The Knight Marshal (The Silk & Steel Saga) (14 page)

“A vengeful god drunk on blood,”
Sir Abrax made the hand sign against evil. “Something’s wrong here, we should
not tarry.”

The marshal gave the knight a stern
look. “It’s a riddle, nothing more. We need to know why so many ogres died.
Search the field and see if we can find a survivor.”

As if in answer something stirred
at the far end of the meadow. Arising from a pile of corpses, a lone figure
waited. Clad in a hodge-podge of maroon and black armor, he looked like a
scavenger…or warrior who could not make up his mind which side to serve. Tall
with broad shoulders, the hilt of great sword reared over his left shoulder.

Lothar whispered, “Friend or foe?”

The marshal had no answer, but a warning
shivered down his spine. He swung down from the saddle, his hand itching for
his sword. “Let’s find out.”

19

Blaine

Blaine did not trust the palace. Ever since that monstrous
thing
came calling at his bedroom window in the dead of night he’d been plagued by
nightmares. He’d banished the women from his bed and slept with his great sword
by his side, but it did not help, so he spent his time hunting shadows.

Unlike the others, he knew the
citadel could be conquered but not tamed. Kath seemed content to brood while
Zith spent his time hunting for scrolls and magical trinkets, but Blaine kept his sword sharp. He formed a hunting party, four painted warriors and a guide,
a street urchin from the fourth tier. Together they prowled the citadel hunting
priests and assassins.

“This way, m’lord.” Dermit was a
quick lad, small for his age, but he had an eye for detail and he knew the
citadel’s back ways like a rat knows the sewers.

The Dark Citadel was as much a city as a fortress
,
a monstrous beehive of stone riddled with crannies and back alleyways. Blaine had learned that each tier had a distinct purpose, slaves and serfs on the bottom,
the ruling tiers near the top, the starving poor forced to serve the pampered
rich. Nearly everything about the citadel sickened Blaine, but the hell-spawned
tiers helped to narrow the search. Reserved for priests and their acolytes and
families, the second tier proved a perfect hunting ground for malevolent
shadows.

Dermit led them to the main
seminary. A soaring temple of dark marble crowned by a pentacle, it might have
been impressive if not for the battered doors and the heads rotting on spikes.
Empty eye sockets glared down at them, the putrid flesh sagging with rot,
distorting the faces into gruesome nightmares. Blaine pushed his way through
the broken doors. Tingold and Ruthgar followed carrying torches. Corwin and
Tomkin came last, their swords drawn. Torchlight danced across the cavernous
hallway, revealing a scene straight from hell. Headless bodies in priests’ robes
sprawled across the floor. A few were young, little more than boys, yet they
shared the same grim fate as the priests.

Steps led to a great altar smeared
with excrement and stripped of anything valuable. The stench was appalling.
Something skittered in the corners. Blaine drew his great sword and crouched
for battle. Red eyes glowed in the corners, but they were nothing but rats
emboldened by the feast.

Blaine smothered his nose against
the horrid stench. “This is useless. The crowd’s already wrought their
vengeance.” 

“No, m’lord, you’ll see.” Dermit
picked a path through the dead. Along the far wall, another battered door gaped
open like a startled mouth. They passed through the door, making their way
through a warren of narrow hallways and sleeping cells. More dead littered the
hallways, but the somehow the stench was not nearly as bad. Perhaps the bodies
weren’t as ripe. Towards the back, the rooms grew more opulent. Bright mosaics
decorated the floors, gilded braziers stood in the corners, the shadow of
pilfered tapestries on the walls, but everywhere Blaine saw signs of death and
looting. “We’re wasting time. This place has been thoroughly ransacked.”

“No, lord, we’re nearly there.”

And then they found the chapel.
Sunlight filtered through stained glass windows, illuminating the chapel with
an eerie red light. A gilded mosaic soared along the back wall, the image of a
man in dark robes wielding a glowing staff, a nimbus of red light surrounding
him. “
The Mordant!”
Blaine stared up at the looming figure but the face
was shadowed and obscured, as if the mosaic kept a secret, yet the image
screamed of menace and frightening power, a formidable foe etched in history
and obscured by legend.

Beside him, Corwin hissed. “
The
altar!”

And then he saw it. Instead of gold
and other precious offerings, the dark altar was laden with food, great rounds
of bread and lidded pots that smelled of stew. Tugging off a gauntlet, Blaine touched one. “Still warm.”

The others gripped their weapons,
suddenly alert.

Blaine looked to the boy. “Someone
brings food?”

“For the priests that hide. Follow
the food and you’ll find the skulkers.”

“But why do they bring it?”

