The Knight Marshal (The Silk & Steel Saga) (6 page)

6

The Knight Marshal

Stars glittered overhead like the souls of fallen heroes,
but the knight marshal took no comfort in the heavens. The gods had forsaken
the maroon, their only hope residing in cold hard steel. As if in rebuke, the
west wind battered his face, crusting snowflakes in his bearded stubble.
Chilled to the bone, the marshal pulled his maroon cloak close, urging his
horse up the steep trail. The healer and three knights followed close behind,
their saddlebags bulging with venison stolen from wolves. The marshal grimaced
at the thought, feeling more like a hounded brigand than a leader of knights.

At least they’d found the right trail.
An army of hoof prints dinted the snow, more proof that winter was a second
foe. He’d have to figure a way to foil the snow prints, or better yet, turn the
tracks to an advantage, another worry to nag at his mind. Little wonder most
sane commanders avoided winter wars.

A pair of maroon-cloaked knights
stepped from the trees. Both held spears while the taller one carried the
curved horn of a sentry slung on a baldric. Grim-faced and hollow-eyed, they
nodded as he rode past but not a word was spoken.

The marshal nudged his horse up the
trail, his stallion blowing plumes of mist into the chill morning air. Softly
falling snow muffled every sound yet he heard the jangle of arms and armor
before he saw them. The trees fell away revealing a balding mountaintop, the
white snow bloodied with the remnants of an army. Men huddled around meager
camp fires, while others slept wrapped in their maroon cloaks, their swords
close by their sides. More than a few bore wounds, blood seeping through
make-shift bandages. The brave sat side-by-side with the battle-shattered; the
first honing their weapons while the latter sat empty-handed, staring with
vacant eyes. Defeat was such a bitter thing, something he’d never thought to
taste. Looking at the bloodied army, he realized defeat was a disease, leeching
the heart from the men. Victory was the only cure and it fell to him to find
it. Taking a deep breath, the marshal squared his shoulders and rode among his
men, nodding to friends and comrades-in-arms, sharing words of encouragement.
His appearance caused a stir, a ripple of murmurs spread in hushed tones. He
knew what they sought. All too keen he felt the absence of the king.

The healer dismounted to tend the
wounded, but the other three stayed at his back. “Come, we need to find the
captains.” Holding his mount to a walk, the marshal picked a path among the
maroon, seeking the officers. He found them at the summit, ringed around a
campfire, sitting in the shadow of the great mage-stone hand.
Stonehand,
the
massive statue captured his gaze, thrice the height of a tall man. Unweathered
by wind or snow, the ancient mage-stone sat boldly at the mountain’s crest, a
relic from another age. For half a heartbeat, the great hand seemed to glow.
Startled, the marshal reined backwards, but then he realized it was just a
trick of the light, the dawn’s first rays rearing over the mountaintops.
Chagrined, he glared at the statue, its meaning lost to the ages, nothing more
than a rallying spot for a routed army.

A campfire illumed the statue’s
base, snapping and crackling with the promise of warmth. The officers stood at
his approach. A squire leaped to hold the marshal’s horse as he swung down from
the saddle. Lothar was first to greet him. Gripping him close, the
leather-faced captain whispered a harsh question. “Is it done?”

“Yes.” The single word was laden
with sorrow. Lothar looked away, smitten with grief, but the others still held
a wild hope in their questioning gazes. One by one, the marshal greeted the
knight-captains. Sir Dalt of Ice Tower, Sir Gravis of Sword Keep, Sir Varlin of
Dymtower and Sir Krismir of Shieldhold, but two of them were missing. The
marshal turned to Lothar. “Sir Boris?”

“Dead from an arrow at the
Shieldbreaker. Saw him topple off the wall myself.”

“And Sir Kilgar?”

“Took a nasty sword cut in the
retreat from the Whore. I sent him with the wounded back to Castlegard. I
expect he’ll lose the arm.” His voice dropped to a husk. “We’ll be needing to
make some promotions.”

“Too many, I fear.” Every man lost
was a blow to the maroon, especially the officers. Reminded of the king, his
gaze went to the squire holding his horse. Caught listening, the young squire
blanched pale and then began to lead the horse away, but the marshal stayed him
with a word. “Wait.” Rounding the far side of the stallion, the marshal tugged
the king’s sword from his bedroll.
Honor’s Edge
gleamed sapphire-blue in
the morning light, the monk’s crystal set in the pommel.

