The Knight Marshal (The Silk & Steel Saga) (13 page)

Kath gasped, wiping the blood from
her face. “What was that…
thing
?” She shuddered, staring down at the
severed head.

Blaine answered while stomping on
coals spilled from the brazier. “A priest chained to Vetra.”

Dead priests littered the floor,
all of them with blackened lips and sunken eyes. She nudged one with her boot,
making sure it was dead. “Vetra?”

“A sacred herb they use for
trances.” Blaine poked a corpse with his sword. “Too much holy herb and they
turn into ravening ghouls. Eat enough of it and it kills them.”

“It’s not killing them fast
enough.” Kath coughed, choking on the bitter smoke clouding the chamber. “How
do you know this?”

Blaine gave her a hard look. “I’ve
been hunting priests.”

Kath heard the rebuke in his voice.

“Did you enjoy sitting on the
throne?”

She gaped at the anger in his
voice.

Bear answered. “An assassin
attacked us.”

Blaine raised an eyebrow. “An
assassin?”

Bear nodded. “Clad in black, he
moved like a spider.”

“Boar is dead. Slain by the
assassin.” Kath’s voice sounded flat and lifeless. “He will be sorely missed.”

Bear gave her a solemn nod. “He
died an honorable death, protecting the Svala. The Ancestor will long sing his
name.” Bear stared at her, an odd look on his tattooed face. Crossing the room,
he reached out, plucking a dart from Kath’s chest. Lodged in the leather
harness of her axes, the dart had missed her heart by a finger’s width.

Kath shuddered, feeling the
nearness of death.

Bear held the dart towards Blaine. “The assassin fought like a coward, using poisoned darts.” Giving Kath a fierce
look, he hurled the dart into the gloom. “Not today.”

She gave him a slow nod. “Not
today.” Sheathing her sword, she surveyed the chamber. Runes covered the walls,
polished onyx inlaid in gray granite. The chamber appeared to be a small chapel
converted to a hiding hole for the priests. Bedrolls and bulging sacks were
shoved along one wall, but it was the altar that caught Kath’s gaze. A black
stone altar dominated the far wall, and on that altar sat a small ornate box,
gold bejeweled with dark diamonds. “What’s that?”

Blaine shrugged. “Their hiding
holes are full of trinkets and treasures.” Climbing the dais, he flipped open
the lid. “Well look at this!” Surprise rode his voice. Reaching into the box,
he removed a pale shard of crystal the length of a small dagger.

Kath gaped to see it. Climbing the
dais, she unsheathed the crystal dagger and held it next to the shard. One was
a sharpened dagger with a small cross-hilt, the other a rough shard of pale
quartz, a tooth plucked from the depths of the earth. Both looked to be made of
the same crystal.

“Is it?”

Kath nodded. “What the monks use to
test for harlequins.”

“What’s it doing here?” Blaine gestured to the bejeweled box. “And why treat it like a holy relic?”

Understanding struck. “Because the
Mordant subverts the weapons of Light to Darkness. Somehow the Mordant used
this crystal to his advantage. He turns our own strengths against us.” Kath
shuddered to hear her own words, like a portent of doom, but the answer felt
right, leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. “We need to show this to Zith.”

They searched the chapel, but found
nothing else of significance. Returning to the throne room, Kath knelt by Boar’s
body. Whispering a prayer to Valin, she bid him farewell. Taking a deep breath,
she gathered herself and surveyed the throne room one last time. “I want Boar
buried next to Duncan. And I want the gold stripped from the dais and put to a
better use. And I want the throne burned, released from its terrible service.”

Beneath her boots, the basilica
shuddered and shook.

Bear gave her a solemn nod. “It
will be as you command, Svala.”

“And I will never come here again.”
Kath turned and strode from the basilica, fingering the crystalline shard.
Weapons
of Light turned to Darkness,
she shivered, making the hand sign against
evil.

18

The Knight Marshal

The marshal stood in the stirrups, watching the enemy pour
down the mountain trail. He judged the odds to be three to one against, yet he
refused to sound the retreat. “
Form the line!”

Maroon knights answered his call,
presenting an armored line across the bloodstained valley.