“Out of fear…or seeking favor.”

Blaine felt betrayed. “But I
thought the priests were hated?”

“And so they are.” Dermit gave him
a cautious look. “But some think the priests will rule again…when you leave.”

Tingold swore. “By the nine hells,
the priests will never rule.” The wolf-faced scout flashed a crooked grin.
“Especially when they’re all dead.”

Blaine nodded. “Just so. But we
have to find them to kill them.”

They searched the chapel. Someone
had made an effort to wipe the gore from the marble floor. Bloodstains showed
where corpses had been dragged to the outer room. Blaine supposed those in
hiding did not want to eat with their dead. Tingold knelt by the far wall.
“Look here!”

Blaine crossed the room to crouch
by the scout. Tingold held a torch near the floor, illuminating a bloody boot
print half severed by the marble wall, as if someone had walked through the
stone. “A secret passage!”

Tingold nodded.

Blaine put his shoulder against the
wall and pushed, but it remained firm. “Must be a trigger somewhere.” He turned
to the boy. “Do you know about this?”

Dermit shrugged. “The priests are
full of secrets, most of them nasty.”

He heard the warning in the boy’s
voice. “Find the trigger.” Blaine climbed the dais to the altar. A pair of onyx
gargoyles supported the altar stone, twisted monsters with misshapen heads,
eagles mixed with lions and dragons. He ran his hand across the carved stone,
prying and pushing. The head
turned.
Stone grated against stone, and the
far wall swung open releasing a breath of musty air.

Blaine whirled, his blue sword held
at the ready, but there was nothing but darkness lurking beyond. Steps led
down, every other one marked by a bloody boot print. The trail disappeared into
the depths. “Let’s find the bloody bastards.”

Tingold went first, a sword in one
hand, a torch in the other. Dermit started to follow, but Blaine stopped him.
“You wait here.”

The lad shook his head, a stubborn
look on his face. “A squire would never leave his knight.”

“Stop badgering me, boy. You’re too
small, you’re too scrawny, and a squire’s position must be
earned
.”

“But you
need
me!” Hope and
pleading warred across the lad’s face. “None of you know the citadel the way I
do.”

Blaine gave in. “Fine, but stay out
of the way.”

Dermit flashed a rogue’s grin.
“Yes, m’lord.”

Blaine went second, followed by
Dermit. Ruthgar and Corwin and Tomkin brought up the rear. The air held a musty
stale smell. After the rotten carnage of the upper halls, the stale smell was a
welcome relief. The two torches cast circles of light, revealing rough cut
stone instead of dressed marble. Blaine wondered if the stairs led to a dungeon,
or maybe a storage chamber turned hiding hole. The stairs leveled off and they
came to a large vaulted room cluttered with treasure. Rolled tapestries, gold
candlesticks, silver incense burners, cedar chests, an inlaid screen, an ebony
chair, religious icons, all of it haphazardly stacked against the far wall as
if it had been hastily snatched from the chambers above. Taking a deep breath, Blaine caught the bitter scent of Vetra, the toxic smoke the priests used for their
rituals. “Smell that?” He took another breath to be sure. “They’ve  been here.
And not too long ago.”

Tingold circled the chamber,
spilling torchlight across the treasure. “Look at this loot. The thrice-cursed
priests pilfered their own halls.”

Blaine opened a small silver box.
Jewels winked inside, sapphires, emeralds, garnets and topaz, a duke’s ransom
in cut gems. “Why is evil always awash in riches?”

“It’s their nature,” Corwin
answered, “the bastards are better at stealing, especially the god-cursed
priests.”

“No reason they should have all the
reward.” Blaine emptied the gems into his belt pouch. He flipped a large
sapphire to Dermit. “For your help.”

The dark-haired lad flashed a grin,
tucking the gem into his pocket.

Surveying the stacked treasure, Blaine spied a long narrow chest of carved wood, a curious shape for a box, just the right
size for a great sword. He pried the lid open, disappointed by the find. A
silver staff topped by a pentacle sat nestled in dark velvet. It looked like
something Zith would take an interest in.

Dermit hissed. “Don’t touch it,
lord!”

Blaine stayed his hand. “Why?”

“Priestly stuff can have strange
powers.”

“What kind of powers?”

Dermit backed away. “Scary and
hurtful.”

Blaine shut the lid. “We’ll leave
it for Zith.”

Corwin growled, “We’ve found their
loot, now let’s find the bloody bugg…” his words ended in a strangled scream.
Dropping his sword, he clutched his throat, pulling a bloody dart from his
neck. He held it towards Blaine, foam flecking his mouth, his eyes already
dead.