The marshal felt the weight of
their stares. More than any crown, this sword symbolized the king of the
Octagon. With both hands, he held the great sword aloft, a last tribute to his
king. A solemn hush smothered the mountaintop, for the masterless sword told
its own tale. One by one, the knights stood in homage, a bitter groan swirling
through their ranks.

Sir Gravis was the first to speak,
his voice rough with chained emotion. “So it’s true. We all hoped…”

The marshal shook his head. “The
king took a grievous wound, a sword thrust to the lungs.” Their faces turned
gray, knowing it was a killing stroke. “We raised a cairn for him on the far
side of Raven Pass.” He waved the squire away with the horses but kept his
three companions close. Cradling the king’s sword, he took a seat at the fire.
“There’s more you should know.” His one-eyed stare swept the officers, holding
them to silence. “Our king was felled by treachery.” Anger leaped through his
brother knights, their hands closing on their sword hilts. “I got a good look
at the Skeleton King before I slew him. Twin scars marred his face, the brand
marks of a broken octagon.” Anger rippled around the fire. “It was not the
Mordant who slew our king, but one of our own.”

“An unmade knight!” Sir Dalt shook
his head in disbelief.

“
Raymond!”
Sir Lothar spat
the name like a curse. “King Ursus should have executed the slimy bastard
rather than exile him.”

Sir Gravis said, “But how? Only a
champion could best the king and Raymond was never a champion.”

The marshal scowled. “It was never
a fair fight. Raymond’s hand dealt the blow, but the sword was cursed,
bespelled with dark magic. You saw how the black blade shattered the blue. Only
a cursed sword could do that.”

Sir Abrax and Sir Rannock seconded
him. “The blue blade shrieked in pain whenever it struck the black. The king
waged a mighty fight till the prince’s sword failed him.
Mordbane
shattered like it was made of crystal. Dark magic slew our king.”  

More than one captain made the hand
sign against evil. “Never trust the pentacle!”

“The gods curse them all!”

“Damn their black souls to the
deepest hell!”

The marshal let them rail, waiting
for their anger to simmer. When silence returned, it was Krismir, the youngest
among them that asked the question. “So what do we do now?”

The marshal did not hesitate. “We
fight, as the Octagon always does. Harry the enemy at every turn and give them
no quarter. Hound them till they retreat to the north or die beneath our
swords.”

“And claim vengeance for our king.”
Sir Gravis’s voice was as cold as a winter storm.

“Just so.” The marshal’s words
carried the weight of an oath.

Sir Lothar said, “So it’ll be a
winter war.”

The marshal nodded. “The back end
of winter for a backhanded war, like none we’ve ever fought.” He tried to keep
the worry from his voice, “We’ll need supplies. And more men.”

Lothar replied, “Already done. I’ve
sent riders to every castle and keep along the Spines. The old veterans can
hold Castlegard but I’ve given orders to empty the others. No sense guarding
the wall when the gate’s already breached. And if needs be, we’ll have
Castlegard to fall back on.”

“True enough.” A grim thought, but
the marshal could not fault the logic. “And what of the enemy?”

“They’ve set up camp at the Whore,
securing the entrance to the pass, almost as if the bastards are waiting for
something.”

Waiting for what?
But the
marshal left the question unsaid. Instead, he focused on the needs at hand.
“We’ll set rings of pickets and scouts so we’ll have plenty of warning if the
enemy comes hunting. And we need to find a way to keep the snow from betraying
our every movement, or better yet, use the prints to our advantage.”

Lothar gave him a wolfish grin.
“I’ve got an idea about that.”

The captains huddled around the
crackling fire, discussing tactics and battle strategies. Most were accustomed
to fighting behind stout walls. The marshal soon learned that old ways died
hard. Working with Lothar, he prodded their thoughts towards fresh paths.
Outnumbered and forced from their walls, they’d have to fight like brigands,
striking where they were least expected and then disappearing into the forest.
The biggest problem was the snow’s betrayal. When the final plans were laid and
all the details discussed, one thing remained unspoken. To a man, the captains
turned their stares toward the marshal, their gazes dropping to the masterless
sword of a dead king. Lothar broached the unspoken question. “Will you wield
it?”

