The Knight Marshal (The Silk & Steel Saga) (7 page)

“There’s more you should know.”

Lothar waited, his face braced for
battle.

“After the death of the king, I
took a good look at the black blade that slew him. The pommel was shaped like
an octagon with a pair of coiled dragons gracing the crossguard. Beneath the
guard, the maker’s mark was clear, an octagon surrounding the initials
OS.”.

“Orrin Surehammer,”
Lothar’s
face paled. “The lost blade!”

The marshal nodded. “Boric’s sword,
the first blue steel blade, but instead of sapphire blue, the sword was dark as
pitch, corrupted and cursed. With my own hands I pulled the sword from the
king’s chest. Even through my gauntlets, I felt the cold dread of it. That
sword radiates Darkness,” his voice dropped to a whisper, “and it called to
me…with a promise of power.”

Lothar’s hand crept to his sword
hilt. “What did you do?”

“I hurled it into the woods.” The
marshal shrugged as if trying to dislodge a great weight. “Later, after we’d
raised a cairn to the king, I went in search of it. I wrapped it in a blanket
and charged Baldwin to throw it in Eye Lake. Perhaps the lake’s depths can
chain the evil.” He hesitated to speak the rest, yet he needed to tell someone,
“At night, the blade haunts my dreams…and taunts me with the promise of
victory.”

Lothar made the hand sign against
evil. “More sorcery. Better to send it to a watery grave.”

“True enough.” He gave Lothar a
wary look. “But it tells us much about our foe. The Mordant pits our own
legends against us,”

“A cursed sword sent to slay a
king, makes you wonder what else we’re fighting.”

“Darkness, we’re fighting Darkness
itself.” The marshal pulled the king’s sword from the cold, hard ground.
“Heaven help us if we fail.”

7

Blaine

Blaine’s sword sliced the air with a vicious whisper.
Haunted by nightmares of the winged fiend, he slashed left and then right, a
whirl of steel, but his foe slipped away. Pivoting left, he loosed a head-high
cleave. Kath ducked beneath his swing and lunged forward. Anger flashed across
her face as she loosed a whirlwind of strikes. Blaine retreated, parrying her
assault, steel clanging against steel. He’d never seen the girl fight with such
venom. She lunged forward, the flat of her sword striking his chainmail with a
resounding ring.

“What’s wrong with you?” She glared
up at him. “You’re sparring like a wounded bear.”

“And you’re fighting like a demon
possessed.” Blaine snarled and stepped back, breathing plumes of mist into the
cold morning air. “Enough.” He rammed the training sword into the sheath as if
it would quench his anger. Taking up his blue steel sword, he shrugged the
harness across his shoulders and began to turn away.

Kath grabbed his arm. “What
troubles you?

Anger spiked through him. He turned
on her. “
What troubles me?”
Rage rode his voice, yet the girl did not
flinch. Fists clenched, he glared at her, but he could not speak of the whores
in his bed or the winged monster pecking at his window, shame and fear and lust
all tied together in a terrible knot. Instead, his anger lashed in a different
direction. “That
voice
in the bloody cavern.”

Kath nodded.

“It said that the Octagon is
fallen. That the king is dead.”

Her face paled but she did not look
away.

“The voice lied, right? That was
just an evil lie?”

Her voice choked to a whisper.
“No.”

“
No!”

“Duncan said it happened.”

He reeled at the answer, unwilling
to believe the Octagon was defeated. “And you believe it?”

Kath gave a grim nod. “I believe Duncan.” Her gaze slid away. “Other things he said have proved true.”

His rage exploded. “Then why do we
sit here, doing nothing?”

“What would you have us do?”

“Take the horses and ride south!
Find the Octagon and add our swords to the maroon!”

“In the dead of winter? Across the
steppes? How far do you think we’d get?” She glared at him. “And what of Danya
and Zith? They’ll not survive the ride…and I’ll not leave them.”

“So you’ll sit here and rot?”

Her head snapped back as if
slapped.

Anger snarled his voice. “I want
the Mordant’s head.”

“No.” Kath’s face turned
ghost-pale. “He must die by the crystal dagger or it will be no true death.”

He glared at her. “The king gave me
a hero’s sword. I mean to use it.”

“No.” She gripped his sword arm.
“It’s not about heroes. We
must
put an end to the Mordant. His evil has
grown too great.”

“Or maybe you want the glory for
yourself.” Blaine pulled away. Beneath his feet, the rune-carved courtyard
quaked.

“Do you feel that?” Kath glared at
him. “Evil is real. We fought evil in the cavern and won a victory for the
Light.”

