The Knight Marshal (The Silk & Steel Saga) (9 page)

“Yes, my lord,” but in the back of
his mind he wondered what the knights had done to so alter the battle plan. “So
you want me to attack Castlegard?”

“No!”

The general flinched at the anger
riding the demon’s voice.

“That castle is a deathtrap best
left alone. Make Raven Pass your stronghold. Ransack the farmsteads of the
domain, pillage their food and torture the farmers. Make the knights fight you
here. Slay them in the snow and the muck, till their honor and their memory are
both ground into oblivion. Destroy the knights and do not look to the north for
reinforcements.”

The last sentence ambushed him, but
he kept his questions to himself. “Yes, my lord.”

“
Now feed my gorelabe, for it
has many leagues to fly.”

He dared not hesitate, nor take the
time to fetch a prisoner. “Remove your helms!” Men obeyed with shaking hands,
keeping their faces averted. The general’s gaze roved among them, finally
settling on a soldier of low rank with graying hair, someone who had served but
never achieved. The general unsheathed his sword, stepping towards his choice.
“Know that your death serves the Mordant.” Raising his sword in two hands, he
severed the head from the body in one deft stroke. Eyes wide in horror, the
head rolled toward his boot, fresh blood pooling on the stone rampart. “Your
feast is laid.”

The gorelabe flew to the blood.
Soldiers scuttled backwards, moving like frightened crabs. Folding its great
wings, the gorelabe crouched by the severed neck, its pink tongue lapping at
the fresh spilt blood.

The general watched, keeping the
revulsion from his face.

When the creature had finally drunk
its fill, it struggled to hop to the nearest merlon, a seabird floundering on
land. Having gained its perch, the gorelabe stared back at him, blood dripping
from its mouth like a blasphemy. “
Serve well and live well!”
 And then
it laughed; a hollow, mocking sound. Licking its bloody lips, the creature
spread its wings wide and caught a gust of wind. With a grace that belied its
true nature, it soared south to serve its master. 

General Haith stood statue-still,
watching till the gorelabe flew from sight, its parting words scratched in his
mind. He’d heard the saying a thousand times,
serve well and live well
,
a promise and a threat, but coming from the gorelabe’s bloody mouth it seemed
an ominous lie.

12

Baldwin

Baldwin glanced over his shoulder, scanning the forest as he
rode. For the hundredth time he saw nothing.
His eyes lied
; he knew it
in his gut. Something followed him. A warning pricked the back of his neck,
like a hare sensing a starving wolf. He’d felt it ever since he’d gained the
flatlands. Setting spurs to his mount, the king’s squire asked for a faster
gallop. He threaded a path through the winter-bare trees, a cursed sword
strapped to his back. His horse began to tire, lathered and blowing hard, but Baldwin refused to slow, lashing his mount as if the hounds of hell gave chase.

Wrapped in a blanket and bound with
rope, the great sword thumped a rhythm against his back, keeping time to the
galloping hoof beats.
Boric’s blade, the first blue steel sword,
the
words thrummed through his mind like a bard’s rhyme. Stories of the sword were
legion. Every squire knew the legend, how Orrin Surehammer was more than just a
smith, a wizard of old, forging luck and strength and courage into the first
blue steel blade, creating an invincible sword for an uncertain time. And now
it was strapped to his back, but the sapphire-blue blade was corrupted, turned
black as sin, a cursed sword returned from history, the slayer of a king. Baldwin shivered, still finding it hard to believe that King Ursus was dead, felled by
treachery. At least he had a mission, a way to serve the Octagon, but he
couldn’t shake the feeling of being followed. Leaning low in the saddle, he
urged his horse to speed. “Faster, we need to go faster.”

Using the pale winter sun as his
guide, he rode on a southerly course, making straight for the Snowmelt. In the
untamed lands of the Domain, the Snowmelt River was one of the few sure
markers, better than any map. He planned to ride to the Snowmelt and follow the
raging tumult east; crossing the bridge to reach Eye Lake…but something
followed him. Whatever it was, Baldwin sensed it wanted the black sword. He
knew it in his gut, sure as death and sunrise. When he reached the lake he’d be
rid of the cursed sword and whatever chased him. His horse couldn’t gallop fast
enough.

Twilight ambushed him, falling too
soon for his liking. Baldwin slowed his horse to a trot, looking for a place to
camp. An uprooted fir tree proved the only shelter, the giant’s exposed roots
forming a tangled shield wall at his back. Dismounting, he quickly unsaddled
his horse and rubbed the stallion down before collecting wood. A fire was
probably unwise, a beacon to the enemy, but the feeling of being followed
overrode caution. He built a raging bonfire and then sat with his back to the
root wall, munching on a hard biscuit. His gaze kept sliding to the
blanket-wrapped sword. He’d never really gotten a good look at it. Boric had
named it
Dragonsteel,
the name alone enough to inspire legends. Forever
keen and imbued with magic, Baldwin wondered what it would be like to wield
such a sword, a weapon forged for heroes.

