The Knight Marshal (The Silk & Steel Saga) (30 page)

They opened a path for her, and she
saw what had hit her ship…
a giant wheel of brown bread splattered on her
deck like a pancake!
She struggled not to gape.

Jango offered her a torn hunk, a
smile on his swarthy face. “Brown bread, stuffed with nuts and raisins…and it’s
still warm from the oven!”

She took the offering, sniffed it,
and then dared a bite…warm and nutty and rich with raisins.

Marcus appeared at her side.
“Captain? What does it mean?”

Juliana grinned. “Unless this is
poisoned, it means a warm welcome.”

All around her, crewmen cheered. 

“Marcus you have the helm, take us
in!”

The
Sea Sprite
turned for
the coast, heading for the stone dock beneath the dark fortress. Juliana
watched from the foredeck, a swell of pride in her crew. They’d made their way
north, forging a path through treacherous seas and daring the Mordant’s
fortress.
Bread from catapults,
she smiled at the strange greeting.
Against all the odds, her sister’s words had proved true. 

49

Katherine

“A hit!”
Kath and the others rushed to the ramparts,
staring down at the ship. Gripping the battlement, she prayed for the message
to be clear. “Come on…turn, turn…
trust us!
” Tilting at a drunken angle,
the ship began to turn. For a handful of heartbeats, it danced upon the waves,
as if balanced on the knife-edge of indecision. Kath held her breath, willing
the ship to turn. The wind caught the sails, billowing the red and blue checks.
The ship righted and leaped forward, plowing a course straight for the citadel.

“We did it!” Kath grinned with
excitement.

Her maroon band cheered a mighty
bellow.

Blaine gripped her arm, pointing
west. “
Look!”

Kath stared beyond the ship. Sails
filled the bay’s mouth, too many to count…all of them bearing Navarre’s colors. “The ships of Navarre have come north!” Tears glistened in Kath’s eyes, sundered
by the unexpected miracle.

“You did it! You found a way
south!” Blaine swept her into his arms, planting a kiss on her lips.

Shocked, she stiffened at the
ambushed intimacy, but Blaine did not seem to notice.

Setting her back on her feet, he
turned and cheered with the others.

Kath backed away, needing to gain
some distance. She ran into Bear, a wall of muscled armor at her back.

“Svala, are you well?”

His question brought her back to
the moment.
The ships of Navarre had come north
, and nothing else
mattered. “We need to greet them, lest they change their minds.” She returned
to the rampart, peering over the edge, craning to see a way down.

Fanggold said, “This way, Svala.”

Abandoning the trebuchet, she
followed the wolf-faced warrior down and around the Citadel’s spiral streets.
Blaine and thirty warriors ran behind, sounding like a legion pounding at her
back. They raced down through the tiers, garnering sharp looks and questioning
stares, but they did not slow. The citadel’s immense size took its toll.
Puffing like bellows blowing frozen plumes into the cold morning air, they
reached the bottom tiers. Slick with sweat, Kath counted the gates. By the time
they reached the ninth tier, a sharp ache pierced her side. Kath slowed, too
winded to speak.

A pair of painted warriors saw her
and leaped to open the north gate. 

Gasping for breath, Kath ran
through the last gate. A bone-chilling wind struck from the west, icy fingers
piercing wool and leather and flesh. Beyond the dark ramparts, the cold seemed
twice as killing. Shivering, Kath tugged on a pair of gauntlets lined with
wool. “Which…way?”

Fanggold gestured to a cobbled
pathway leading toward the sea.

The pathway led straight over a
sheer basalt cliff. Kath staggered to a stop, staring down. Giant stairs were
carved from the cliff, wide enough for six men abreast, but there was no
railing, a deadly drop to the crashing waves far below. Snow encrusted the
stairs, adding to the peril. Stone gargoyles crouched at the outer edge of
every tenth step. Cloaked in ice, they glared at the sea like demonic sentinels
keeping watch.

Staying close to the cliff side,
Kath dared the stairs, trailing one gloved along the dark rock. Seagulls roiled
overhead, their startled cries calling a warning. Her boots slid on ice. She
clung to the cliff, regaining her balance. Bear grabbed her arm, holding her
till she regained her footing.

