The Knight Marshal (The Silk & Steel Saga) (28 page)

44

General Haith

Screams ripped through the tent, proving the torturers plied
their work well, yet the answers he sought were slow in coming. Impatient, the
general followed the screams across the sullied field. A pair of guards leaped
to hold the canvas flap aside. General Haith strode from winter directly into hell.
The sudden heat was striking, oppressive with the stink of voided bowels and
heated metal, fear ripe with the scent of blood, smells he’d long learned to
endure in the service of the Mordant.

The torturer snapped to attention,
a pair of bloody tongs in his gloved fist, but the prisoner had fallen
insensate. Naked and spread-eagled, the knight was strapped upright to a metal
frame, the torturer’s brutal work written upon his flesh.

“Rouse him.”

“Yes, m’lord.” The torturer doused
a bucket of dirty water over the prisoner’s head.

The knight sputtered, licking his
bloody lips. One eye was swollen shut but the other roved the tent, fixing on
the general. His body stiffened, his nostrils flaring in fear.

“Yes, you recognize my armor if not
my face.” He’d taken to wearing the breastplate of the Skeleton King, a
formidable armor steeped in fear. “The time has come for answers.”

“Told you…what I know.”

“Not enough, not nearly enough.”
The general inspected the table laden with torture devices, pincers, saws, screws,
brands, knives, a pear of anguish, and a particularly nasty corkscrew. “So far,
you’ve only felt the torturer’s kiss, enough pain to hurt but nothing
dismembered. Speak now and you’ll avoid this sordid nastiness, gaining a
soldier’s quick death.”

“Death? That’s all you offer?”

“You’ll beg for it before Bruthus
is done.”

The knight sagged upon the rack. “I
know.”

“Then tell me what I want to know.
Where is the main camp?”

“Always moving, the marshal…keeps
us moving.”

The octagon king was dead, he’d
seen the traitor knight strike the killing blow, but this marshal was proving a
capable leader, as elusive as a winter fox. “If you’re always moving, how do
you get your supplies?”

“Scouts.”

“What else?”

The knight scowled. “Axe cuts on
the trees, marks the trail.”

Axe marks,
an ingenious but
infuriating solution. If he sent his men looking for axe marks on trees he’d
lose them to the wooded wilderness. The Dragon Spine Mountains were proving a
tangled fortress of trails and crags. His force had the superior numbers yet he
could not bring them to bear for the killing blow. “I need more than that, or I
cannot spare you.”

The knight stiffened. “Nothing else
to tell.”

“Is your honor worth the pain?”

The knight said nothing, but fear
quaked across his face.

“Honor is a ruse. A hollow coin
paid to dupes. Don’t die a dupe.”

“Damn you to hell!”

The general chuckled. “How little
you understand. Hell is coming to Erdhe, and I shall sit among the ruling
lords.” His voice turned hard. “So will you serve or be damned by your
silence?” 

The knight remained mute, sweat
erupting on his skin.

“So be it.” The general flicked a
glance to the torturer. “Ply your trade without constraints.” The screams
started before he even stepped from the tent. The general crossed the muddied
field to the command pavilion. Guards leaped to hold the canvas aside as he
strode into luxury. Thick wool carpets cushioned his boots, braziers giving off
a welcoming heat scented with cedar chips…but he could still hear the screams.

His officers snapped to attention,
standing around a table strewn with brightly colored maps.

General Marris said, “What word?”

“None yet, but it won’t be long.”
Striding to the map table, General Haith accepted a goblet of mulled wine. 

General Marris scowled. “We’ve had
so few prisoners to work with.”

“A poor excuse,” yet it was the
truth. The octagon tended to take their wounded with them…or give them the
mercy stroke. He stared down at the map, a warren of mountains guarded by stone
keeps. “What word from Dymtower and Cragnoth Keep?”

General Marris answered, “Empty.
Ransacked of men, weapons, and food.”

