The Knight Marshal (The Silk & Steel Saga) (8 page)

10

Blaine

Something darted behind the
statue. The sneaky movement snagged Blaine’s gaze, yet he never slowed the
speed of his sword. Blue steel cleaved the cold morning air as he worked
through the classical forms, but his gaze remained fixed on the statue. This
early in the morning, the great rune-carved courtyard was usually deserted, yet
something skulked behind the statue.

Flowing from
slash
of the snake
to
strike of the eagle
, Blaine whirled, deliberately
turning his back on the statue. Poised on the balls of his feet, his blue sword
gripped in both gauntleted hands, he listened for an attack, yet none came. Six
heartbeats later, he pivoted just in time to spy a small dark-haired lad scurry
up the palace steps, disappearing between the golden doors. Skinny and short
and clad in a filthy tunic, the lad looked like a street urchin…yet he carried
a short sword.
A short sword
…mischief or malevolence, Blaine decided to
follow.

Taking the
stairs two at a time, Blaine slipped between the golden doors just as the lad
turned down the left hand hallway. Blaine followed, stepping lightly across the
marble floor. Braziers glowed the length of the hall, striping the walls with
light and shadow. The boy moved like a thief, scurrying from one shadow to the
next. Carefully peering around each corner, he flinched at any sound. Clearly
the boy was afraid, yet he pressed deeper into the palace, the sword clutched
awkwardly in his two hands.

Intrigued, Blaine followed, keeping just enough distance to remain unheard. The palace was a labyrinth
of luxury; marble hallways, gilded braziers and rich tapestries, yet the urchin
seemed to know his way, compounding the riddle. Blaine turned the corner…and
the lad was gone. He scanned the hallway, but found nowhere for the lad to
hide. Swearing silently, Blaine ran to the far corner, but saw no sign of the
urchin. Puzzled, he retraced his steps. A strange, bitter smell rankled his
nostrils. Breathing deep, he traced the smoky scent to a tapestry.
A
tapestry!
Twitching the tapestry aside, he discovered stairs leading down,
a bracketed torch glittering at the bottom. The god-cursed palace was a tangled
labyrinth, worse than he’d ever thought.

Sword at the
ready, Blaine descended the stairs. Instead of dark marble, the walls were dull
granite, gray and unadorned. Perhaps he’d stumbled onto the servants’
quarters...or something worse. The smoky smell grew stronger, scratching at his
throat. Bitter and irritating, the noxious scent was vaguely familiar. He’d
smelled it before, in other parts of the palace, but never this strong.

Peering around
the corner, he spied the urchin-lad standing in front of a closed door.
Gripping his sword, the lad glared at the door as if summoning his courage.

If the lad truly
needed the sword, he wouldn’t stand a chance. It was time to end this charade. Blaine stepped into the hallway, torchlight glittering on his silver surcoat, but the boy
never turned. Instead, he opened the door and plunged inside.

Angry shouts
erupted from the chamber.

Blaine leaped forward, barreling through the doorway. Bitter smoke stung his nostrils, a
blue haze clouding his vision, but then he saw them, dark robed
priests!
With long bright knives, they slashed at the boy. Blaine grabbed the lad by his
tunic, and hurled him backwards. Stepping between the boy and the priests, Blaine snarled, “Fight me!” He slashed left and right, his sword’s tip slicing a priest’s
throat, opening a bright red slash. Blood sprayed the others, a flailing corpse
falling to the floor.

By all rights, the
priests should have fled…but instead, they leaped to a frenzied attack. Knives
slashed towards his face. Hands clawed at his legs. They swarmed him, fighting like
rabid dogs, biting and kicking. Blaine struck left and right, cleaving a path
through flesh and bone. Screams filled the chamber and blood spattered the
walls yet the priests kept fighting. Stumbling over fresh corpses, they clung
to Blaine’s arms and legs, trying to pull him down, trying to bite through
chainmail and leather. And then he saw their faces, their mouths stained dark
blue, their eyes filmed white like wet maggots. Horror and revulsion gripped
him in equal measure. Flinching from their touch, he punched and kicked,
gaining space to wield his sword. A berserker’s madness took him. Laughing, he
hacked and cut, his sword cleaving flesh and bone till nothing moved save
twitching corpses.