A lethal silence settled around the
fire. Now that the question was finally upon him, the marshal felt a strange
sense of relief. “I’m not worthy.”

His words sparked an outrage,
“Who’s more worthy than the marshal?”

“Surely the king named a
successor!” 

“One of us should take up the
sword!”

Sir Rannock said, “The maroon needs
a king…and all the Anvril sons are dead!”

The harsh truth doused their words
like water to a flame. Sir Gravis, ever the king’s man, repeated the question
baiting every tongue. “Did the king name a successor?”

The marshal took a deep breath, as
if girding for a fight. “He spoke of his children.”

“But all the sons are dead!”

The marshal met their stares.
“There is another.”

Puzzlement scrawled their faces.
“What, a bastard prince?”

Lothar was the first to remember.
“Not the Imp!”

“A
daughter!”

“Only a scamp of a girl!”

The marshal parried their protests.
“She’s the king’s one true heir.”

“But a daughter can’t lead.”

Sir Varlin gave a wolfish-grin.
“But she can
breed!
Wed her to a captain and we’ll get a true heir for
the Octagon.”

“Aye, she’ll need a strong sword in
the night!”

Their talk angered the marshal,
their faces transformed from sworn knights to wolves stalking a hen house.
Surging to his feet, he thrust the king’s sword into the ground.
“Enough!”
The
sapphire blade quivered upright, the crystal gleaming like a baleful eye.
“There’ll be no talk of wedding or bedding. We’ve a battle to fight and a war
to win.” He stared at them till shame colored their faces. “For now,
I
will lead the Octagon. And no man will wield the king’s sword till a true heir
is acclaimed.” Dissension smoldered in some of their faces, yet none dared to
protest, at least not openly. “Let the war prove the worth of the king’s
successor.” That got them thinking. “
Honor’s Edge
will be sent to
Castlegard to await the hand of the heir. In the meantime, we have a war to
fight, a war to win.”

A murmur rippled through the men,
talk of kingship and swords, but the ugliness had been averted.

The marshal raised his voice above
the murmur. “You’ve all got your orders and there is much to be done. Weapons
need to be honed and men selected for each sortie. We attack at twilight.”

“
Twilight!”
 Sir Dalt’s
voice rang with protest. “But the men have barely recovered from Raven Pass.”

The marshal met his stare. “I’ll
not let them dwell on defeat. They need a victory and the enemy needs to bleed
for the king.” His voice hardened to steel. “You have your orders. See to them
or I’ll appoint another captain in your stead.” 

Their stares crossed like swords,
but Sir Dalt was the first to concede. With a stiff salute, he stalked away.
The others followed till only Lothar was left. His friend sidled close, joining
him in the shadow of the great hand. “Do you think that was wise?”

“What? Challenging Dalt? The chain
of command must be obeyed.” Weary to the bone, the marshal leaned on the king’s
sword.

“No. You not claiming the sword,
leaving them without a king.”

“We have no king.”

“But they won’t wait for a mere
slip of a girl.”

“It’s not about the girl, it’s
about the monks.”

“What?” Lothar shied away as if
madness was a contagion, but the marshal pulled him back with a sharp look.
“There’s much you don’t know. When I stood vigil on the king’s cairn, a frost
owl flew out of the night to join me. When it landed, it changed into a monk.”

“A
shifter!”
Lothar hissed
making the hand sign against evil.

“You’ve met him before. We both
have. The same monk who brought warning to the king, the day we learned a demon
possessed a prince.” A vision of glowing red eyes filled his mind, like looking
into the very pits of hell. The marshal suppressed a shiver. “For the sake of
the Light, the monk asked me not to name an heir.”

“So now we’re taking counsel from
monks? And a shifter no less?”

“Yes, but the monks have been right
before. They held the truth about the demon-prince. Their counsel bears
considering.”

Lothar chewed the edge of his
mustache. “So they expect us to wait for a mere girl?”

“They expect us to fight, to play
our part in the battle to come.”

“Our
part
?”