The stairs seemed to go on forever.
Kath wondered how many men had died carving them from the sheer cliff, more
proof of the Mordant’s cruel power. Nearing the bottom, she felt the rock
shudder beneath her boots, assaulted by the sea’s strength. Massive waves
pounded the shore like thunder. Kath winced at the sea’s ferocity, so different
when viewed from the cliff tops. She’d learned to swim in the placid waters of
Castlegard’s moat, but this ocean seemed like a thing alive, like a wild beast
pummeling the shore. Kath marveled that anyone dared to sail the sea. A huge
wave pounded the lower steps, throwing up a veil of salt spray. Slick with
sea-slime, the lower stairs grew treacherous. 

Bear took her arm. “Careful,
Svala.”

They reached the bottom and found a
round battlement carved from the dark cliff, icicles clinging to the ramparts
like monstrous teeth. A salt-encrusted catapult kept watch, a smaller set of
stairs leading down to a dock. Built of dark stone, the dock jutted from the
cliffs at a sharp angle, angry waves battering the far side. The salty breath
of the sea hung heavy in the air.  

Kath took the stairs down to the
dock…and skidded to a stop.

The ship was there, sails furrowed,
looming over the dock like a bucking sea monster. Swarthy seamen lined the
railings…and all of them held swords.

Kath raised her empty hands,
yelling to be heard. “We bid you welcome!” She scanned the sailors, pleased to
see a few women among them, but one stood out. The emblem of Navarre embroidered on her leather jerkin; she stood tall and shapely, with bright red hair tied at
her nape. Her hand on her long knife, she met Kath’s stare.

“In whose name do you welcome us?”

Kath smiled. “In my own! I’m Kath
of Castlegard and these are the painted warriors of the far north. Together
we’ve taken the Mordant’s Citadel.”

Tension bled from the woman’s
stance. “Then my sister spoke true.”

“Your sister?”

“Jordan of Navarre.”

Kath pounced on her sword sister’s
name. “Jordan! Is she well?”

The woman nodded. “She came down
from the mountains with visions from the gods.”

“Visions?”

“Jordan convinced the king to send
the merchant fleet north. She said you’d gained a great victory at the
Mordant’s Citadel but all would be for naught if you do not find a way south.”

“Jordan knows of our victory?” Kath
gaped at the revelation, feeling the hand of the gods.

The woman nodded. At a gesture, two
seamen lowered a plank. Agile as a squirrel, the woman leaped to the plank and
walked it with ease despite the ship’s rocking sway.

Kath met her at the base. “You must
be Juliana. Jordan spoke of you often.”

“Juliana of Navarre, captain of the
Sea Sprite.”
She flashed a warm smile and Kath saw the resemblance.

“Then we are well met.” They
clasped arms like warriors. Kath smiled with relief. “Your coming is a godsend
for we do indeed need a way south.”

Juliana sobered. “That’s why we’ve
come, but the northern seas are perilous, we dare not tarry. We need food and
fresh water and then we need to be away. To linger here, is to court death.” 

A shiver of dread pricked Kath’s
soul, a warning that time was short. “Come, we’ll share meat and mead while
your ship is replenished, and then we’ll be away. We’re anxious to leave the
north.” Juliana joined her, climbing the great stairs. A gaggle of sailors and
painted warriors trailed behind. Hungry for tidings, Kath riddled the captain
with questions. “Tell me of the south.”

Juliana told a harrowing tale. A
vicious holy war had nearly defeated Lanverness while deadly treachery took its
toll Navarre. Poison, war and religion ran amok in the south, yet the captain
made no mention of the Mordant. Sifting through the details, Kath listened for
all that was not said. She found it hard to believe that the oldest harlequin
remained dormant while Darkness stalked every corner of Erdhe. A cold dread
grew in her heart. Having seen the Dark Citadel, Kath knew what the Mordant was
capable of. Gripping the crystal dagger, she flicked a glance toward the
setting comet, fearing the sands of time were nearly run out.

50

The Knight Marshal

A campfire blazed bright at the base of the great stone
hand, illuminating the ancient statue. Winter stars wheeled overhead in the
cold night sky, distant and indifferent, the slivered moon nearly snuffed to
darkness.
Nearly dark,
the marshal used the dark of the moon as a
beacon, summoning the scouts and stragglers to Stonehand, a chance to reunite
his forces.

