The Knight Marshal (The Silk & Steel Saga) (35 page)

60

Katherine

Kath startled awake.
Something was wrong.
She reached
for her sword and nearly flipped from the hammock. Clinging to the canvas, she
took stock of her surroundings. The others slept, lying in their canvas
cocoons, soft snores echoing through the hold, but the ship did not creak, and
the hammocks did not sway.

The hammocks did not sway,
a
premonition of dread slithered down her spine. Kath rolled from the hammock and
tugged on her boots. Shrugging on her throwing axes, she threaded her way
through the hammocks and scrambled up the rope ladder. Cold sea air poured
through the hatch, easing the warm stink of the hold. Kath winced at the bright
sunlight, proof she’d slept through the night and into the day. Emerging on
deck, she half expected the ship to be deserted, but it was not. Sailors lined
the railing, staring out to sea, keeping a tense vigil.

Kath climbed from the hold into a
startling silence.

Gone was the billowing wind and
frothing whitecaps, replaced by an eerie stillness. Instead of mountainous
waves, the slate-gray sea lay smooth and flat, unnaturally calm, as glassy as a
mirror. Kath stared slack-jawed. It seemed impossible, as if some ancient
wizard had ensorcelled the sea, taming the ocean’s wild ways…or the
Sprite
had
sailed off the world’s edge straight into a nightmare.

Flat as a millpond, the ocean
stretched to infinity.

A chill gripped her, so
bone-numbing cold it seemed otherworldly. Shivering, Kath said, “What is this?”

No one spoke. No one made a sound.
Even the seagulls were gone, as if they’d abandoned the ship. Overhead the
sails hung limp and lifeless. The
Sea Sprite
sat still as death,
marooned upon a listless sea.

Unnerved, Kath made her way to the
rear deck.

Juliana stood at the ship’s wheel.
Clad in the same clothing as yesterday, her face looked haggard, her red hair
tugged from its binding making a ragged halo. She gave Kath a hollow-eyed
stare. “We’re clapped in irons.”

The phrase meant nothing, but the
captain’s grim tone said it all. “And the enemy?”

Juliana shrugged. “We fled south
under the crescent moon…till the winds died. Now all we can do is wait.”

“Wait?”

“For the winds to speed us home…or
the enemy to find us.”

Worry riddled the captain’s voice.
Kath turned her gaze to the listless sea. “Is this natural? Or some arcane
spell?”

“A spell?”

“By the MerChanters, to trap us.”

Juliana’s gaze widened, ambushed by
the question. “If they have that kind of power, I’ve never heard of it.” She
gave Kath a harrowing look. “Pray that you’re wrong…although the lack of wind
clearly favors the trireme.” Her gaze scanned the dead calm sea. “Sometimes
this happens, the wind dies and the sea calms…but it is rare, very rare.”

“There must be something we can
do?”

“Pray.”

Kath shook her head, frustration
lacing her voice. “The gods help those who help themselves.” She stared out at
the glassy sea. “How long will this last?”

“Only the gods know.”

Kath studied the mirror-flat ocean,
so unnatural, so eerie. It seemed such an ill turn of luck…but this was the
north…where Darkness held sway. She shivered making the hand sign against evil.
Kath prowled the ship, staring at the sea from every angle. Not a breath of
wind rippled the ocean. The strange calm was unnerving. At least the glass-flat
sea would give her men a chance to recover from the wretched sickness.
Returning to the rear deck, Kath stood by the captain. “What will happen if the
enemy finds us?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“The wind. Without wind, we have
but two choices. Fight or surrender.”

“
Surrender?”
Kath was
shocked to hear the word.

“It is said that if you fight the
MerChanters and lose, then they’ll slay everyone onboard, but if you surrender,
they’ll keep those fit to serve as slaves.” Juliana gave her a bitter grin.
“Live to fight another day.”

Those fit to serve
...the
words echoed in Kath’s mind, a death knell for Danya and Zith. A chill raced
down her spine. She hadn’t brought her friends south just die beneath a
MerChanter’s trident.

“Of course, it’s only a rumor.”
Juliana shrugged. “Rumors about the MerChanters hugging the coastline were
clearly wrong. Few who meet the sea raiders live to speak of it.”

Surrender was unthinkable…but
without an advantage, her men would lose a straight-up fight.
A straight-up
fight,
the thought sparked an idea. “How many archers onboard?”

Juliana cracked a wane smile. “Born
and bred in Navarre, most of us are archers, middling at best, but archers
nonetheless.” Her smile fled. “But we’ve only three bows among us.”