The marshal raised his sword, “
For
Honor and the Octagon!”
Putting spurs to his mount, he led the charge.
Hooves churned the bloody snow as arrows sang from the forest. The maroon
struck at a gallop, hitting the enemy like a massive battering ram. Swords rang
against axes and men died beneath ironshod hooves. At first it was a rout, the
maroon’s heavy horses plowing into the enemy, the speed of the gallop making
scythes of their swords, but then the charge slowed and the swarm brought their
numbers to bear. The line crumbled into individual battles, small knots of
maroon surrounded by churning black, a chaotic swirl of kill or be killed. The
marshal fought side-by-side with Sir Abrax, two great swords carving a circle
of death, but the press of the enemy never slowed. Stroke and parry, he
struggled to keep his seat. Sweat stung his eye and his sword arm ached, yet he
endured.
Fight or die,
he steered his horse with his knees, swinging his
great sword at the nearest foe.

A shout rose from the enemy and the
ferocity of the fight trebled. The black tide surged around him, threatening to
devour the maroon. The marshal stood in the stirrups, trying to make sense of
the battle.

“
They’ve got an ogre!”
Sir
Abrax pointed and the marshal saw it was true. Towering head and shoulders
above mere men, the ogre waded into battle, wielding death with each swing of
its massive war club. As the marshal watched, it crushed the skull of a horse
with a single blow and then aimed a back-handed slap at the rider, hurling the
knight from the saddle. Black-cloaked soldiers swarmed the fallen knight like
roaches to a feeding frenzy.

The battle tide was turning,
slipping away from the maroon. Standing in the stirrups, the marshal yelled, “
Kill
the ogre!”

Sir Abrax lifted his blue sword in
acknowledgment and began cutting a path to the ogre. The marshal angled his horse
to approach the beast from its left side, fighting his way through a tangle of
foot soldiers.

At the heart of the field, Sir
Abrax reached the ogre, his sapphire sword gleaming like a beacon in the
afternoon light. The ogre bellowed, swinging its studded war club in a deadly
arc. A fearsome sight, the hulking ogre dwarfed the knight. Bulging with
muscles, it had freakishly long arms and a giant’s crushing strength. Clad in
furs, it seemed more beast than man.

The marshal urged his horse
forward, refusing to let Sir Abrax fight alone. Hacking his way through the
press, he carved a path to the center. “
Knights to me! To me!”
 

Mounds of bodies surrounded the
ogre, a grizzly rampart of the dead and dying. The marshal asked his horse to a
gallop, leaping the carnage. At the height of the jump, he gained a clear view
of the ogre, watching in horror as Sir Abrax went down, his horse felled by the
ogre’s punch. “
Fight me!”
 Spurring his horse, the marshal closed the
distance. He bellowed a war cry as his stallion barreled into the ogre.

Hit in the chest, the ogre stumbled
backward, a startled look in piggish eyes, but it did not fall.
It did not
fall.
So close, the marshal could see the stubble on the ogre’s lantern
jaw, its cruel teeth filed to points. Snarling, the ogre lashed out with a
ham-handed fist, punching the marshal in the chest. The fist struck like a
battering ram. Pain exploded in the marshal’s chest. Starved for air, he felt
crushed. Something struck him from behind. Stunned, he realized he’d hit the
ground. Floundering in the snow, he gasped for breath while trying to avoid his
horse’s plunging hooves. A spiked war-club struck the ground, narrowly missing
his head. The marshal rolled away. His great sword glittered in the snow. He
lunged for it. Grabbing the sword, he staggered to his feet. The massive war
club swung in his direction. The marshal raised his sword, braced to parry.
Wood struck steel, a mighty blow that nearly forced him to his knees. His sword
bit deep, embedded in the club. The marshal tugged, but his sword was stuck
fast. The ogre twisted the club, wrenching the sword from his hands.

Cruel laughter rumbled from the
ogre, a terrible mocking sound.
“Now you die!”

The marshal stood his ground,
unsheathing his dagger.

The ogre hefted his war club for
the killing blow.