Leaning towards the fire’s soothing
warmth, the marshal soaked up the heat, taking supper with his captains.
Firelight flickered across weary faces working hard to chew their meal. The
roasted horsemeat was tough and stringy yet it was better fare than anything
they’d had in a long while. Second helpings were served and mugs were refilled
with mulled wine. Silence reigned yet beneath it the marshal heard a clamor of
questions. Just two days ago, they’d witnessed a slaughter-field of ogres and
the shattering of a blue steel sword, nightmares a man did not soon forget.
Decisions needed to be made, but not this night.

Weary beyond telling, the marshal
finished his meal, chewing the gristle till it turned tasteless. Spitting the
last of it upon the fire, he savored the smell of sizzling meat, and then
levered himself to his feet, suppressing a groan. Bruised and battered, his
entire body ached. Feeling the weight of stares, he bid his captains a good
night and forced himself to walk without betraying the aching stiffness.

A make-shift camp had sprung up
around the great stone hand. Rough structures of branches and canvas and
shields crowded the snow, providing meager shelters for his men. At the heart
stood three great pavilions brought from Castlegard by the stewards, relics of
tournaments past. By rights, the largest should be his alone but the men needed
shelter almost as much as they needed food. A pair of guards snapped to
attention. Acknowledging their salutes, the marshal ducked beneath the canvas
flap, ambushed by the sudden warmth of so many bodies. Stale sweat and woody
soot clung to the warmth in a smothering mix. Men slept crowded on the floor,
sending up a bevy of snores. A brazier glowed in the center, shadows flickering
across the sleeping forms. The marshal stepped between them, making his way to
the curtained room at the back. A second pair of guards stood watch, hands on
their sword hilts. The marshal met their stares, repeating his orders. “None to
pass without my express command.”

“Yes, sir!” the guards answered in
unison, two of his best.

Twitching the canvas curtain aside,
he entered his private quarters. His worried gaze sought the bundled sword
lying on the floor, relieved to find it untouched. The cursed sword belonged in
a locked chest, or better yet, drowned in the deepest lake, but that was a
problem for another day.

Desperate for sleep, the marshal
stumbled past the armor stand to the pallet piled high with furs. His squire
had been busy, his polished armor gleaming upon the stand like a champion
awaiting battle. A pity his aching body did not polish nearly as well. Feeling
bruised and dented, he sank down upon the bed, too weary to even undress.
“Martyn attend me!”

He heard a rustle outside the
canvas walls and then a towheaded lad appeared at the canvas flap. “Yes, my
lord?”

“My boots.”

His squire knelt, easing his boots
from his feet. Nimble fingers worked to remove the marshal’s surcoat and padded
jerkin. At the tender age of eight, the flaxen-haired lad was way too young to
wield a sword but his gaze betrayed his dreams, always returning to the bundled
sword. “Is it true what they say, my lord? Is it really Boric’s blade?”

Lightning-quick, the marshal reared
up. “You’re not to touch it!” Grabbing the boy’s shoulders, he shook him to
emphasize his words. “Do you understand?”

His squire stared white-eyed like a
startled colt.

“You’re
never
to touch it!”

“Yes, m’lord.”

He released the boy and his squire
stumbled backwards, his face claimed by shock more than fear. The marshal eased
back on his pallet, pulling the furs across his aching body. “It killed Baldwin.”

“The king’s squire?”

“Yes.”

“Just because he touched it?”

In many ways, it was the truth.
“Yes.”

Martyn swallowed, his face going
solemn. “Then I swear not to touch it.”

“Good. I’ll hold you to your word.
Now get to your bed, I won’t be needing you till morning.”

“Yes, my lord.” The lad disappeared
beyond the canvas curtain, leaving the marshal finally alone. His gaze roved to
the bundled sword, a promise and a threat. Even wrapped in furs, its siren’s
call whispered through his mind, offering a promise of glorious victory. “Lies,
you spew lies.” Turning away, he made the hand sign against evil while pulling
the fur coverlet over his head. Weary and aching, he sought sleep, but images
of the slaughtered ogres haunted his mind. Such a powerful weapon, such a
deadly trap, he tossed and turned beneath the furs. Exhaustion clung to his
body yet his mind refused to rest. Sleep eventually claimed him, but in his
dreams he won every battle and the color of his sword was darkest black.