Kath’s voice strangled on the
number. “Only
three?
”

Juliana shrugged. “We’re merchants
not warriors.”

The answer stunned Kath. A dozen
bows might have turned the tide of battle. Desperate for a solution, she
prowled the deck and then she searched the all the holds, poking in every nook
and cranny, seeking an advantage. Such a small ship, surrounded by an endless
ocean…it seemed like a trap waiting to snap shut. The crew knew it. Brittle and
on edge, they jumped at the slightest sound.

“
Ship ho!”

The warning sang from the crow’s
nest.

Kath raced to the railing, praying
for a friend, fearing a foe.

Juliana pointed toward the
northeast. “There!”

“
Ware the northeast!”

In the distance, a red hull glided
towards them, black oars beating the mirror-flat sea. Time had run out.

61

The Knight Marshal

The maroon won another hard-fought battle, but it did not
feel like a victory. Corpses littered the ground; so many the trampled snow ran
red with blood. The knight marshal stood upon the slaughter field, leaning on a
bloody sword. His gaze scanned the battleground, taking the reaper’s tally. For
every four dead, three wore black cloaks, proving the prowess of the maroon.
But what did prowess matter against an endless horde? So many battles, so many
dead…the losses kept mounting. The truth stared him in the face, the bitter,
harsh truth. All the valor in the world could not change the outcome. If the
Octagon kept fighting this way there’d be nothing left save cripples and lads
too young to shave. The marshal shuddered at the thought. He’d not do that to
the maroon. He’d not let the Octagon be whittled away to nothing. Not on his
watch.

Sheathing Sir Tyrone’s great sword,
the marshal trudged a path among the dead.

*Wield me!*

Strapped to his back, the dark
sword whispered its siren’s song. The marshal grimaced, fighting the sword’s
temptation.

Crows cawed from the winter-bare
trees, awaiting their feast. The marshal crossed the field, studying the dead,
looking for friends, looking for the living. Lothar sat on the far side,
cradling his battleaxe, a wicked cut bleeding above his left eye. The marshal
suppressed a grin. “You still alive?”

Lothar shrugged. “Just another scar
to impress the ladies.”

His friend’s jest could not leaven
the truth. “We lost too many.”

“I know.”

“We can’t keep fighting like this.”

Lothar gave him a solemn nod. “I
know.” His voice dropped to a harsh whisper. “I’ll wield it if you won’t.”

The marshal scowled. “If anyone
pays the price, it’ll be me.”\

“Are you sure there’s a price?”

“I’m sure.”

Snowmelt dripped from the trees,
ten thousand teardrops raining down, as if the forest wept. Like harp strings
plucked in mourning, the sorrowful sound echoed in the marshal’s soul. “Winter
is fleeing. Soon we’ll be wallowing in mud instead of snow.”

Lothar shrugged. “Not as cold but
just as miserable.”

He offered his friend a hand,
tugging him to his feet. “We’d best see to the wounded.”

Lothar grunted in agreement, his
face set in a grimace. Dealing the mercy stroke was a terrible task, but they
both knew it had to be done. Together they walked the field, checking the
wounded. Those too far gone to save were given a clean stroke. Better a quick
knife from a brother-knight than a tortured death in the enemy’s hands. The
maroon left no wounded upon the battlefield.

“
Water…give me water.”

They followed the weak croak to a
mound of dead. Pulling black-cloaked corpses away, they found a friend sprawled
at the bottom. Sir Towlin lay on his back, a gray-haired veteran leaking blood
from half a dozen wounds. The worst was a gaping axe cut at his side, dark blood
pooling in the melting snow.

The marshal knelt. Gently lifting
his friend’s head, he held the water skin to the knight’s pale lips.

Sir Towlin sucked on the water till
he turned his head away. “Wish it was…brandy.”

The marshal forced a smile. “You deserve
brandy. You fought valiantly.”

“Slipped in the damn snow…lucky axe
stroke…but I took his damn head.” Blood bubbled at the side of his mouth. “Hurt
like hell at first…doesn’t hurt any more.”

The marshal held his friend,
knowing death hovered near. “Your deeds will be remembered.” 

Something quickened in the knight’s
eyes. “Will they?” His gaze locked on the marshal like a drowning man clinging
to a rope. “Will they remember? Will anyone…live to tell the tale?”

The question pierced the marshal
like a fatal sword stroke, sealing his decision. “Yes.” The single word held
the heavy weight of a dire promise.

“Good.” The knight closed his
eyes…and died.

