The Knight Marshal (The Silk & Steel Saga) (2 page)

Tormund joined him on the aftdeck,
his gaze full of questions. “Why the Orcnoths when there’s not a speck of
plunder among them?”

Lord Askal motioned his second
close. “Lead the raiding party. Take what you will from the island, but bring
me two men, whole and unharmed and return to the ship before sunset.”

“Why?”

His temper rose to a boil. “Obey!”
His voice dropped to a harsh whisper. “And perhaps this dark curse will be
lifted from our ship.” Turning from his second, he snapped an order at the
helmsman. “Take us in.”

With an impatient sweep of his dark
blue cape, Lord Askal left the aftdeck, pounding down the stairs to his second’s
cabin. Little more than a closet, yet it had the luxury of a single hammock. Aboard
ship, privacy was the coin of privilege. He flung open the only porthole to admit
a breath of fresh sea air and climbed into the hammock, trying to still his
racing thoughts. The hammock’s sway helped, like being rocked in the sea’s
bosom. He must have dozed, waking to a sharp knock on the door.

“It’s done.” Tormund stood in the
doorway, backlit by the red glow of sunset.

Instantly awake, he climbed from
the hammock. “You got two islanders?”

“Just as you ordered.”

“Good. Take us back out to sea.”

“Aye, captain.”

He followed Tormund to the aftdeck.
His crew looked lively, turning the great trireme back out to the fathomless sea.
The deck shuddered beneath his boots and canvas billowed overhead and then the
Dark
Fin
leaped forward keen for the open ocean. The sun hung above the horizon,
a great red orb nearly set, spilling crimson and gold onto the briny deep.

A whimpering sound came from the
rear. Two captives, shackled and chained, huddled by the railing, stinking of
fear. Sheepherders by the look of them, a father and son, nut-brown and filthy
but they seemed whole and unharmed.

On the other side of the deck, an
albatross sat trussed in nets. The great sea bird stared at him with an
accusing eye. He regretted the need for the bird. The lore of the sea named it
unlucky for any sailor to harm an albatross, but he’d pay any price to keep his
men safe and his ship whole.

A shadow swept across the deck.

He turned to find the Mordant
watching him. The pale lord was wrapped in thick dark robes, his right hand
clutching an iron staff, his knife-bedecked servant hovering like a shadow at
his back. “Well done.”

The praise sounded slimy in his
ears.

The Mordant stared toward the
setting sun. “I require the use of your rear deck at dark fall.”

“I steer my ship from the aftdeck.”

The Mordant did not seem to hear.
“Once the last of the light leaves the sky, order your men below, confined to
quarters until morning. I’ll brook no interference this night.”

“I’ll not leave my ship to
founder.”

“Don’t you trust your sea god?”

“The sea god expects a captain to
look after his ship.”

The Mordant nodded, a sly smile
playing across his face. “Then you alone may remain,” his eyes darkened, like
looking into two bottomless wells, “but if you interfere, you will die, and if
you watch, you will be forever changed.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

“So be it.” The Mordant turned,
disappearing down the stairs, his servant following like a stunted shadow.

Lord Askal shivered as if coming
out of a trance. Around the aftdeck, crewmen stood frozen, staring with wide
eyes. “Back to work!” The men scuttled like crabs looking for a hole.  

Sails beat overhead, filling with
wind. The
Dark Fin
cruised on a southerly heading, pulling away from the
small island till it was just a speck on the rear horizon. Gulls followed in
their wake, singing a mournful dirge. The setting sun lingered on the horizon,
as if the day was reluctant to surrender to night, but the darkness was
inevitable. All too soon, the first stars appeared, sending a shiver down his
spine.

Tormund approached, a scowl on his
swarthy face. He leaned close, his voice a whisper. “Let me stick a knife in
this land-lord’s back and be done with it. We’ll feed him to the sea and none
will be the wiser.”

Lord Askal shook his head. “Would
that we could, but the Miral has bound our hands. Best play along and hasten
the journey to its end.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Nor do I, but we sail the sea
despite the storm.”

“Aye, that we do.”

“Then I’m trusting you to keep the
men below deck while I see to the ship.”

“As you command, but keep your
cutlass close.”

Lord Askal nodded. “Aye, I will.”
He strode to the heart of the aftdeck and roared a string of commands. “Strike
the sails and ship the oars! All oarsmen to stand down. All crew confined below
deck till morning light.”