“Have you died and gone to Valin?”
The rough voice prodded him almost as much as the smell.
Roast horsemeat
,
his stomach growled, rousing him from sleep. The marshal pried his eyes open.
“Lothar, this better be important.”

“I need your leave to enter.” His
friend’s voice came from beyond the canvas.

“Given.”

Lothar ducked inside, juggling two
plates heaped with roast horsemeat and biscuits smothered in gravy. “Rumors
were starting to circulate that you’d died in your sleep.”

The marshal sat up, pulling a
padded tunic over his head. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve slept clear through the
day. I’ve brought your supper.”

“What?” The marshal stared at the
pavilion’s outer walls, shocked to find the canvas reflecting the brazier’s
light, a telltale sign it was dark outside. “An entire day?”

“Just so.” Lothar shoved a plate
into his hands. “You clearly needed it. What in the Nine Hells were you
thinking when you attacked Baldwin?”

“I wasn’t thinking, I was
surviving.” The marshal rubbed his face, scratching the extra growth of
stubble. “I’m getting too old for this.”

“Aren’t we all? Eat, you’ll feel
better.” Lothar sat cross-legged on the floor, methodically devouring a plate
of horsemeat drenched in onion gravy, but his gaze kept stealing to the bundled
sword. The marshal knew what was on his friend’s mind, but he delayed the
subject, talking instead about smaller things. “Have you selected the supply
squad?”

“Ready to ride at first light.”

“You chose the fresh-made knights?”

Lothar nodded, “Just as you
ordered.”

“Good, give them a chance to live
before battle claims them.” Suddenly ravenous, the marshal shoveled a mouthful
of horsemeat chased by a bite of biscuit. “And Sir Abrax and Baldwin, I want
their names added to the list for the Chronicler.”

“Already done. When the squad
returns to Castlegard their names will be inked on the Roll of Honor.” Lothar
stared at him, his voice querulous. “But why Baldwin? He slaughtered three
knights and tried to kill you! Why does he deserve to be among the honored
dead?”

The marshal snapped with anger.
“Because he served the maroon. I should never have burdened a mere squire with
that sword.” He shook his head, remembering the slaughter field. “Even tainted
by the cursed blade, Baldwin gave the Octagon a great victory.”

“If you truly honor what he did,
then
use
the sword! If a mere squire can kill sixty ogres, what can a
champion do?”

“How many patrols have we lost?”

“What?”

“You saw Baldwin’s mismatched
armor. Who’s to say he only fought the black?”

Lothar’s eyes widened. “You’re
clutching at straws.”

“Am I? I crossed swords with him. I
saw the madness in his eyes.”

Stubbornness rode his friend’s
gaze. “The sword is a god-given gift.”

“From which god?”

“With Boric’s blade we could turn
the tide of war!”

“Boric’s blade was sapphire blue,
not sin-drenched black!”

Lothar sputtered.

The marshal pressed the attack.
“And who will wield it?”

Lothar stared like a man being
robbed of a dream.

“Baldwin fought like a demon
instead of a man. That sword changed him, corrupted him.”

Lothar’s voice dropped to a harsh
whisper. “We’re losing the war.”

The truth hurt like a thousand
sword cuts. Wounded, he stared at his friend.

Lothar raked a hand through his
graying hair. “Yes, we win battles, and your strategies of ambushes have
stretched the lives of our men, but we both know we need something more,
something to level the numbers and turn the tide. Boric’s sword could be the
answer.”

“No, it’s tainted, it’s cursed.
Whoever wields it will become demon-damned.”

Lothar stared at him and then at
the bundle-wrapped sword.

A surly stillness settled between
them.

Lothar gave him a measuring look.
“I will wield it.”

“Are you mad?”

“No, listen. I’ll go alone, keeping
the sword under wraps until I reach the enemy’s main camp. Only then will I
wield it.”

“The sword is cursed. It’ll drink
your soul.”

“How do you know?”

The marshal could not answer,
unable to speak of the whispering voice.

Lothar scowled. “Perhaps you’re
right. Perhaps the dark-damned sword will drink my soul, but not before the
enemy is slaughtered and the war won.” Lothar gave him a ragged look. “I’d
trade my soul to save the maroon.”

The marshal sighed. “I know.” He
shook his head, his voice laden with worry. “You might destroy an army…or you
might spawn something worse. You heard Baldwin. With that demon-cursed sword in
your hand, you’ll yearn for a crown. And then who will stop you?” 