General Haith nodded. “Why guard
the back door when the main gate’s been breached? I’ll wager the other keeps
are the same,” he traced a finger west, along the mountains to the inked image
of a great castle shaped like an octagon, “except for Castlegard. They must be
getting supplies from Castlegard.”

“Will you order a siege?”

“We haven’t the time. We need to
trap them in the mountains and finish it.” His gaze snapped to Centurion
Kirkbee. “What word from the Taal cadre?”

“Nothing yet, but if the octagon
takes the bait, the Taals will smash them.”

Traps within traps, yet so far, the
prey proved elusive. His gaze sought Centurion Erlint. “What of the farms and
holdfasts?”

“We’ve sent patrols ranging along
the Snowmelt, seeking their holdfasts. Farms and villages are stripped of
supplies and their livestock slaughtered for food. I’ve ordered the men and
children crucified, while the women are brought back as spoils of war.” The
centurion flashed a lurid grin. “Our soldiers have been most appreciative.”

The general nodded. “Yes, the men
must have their spoils, but I half expected the knights to come to the
villagers’ aid.

“No sign of them, my lord…but a few
of the holdfasts were empty, as if they’d been warned.”

“And their supplies?”

“Gone.”

The general glowered. “You
disappoint me, Erlint.”

The centurion stood braced at
attention.

“Perhaps I should have you
crucified as an example to my officers.”

Sweat beaded on the centurion’s
face but he had the good sense not to beg. Perhaps Erlint was worth keeping,
something to consider.

A gruesome scream pierced the
pavilion, halting the discussion.

“Perhaps the answers I need will
finally be forthcoming.” General Haith sipped his mulled wine, a flavorful
vintage from the dead king’s stores.

As if summoned, the master torturer
appeared at the pavilion’s entrance. Gore stained his leather apron. “My Lord,
I have your answer.”

“Come.”

Bruthus took a single step into the
pavilion and then stopped, as if he knew his reek was offensive. “My lord, the
knight spoke the truth when he said the marshal keeps them moving, changing
camps every third night…but he neglected to speak of the gathering place.”

His interest spiked. “What
gathering place?”

“A place to gather patrols, scouts,
and stragglers with the main force.”

“And where is this place?”

“At the dark of the moon, they’re
to meet at the Stone Hand.”

“Well done.” Dismissing the
torturer, he turned to the maps. “Where is this Stone Hand?”

“Here, my Lord.” Centurion Kirkbee
pointed to a balding mountain overlooking Raven Pass.

“So close?” The general’s voice
purred with satisfaction.

“It’s been used before as a
campsite, but it was deserted when we found it, nothing but trampled snow,
horse dung, and cold campfires.”

“Why is it called Stonehand?”

The centurion hesitated. “At the
crest, there’s a mage-stone statue, a giant stone hand inscribed with a Seeing
Eye.”

“The meddling monks.” He made the
words a curse. His hand sought the amulet hidden beneath his armor, a key to
wealth and power. “By war’s end, both the Octagon and the Seeing Eye will be
eradicated from Erdhe.”

“The Mordant’s will be done.” His
officers intoned their assent.

General Marris said, “Three days till
the dark of the moon. Will you take them with a direct assault or an ambush?”

“An ambush, the Lord Mordant
ordered a quiet annihilation.” His gaze settled on the centurion. “Kirkbee,
take a cadre of Taals around to the back side of the mountain. You will be the
hammer to our anvil.”

Kirkbee saluted, fist to his
breastplate. “As you command.”

“Come the dark of the moon, the
Octagon will be finished. See to the details and make it so.” He dismissed his
officers. Saluting, they took their leave, while he remained staring at the
map. The Mordant had crafted a convoluted plan to shatter Erdhe and bring
age-old enemies to their knees, but the timing was delicate. Soon he’d ride
south to face a far more lucrative foe. By the time this war was finished, he expected
to be a king in his own right, a vassal sovereign serving his lord. The general
stretched his gauntleted hand across the map, casting a grasping shadow across
Erdhe. “The Dark Lord’s will be done.”