A wolf howled in the night…but just
a wolf. Baldwin unsheathed his short sword and kept it close, straining to see
past the firelight. Sleep stalked him but he struggled against it, certain
whatever followed him would come at night. Gripping his sword hilt, he stared
into the darkness…but it was so hard to stay awake. Leaning against the tangled
roots, he stared at the dark till weariness ambushed him.

Baldwin jerked awake, alerted by a
nervous whinny. His fire had died to embers, the first streaks of dawn lighting
the eastern sky, and then he heard it. A shrieking yowl pierced the forest, the
call of a saber-toothed cat. The sound shivered down his spine, setting his
teeth on edge, the kind of primal sound that loosed men’s bowels and made them
run for shelter…and it was close, too close. He snatched up his short sword and
scrambled to his feet. His horse nickered and squealed, multiplying his fear.
Movement snared his gaze, a pair of tawny mountain lions prowling the
snow-dusted forest, but these were big, unnaturally big, and they padded straight
towards him. He tightened his grip on his sword and backed towards the root
wall. The cats drew close, undaunted by naked steel or glowing embers. Staring
at him, they yawned, displaying saber-sharp teeth. Baldwin shivered, too many
teeth, rows and rows of them, an unnatural bristle of death. And then he
noticed their claws, like the talons of eagles, wicked and keen. One of them
issued a low growl. Baldwin locked stares with the beast…but there was
something wrong with its eyes, something knowing, something hateful. A chill
shivered through him. These things were monsters, twisted abominations, minions
of the Dark Lord loosed on the south.

His horse squealed, breaking the
spell. The stallion had the truth of it, better to flee than fight. Baldwin kicked at the embers, scattering hot coals towards the saber-cats. Snatching up the
blanket-wrapped sword, he tugged the reins loose and vaulted onto the
stallion’s back. The horse leaped to a gallop, panic giving wings to its
hooves. Baldwin clutched the stallion’s mane, riding bareback, struggling to
keep his seat. White-eyed and stinking of fear, the horse tore a path through
the forest, running at a blind gallop. Baldwin risked a glance behind. The two
saber-cats followed at a ground eating lope, but they did not close the
distance, almost as if they were toying with him.

His horse lurched to the right.
Nearly flung from his seat, Baldwin turned to find a branch snapping across his
face. The branch hit hard, sending him sprawling. Snow padded his fall. Dazed,
he watched his horse gallop away.

A snarl brought him back to his
senses. He sprang to his feet and unsheathed his short sword. The saber-cats
circled, displaying their teeth. Fear pushed him backwards. Baldwin scurried
towards the nearest tree, putting his back to the trunk. The cats tightened
their circle, undaunted by his sword. Baldwin nearly wept, a short sword
against such monsters, he didn’t have a prayer in hell. Hurling his sword at
the nearest cat, he reached for Boric’s blade. Even through the wrappings, he
could feel the cold steel scalding his skin, but he paid it no heed. Tearing
away the bindings, he loosed the great dark sword. A thing of deadly beauty, he
held it aloft, a pair of dragons entwined on the hilt. Gripping the sword with
both hands, he felt a jolt of power. Strength and courage and something else
flowed into him, like an elixir searing his veins. He felt powerful. He felt
invincible. He felt destiny calling. Brandishing the sword, he reveled in his
new-found strength, feeling like a hero of old. “This is what you want! Come
and get it!” Flush with confidence, he barked a laugh. Testing the sword, he
slashed left and right. Perfectly balanced, it sliced the air, so keen and
light and deadly. The black blade seemed alive, hungry for blood. Infused with
courage, Baldwin snarled a challenge. “Attack if you dare.”  

The first cat sprang, revealing a
snarl of saber-sharp teeth. The thing was fast, but the dark sword was faster.
A quick downward slash and the dark blade cleaved flesh and bone. Beheading the
first in a single stroke, Baldwin whirled to meet the second. Tawny fur flashed
towards him, talons outstretched. Sidestepping the charge, he struck out with
the sword. The dark blade struck quick as lightning, severing a talon-tipped
paw. The cat shrieked in pain, but it did not die and it did not retreat. Blood
spewed across the snow, steaming in the cold. Hobbling on three legs, it
snarled, spitting at him, its golden eyes glowing with hate.

Any other animal would retreat, but
this
thing
stood its ground. Baldwin kept his sword tip raised. “What
are you?”

The beast attacked. The sword moved
with frightening speed. The black blade struck true, going straight to the
heart. Impaled, the beast stared at him, making a strange guttural sound. Baldwin thought he heard laughter, and then he caught two words amongst the low growl, “
I’m…you.”