His friend met his gaze. “You
will.”

“What?”

“You slew Baldwin.”

The marshal looked away. “A lucky
strike.”

“No, something more. We all saw it.
The black blade shattered the blue steel sword like it was glass, but not your
blade.” Lothar shook his head, his face glazed with wonder. “Your blade
remained whole, an ordinary sword of Castlegard steel. Why?”

 The marshal shoved his plate
aside, his hunger suddenly fled. “I don’t know.”

“You know something; I saw it in
your face.”

His friend knew him too well.
Stalling for time, the marshal drew a deep breath. “When the supply squad
returns to Castlegard, I want another name added to the Roll of Honor.”

Lothar gave him a flinty look.
“Who?”

“Sir Tyrone.”

Lothar stared at him, as if trying
to place the name. “The knight they burned in the signal tower of Cragnoth Keep?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“It’s his sword I’m wielding.”

Lothar raised a bushy eyebrow
brimming with questions.

The marshal sighed, the words
spilling out of him. “I took it from the signal fire atop Cragnoth Keep.
Everything else was burnt and blackened but not the sword. I don’t even know
why I took it. Since then I’ve often wondered if Sir Tyrone died a hero or a
traitor. Now I know.”

Lothar’s voice turned solemn. “A
sword steeped in honor.”

The words blazed with truth. “Just
so.”

Lothar stared at him. “What
happened?”

“Something unexpected. Something
I’ve never felt before.” The marshal stared at his friend, struggling to find
the words. “I was beaten. You saw how Baldwin fought. Lightning-quick, he
struck like a demon and I was already spent. Just parrying the black sword was
taking a grim toll…and then, when I thought all was lost, strength flowed into
me, strength and surety…from Sir Tyrone’s sword.”

Lothar’s gaze went wide.

“Do you believe me?”

“Something damn-sure happened; else
you’d have died under the black sword.” Lothar’s voice dropped to a whisper.
“So you think Sir Tyrone’s sword is bespelled?”

The marshal shook his head. “I
don’t know what to think…but it did not feel like that.”

 “Perhaps his sword is meant to
foil the black?”

“No, it felt like something else.”

“Tell me.”

“It felt like the strength of
brotherhood, like succor when it was most needed.”

Lothar chewed his mustache.
“Magic?”

The marshal shrugged.

“Magic cost us Raven Pass.”

“Just so.”

“Perhaps only magic will turn the
tide?”

“No, I’ll not believe it.”

Lothar scowled. “We’re fighting a
war we can’t win and suddenly we have two magical swords. The gods must be
laughing.”

“Or perhaps they’ve finally lent a
hand.”

Lothar barked a rude laugh. “If
they really want to help, they should just smite the enemy.”

“I don’t think it works like that.”

“More’s the pity.” Lothar gave him
a shrewd look. “The black sword can win this war.”

“No.”

“One life to save the maroon. I’d
count my life well spent.”

“That way is damned.”

“Think on it.” Lothar gathered up
the plates and slipped beyond the canvas.

Mired in thought, the marshal
tugged on his boots. Swirling his maroon cloak across his shoulders, he
shrugged on the harness with Sir Tyrone’s great sword. Stepping beyond the
canvas curtain, he reaffirmed the guards’ strict orders and then left the
pavilion. Night shrouded the camp, confirming that he’d slept the day away, yet
his muscles still ached. Sighing, the marshal made the rounds, knowing the men
needed to see him whole and in command. He stopped often, speaking of battle
plans and strategies, doing his best to stoke morale. The men feasted on roast
horsemeat and baked onions, a hearty meal but the stringy meat was just another
sure sign of defeat, their own dead mounts butchered after the battle. Honor
and fortitude were not enough; he needed something to turn the tide of war. His
mind turned to the dark sword, though he knew it reeked of evil. A dangerous
thought pierced him, wondering if it took evil to defeat evil. Shivering, he
pulled his maroon cloak close. Visions of dead ogres haunted his mind. The
weight of Sir Tyrone’s sword was a comfort across his shoulders, but it could
not slay the black sword’s temptation. In the back of his mind he could still
hear the sword’s dark whispers, a siren’s song promising sweet victory…if only
he dared wield it.