45

Katherine

Word of her court had leaped like lightning through the
Citadel. Petitioners appeared before the crack of dawn, braving the frigid cold
for a chance to beg boons. Kath crossed the rune-carved courtyard, feeling the
incessant peck of their stares, but their endless demands would have to wait.

Conit and Talbert scrambled to lay
out sheepskins and stoke the braziers for heat. Kath sat cross-legged with her
back to the dark rampart. The morning meal with her maroon band had become a
welcome habit. Giant wheels of fresh-baked bread were shared, sometimes laced
with raisins, dried apples, crushed nuts, or other treasures from the royal
kitchens. Kath tore off a warm chunk, delighted to discover cinnamon swirling
through the tasty loaf. Pots of honey for dipping along with mugs of heated
mead were passed. Her painted warriors enjoyed the simple fare, sharing jests
and tales of daring. All too soon the last crumb was consumed and the mugs
drained. Kath gestured to Sidhorn and the big warrior stood to turn the massive
sand glass. Cast in solid gold, with dragons entwining the handles, the great
glass held blood-red sand brought from some nameless shore. Seeking a way to
limit the onslaught, Kath had ordered the great glass brought out to the
courtyard. The glass held enough sand in each turn to measure a session of
three hours, the limit of her patience for dealing with petitioners.

The turning of the great sand glass
released the deluge of petitioners.

Surging across the courtyard, they
all spoke at once, uttering a babble of demands.

Her maroon band moved to impose
order, reforming the line. 

One at a time the petitioners
stepped before Kath to state their case. Some wore silken finery while others
came clad in a mismatch of scavenged clothing. Kath listened to them all,
regardless of wealth or tier. The deluge of petitions ran the gamut from petty
quarrels, to petitions for favors, to appeals for the restoration of ‘stolen’
property, to grim accusations of rape, murder, and collusion with priests. The
rogue priests remained a thorny problem. Kath passed any informants to Blaine and his band, but it shocked her to hear how some citizens secretly succored the
priests. She’d hoped the citizens of the Citadel would renounce the Mordant,
choosing a new way of life, but evil had a way of infesting souls. Many who’d
prospered under the pentacle preferred the old ways, choosing bribery and
backstabbing to honest labor. Some made it a game to deceive her. At first,
many got the better of her, but Kath soon learned that the most corrupt were
also the most skilled liars. Lies became the telltale sign of a deeper evil.
Once their lies were ferreted out, Kath overturned her decisions, invoking
harsh penalties, yet still they tried. Sometimes she despaired, wondering if
the Citadel could truly be saved.

A fat merchant bowed low, launching
into a tale of stolen goods.

Listening to the endless drone,
Kath strove to sort the truth from the fawning tangle of deception. A
disturbance snared her attention. The line of petitioners parted, revealing a
delegation of raven-faced healers. Led by Thera, they strode towards her, beaks
and feathers boldly tattooed across their faces.

The fat merchant fell silent,
relinquishing his place with a grudging bow.

Kath flashed a smile towards Thera.
“Welcome to my fire.”

The healers stood in a crescent
before the brazier. Most wore sheepskin cloaks and leather breeches, herb
pouches dangling from their belts, long knives belted to their sides.

Kath met Thera’s dark gaze, worried
by the healer’s grave demeanor. “How do the wounded fare?”

“We do what we can. But the healing
is slow, too slow.” Concern weighed her voice. “Wounds that should heal
continue to fester and fevers linger refusing to quench. It is almost as if
something thwarts our lore.”

The courtyard quaked, as if the
demons locked in the depths bragged of their prowess.

Kath cast a sharp glance towards
Thera. “You feel it too.”

Thera nodded. “All the healers
sense it, like a foul curse infesting the Citadel.”