“Did we win? It does not feel like
a victory!”

She looked away. “I know.”

Beneath his boots, the tremor
slowed to a stop. Blaine turned away, watching the line of captured soldiers
pass rocks into the gullet of the bloody cavern, sealing the demon in the
depths. “The Citadel is ours, but the Mordant’s long gone, marched south with
his vast legions. For all we know, he could be ravaging the southern kingdoms
while we sit here, idly waiting.” He glared at her. “Instead of a victory, this
feels like a trap.”

“We’re not idle.”

“Aren’t we?” He choked on a bitter
laugh. “Zith wanders the halls searching for scrolls and magical trinkets while
the rest of us sit around, sharpening our swords. I call that idle.”

“We’ll find a way south.” Her gaze
slipped away. “The gods will help.”

“Really?” Sarcasm leavened with
bitterness rose like bile in his throat. “And what of the Octagon? Did the gods
help the maroon?”

“Will two more swords make a difference?”

“I’d like to think so.”

She gave him a crooked smile. “I’d
like to think so too, but we’re charged to slay the Mordant.”

“And how will we do that from
here?”

“We’ll find advantages…and we’ll
find a way south.”

He heard despair in her voice, despair
laden with frustration, yet he could not quell his own anger. “The bloody monks
said we need to slay the Mordant ere the red comet set.” He jabbed a finger
toward the west, toward the red comet hovering above the dark waters. “The
bloody comet is getting low in the sky.”

“I know.”

Her voice sounded so small it
galled him. He wanted to help her, he wanted to shake some sense into her and
ride south, he wanted to find the Mordant and slay him with his blue steel
sword, but he could do none of it. Instead, he reached for his maroon cloak and
swirled it around his shoulders. “My sword is yours.” Blaine stalked away,
anger in his stride, wondering how victory could taste so empty.

8

Katherine

A wolf’s howl shivered through the marble corridors,
piercing her gloom. Kath smiled to hear such a glorious wildness set loose in
the Mordant’s palace. She imagined how it would enrage the former ruler to find
wolf droppings in his gilded hallways. Her smile broke into a feral grin, a
petty revenge. Kath followed the mountain wolf’s howls, Bear and Boar padding
silent as shadows at her back.

A pair of wolf-faced warriors stood
guard at the doorway, nodding at her approach. “Svala.”

“How is she today?”

Balthus, the taller of the two
answered, “The same, Svala. She will wake when the gods will it.”

Always the same answer, always said
with the same complete confidence. “Let’s hope the gods will it to be soon.”
Balthus nodded and Kath passed through the doorway. They’d claimed a corner
chamber, the outer doors flung wide, opening onto a crenellated turret, but
instead of frigid cold it was cozy as a wolf’s den. Rich wool tapestries draped
the turret like tents, thick wool carpets strewn across the floor. Ruby reds,
sapphire blues, and bright golds, the vibrant colors hung at every angle, an
odd jumble of embroidered faces peering from the ceiling like a complex
painting. The effect was dazzling.

Bryx yipped a greeting. The
mountain wolf lay sprawled beside a pallet heaped with furs. Danya slept
beneath the furs, her long brown hair combed out, her face pale but serene, as
if she dreamt a good dream. Kath stared at her friend, willing her to wake.

“Come and sit, Svala.” Neven
shifted amongst the pillows without releasing Danya’s hand. 

Kath sat cross-legged beside the
wolf-faced warrior. “How is she?”

“The same, always drinking the
broth drizzled on her lips, but otherwise she does not stir.” He bent his head,
brushing a kiss across Danya’s hand, the open affection so effortless it sent a
pang through Kath’s heart.

“What is it, Svala?”

Kath closed her face, lest it
betray her, unable to speak of Duncan and their marriage in the shield
forest…and how much she yearned for his touch. “It is good that she has you to
care for her.”

The wolf-faced warrior flashed a
warm smile. “She’s captured my heart. We will wed when the war is finished, and
she will take the full tattoos of our den.”

“Danya’s found her true place among
you. She never really belonged in the south.”

Bryx chuffed as if in agreement,
licking Danya’s face.

“And you, Svala?”

“What?” His words caught her off
guard.

“Where do you belong?”

The question opened a chasm in her
heart. Duncan was gone, her father dead, the knights of the Octagon
defeated…she reeled at so much loss. “I…don’t know.”

Behind her, Bear’s deep voice
rumbled, “The Svala belongs with us.”

Neven’s gaze quickened. “Is it
true, Svala? Will you return with us when the war is ended?”