Sir Abrax sprang from the mound of
corpses like a knight resurrected from the dead. His blue sword flashed,
severing the ogre’s descending fist, cleaving the hand from the arm. The ogre
roared in pain, droplets of blood spattering like red rain. One-handed, the
ogre flailed its club, smashing circles of death, heedless of friend or foe.

The marshal staggered backwards.
Avoiding a vicious swing, he tripped over a corpse. The dead man held a spear.
A
spear!
Dropping his dagger, he took up the spear and rushed the ogre.
Somehow he got inside the club’s fearsome swing. With a roar, he thrust for the
ogre’s abdomen. The leaf-shaped blade bit deep. Eight-inches of cold steel
embedded in the beast’s belly. The ogre bellowed in pain but it did not die.
It
did not die!
The marshal clung to the blood-slicked shaft, twisting the
spear to disembowel the beast. A horrible stench filled the air. Beside him,
Sir Abrax rained blows on the ogre’s thick hide. Just when it seemed the beast
would never die, the ogre made a gurgling noise and toppled backwards, felled
like tree.

Releasing the spear, the marshal
staggered backwards, flicking a grateful glance at Sir Abrax. “What happened to
you? I thought you dead.”

The knight planted a booted foot on
the ogre’s war club. “The ogre punched my horse. With one blow, it killed my
mount and then the poor horse fell on me. Took me a while to get loose.”
Yanking the trapped sword from the club’s fierce bite, he tossed it to the
marshal. “If you hadn’t come, the ogre would have ground my bones to dust.
Behind
you!
”

The marshal whirled, raising his
sword to block an axe blow. The battle resumed in a rush. Ignoring his
exhaustion, he fought for his life. Stroke and parry, the fighting seemed to
drag on to forever, but then he heard the horn, three short blasts followed by
one long note. The marshal grinned, knowing it had to be Gravis. He risked a
glance toward the far side of the valley, relieved to see maroon knights
galloping down the mountain trail. Two hundred knights attacked with lances
lowered. Panic claimed the enemy. Instead of fighting, they began to run. The
battle became a rout.

The fighting swept passed him.
Desperate to catch his breath, the marshal leaned on his sword, watching as
younger knights finished the battle. The falling snow trickled to a stop and
the air seemed warmer, or perhaps it was just his body heat rising like steam
from beneath his armor. Exhausted and aching, he surveyed the field. Snow ran
red with blood, the valley littered with the dead and dying. He found himself
standing near the ogre’s corpse. Sir Abrax kicked its booted foot. “How many of
these do you think they have?”

The marshal raised his visor,
relishing the cold against his face. “Whatever the number it’s too many.”

Sir Gravis approached at a trot,
his sword dripping red with blood, his warhorse slick with sweat. “The field is
ours.”

The marshal nodded. “What took
you?”

Sir Gravis scowled. “They set a
rear guard. We had to fight our way through.”

The answer made sense but it felt
like a sword blow to the marshal’s gut. “They’re changing tactics. They
expected an attack from the rear.” He wondered what other surprises the enemy
had in store, but he was too weary to think. “Tend to the wounded, count the dead,
and loot the enemy, we need to be gone from here.”

Sir Gravis saluted and wheeled his
horse away.

The marshal glanced at Sir Abrax.
“We best find mounts.” He searched the field till he found his stallion
cropping grass from an opening pawed in the snow. Relieved to find his horse
alive, he approached with soft words. “You did well, my friend. You deserve an
apple.” Feeling a rumble in the pit of his stomach, the marshal added, “We both
deserve apples. Pity we have none.” It hurt just to swing into the saddle.
Every part of his body ached, his chest worst of all. He thanked Valin his
armor hadn’t crumpled beneath the ogre’s blow.

“Water. Give me water.”

The marshal heard the weak plea and
traced it to a mound of bodies. Dismounting, he found a maroon knight lying
amongst the enemy, blood drenching his surcoat.

“
Water?”
 

He knelt, gently removing the man’s
battered helm. “
Devlan!”
Recognition hit like a hammer-blow. The squire
was newly raised to a knight, barely old enough to shave and now he’d seen his
last battle. Sick at heart, the marshal held a flask to the lad’s lips, wishing
it was brandy instead of water. “Drink, for you fought well.”

