The Knight Marshal (The Silk & Steel Saga) (24 page)

36

The Mordant

Men and horses died for the sake of speed but it mattered
not to the Mordant. Intent on the Great Dark Dance, he drove his men hard,
galloping through Radagar’s sleep-shrouded countryside. On the night of the
waning crescent, they reached the appointed farmstead near the border of
Lanverness. Armed men in dark hoods glided out of the woods to block the road,
crossbows held at the ready. “This way is closed.”

The Mordant breathed deep, catching
the scent of Darkness in their souls. “Not to me.” His stare pierced the
leader’s gaze. “Darkness knows its own. Kneel to your lord, Garver.” Raising
his staff, he loosed a bolt of pain as proof of his presence.

With a muffled gasp, the leader
fell to his knees. “We’ve awaited your coming, dread lord.” The others made
hasty bows, their crossbows pointed to the ground.

“Is everything ready?”

“Just as you ordered.”

“And the chests?”

“Safe and unlocked, awaiting your
orders.”

“Good, lead the way.”

A runner was sent ahead while the
guards slipped back into the woods to seal the road. The Mordant urged his
sweat-streaked stallion to a trot. Garver, a former captain of the Dark Citadel,
led his lord down a rutted road. The road curved through a copse of alders,
emerging into a muddy yard. The farmstead had seen better days, a sagging row
of huts and a dilapidated barn on one side, a thatched farmhouse and a
weed-choked garden on the other, but the farmstead was far from abandoned. The
muddy yard swarmed with men in dark leathers. 

Garver yelled, “
Attention!”

The command struck like a lash. The
men scrambled to form into ranks, six rows of ten with a troop of a dozen
duegar standing to the side. Dressed in a hodge-podge of leathers and armor
they gave the appearance of a mercenary band, yet their weapons were of the
finest make, and so was their discipline, a strange mixture of menace and
restraint. Standing rigid at attention, they leaned forward, their hands
gripping their weapons like abused mastiffs straining for the order to kill.
The Mordant suppressed a smile; such was the legacy of service in the Dark
Citadel.

A tall blonde-haired officer with a
nasty scar marking the left side of his face approached. “My Lord, the Eighth
Fist of the Citadel is eager to serve.”

The Mordant nodded. “And the
chests?”

“Secured in the barn, awaiting your
orders.”

Dismounting, the Mordant tossed the
reins to the major. “And my women?”

“Awaiting you in the farmhouse.”

He gave the major a piercing stare.
“Borgan is acting as my seneschal; he has the keys to the lesser chests.”

A sneer flickered across the
major’s face. “A bishop! Let me serve you instead.”

The reaction was not unexpected.
His dark priests rarely mixed well with the army.  Like a poisonous slime
coating a sword, both were deadly in their own way, yet each was full of enmity
for the other. But in this case, the Mordant needed them to work together. He
gave the major a hard stare, a hint of menace in his voice. “Every man has his
purpose, bishops and warriors, you
all
serve.”

Major Tarq took a step backwards,
his fist pressed to his chest. “Yours to command.”

“It is time to put off your
leathers. Borgan will open the chests and then inspect your men. Listen well,
for he’s been schooled in the details for deception. Be warned that no detail
is too small. Be ready to ride at first light.”

The major snapped a rigid salute.
“Yes, my lord,” but the Mordant had already turned, striding towards the
mud-daubed farmhouse. His assassins ringed the hovel, stunted men clad in black
leathers, a baldric of daggers marking their rank. Small in stature yet muscled
in build, each had gained uncanny abilities. Annealed by hardship and
depravation, the dross of the Dark Citadel had been forged into his most
fanatical killers, his personal bodyguard, his assassins of the ninth rank. At
his approach, the nearest leaped to open the door.

The Mordant ducked beneath the
lintel, his eyes adjusting to the gloom. Lavender and pine smoke struggled to
mask the mildewed stench of poverty. A rustle of bright silk met his gaze. His
three women melted to the floor in obeisance, a blonde, a brunette, and a
redhead, chosen as much for their stunning beauty as for their unswerving
obedience. Crimson, the redhead, stretched a pale hand towards him, caressing
his boot. “We’ve missed you, my lord.”