Kath did not answer, for somehow it
did not feel true. “We have another war to win before I can go home.” They
looked at her, but she did not say where that home would be. In truth, she had
no answer, just a gaping hollowness inside. Tugging on Duncan’s warrior ring,
she looked away, hiding her own uncertainty. “I just came to see how Danya is
faring.” She stood to go.

“Svala?”

Neven stopped her with a question.

“Yes?”

“When you go south, you must take
us,” he gestured to Danya and Bryx and the other wolf warriors sitting in the
shadows, “all of us with you.”

“When Danya wakes, she can decide
for herself.”

“No, Svala.”

His voice held such certainty that
she stared at him.

“The Ancestor said that the
Beastspeaker must go south with the War Helm…and Danya agreed. She made us
swear before we marched on the Citadel.”

More prophecy,
Kath
shivered, but she did not want to risk another friend. “Danya’s already done so
much...she deserves the peace of the north.”

“There will be no peace unless we
win.”

The words hit her like a hammer
blow, the weight of the world falling on her shoulders.

“Will you swear, Svala?”

“Yes,” for she could give no other
answer.

“Good.” Neven settled back amongst
the pillows, never releasing Danya’s hand. “When the time is right, we will be
ready.”

Bryx yipped as if in agreement.

Kath took her leave, stepping from
the tented sanctuary. Lost in thought, she roamed the marble hallways, shaken
by the exchange. Her friend lay locked in a healing coma, yet she’d found her
heart’s desire…while Kath’s heart felt like ashes. Somehow she had to find a
way south and she had to win…but she felt so empty. Frustration warred with
sorrow, she felt so hopeless, so lost. Kath gripped the crystal dagger, feeling
like a pawn of prophecy.

9

Juliana

“Captain!”
A harsh knock on the door startled Juliana
from sleep. “
Captain, I need to see you!”
Nestled beneath a warm quilt,
she stirred, placing a hand against the hull to feel her ship. The gentle creak
and sway spoke of a smooth sea and the faint thrumming of the hull bespoke a
full sail. Reassured, she smiled knowing the
Sea Sprite
sped homeward at
steady clip. Rising, she peered through the salt-encrusted porthole. Dawn
cracked the horizon, a glimmer of golden light reflected on calm seas.
Smooth
waters, no enemy in sight, and no footsteps drumming overhead,
the apparent
calm belied the urgency in her first mate’s voice
.
“A moment!” Juliana
took the time to pull on her boots and belt a long dagger to her waist. Tucking
a wayward strand of copper-bright hair behind her ear, she opened the cabin
door to find her first mate hovering outside, an anxious look on his suntanned
face.

Marcus stabbed her with a daggered
glare. “Wren found this tied to the crow’s nest. He swears it was not there
yesterday.”

Her gaze flicked to his hands,
shocked by what he held. “Come in.” She stepped aside, locking the door behind
him.

Marcus filled her cabin. A big
burly man with dark wavy hair tied at his nape, a gilded seashell dangling from
his left ear for luck, he smelled of leather and salt. Setting the pouch on her
chart table, he stepped back as if it held a coiled cobra.

A red and blue checkered shield
surmounted by a white osprey with wings spread wide emblazoned the pouch,
marking it as a royal dispatch. Juliana’s fingers traced the embroidery, but
instead of tanned leather, the pouch was made of sealskin…as if it was meant to
weather a storm. 

“Never seen one like that.”

“Nor I.”

“Never found one tied to a crow’s
nest either.”

And that was the riddle. Messenger
pouches usually waited for her in ports of call or were passed from ship to
ship. They didn’t just appear while under sail betwixt a long sea crossing.  

“I’ve sworn Wren to silence.” His
deep voice was a low growl. “Can’t let rumors of magic fester.”

“Just so.” As a Royal J, Juliana
was acquainted with magic, enough to value its uses without stirring irrational
fears, but her seamen were a superstitious lot and ill omens could scuttle a
voyage. “You did well, but there’s no one in Navarre who could magic a message
pouch halfway across the Western Ocean.” 

“Yet it’s here.”

She gave him a slanted look. “And
the watch noticed nothing unusual?”

“Nothing reported.”

“Then we best learn the meaning
behind the riddle.” She untied the elaborate knot, more proof the dispatch came
from Castle Seamount. Inside she found two scrolls. One bore the seal of her
father, the king of Navarre, and the other bore the seal of her sister. “
Jordan
!”
 Her swordish sister was meant to be Wayfaring with the Kiralynn
monks deep in the Southern Mountains, a long way for a scroll to travel, a
riddle of another sort. At the bottom of the pouch, she found a wooden disk
with a message coil. The message coil gave her pause for they were only used in
dire times.