“My Lord Marshal!” The lad gulped
at the ice-cold water but his gaze was full of questions. “Victory?”

“Yes, victory. And judging from the
dead around you, you’ve brought honor to the maroon.” A crooked smile graced
the lad’s face. The marshal held him close while his gaze searched the lad’s
wound. A foul smell told the tale, a fearful cut through the bowels, but judging
from the lad’s pallor the pain was almost over. The marshal sat with him,
cradling his head till his eyes glazed over. Death came without a sound.
Straightening the body, the marshal found a sword and placed it in his hands.
He bowed his head and sent a prayer to Valin, “A worthy squire and a promising
knight, you should have seen more than one victory.” Laden with bitterness, the
marshal swung back into the saddle. He felt old, so old, yet there was no one
else to lead the Octagon.

He rode back through the carnage,
offering words of encouragement to the wounded while counting the living. Too
many knights lay dead, perhaps a third of his force, yet the battle was won. It
seemed a hollow victory.

Someone hailed his name. He turned
to find Lothar cantering towards him, but instead of a roan stallion he rode a
bay mare. Seeing his friend, the marshal struggled to keep the relief from his
voice. “I see you’ve found a new horse.”

Lothar offered him a lopsided grin.
“Glad to see you too. Guess we’re both too tough to kill.”

“The young are always the first to
fall.” The marshal winced at the bitterness lacing his voice. “What happened to
your horse?”

“Savaged by one of those damn
hellhounds. I found myself afoot and lost you in the fray.”

“And the mare?”

Lothar grimaced. “Belonged to
Sparlin. He won’t be needing a horse no more.”

Another young one struck down, the
marshal spared a moment to remember the young blonde-haired knight with the
ready smile. 

Lothar nudged him out of his grim
thoughts. “At least the ambush worked.”

“This time, but they’re changing
their tactics. And that damn ogre nearly had us.”

“But a victory none the less.”

“True, but the cost was high.” The
marshal watched as his men worked with quiet efficiency, loading the wounded
onto travois, looting the dead and butchering felled horses for their
much-needed meat. “At least we’ll eat meat tonight.”

A column of maroon formed up behind
him. Lothar took his position on the marshal’s right with Sir Abrax on his
left. Giving a last glance at the dead, the marshal nudged his horse to a walk,
leading his men up out of the valley. They rode in silence, their armor
jangling, the snow crunching beneath ironshod hooves. The trail snaked upwards,
probing deeper into the Dragon Spine Mountains, a fortress of another sort.

Horses and men both hung their
heads, breathing plumes of frost into the crisp mountain air, exhausted from
the battle. They reached the crest and followed the narrow trail to a broad
alpine meadow, but instead of pristine white, the snow was bloody with corpses.

A flock of ravens took wing at
their approach. The marshal reined his stallion to a halt, shocked by the
butchery. Body parts lay strewn across the blood-drenched snow. All the dead
had been hacked to pieces, mutilated and defiled. The marshal was accustomed to
the gore of battlefields but this carnage was appalling. Not a single body
remained whole. Blood and entrails smeared the snow. A severed head lay close,
as if flung across the field in warning. The marshal prodded his horse forward,
staring down at the ruined face.

Dead eyes stared wide in horror
above a protruding lantern-jaw,
an ogre.
 The marshal studied the field
with fresh eyes. Amongst the gore, details leaped out at him, fur cloaks and
cudgels and spiked war clubs, black and gold, the colors of the Mordant. “An
ambush. They planned to ambush us with ogres.”

Nothing moved in the killing field,
not even the dark wings of carrion birds. A faint wind moaned through the trees
like the lament of souls. Instead of a battle, this was a slaughter. The
marshal reckoned sixty or more lay dead upon the field, most of them ogres. A
single ogre had nearly turned the tide of the last battle…two score would
decimate the maroon, yet here they lay, their bodies hacked to pieces as if
struck down by a mad god. The marshal surveyed the field, uncertain if he
should be pleased…or frightened.

Lothar reined his horse beside the
marshal. “They’re turning our own tricks against us, using ambushes nested
within ambushes, but who did this? It’s as if the gods struck them all dead and
then tore them asunder.”