The marshal gently lowered his
friend to the ground. Whispering a prayer to Valin, he closed his friend’s eyes
for the last time, placing a sword in the dead man’s hands. “Valin keep you.”

A scout’s warning whistled through
the forest.

Lothar hissed, “From the south!”

The marshal stood. Fearing an
ambush, he scanned the battlefield, but the alpine meadow offered nowhere to
hide and it was too late to run. Bellowing a desperate order, he unsheathed his
sword. “Form a shield wall!” Plucking a maroon shield from a corpse, he ran to
join the others. A hundred knights, many of them wounded, answered the marshal’s
call. Staggering to the battlefield’s heart, they formed a crescent. Shields
overlapping, they faced south, presenting a defensive barrier. Weapons held at
the ready, they crouched behind the shield wall, braced for another dance with
death.

Three short whistles followed by
one long, the marshal sagged with relief. The scout signaled friends
approached.

The knights lowered their shields,
more than a few slumping to the ground. The marshal took a deep breath.
Flicking a glance toward Lothar, he stepped forward to meet the others.

Hoof beats approached from the
south. A tattered maroon banner topped the rise, followed by two hundred
mounted knights. The lead knight raised a bloody morning star in salute. His
shield battered and his horse lathered, Sir Rannock pulled his mount to a halt.
“Found the bastards just where you said they’d be. We took them from behind and
rode them into the ground.” He flashed a deadly smile. “There won’t be any
ambushes today.”

The marshal nodded. “Losses?”

“Twelve dead.”

The marshal added them to the grim
tally he kept in his head, a heavy burden. “We’re moving camp to Twin Boulders.
We’ll meet you there.”

Crows cawed from the trees, dark
wings launching towards the battlefield.

The marshal glared at the telltale
birds. “To linger here is to invite the enemy.”

Sir Rannock saluted. “We’ll meet
you at the boulders.” He turned his mount and the others followed him west.

Squires trudged up the far hill
bringing the horses.

“Mount up! We ride for Twin
Boulders.” The marshal swung into the saddle, suppressing a groan. Everything
ached, his sword arm, his back, his bruised ribs, but he’d lived to fight
another day, while so many others remained sprawled upon the battlefield, food
for crows. Taking a last look, his gaze swept the meadow. Nothing moved save
the hungry birds. Too many dead, the truth plagued him. In the back of his
mind, the dark sword whispered its temptation,
*Wield me!*
This time,
the marshal chose to answer. “
Yes.”
Asking for a trot, he turned his
horse to the west.

62

Juliana

Black oars cleaved the sea, striking ripples in a listless
ocean. Juliana watched the enemy approach, a scar upon the ocean. The
red-hulled trireme cruised south with menacing speed, a predator chasing a
blood scent. For half a day, her crew watched them draw closer, stalking her
ship, relentless and implacable. Waiting seemed like a torture, yet now that
the enemy drew near, she wished for more time. So close, Juliana could see the
raiders crowding the trireme’s deck. Their fish-scaled armor gleamed bright as
a coppery sunset. Gripping tridents and axes, their eager grins flashed in
their bearded faces, keen for a fight.

Death rowed towards her ship, death
or enslavement, a grim choice for a captain.

Juliana stood upon the rear deck,
gauging the distance. A faint breeze had sprung up, gently rippling the sails.
The
Sea
Sprite
meandered south, but it was too little too late,
as if the gods mocked her crew’s entreaties, but it gave her a chance to
maneuver.

“Turn to starboard and hold her steady.”

Marcus bellowed the order.
“Turn
to starboard and hold her steady.”

Sailors tense with the long wait,
leaped to answer the call. The
Sea Sprite
gently swung to starboard,
presenting her broadside to the raider, like a deer offering her throat to a
wolf.

Beside her, Marcus fretted. “Are
you sure about this?”

Keeping her voice to a whisper, she
answered, “I’m sure of nothing.” Louder, she said. “Furl sails.”

“Furl sails!”

The checkered sails were furled,
another sign of surrender. The
Sea Sprite
sat dead in the water, her
wings furled, a plump pigeon awaiting capture.

Juliana swallowed hard, tasting
bile in her mouth. Keeping her face stone-still, she watched as the trireme
approach. Smooth as silk, the enemy ship banked to starboard, the red hull pulling
alongside the
Sprite
.
Their port-side oars were shipped,
retracting into the hull like a crab pulling its legs into the shell. Grappling
hooks sprang from the enemy vessel, piercing the
Sprite’s
deck.
Bound
together in a death grip, the two hulls touched with a dull thud.