Blaine staggered to a stop, blood dripping from his blue blade. His nostrils stung from the
blue smoke. Spying a wine flagon, he dumped it on the brazier, quenching the
flames. A billow of noxious blue smoke laced with wine belched to the ceiling.
Peering through the smoky haze, Blaine saw pallets pushed along the wall,
mounds of clothing and hoarded food stacked between them, as if the
thrice-damned priests had nested in the chamber. “
Priests!”
He made the
word a curse.

“Not priests.”

He whirled, his
sword raised…but it was just the boy.

“Not
priests…acolytes.”

“How can you
tell?”

“By their robes,
poor quality wool, too scratchy for full-sworn priests.”  

Blaine reached for a robe, feeling the scratchy weave. “You’ve a good eye for cloth.” He
used the robe to wipe the blood from his sword.

The boy stepped
close, staring down at the dead. “And besides, priests would never be chained
to Vetra.”

“Vetra?”

“A plant they
grow in their secret gardens.”

“Why?”

“To chew or
smoke in their braziers. It’s supposed to cause visions, to let them hear the
Dark God’s voice, but too much makes them crazy. Chained to the smoke, they
become rabid like animals, craving it always, willing to kill for it…till it
turns their eyes white as blind mice. Once their eyes turn, it kills them.” He
kicked a dead foot as if daring the corpse to rise.

“Smoke that
turns men into monsters.” Blaine scowled, backing away from the brazier, wondering
if he’d breathed too much. The Citadel held a legion of horrors, but he’d never
guessed smoke would be one of them. “How do you know so much?”

“My brother was
chosen as an acolyte.”

Things began to
make sense. “And you came looking for him?”

The boy nodded.

“To kill him or
to rescue him?”

The boy gave him
a dead-eyed stare. “Depends on his eyes.”

Blaine looked at the lad with a measure of respect. “You see him here?”

The boy took his
time, making his way through the tangled corpses. His face paled at the carnage
but he did not puke. Returning to Blaine, he gave the smallest shake of his
head. “No.”

“You think
there’s more nests like this?”

“Yes.”

“Priests as well
as acolytes?” Blaine shepherded the boy from the room, wanting to get away from
the foul smoke.

“Yes.”

“I’ve a mind to
hunt some priests.”

The boy gave him
a fierce look. “I can help.”

“I thought you
might.” Blaine sheathed his sword. “What’s your name?”

“Dermit.”

He led the boy
back up the stairs and through the tapestry curtain. “When’d you last have a
good meal, Dermit?”

The boy looked
away. “Can’t remember.”

“My name’s Sir
Blaine and all this fighting has made me hungry.” He steered the boy back
towards the royal kitchens. “Come on, let’s find something to eat. And then
we’ll talk about hunting priests.”

11

General Haith

General Haith stood atop the battlement of Raven Pass, savoring the victory. As the Mordant’s battle commander, he’d ordered all memory of
the maroon to be struck down and destroyed. Soldiers in black prowled the
battlements, checking the bodies, dumping slain knights from the ramparts. A
few still lived, screaming as they toppled from the walls. Bodies piled below,
scavenged by the victors. Octagon shields were defiled before being shattered.
Maroon battle banners were severed from their poles, cut loose to ride the wind
like flotsam. A single banner fluttered southward like a frightened eel,
homeless, despoiled, vanquished, an omen of things to come. A smile rode the
general’s face; he’d waited a lifetime for this victory, the beginning of a
great conquest.