Marcus hissed when he saw it. “An
ill-omen.”

“Perhaps.” She reached for her
sister’s scroll first. Cramped handwriting crowded the page. The familiar
scrawl told a tale of ambush in the monastery, of a long journey across Erdhe,
of strange visions and a wedding in a ruined keep…and then it spoke of death.
Juliana issued a strangled cry. “Death at Castle Seamount!”

“Navarre’s been attacked?”

“Assaulted by treachery.” Juliana
sank onto her bunk, feeling gut-punched.

“Treachery?”

“The Curse of the Vowels.”

Marcus gasped making the hand sign
against evil. “The king?”

“Survives, but many Royal Is are
dead, my aunts, my uncles, felled by poison.” Juliana struggled to hold back
tears. “How could this happen?”

Marcus had no answer. “Perhaps the
other scroll?”

Taking a steadying breath, she
broke the second seal, her gaze scanning her father’s bold hand. “
Impossible!”
The vellum slipped from her fingers.

Marcus stared at her. “New orders?”

“A death sentence.” She nudged the
scroll towards him.

He scooped it up, holding the
vellum to the light, his lips silently forming the words. “
By the gods!”
He
glared at her. “This must be a lie!”

“Yet the seals and the knot work
name it true, though I cannot believe the king would issue such orders.”

“But you cannot sail the fleet
there,
‘tis madness.”

“Poison and prophecies,” she shook
her head, “perhaps we live in mad times.” Her gaze sought the message coil. “Or
perhaps the answer lies within.”

He hovered beside her, his fists
clenched.

“Best if you wait outside.”

Marcus gave her a grave nod. “I’ll
be waiting.”

She saw him to the door and locked
it behind him. For half a heartbeat she leaned against the sturdy door,
absorbing the sounds of her ship. Taking a deep breath, she stared at the
wooden disc spooled with parchment as if it carried a venomous adder. Message
coils always accompanied the most dire dispatches. Bearing only a few words,
the coils either verified or negated the scrolls they accompanied. She’d heard
tell of coils that read “ignore’, or “do the opposite”, or simply “obey”.
Juliana prayed for the first and feared the later. Whatever the message, she
was charged to follow the will of her king. “Only one way to be sure.”
Snatching the wooden coil from the table, she carefully removed the long thin
strip of parchment. A swirl of red ink marked one end, followed by a long list
of words. On its own, the list was gibberish, but every ship’s captain carried
a means to decode the message. Setting the parchment aside, she unlocked her
sea chest, fishing through charts and spare clothing till she found the leather
satchel. Opening the satchel, she revealed four wooden rods imprinted with the
crest of Navarre. Ranging in thickness from a skinny chicken bone to a cook’s
rolling pin, each two foot rod bore a colored dot and a nail in one end.
Matching the red swirl to the blue rod, she pierced the parchment with the nail
and began wrapping it around the rod, overlapping the parchment in such a
fashion that only the first letter of each line remained visible. When the
winding was complete, she took a steadying breath before reading the message.
Writ along the length of the rod in clear script, the message read,
“Believe
and obey with all haste”
.

“No!”
The cry shivered out
of her. Sinking to her bunk, she read it again, but the words remained the
same. A cold foreboding claimed her. She shook her head in disbelief. They were
asking her to risk her entire ship, nay the entire fleet, for the sake of
prophecies and visions. It was madness, an insane folly, a cruel jest of some
sort. Desperate to disregard the message, she reached for her sister’s scroll
and read it again, clutching at details. So many phrases sounded like Jordan, yet the message spoke of god-given visions and death. Her swordish sister had
always been so steady and sure, as dependable as steel, and now she claimed a
seer’s powers? It was damn near impossible to believe…but duty mattered to Jordan…as much as it did to Juliana…and the message was properly sealed and confirmed.

A fist hammered the door. “
Captain!”

Delay would not change the message.
Carefully unwrapping the parchment coil, Juliana returned the rods to her sea
chest. Taking a steadying breath, she unlocked the door.

Marcus gaped when he saw her face.
“So it’s true!”

She gave him a grim nod. “Raise the
pennant flag for captains’ parlay. The fleet has new orders.” 

His face paled. “You won’t do it.
It’s a death mission.”

She steeled her voice. “You have
your orders.”

He stepped back as if slapped.
“Yes, captain.” He turned to do her bidding.

She closed and locked her door.
Death
and duty,
the thoughts chased her mind. Leaning against the sturdy wood,
she worried that Marcus was right.