Enemy raiders leaped aboard her
ship. Big swarthy men with braided beards, they wielded tridents and
battleaxes, their scaled copper armor gleaming in the afternoon light.
Brandishing their weapons, they scowled at her crew. “Kneel and live or fight
and die!”

Her crew retreated like sheep
before wolves…but they did not kneel.

One of the MerChanters barked a
rude laugh. “
Kneel
or I’ll have southern blood on me trident!”

Juliana rushed to the railing. “We
surrender!” The words tasted foul in her mouth, but she had to protect her
crew.

“A
wench!”
The warrior
licked his lips, giving her a lecherous stare. “I claim the wench as my
spoils!”

Juliana swallowed her revulsion,
refusing to be quelled by his lewd stare.

“Stand down, Balthar.” A MerChanter
with a weathered face and gray streaking his dark hair sauntered aboard her
ship. Gold coins braided his tri-forked beard, a cutlass and three daggers
thrust through his belt, all of them gleaming with jewels and polished gold.
“Or are you challenging me for the captain’s share?”

If plunder was a mark of rank, then
Juliana guessed this was their captain.

The burly warrior scowled. “No
challenge from me, my lord, just a request for sloppy seconds!”

The others roared with vulgar
laughter, crude and coarse, like jackals at a feast.

Bile resurged into Juliana’s mouth,
but she forced it back down.

The MerChanter lord quieted his men
with a stern look. “Put the captives on their knees.”

The MerChanters stepped towards her
crew, menacing their weapons.

“
Kneel!”
Juliana barked the
command, willing her crew to obey.

Sullen, her men dropped to their
knees, laying daggers and long knives on the deck.

The MerChanter lord speared her
with his stare. “And who are you, that men obey you?”

Juliana steadied her voice,
mustering all of her bravado. “The captain of this ship.”

“The
captain!”
The lord spat
the words while quirking a lewd smile. “A
wench
for a
captain?
You
land-peoples keep such strange ways. Little wonder you surrendered.” The lord
grinned, showing a rich gleam of gold-capped teeth. “I’ve never tupped a
captain before.” His voice turned to a hungry growl. “Come here, wench.”

Beside her, Marcus reached for his
long knife, but she stilled him with a glare.

Taking a steadying breath, Juliana
sauntered down the stairs to the middeck. She kept her face stone-still despite
her galloping heartbeat. A gauntlet of stares feasted on her. It felt like a
gang rape, yet she refused to flinch. At the base of the stairs, the
MerChanters parted before her. Grinning like drooling hounds, they opened a
path to their lord. Juliana looked neither left nor right, keeping her gaze
fixed on the sea lord.

“
Captain, don’t!”
Soothby,
her second mate, snatched up his long knife and lunged at the lord.

Snake-fast, the lord sidestepped
the long knife, plunging a jeweled dagger into Soothby’s throat. Impaled, the
sailor stood transfixed, his eyes widening in shock, blood frothing at his
throat. His long knife clattered useless to the deck. Soothby stopped
twitching. Sliding from the gilded blade, he slumped dead beside his knife,
spewing blood upon the
Sprite’s
deck like a libation.

The lord cleaned his jeweled
dagger. “A jealous lover?”

Juliana struggled to appear
indifferent.

The lord’s dark gaze roved across
her, lingering on her curves. “A comely wench, a fitting spoil for a MerChanter
Sea Lord.”

Under his raking gaze, Juliana felt
like a whore put to auction.

Stepping toward her, he leaned
close, so close she could smell the fish oil slicking his braided beard.

His gaze delved her breasts.

Repulsed, Juliana struggled not to
flinch. “We surrender…so you’ll let us live?” A quaver laced her question.
Juliana swallowed, uncertain if it was deliberate or fake.

The captain leered at her. “Those
who serve, live.” His right hand mauled her breast. “A comely lass like you can
best serve with your legs spread.”

She leaped backwards, her hands
clenched.

“A feisty one.” He grinned. “I like
a little fight in my captives.”

Two MerChanter warriors moved
behind her, blocking her retreat.

“Best if you’re disarmed.” The
captain plucked her long knife from its scabbard, letting the blade clatter to
the deck.

Juliana felt naked without the
knife, yet she forced herself to meet his gaze, putting a plea in her voice.
“In my cabin?”

“
In your cabin!”
He roared
with cruel delight. “Or perhaps I’ll take you here, spread across your own
deck?”

She gave him a brazen look. “I know
how to please.”

“Do you now?” A sharp gleam filled
his dark eyes.

From the hungry tone of his voice,
she could tell the hook was set.