Smoke rose in dark pillars from the
central yard. The dead burned upon a massive pyre, a fitting sacrifice to the
Dark Lord. Battle clerics in dark robes supervised the fire, often despoiling
the corpses before consigning them to the flames. The general despised the
priests but they had their uses. Turning his back on the greasy stench, he
continued his progress along the wall.

The knights had built well. Twin
battlements spanned the chasm, blocking the way south. Strong and tall and
crenellated, the battlements were impressive yet they’d proved no match for the
Mordant’s magic. In one mighty blast, the Wizard’s Fist had smashed the gates
to oblivion, turning the siege into a rout. Magic was a dread weapon, something
the knights forgot at their peril. 

The general reached the central
barbican and found a massive catapult crouched upon the turret like a
wood-carved dragon. Snapping his fingers, he captured the attention of a
centurion. “Disassemble the catapult and reposition it at the southern mouth of
the pass. We’ll turn the enemy’s own weapons against him.” Soldiers leaped to
obey, black cloaks swarming the mighty catapult like a plague of ants. Numbers
always mattered in battle. His army had vastly superior numbers
and
magic,
an invincible pairing. The general stared down the gullet of Raven Pass, a narrow gash sundering the Dragon Spine Mountains, the keyhole to the southern
kingdoms. His troops swarmed the pass, a formidable mixture of taals, duegars
and men, a hundred thousand strong, an invincible army keen to wreck havoc upon
the south.

“General Haith!”

He turned to find Trantor, his
personal snargon of the duegars waddling toward him. Squat and barrel-chest,
the duegar’s height barely reached the general’s belt buckle, yet his teeth
were filed to points, displaying a ferocity that belied his size.

“My lord, we finished the sweep.”

The general waited, “And?”

“We’ve sniffed out the chambers of
both walls and found no hint of magic save our own.” The duegar grinned, “The
knights left in a hurry. Their storerooms are stocked with weapons and food but
there’s no magic.”

“Are you certain? You know our lord
craves magic.”

The snargon bristled. “I know my
craft.”

“Then sniff out the king’s quarters
again, just to be sure. Do it yourself, don’t leave it for one of your minions.
I’ll be sleeping in the king’s bed tonight and I don’t want any surprises.”

“As you command,” the snargon gave
him a sloppy salute and then turned to waddle away.

The general bit back a rebuke.
Duegars were surly little bastards, a spawn of the Pit, but they had their
uses. Having witnessed more magic than he cared to remember, the general made
it a habit to always keep a snargon close, a protection from enemies both
within and without. One did not gain gray hairs in the service of the Mordant
without a certain amount of precaution.

A cold wind snatched at his
fur-lined cloak. Winter’s bite was milder in the south, yet he found himself
looking forward to a warm bed protected by stout stone walls, a
king’s
bed, a fitting start to the conquest.

The general finished traversing the
battlement. The sheer granite walls of Raven Pass towered overhead. His gaze
climbed the lichen-stained granite, patches of bright yellow forming the crude
figure of rearing horse. A noble talisman, yet it had brought no luck to the
knights.

He reached the end and found his
aide, Major Ruggar, waiting for him. Tall and blond with a pock-marked face,
Ruggar had a weasel’s cunning leavened with a strong sense of survival, the
very traits the general sought in his aides. The major snapped a smart salute,
“I’ve seen to the horses. The stables are impressive, spacious and clean and
well stocked with hay, but the knights did not leave a single nag within the
stalls.”

The general smothered his
disappointment, horses were crucial to his plans. “Post double guards on the
stables and keep the taals well away.” The taals were fierce fighters but they
viewed horses as easy meat, a mistake he could not afford. The general gave his
aide a piercing glare. “You dare not lose a single mount.” Responsibility laced
with threat, such was the way of the north. The general watched as Ruggar gave
a terse nod, “Yes, sir.”

“And order the cooks to prepare a
feast for the officers, the best the octagon has to offer. We’ll dine on a
king’s fare tonight. To the victors go the spoils.”