Crewmen scurried to obey. In short
order the sails were furled, the sheets secured, the oars shipped, and the men
disappeared below deck. The pulse of his ship slowed, the drumbeat in the hold
silenced. A strange stillness settled over the great trireme, like the calm
before a terrible storm. Without sails, their speed bled away. The
Dark Fin
slowed
to a drift, rocked to a slow lull by the waves’ caress. The lord captain stood
alone on the aftdeck, his hands on the tiller, as if he sailed a ghost ship on
a midnight sea.

Footsteps on the stairs.

The Mordant appeared, a strange red
light glowing from the tip of his staff.

Dark magic,
Lord Askal
sketched the sign of the sea god, sending a fervent prayer to Naff.

The Mordant loomed close, his face
pale in the red light. “Know this, no matter what you see, no matter what you
hear, your ship will not be harmed.”

Lord Askal nodded.

“Do nothing, say nothing, if you
wish to live.”

The servant appeared carrying a
large stoppered flask. The Mordant took the flask, throwing the stopper into
the sea. Moving to the center of the aftdeck, he stood with his head bowed,
muttering a sibilant chant.

Lord Askal stood gripping the helm,
every sense alert. The Mordant’s gibberish washed across him, slapping at him
like a drowning wave, but he understood nothing. Meaningless words dripping
with evil, the Mordant summoned the Dark. The night grew thick and heavy,
wrapping around his ship with ill-intent. Even the stars disappeared, shrouded
by Darkness. Lord Askal shivered, resisting the urge to flee.

The
Dark Fin
swayed,
floundering like a ghost ship lost at sea. Time seemed to drag…and then the
chant stopped. Lord Askal dared to look.

The Mordant raised the flask to the
heavens and then poured a libation onto the deck, but this was no mere flagon
of ale. The liquid glowed red, like molten lava, and where it struck the deck,
it hissed, raising the stink of burnt wood.

“
No!”
Lord Askal reached for
his cutlass, but the small man pounced, holding a knife pressed to his jugular.
“Interfere and you die.” Lord Askal froze, a trickle of blood at his throat.
His hand released his cutlass and the knife disappeared. Like a malevolent
shadow, the Mordant’s servant retreated; melting into the darkness, but the
captain could feel his stare. Keeping his hands on the helm, Lord Askal’s gaze
slid back to the Mordant. What he saw made his blood run cold.

A red pentacle glowed on the
Dark
Fin’s
deck, the mark of the Dark Lord.

The Mordant lifted his hands, as if
invoking the gods. And then he began to dance, circling the pentacle, pounding
a strange rhythm into the deck. Round and around, he danced a frenzy. Like a
priest of the netherworld, the Mordant screamed a chant, a strange hissing
sound, like no language the captain had ever heard. Leaping and shouting, he
raised his staff to the heavens.

Overhead, the clouds began to boil.
A funnel cloud appeared, churning above his ship, a promise of death on the
high seas.

“Sion tarmath!”
The Mordant
hurled a command skyward, stabbing his staff toward the swirling cloud.

Lightning answered.

A bolt of red lightning crashed
down, striking the staff.

The power of the strike hurled Lord
Askal to the deck. Cringing backwards, he shielded his face. All around him,
the air hissed and crackled, the sulphurous stink of brimstone choking his
throat, as if the gates of hell were thrown wide open. Fearing for his ship, he
dared to look.

The Mordant stood in the center of
the pentacle and he
glowed
. A nimbus of red light surrounded him, as if
he’d swallowed the lightning bolt. “
Bring them!”
The voice that roared
out of the Mordant held the power of a god.

Lord Askal clutched the tiller, his
heart thundering. This was no mere man he’d brought aboard his ship; this was a
demon, a devil incarnate.

The dark-clad servant moved to the
prisoners. Shredding their clothes with flicks of his dagger, he cut their
bonds. Naked and cowering, the sheepherders clung to the deck, fingernails
scraping against wood, begging for mercy. “Spare us!” The stink of urine filled
the air, but the Mordant’s servant was relentless. Dragging the naked men
towards the pentacle, he hurled them across the glowing lines.