“No!” Baldwin released the sword.
Staggering backwards, he slipped on a patch of bloody snow. Panic seized him.
He ran into the woods, fleeing the monster impaled on the black sword, fleeing
the nightmares…but he did not go far. Hiding amongst the trees, he crouched
behind a cedar, his hands shaking, blood staining his tunic. He stank of blood.
He stank of fear. He smelled like a coward. Baldwin hated being scared. In the
back of his mind he remembered what it felt like to wield the sword, the
feeling of invincibility, the feeling of a god-given destiny. The memory gnawed
at his mind till it consumed him. At twilight he returned. The sword was still impaled
in the beast, the hilt standing upright as if awaiting his hand. He did not
hesitate. Grasping the sword, he pulled it from the beast’s heart. Elation
rushed through him. He felt like a hero of old. Baldwin raised the sword to the
heavens and then he started marching north. He had a destiny to fulfill.

13

Katherine

So cold the northern winters, cold enough to freeze
tears,
Kath sat perched on the topmost rampart, her maroon cloak a thin
shield against the bitter wind. Below her, the city fortress curled around the
great monolith like a sundered seashell, icicles studding the dark walls. The
Mordant chose a grim place for his capital. To the west, an angry ocean pounded
a line of dark cliffs, while the snowbound steppes stretched east as far as the
eye could see, as if the fortress straddled two halves of infinity, one white,
the other dark, both bleak and cold and unforgiving. Her gaze sought the only
horizon that mattered, a burial mound on the cliffs’ edge, a sadder form of
infinity.
Duncan
.
Seagulls circled overhead, their mournful cries
echoing in her soul.

A tremor shook the city, the
quaking of an angry beast chained beneath bedrock. Kath shuddered, remembering
the demon’s cold smile. She’d lost the amber pyramid, but perhaps she could
entomb its power. Her gaze turned to the prisoners. A human chain toiled up the
tiers, winding all the way from the Pit, to the city gates, to the dark
monolith. She’d ordered rock brought from the Pit, enough to choke the bloody
cavern. Vanquished soldiers carried the rock across the rune-carved courtyard
and down the gullet of evil. Quakes shook the city, as if the demon protested,
but the work never ceased. She’d pour an avalanche of rock into the cavern till
it spewed from the stairs, sealing it for all time. If only evil was so easily
stoppered.

“My lady?” A blonde-haired girl
approached, skinny enough to be a waif or a beggar. Her face was empty of
tattoos, proving she was one of the newly freed.

Wrapped in her own misery, Kath
ignored the girl.

“My lady.” The girl drew close,
pecking like a magpie.

Kath sighed. “Take your troubles to
Zith,” she gestured to the far side of the great circular courtyard, “the
one-armed monk in blue robes, you can’t miss him.”

The girl did not move. “My lady,
they say his name was Duncan.”

Kath gasped, her gaze fastening on
the girl.

The waif flinched as if scalded,
but she stood her ground, a straggle of long blonde hair framing a half-starved
face.

“You knew him?”

The girl nodded. “In the Pit, I
helped him escape from the iron mine…though I did not know his name.”

“You helped him…” tears threatened
Kath’s eyes, but she blinked them back. “Tell me,” her voice scraped raw with
hurt, “tell me everything.”

“My name is Mara, and I was a slave
of the Pit.” In simple words, the girl told her tale, explaining how a life of
cruelty and rape changed when she discovered a cat-eyed stranger prowling the
mine’s upper corridors. “You need to know he was a hero, especially to me.” She
spoke of crossbows and ambush and vengeance, of taking a knife to those who had
raped her. In measured tones, she told how Duncan released the captives,
bringing hope to the mine. Rebellion spread through the carved tunnels like a
whirlwind, only to be stopped by betrayal. Her voice dropped to a hush, the tale
of triumph turning to pain. The girl told how Duncan and the other heroes were
hung on the standing stones at the heart of the Pit, tortured by the weight of
their own bodies.

Kath felt the words flay her soul.
So
much pain,
she bit her lip, a trickle of blood running down the side of her
mouth.

“They all died, save him, as if he
had something more to live for.”

The words pierced Kath’s heart.

“And then the Mordant’s own guard
came into the Pit. They took him down from the standing stone and bore him away.
It was only later that I learned his name…and his fate.” Mara worried her hands
into knots. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

Kath forced herself to breathe, one
breath at a time, lest she shatter into a thousand pieces.

The girl waited, her gaze downcast.

A hundred heartbeats passed before
Kath could bring herself to speak. “You have my thanks…for aiding him, for
telling me. I didn’t know about the Pit,” her voice cracked with raw emotion,
but she reined it in. “I treasure every memory.” She fumbled to find the words,
“Do you need gold or food or…”

“There’s more.” Mara raised her
head. An angry fierceness glowed in her eyes, transforming the magpie into a
hawk. “Yesterday I saw the traitor, the one who betrayed him.”