Ruggar flashed a knowing grin.
“Yes, sir.”

“Now tell me about the treasure.”

Ruggar braced as if for a storm.
“So far we’ve only found only one chest of coins, mostly silver.”

The general scowled, his words
laced with suspicion. “A meager trove for a king. There must be a hidden
storeroom somewhere.”

Sweat beaded Ruggar’s face. “We’ll
keep searching.”

“Do that. And be sure to take my
share before the priests claim their tithe.”

“Already done.”

“Good. And what of their maps?”

A chilling howl erupted from the
far end of the courtyard, a savage sound to set men’s souls on edge. A second
howl chased the first, till the yard rang with the blood-lust of a hunting
pack. General Haith swore, “By the Nine Hells, those beasts had best be well
chained.”

 “Voltran has the hounds in hand.”

The general gave his aide a sharp
look. “You’re a fool if you believe him. No one cowls a gorehound save the
Mordant.” The major had the good sense not to answer. The general grimaced at
the twisted howls. He would never have brought the gorehounds south save for
the Mordant’s orders. “Those beasts pose as much a threat to our own army as to
the enemy. Tell Voltran to feed them some dead knights. It might quell their
bloodlust and give them a taste for the enemy.”

“The priests will protest.”

Anger snarled through the general.
“The priests serve at my sufferance.”

Ruggar stiffened, “As you command.”
He snapped a salute and started to turn away but the general forestalled him.
“And Ruggar, when you are done with Voltran, see to it that my personal effects
are placed in the king’s chamber. Do what you can to make them more befitting a
battle commander.”

“As you say, my lord,” Ruggar sped
for the stairs.

The tortured howls intensified,
grating against the general’s mind, unearthing visions of gruesome rituals in
the Mordant’s bloody cavern. Some memories were better left buried. Deciding to
quit the battlement, the general followed his aide down the stairs, the thick
oak door mercifully muting the howls.

A single turn of the stairs brought
him to the knights’ quarters. Earlier in the day, he’d taken a cursory tour of
the honeycombed rooms, walking the hallways till he found the king’s chambers.
He’d expected opulence, dismayed to discover size was the only true difference.
Cold and austere, the royal chambers showed no adornment save for a wall of
ancient swords and battered shields. Grim quarters for a king, proving the
octagon knights knew how to fight but not how to live. Service to the Mordant
was so very different. Those who served well, lived well, but the struggle to
reach the higher tiers was slippery and fraught with danger. Having gained the
pinnacle, the general fully intended to enjoy the luxury owed to his power.

A young centurion approached. “My
lord, General Marris is asking for you.”

“Lead the way.” The centurion led
him to a small dining room. Black-cloaked officers crowded around an oak table,
an iron candelabra hanging overhead. Spare and plain, the room was heated by a
roaring hearth, a pair of windows shuttered against the cold.

“Attention!”

The officers flung irritated
glances toward the door and then snapped to attention once they saw him.
General Marris was the first to speak. “My lord, we found the maps you were
hoping for.”

His interest piqued, he strode to
the table. Scrolled maps were spread across the tabletop, mountains and rivers
and castles inked onto parchment. His gaze drank in the details. Mapmaking was
a military art and these were exquisite. “Show me what you’ve found.”

General Marris unrolled a parchment
depicting the Dragon Spine Mountains. “This shows all the Octagon’s
strongholds. It seems they’ve cut more trails through the western Spines than
we ever guessed.”

The general grinned. “Maps are the
perfect traitors. They let you see the land through the enemy’s eyes.” He
studied the detail, squinting at some of the markings. “It shows more than just
strongholds. I’ll wager these horseshoes denote stables for fresh mounts, most
likely for messengers.” His gaze circled the officers, choosing two captains.
“Lyndon and Crowley, take a pair of cohorts and raid the two nearest stations
north and south of the pass. Kill the knights and capture the horses. Bring the
mounts back unharmed.” His voice stabbed like a knife. “I want those mounts.
Horses are key to the Mordant’s plans.”