Red light flared as the prisoners
crossed the glowing boundary. Something gripped the two men, like a hand
claiming a sacrifice, holding them upright within the glowing pentacle. The two
sheepherders writhed in pain, their backs arching, their mouths stretched wide
in horror. Lifted a hand span above the deck, their bare feet flailed the air.
Screams erupted from the two men, as if their very souls caught fire. The Mordant
waved his hand and the screaming stopped. Released, the prisoners crumpled to
the deck as if their bones were turned to water. Pale as worms, they stared up
at the Mordant, making strange mewing sounds.

The albatross was next. The great
seabird squawked and fought till it was thrust inside the pentacle and then it
flopped to the deck like a sack of feathers, its great wings all askew.

The Mordant stood in the pentacle’s
heart, glowing like a fiery fiend. Pointing his staff at each of the victims,
he bound them with lines of red light, and then he began to chant, a strange
discordant song. Twisted and wrong, the ancient words roared out of him like
vomiting darkness. 

Lord Askal closed his eyes.
Clinging to the tiller, he bit his lip. Focusing on the pain, on the taste of
blood, he tried to distract his mind, but he could not stop his ears.

An unearthly howl rose from the
prisoners, like nothing he’d ever heard. Human voices clawed the night, ripping
at his soul, but Lord Askal refused to look. His skin prickled and the hairs
rose on the back of his neck. Shrieks and howls beat against him, the torment
of the damned, yet he kept his eyes closed. Drenched in sweat, he clung to the
tiller, like a man afraid of being sucked into a whirlpool. Lightning flashed
across the deck and heat seared his face, but he never once opened his eyes, keeping
his teeth clamped tight against a scream.

And then it was over.

A heart-pounding silence claimed
his ship, like slamming the door to hell.

He dared to look, and what he saw
would forever haunt his mind. The Mordant no longer glowed, his magic spent,
but the albatross was changed. Lord Askal shook his head, bile rising like a
flood to his mouth. Unable to look away, he watched as the albatross bowed to
the Mordant. No longer just a bird,
i
t was a living horror, a
ghoul-bird with the eyes and mouth of a man!

The Mordant bent over his creation,
whispering words in a strange tongue and then he raised his staff to the
heavens. “
Fly! And let my will be done!”

The ghoul-bird raised its human
face, great white wings beating against the deck, and then it rose into the
sky, flying toward the east.

The Mordant slumped to the deck,
but his servant caught him. Without a word, he carried his master down the
steps.

Lord Askal watched them leave.
Unable to move, he knelt on the aftdeck, clinging to the tiller, clinging to
his sanity. His stomach convulsed, and his dinner roared out of him, but he
could not purge his mind. Exhausted, he lay sprawled on the deck.

Tormund found him there the next
morning, but the captain was not alone. Two
things
, naked and pale, lay
crumpled within the charred outline of the pentacle. One had no mouth and the
other no eyes, pale flesh sprouting where the openings should have been. They
lay on the deck, soiled in their own filth, like worms without any will.
Whatever spark made them men was missing, drained and sucked out, leaving mere
husks of flesh.

Tormund helped his captain stand.
“What in the Nine Hells are those…
things
?”

“Sheepherders turned sacrifice.”
His voice sounded hoarse in his ears. “Kill them and dump them overboard before
the crew lays eyes on them.” He gripped the railing, fighting to suppress a
shudder. A second wave of bile rose to his mouth as he stared at the pentacle
branded on his deck. “And get the shipwright up here. I want that cursed symbol
erased from the deck.”

Tormund was quick to obey. His dirk
slashed the throats of the two worm-men, rolling their bodies over the side,
horrors consigned to the sea. Dark fins churned the water, following his ship; Naff’s
hounds come to claim the corrupted flesh.

The crew emerged from the lower
decks and his ship slowly came to life, but everything had changed. His men
stared at the pentacle branded into the aftdeck, horror etching their faces.
Muttering charms against evil, they whispered of demons haunting the night.
Fear had finally claimed his ship, yet his men obeyed.

Reeking of sweat and brimstone,
Lord Askal clung to the tiller. “Speed, we need speed.” Over and over, he
repeated the words like a chant. “Give me speed!” A fresh wind blew out of the
north, filling the sails. The oars ran out, answering the beat of the drum. The
Dark Fin
leaped forward but the captain took no joy in his ship. He
haunted the aftdeck, worrying every detail, desperate to reach a port in the
distant south. Speed might save his crew, might save his ship, but nothing
could save his soul.