Ignoring the women, his gaze sought
the dark shadow standing next to the blazing hearth. Corlin, one of his master
assassins, answered his unspoken question. “All is in order. The food and wine
both served from your personal stores.”

The Mordant surveyed the room,
thick carpets covered a hard-packed dirt floor, fresh silk sheets on the pallet
that served as a bed, fragrant steam rising from a cast-iron tub set before a
roaring fire. “It will do. See to your men. The women will attend me.”

Smooth as a shadow, the assassin
slipped from the room, closing the door behind him.

“Attend me.”

His women rose, surrounding him
with soft touches. They stripped him of his travel-stained clothes, a trail of
kisses running down his naked chest. He endured their caresses, letting his
need build, and then he had his way with them, indulging his every desire.
Finally sated, he sank into the heated tub, sipping wine while his women washed
him with rosewater. Rising from the tub, he stood before the fire while his
women toweled him dry. Replete and drowsy with warmth, the Mordant slept on
silken sheets.

Light filtered through the chinks
in the mud-daubed farmhouse. He woke rampant with appetite. Potency, like
youth, was a fleeting gift, meant to be indulged and savored, but after a
thousand years his tastes had grown complex. His three lovelies knew just how
to please. The Mordant took his fill and then he supped on dried figs and
sweetmeats. Having sated both his appetites, the Mordant stood naked before the
blazing fire, his arms stretched wide. “Time to change colors.”

His women opened the cedar chest,
pulling sumptuous clothing from within.

Like a bird molting from winter’s
drabness, the Mordant spurned his dark colors. Putting off the black, his women
clothed him in rich fabrics of velvets and silks, purples trimmed with gold,
the raiment of a powerful prince. It seemed gaudy after his blacks, but at
least the Empire of Ur had a worthy symbol, the Great Wyrm, a golden dragon
eating its own tail, the circular symbol emblazoned across his chest. An
ancient symbol, he wondered if the Urians even remembered the deeper meaning.
The
eater of worlds, the destroyer of life
, a fitting symbol for the
long-awaited endgame of this great Dark Dance. Amused, the Mordant flexed his
muscles, satisfied with the fit.

His women hastened to finish their
work. Crimson fastened a shimmering cloth-of-gold cape at his shoulders while
Amber buckled a jeweled sword at his waist. Sable knelt before him, offering
him a pillow strewn with jewelry. Magnificent rings fashioned from gold, beset
with emeralds, onyx and amethyst, elaborate dragons eating their own tails.
Pretty baubles yet their true worth lay hidden in the details. Focus-stones
endowed with ancient magics were wrought into the rings, a collection gathered
over many lifetimes. Jewels glittered on each finger, power hidden beneath
wealth’s facade.

“My lord, you look magnificent.”
Crimson held a mirror aloft and the Mordant studied the transformation. Tall
and blonde, his beard neatly trimmed, a young princeling stared back at him,
his face open and honest, just a hint of arrogance in his stance. The monk’s
body served him well. Armored with lies and deception, the Mordant stood gird
for battle. Satisfied, he strode from the farmhouse.

“
Attention!”

Instead of a band of mercenaries, a
royal guard snapped to attention in the drizzling rain. Bedecked in purple and
gold, his men stood in perfect formation, purple banners fluttering from their
spear tips. Even the horses were curried and their tack polished bright, a
proper escort for a powerful prince. Major Tarq offered the Mordant a crisp
salute, while Bishop Borgan scurried to serve, the plump cleric dressed in the
silken robes of a seneschal. “Everything is as you ordered, my prince.”

 The oily-tongued cleric even got
the Mordant’s stolen title correct. Such attention to self-preservation was
ever the hallmark of a good bishop. “And the chests?”

 The cleric gestured and a pair of
soldiers rushed to open the barn doors, revealing a wagon pulled by a team of
white oxen, piled high with ironbound chests. The driver cracked the whip and
the oxen lumbered into motion, plowing deep ruts in the mud. The wagon would
blunt his speed but the chests were a necessary part of the deception. “Good.
My horse.”