The two captains snapped brisk
salutes.

“Go at once. Take whatever men you
need but take no taals and no mounts.”

Crowley stammered. “Go afoot? Even
the officers?”

“Yes. All mounts are to be held in
reserve for a special mission. Anyone who dares use a horse without my express
permission will be fed to the gorehounds.”

A grim silence fell on the chamber.

The general snarled, “You’re
wasting time.”

Saluting, the captains beat a hasty
retreat.

The general’s gaze sought the maps.
“What else have you found?” A wave of dizziness ambushed him. Perhaps it was
the blazing fire, or the closeness of the room, for he found himself slick with
sweat, leaning against the table. “Open those shutters.” 

A major leaped to obey.

A cold breeze blew in, banishing
his dizziness. The general moved closer to the window, thankful the gorehounds
had fallen silent. “Have you found any maps of the southern kingdoms?”

An aide unrolled a map painted
bright with color. Castlegard was proudly embellished with gold, the great
castle protecting a saddle-shaped valley at the start of the Southern Road. The
general’s gaze followed the ancient road south to the foothills of the Southern
Mountains. Beyond the foothills all details disappeared, swallowed by a vast
toothy maw of snowcapped mountains. So the Octagon knights were ignorant of the
Kiralynn Monastery, or at least their maps said so. He stared at the inked
mountains as if will alone could unearth their secrets.

“General Haith!”

The croaking cry came from beyond
the open window.

“
General Haith you are
summoned!”

Recognizing the demonic nature of
the voice, fear gripped the general’s neck. “This is for me. The rest of you
wait here.” His hand on his sword hilt, he strode from the council chamber
making straight for the stairs. Climbing the spiral, he stepped out onto the
battle ramparts. A brisk wind caught at his gray hair, his black cape flaring
behind him.

“
General Haith you are
summoned!”
 A gorelabe circled overheard, a demonic malformed-creature with
the body of an albatross and the eyes and mouth of a man. Of all his lord’s
creations, gorelabes were the most hideous and the most feared, fashioned to be
the eyes and the voice of the Mordant.

Soldiers in black fell prostrate to
the battlement in a clatter of arms and armor. Covering their heads with their
arms, they lay prostrate, displaying a mixture of terror and submission. The
general did not blame them for their fear. Refusing to cower, he strode across
the battlement, throwing his voice at the gorelabe. “I am General Haith.”

Great wings flapped overhead,
spiraling down till the gorelabe settled upon a nearby merlon. Odd how it
retained a seabird’s graceful flight while everything else reeked of
corruption. The general forced himself to meet the creature’s gaze, suppressing
a shudder. Eyes that were too-knowing stared back at him, a man’s soul captured
within the body of a bird turned demon. Rumors ran legion about the gorelabes.
Some whispered the Mordant could peer directly through the creature’s unnatural
eyes, spying on his subjects. The general wondered at the rumor’s truth, but
either way, the demon was dangerous, a messenger who must be obeyed. He bowed
towards the misshapen fiend. “I serve the Mordant.”

“Give my creature proof. You
know what I seek.”
 The voice had an unnatural rasp, as if it came from the
pits of hell.

The general knew the required
proof. Unlacing the bindings of his surcoat, he pulled the garment down and to
the side, revealing the dark rune etched above his heart, the mark of the Dark
Lord. The gorelabe leaned forward. For a moment, he feared the beast would
strike but then it settled back on its perch. “
Your proof is accepted. The plan
is changed. The octagon knights are to be ground into oblivion. There will be
no major battles, no fodder for bards, just a slow, inglorious blood letting,
till the maroon is no more. Grind them into dust. Make them suffer till they
perish for they’ve earned my wrath. Do you understand?”