Kath sprang from the rampart, naked
steel whispering to her hand. “Where?”

“He’s claimed a house in the third
tier. His name is Bruce.”

“Show me.”

With a slight bow, the girl turned,
cutting a straight path across the circular courtyard. Kath followed like an
avenging wraith, her naked sword gleaming in her fist, her maroon cloak
billowing in the wind, oblivious to everything except the magpie turned hawk,
loosed from her fist to hunt a traitor.

They crossed the rune-carved
courtyard, an unlikely pair, the waif leading the warrior. A part of her knew
that Bear and Boar followed, faithful companions guarding her back, but Kath
did not spare them a glance. Zith hailed her, but she did not stop. A handful
of painted warriors approached, but once they glimpsed Kath’s face they shied
away. The girl led her to the top tier’s shattered gates, torn asunder by
battering rams. Passing beneath the ruined gates, they took the spiral road
down into the tiered city.

People stopped and stared. A few
bowed. Others called out, “
Svala!”
The human chain of moving stones
slowed at her passing till whips cracked, the captives hefting their burdens
with renewed vigor. Kath ignored them all, her gaze intent on the magpie turned
hawk. A crowd followed in her wake, but nothing mattered save the traitor.

The girl never slowed, leading Kath
to a well-appointed house in the third tier. The door was locked. Gripping her
gargoyle, Kath reached through the stone to unlatch the door. She kicked it
open, the bang heralding her entrance. A hallway tiled in mosaics led to a large
room heated by braziers. A big blond-haired man leaped to his feet, a
dark-haired woman lying naked upon the divan. The woman screeched, clutching a
blanket to cover her breasts, while the man hastily laced his pants. “What’s
the meaning of this?” Naked from the waist up, he yanked a metal poker from the
brazier, the tip glowing red hot. “Who dares break into my house?” He
brandished the poker like a sword. “Get out! Get out or I’ll break your bones!”

Kath studied him through hooded
eyes. A tall man with the advantage of reach and plenty of muscles earned by
hard labor, but he held the poker like a thug instead of a soldier. And then
she saw his boots, gray lizard-skin boots. Her heart lurched and her blood ran
cold. “Your name?”

His gaze narrowed. “What of it?”

Others crowded behind her, but Kath
kept her gaze on the traitor.

Mara hissed, “He’s the one.”

Kath took a step forward, her sword
arm hanging loose by her side. “Your name?”

“Bruce Tragger. I fought in the Pit
and then in the city.” Sweat beaded his forehead, his eyes darting to the crowd
behind. “I’ve earned this house,” he feigned a grin, “to the victors go the
spoils.”

“And those boots?”

Confusion clouded his face.
“Boots?” He shrugged, “a gift.”

“Payment for betrayal.”

Truth flashed in the depths of his
eyes, quickly smothered by bluster. “Get out.”

Behind her, Bear growled a warning.

“Do you remember him? The one who
led the rebellion?”

The big man flinched backwards, the
glowing poker held like a sword.

“His name was Duncan.” Kath glided
forward, her voice as cold as night. “Take off those boots.” She read his eyes,
the way his gaze weighed her and found her wanting.

“Get out!” Anger sparked across his
face, so predictable. He leaped forward, the glowing poker arching toward her
head, enough power to crush her skull.

Kath exploded in movement. Her
sword clanged against the poker, knocking it from his grasp. Swift as thought,
she swept the blade down in a classic form known as Slash of the Dragon. Steel
cut flesh, slicing through his abdomen, careful to cut just deep enough. “
For
Duncan!”
 

A scream rent the chamber. The big
man crumpled to the floor, struggling to hold his guts in place. Writhing in
pain, a pool of blood seeped across the mosaic, a fatal stain, as ugly as
betrayal.

Kath wiped the gore from her sword.
“A mortal wound but your death will be slow and painful, as befits a traitor.”
She flicked a glance back toward Bear and Boar. “I want his boots.”

The two painted warriors sheathed
their weapons, and then knelt, yanking the boots from the writhing corpse.

Zith pushed his way through the
crowd. “What have you done?” His gaze swept the chamber, his face going pale.
“At least kill him and be done with it.”

Kath pulled a dagger from her belt
and dropped it at the monk’s feet. “If you want him dead, kill him yourself.”

Bear handed Duncan’s boots to her.
She hugged them to her breast. The traitor’s screams growing feeble behind her,
the smell of shit fouling the chamber.

Zith stepped close, his voice a
whisper. “Revenge is a bitter road.”

“Revenge?” Kath shook her head. “I
call it justice.” She moved towards the hallway.  The crowd parted, opening a
path to the door, but Kath barely noticed. She walked with her head down, Duncan’s boots clutched close to her heart. “There’s too little justice in Erdhe.”