Two soldiers emerged from the barn
leading a magnificent white stallion, his mane braided with gold bells, a
bejeweled saddle on his back. One soldier held the reins while the other
dropped to his hands and knees in the mud. The Mordant stepped onto the
soldier’s back and swung into the saddle. Accepting the reins, he surveyed his
escort.

The farmhouse door opened and
soldiers emerged carrying his women across the muddy yard. Swathed in sumptuous
traveling robes, they wore thick veils lest their beauty be sullied by the gaze
of commoners. Soldiers settled the three women atop caparisoned palfreys. They
rode sidesaddle in the center of the troop, princely jewels of another sort.

Impatient to be gone, the Mordant
issued a terse command. “Burn it.”

Torches were lit and thrown into
each of the buildings. Weathered wood crackled like dry tinder, the fire
licking skyward. The Mordant set his spurs to his horse, leaving flames
billowing behind him. He’d changed his colors. Bedecked in deception, the
oldest harlequin rode for the heart of Lanverness. It was time to break a
queen.

37

Liandra

The queen swept into the council chambers, a rustle of amber
silk and a dazzling flash of royal jewels. Her loyal lords leaped to their
feet, bowing toward her. Winnowed by war, her small counsel had shrunk, shorn
of traitors and the faint of heart.  In the queen’s eyes, their stalwart
qualities far exceeded their lack of numbers.

Liandra took a seat on the
oak-carved throne at the table’s head. In Prince Stewart’s absence, Major
Ranoth, her military advisor sat on her left. Master Raddock, her deputy
shadowmaster, sat on her right while Lord Highgate was away in the north.
Liandra offered a smile to Princess Jemma, relieved to see that grief’s harsh
yoke was lessened to a bearable sorrow. As a staunch ally and the senior
emissary of Navarre, the princess was a most welcome addition to the queen’s
council. At the far end of the table sat Lord Cenric, looking dashing and
wildly exotic with his golden cat-eyes and his shimmering cloak of peacock
feathers. Lord Cenric was rarely in Pellanor, but when he was, Liandra welcomed
the cat-eyed lord to her council, hoping to bind him close as a trusted ally.
Liandra smiled at the feral lord and received his usual stiff-necked nod in
reply.

Her gaze circled the table, noting
the harried looks on her councilors’ faces. Lord Sheldon, Lord Saddler, Lord
Rickman, her newly appointed treasurer, Lord Canning, and her new scribe, Lord
Grange completed her small council. All of them were overworked, taxed by the
need to recover from a war barely won, while preparing for the next. Hard times
made for hard tasks. “We will start with the war.”

Major Ranoth unrolled a map across
the oak table. Brightly painted, the velum portrayed a detailed rendering of
cities, castles, forests and rivers stretching from the Delta to the Dragon
Spines. A carved wooden knight painted emerald green served as a marker
representing the Rose Army. “At last report, the Rose Army is located here,
just southeast of Balor. Aside from minor skirmishes, they’ve met with little
resistance. So far the greatest challenge is finding food. The collapse of the
Flame plunged the countryside in chaos. Food and fodder are both scare. We’ve
ordered supplies brought up from Kardiff.”

Lord Saddler asked, “What of
Balor?”

Master Raddock answered, “Our
reports indicate a divided city besieging itself. The last bastion of the Flame
priests seeks to rise from their own ashes using their people as tinder. Balor
is a war-torn charnel house.”

Lord Saddler looked to the queen.
“What of the refugees that we sent back to fight the Flame?”

The queen felt the question’s
sting, a bitter barb to swallow. “War makes hard choices. We can finish the
Flame or we can drive north to deter the Mordant, but we cannot do both. The
refugees knew the risks.” Her voice carried an ominous tone. “We have chosen to
confront the greater evil. For the sake of Erdhe someone must.” Her gaze
circled the table and found no protests. Only Princess Jemma looked away, her
face pale, a reminder that her brother, Prince Justin, led the refugees in
Balor.

