for his prey, he rode till he reached one of the few trailheads that connected the ridge top to the valley floor. It took him three days of hard toil to scavenge enough wood, but when he finished, the pyre towered over the trailhead like a sentinel. Stuffed with dry tinder, and stacked with enough wood to rise beyond his head by a full arm's length, the pyre was built to burn for days, a great beacon overlooking Raven Pass.