Something
snicked
through
the air. Blaine whirled, catching a glimpse of moving darkness. A heavy weight
thudded onto his back, a thin wire looping over his head. The wire cut into his
throat, drawing blood while threatening to strangle him. Blaine dropped his sword,
clutching at the wire, struggling to breathe. Desperate for release, he flung
himself backward, crashing his assailant onto the floor. The wire loosened. Blaine tore it away, turning to grapple with the enemy. Clad all in black, his assailant
was small in stature but he had a barrel chest and a blacksmith’s strength.
Gloved hands closed around Blaine’s throat in a death grip. Blaine bucked
against the deadly choke, one hand reaching for the dagger sheathed at his
belt. His assailant rolled on top. Fingers closing like iron bands around Blaine’s throat; the enemy straddled him, flashing a malicious grin…that suddenly went
slack. The assailant slumped forward, blood blooming on the back of his head. Blaine flung the limp form away. Pulling a dagger from his belt, he pounced on the
assassin. His dagger plunged down. Once, twice, thrice, his dagger bit deep,
making sure the attacker was dead. Gasping for breath, Blaine looked up to find
Dermit standing over him with a golden candlestick in his fists.

The lad looked pale as death.

“You saved me.” Blaine’s voice
sounded hoarse.

Dermit nodded, dropping the
candlestick. “An assassin,” the lad pointed to the dead assailant, “an assassin
of the ninth rank.”

Blaine flicked a glance to the
others. Corwin and Tomkin were both dead, felled by poisoned darts, a coward’s
weapon. Ruthgar was tying a cloth around a bloody gash on his arm while Tingold
cleaned his sword, a dead assassin at his feet. “Took two of us to kill the
bastard.”

Blaine retrieved his blue sword. Sheathing
it, he cleaned his dagger, pausing to take a good look at the dead assassin.
Small in stature and clad in supple black, he wore a baldric of nine throwing
knives across his chest. “How many assassins are in the citadel?”

Dermit shrugged. “No one knows…but
they only serve the most high.”

“The most high what?”

“Priests.”

A shiver raced down Blaine’s back.

Ruthgar said, “We could use a few
more swords.”

Blaine shook his head. “If we
leave, they’ll bolt.” He nodded towards the far door. “Let’s see what’s ahead.”
Blaine sheathed his dagger and drew his blue steel sword.

To his credit, Dermit did not balk.
The lad picked up Corwin’s torch, and followed Blaine through the far doorway.
Tingold and Ruthgar came behind, their swords drawn. The narrow passage twisted
left and then right, torchlight glinting off of rough stone. Twice Blaine caught the faint scent of Vetra, but the chambers were empty. They passed several
sleeping cells, nothing in them but bedrolls…and then the passage seemed to
darken. Blaine edged forward, his sword held at the ready. So dark, the inky
blackness seemed to repel the torchlight. Blaine strained to see, yet saw
nothing. Hairs prickled at the back of his neck.

A voice from the darkness
whispered, “
Imbolith flamous an!”

Flames erupted on Blaine’s hands.
Fierce heat bit through his gauntlets, scorching his hands with unbearable
pain. Screaming, he dropped his sword. Slamming his hands together, he tried to
beat out the flames, but instead of dying, the fire grew. Flames raced up his
arms, engulfing his face. His hair ignited, becoming a glowing nimbus. Maddened
by pain, Blaine beat at his face, shrieking in agony. Heat engulfed him, a
terrible blistering heat. Blaine felt like he was melting, roasted within his
chainmail. Blackened and burned, he felt the skin peel from his face. Howling,
he fell to his knees writhing in agony, surrounded by fire.

A figure approached, a man in dark
robes. “I will make a dark sacrifice of you, knight of the Octagon!”

Blaine fought against the agony. In
the back of his mind, a voice whispered,
*Remember the Mist! See the truth!*
Blaine fought the pain, struggling to understand.
*See the truth!*
He
looked at his arms, looked through the flames and saw fire engulfing his hands
yet nothing burned! Nothing was charred, nothing was melted, and nothing was
singed.
Lies wrapped in sorcery!
He knew the truth, yet pain shuddered
through him.

The dark priest approached, a
silver staff gripped in one hand, a sharp sickle in the other. “Kneel before
me, for I will have your life’s blood!”

His blue sword lay abandoned on the
floor. A searing agony roared through Blaine, yet he made himself move, lunging
for the sword. His hand felt charred and ruined, yet he gripped the hilt,
swinging the blade upwards. The point took the priest in the throat. He rammed
the blade deep, bright blood spraying wide. The priest gaped, a startled look
on his bearded face. The staff and sickle fell from lifeless hands, clattering
on the stone floor.