The queen addressed the princess.
“What of Navarre?”

The princess answered, her face
composed. “The king has called the banners, summoning archers from every
village and hamlet. Combined with the army and the guards, we hope to raise a
force of four thousand, more than half of them skilled archers.”

Major Ranoth bowed towards the
princess. “So many archers will make a formidable force. When will they march?”

“Within the fortnight. They’ll
march north and join the Rose Army at the Snowmelt River.” The princess added a
tight smile. “My sister will lead them.”

Liandra stared, ambushed by the
sally. “
Our
daughter-in-law?”

“Yes.”

Outrage strangled the queen.
By
the Nine Hells, we need a daughter-in-law who rules from a throne and births
heirs, not one who fights with a sword.
Liandra struggled to contain her thoughts.
Bridling her anger, cold calculation took over. The true weight of her son’s
decision hit hard, like a lethal sword thrust to the abdomen. “It seems our
only heir and our only daughter-in-law both ride to the same battle.” Her words
carried a sepulcher doom. “Lanverness risks all in this war.”

She watched the others blanch as
the risk hit home.

Dead silence reigned for a hundred
heartbeats.

Lord Rickman was the first to
rally. “Majesty, perhaps you could…”

The queen forestalled him with a
cold glare. “
Our
son and
his
children will wear the Rose Crown
after us. We shall not sully the Tandroth line by choosing some distant eighth
cousin from the distaff side.”

Her councilors flinched from her
gaze.

“The matter is closed.”

Anxious ‘ayes’ circled the table,
but more than a few lacked conviction. 

The queen let her counselors stew,
feeling her displeasure. After a sufficient silence, Liandra turned her
attention to the cat-eyed lord. “Lord Cenric, will your people join this war?”

“The Treespeaker is aware.”

It was not an answer. Liandra
waited but no more was said. The queen fought the urge to pry a response from
the feral lord. The cat-eyed archers had proved a boon, saving her city and her
crown, but their pride was notoriously prickly.  Deciding she dared not risk
their ire, at least not at the council table, the queen turned her gaze to
Major Ranoth. “And the enemy, where are they?”

“To the best of our knowledge, they
continue to hold Raven Pass.”

“They’re
holding
it, not
advancing?”

The major nodded. “So our scouts
indicate.”

“Why?”

“Only the Mordant knows.”

The mere mention of his name cast a
chill upon the chamber.

The queen rallied her counselors.
“The longer they sit in Raven Pass, the longer we have to prepare. Time is a
gift we’ll not waste.” She turned to Lord Saddler. “How goes the wall.” She’d
learned the value of stout walls from the Flame War, ordering better
battlements built around her capital city.

“Every stonemason and bricklayer
within a hundred leagues has been hired. They work night and day to raise
battlements on the cobbled buildings and erect new gates. We’ve made good
progress on the northern section…but it is ugly.”

“War is an ugly business. Finish
the wall, for we fear we shall have need of it.” The queen’s gaze turned to
Lord Sheldon. “Our city teems with refugees. Too many farmers cower in
Pellanor, seeking the illusion of safety. We need them to return to the land.”

The lord nodded. “My constables
patrol the main roadways, hunting bandits, deserters and pockets of enemy
soldiers. We hang them as fast as we catch them. The crossroad trees groan
under the weight of the dead. My constables feed the crows and ravens, making
the countryside safe, but the people are reluctant to believe.”

“Then they must be persuaded.”

Lord Sheldon shrugged. “How do we
make them leave?”

The queen considered the problem.
“People respond to a carrot or a stick. In this case, we shall use a mild
switch.” She gestured to her royal scribe. “Issue a royal proclamation levying
a tax on all inns, hostels and wayhouses within the great city of Pellanor.”

“A bed tax?”

“No, a head tax.”