Merrick, a tall gangly healer who
served as Thera’s second, sketched the sign of warding. “This place is unclean;
we should never have come here.”

Thera stilled him with a glance,
her gaze returning to Kath. “We’ve come to ask the Svala for the captured
horses.”

“
No!”
Blaine’s protest cut
sharp as his sword. “Those horses are our best chance to reach the south!”

Kath silenced him with a stern
look, yet his words fell like stones on her shoulders. In truth, the horses
were her best means to get south, but Danya and Zith would never survive the
distance, and none of her painted warriors could ride. And then there was the
winter. The god-cursed steppes were most treacherous in winter, a frozen
killing field, winter’s cruel anvil. The horses were not the answer, yet she
saw no other way.

Thera pressed her appeal. “With
horse drawn travois we can move the wounded back to the home caves, giving them
a better chance to heal.”

Blaine loosed an angry snarl. “We
need
those horses.”

Furious, Kath rounded on him.
“Winter trumps the horses.”
And the thrice-damned cold shows no sign of
abating.

“So you’ll just sit here, waiting
till the spring thaw? By then there will be nothing left to save!”

Kath gaped at Blaine, outraged by
his words. Recovering, she met his anger with a flinty stare. “And if we don’t
help the wounded, how will the gods judge us?”

This time Blaine looked away.

Sighing, Kath sent a silent appeal
to Valin. Turning to Thera, she said, “Take the horses and anything else you
need.”

Blaine turned his back to her,
radiating anger, but Thera gave her a knowing nod, as if she understood the
cost of her request. “The Svala is worthy of the War Helm.”

The healers stood to leave, but
Kath stayed them with a question. “What of Danya?”

Thera’s face softened. “Danya’s
sleep is a matter of magic not healing. The wolf-girl pays a price for her
power. Only time will tell.”

Kath nodded, knowing the answer but
needing to ask.

“Neven and his pack have claimed
Danya for their own. They take good care of her.”

“I thought as much, but it helps to
hear you say it.”

“The wolf-girl will wake in due
time.” Thera gathered her healers, retreating across the vast circular
courtyard.

Kath watched them leave; troubled
by their message, more proof that evil was real. Staring across the rune-carved
courtyard, she wondered if the fortress-city could ever be cleansed. Her hand
sought the crystal dagger. She’d taken the Mordant’s stronghold but she’d meant
to take his life. Rage warred with frustration; she could not afford to be
trapped in the north, yet she saw no way south.

The fat merchant resumed his place,
bemoaning the loss of stolen goods and ruined property.

Such a petty problem, Kath found it
hard to concentrate, yet she forced herself to listen.

The sound of a horn shivered
through the frozen air.

The mournful wail sounded…like a
call to battle.

Kath sprang to her feet, her hand
on her sword hilt. “Did you hear that?”

The horn sounded again, a blaring
challenge.

Kath leaped atop the nearest
ramparts, gazing down on the Citadel’s gates and out across the endless
expanse, but the vast snowbound steppes remained bleak and cold, unsullied by
the tread of friend or foe.

The horn sounded again, impatient
to be noticed.

Grenfir joined her on the rampart.
The owl-faced warrior gasped, pointing towards the wind-swept sea. “A ship!”

Kath saw it then, a single ship
scudding across the white-waved ocean.
The sea,
she’d never considered
escape by sea. Kath’s heart thundered, “Whose ship? Friend or foe?” She stared
at the ship, searching for a sigil.

Blaine joined her on the rampart.
“There!”

The ship changed course, the front
sail billowing taut with the wind, its colors bright against the slate-gray
ocean. Red and blue checks emblazoned with a soaring osprey, a proud sigil
unlooked for in the bitter north. Kath grinned in wild relief, feeling the succor
of the gods. “Valin hasn’t abandoned us!” She thumped Blaine on the shoulder.
“Hope comes on southern sails!
Navarre
!
A ship from
Navarre
!
”