Some of her counselors groaned in
protest, most notably those who invested in inns, but the queen raised a hand
forestalling their argument. “Taxes serve to fill the royal coffers, but they
also influence behavior, as most sane people try to avoid them. In this case,
we need the people to leave Pellanor and return to the land. A head tax will
encourage that. This tax will be enacted immediately, a twenty percent charge
added to the price of a room. Let it also be written that this tax shall be
revoked on the first day of summer of this very same year. We do not enact this
tax for benefit of the royal coffers, nor is it meant as punishment, rather it
is intended as a mild goad to get our people back on the land. The spring
harvest must be planted and the livestock must be husbanded or all of
Lanverness will suffer. So let it be written into law.”

Her scribe’s quill scratched across
parchment.

The queen’s gaze circled the table.
“Any questions, comments, complaints?” When no issues were raised, she stood.
“Then this counsel is dismissed.” Liandra extended her ringed hand for her
lords to take their leave, but she kept her gaze on Lord Cenric. Before the
feral lord could slink away, she said, “Lord Cenric, will you walk with us?”

Turning from the door, he nodded
toward her. “As you wish.”

Dismissing the others, she offered
the cat-eyed lord her arm. He took it, leading her out through the doorway.
Courtiers pounced like a pack of hungry dogs, but she waved them away. He led
her through the marble corridors, a pair of royal guards following at a
discrete distance.

“We wonder how your people fare in Onet Forest?”

“Many great-grandfather trees rule
the forest and clean streams tumble down from the Southern Mountains, a good
place for my people to settle.”

“And Crown Hill?”

“The Flame invaders despoiled many
trees, but under our protection the forest will thrive again.”

“And how do you find Pellanor?”

He flashed a pointed grin her way.
“The stench is appalling but your markets are fascinating. My people have
rarely tasted the pleasures and pitfalls of a stone city.”

“We trust your people feel
welcome.” 

He gave her a solemn nod. “Some are
still unsettled by our eyes, but my people are more welcome in Pellanor than
anywhere else in Erdhe…but you did not cull me from the herd to speak of my
people.”

“True.” The queen stopped, staring
up at him, a dashing figure in his peacock cloak. “We wanted to ask you about
the war. Will you fight?”

“We are here. Our bows will help
protect Pellanor and its queen.” He nodded to her, a courtly gesture.

“And what of the battle in the
north?”

“The Treespeaker will decide.”

Always the same answer,
“Yes,
but when will she decide and what will her decision be?”

“I do not pretend to know the
Treespeaker’s mind…but this Darkness is also our enemy.”

“So you’ll fight?”

For the longest time, he did not
answer. His voice dropped to a reluctant whisper. “We are fewer in numbers than
you think…but do not underestimate the Treespeaker.”

She stared at him, trying to fathom
his golden gaze, but his cat-eyes proved inscrutable. Realizing she’d get
nothing more, the queen said, “We would hear more of your Treespeaker.”

Rapid footsteps approached. Liandra
turned to find Lady Sarah rushing towards her. Her haste sent a warning to the
queen. Turning back to Lord Cenric, she said, “It seems the duties of a queen
come calling. We hope to speak with you another time.”

His gaze flicked between the two
women. “I ride for Onet Forest on the morrow. We can speak more on my return.”
Turning with cat’s grace, he stalked the marble hallway with a brisk stride,
his peacock cloak shimmering in the afternoon light, an exotic wild-lands
prince in her cultured court.

Lady Sarah’s gaze followed the
archer’s broad shoulders like a bee stuck to honey.

The queen sidled close. “What is
it?”

Flustered, Lady Sarah tore her gaze
from the archer. “It’s Lord Frederinko, the emissary from Ur.”

The emissary of Ur,
she’d barely thought of the man with so much else on her plate, yet this sudden
reminder seemed like an ill-omen. The queen kept her voice level. “What of
him?”

“He haunts the door to your solar,
refusing to leave until he’s had a private audience.”

A private audience, a pity
Robert is still in the north.
The queen gestured to her two royal guards,
putting them on alert with a subtle hand sign.

A shadowman stepped from behind a
pillar. “My queen?”

“Find the Knight Protector and
bring him to our solar.”

Bowing, the shadowman sped away.

Turning to Lady Sarah, the queen
said, “Come, let us see what Ur wants.”