The Knight Marshal (The Silk & Steel Saga) (10 page)

14

Baldwin

A roar ripped though his mind, the roar of an angry dragon
hungry for blood, the roar of his sword. The sound drove him to a killing
frenzy. Baldwin slashed and spun, the black sword cutting a deadly arc. Nothing
could stop him, not swords, not battleaxes, not chainmail. Like a whirlwind he
tore through the enemy, fueled by the insatiable roar filling his mind.

And then the roaring ceased.

Silence,
blessed silence, Baldwin staggered to a stop. He bent double, gasping for breath, blowing plumes of mist
into the crisp mountain air. And then he noticed the blood. Blood everywhere,
sprayed on his surcoat, splashed on the snow, crimson against white. He’d done
it again.
“Gods!”
Exhausted, he sank to his knees, closing his eyes
against the gore. Half afraid to look, he shook his head in denial, but he
needed to know the truth. Through hooded eyes, he dared a glance. Relief
shuddered through him. At least this time, all the dead wore black.

A patrol of sixty or more, not just
dead, but hacked to pieces, slaughtered, butchered to a man. The dead rebuked
him, staring with lifeless eyes. How could one man defeat so many? But in his
heart, Baldwin knew the truth. It wasn’t him, it was the sword. A cursed blade,
so dark it seemed to drink the light, starving for blood, starving for death.
The dark steel seemed to vibrate beneath his hands, as if it yearned for more. Baldwin shuddered to hold it, a strange mixture of fear and lust. A weapon of legend, it
made him more than just a man. It made him fearless. It made him invincible. It
made him…
evil!
Something snapped inside of him. “No more!” With a roar
of defiance, he stood and hurled the blade into the forest. 

Suddenly empty, he crumpled to his
knees. Like a fighter who’d taken one too many punches, he flopped back onto
the snow. His hands shook with a terrible palsy and sweat poured out of him, a
mere mortal once more. As soon as the blade had left his hands, he’d felt
drained, diminished…but he also felt cleansed. For the longest time, he lay
statue-still, staring at the sky, remembering what it was like to be merely
Baldwin, the king’s squire, a candidate for the maroon. Such a small ambition,
a part of him wondered that it had ever satisfied him.

Dark wings circled overhead. The
crows began to arrive, dropping out of the sky to feast on corpses. One landed
near his boots, pecking at a dead man’s face. Appalled, Baldwin flapped his
arms to scare it away, but the dark bird was relentless. Fluttering its wings,
it hopped away, seeking another corpse, intent on the grizzly feast. Disgusted,
Baldwin climbed to his feet. Yelling like a madman, he ran in circles till he
tripped over a severed head. Snow stung his face like a cold slap. The crows
cawed in victory, claiming their meal. Beaten by their numbers, Baldwin let them eat. After all,
he
was the killer, the provider of the feast, while
the crows merely sought to survive.

Survival,
his own hunger
came roaring to the fore. Ravenous, he ransacked the dead. Finding half loaves
of bread and dried meat and even a pouch of raisins, he stuffed the food in his
mouth, taking swigs from a half-empty wineskin. It seemed of late he could
never get enough, especially meat, he craved meat. Always hungry, he searched
for more. Wine dribbled down his chin, he wiped it away with the back of his
hand, surprised to find the red peach-fuzz on his face had grown into a prickly
beard. Manhood at last, but it also meant his boots had begun to pinch and his
chainmail tugged at his shoulders.

A pair of crows cawed, squabbling
over a string of intestines. Annoyed, he sent the birds a glare. “There’s
plenty for all,” and then his own words sank in: so many dead, so many boots to
choose from. At first he hesitated, but then he told himself it was no different
from taking food. He scavenged a shiny pair of knee-high boots from an officer,
supple and black with plenty of room for his toes, and then took a chainmail
shirt from another. Spying an especially fine pair of gauntlets chased with
silver and lined with wolf fur, he took them as well, a good fit, with just a
hint of blood on the fur. Another corpse yielded a dagger worked with a
snarling gargoyle on the hilt. And then he found a shoulder harness embossed
with garnets, a fitting scabbard for the black sword.
The sword,
he
shuddered at the thought. Could he really leave the sword?

He turned to look upon the dead,
but this time he really saw them. The devil was in the details, chainmail
sliced like leather, heads severed from bodies, shields shattered, helms
smashed, ordinary swords sheared in half. More than a slaughter, it was an
unbelievable victory.
One against sixty
, it was the stuff of legends.
The black sword was a fearsome weapon, a blade forged from legend, one that
could do far more than just win battles…one that could turn the very tide of
war. The realization hit him like a hammer blow. If the Octagon Knights came
upon him now, standing here amongst the slain, they’d hail him as a hero. No
one need ever know about the others he’d killed, the ones who wore maroon
cloaks. Memories of the slaughtered knights lit a spark of guilt in his mind,
but he doused it with cold logic. This was his chance to change everything. By
taking up the black blade, he could lead the maroon to victory. He turned
toward the woods, hunting for the sword. As if it called to him, he found it
gleaming in fresh snow, a black gash against the white. Such a beautiful
weapon, black dragons coiled around the hilt, a weapon meant for a hero…meant
for a king.

He took up the blade, a perfect fit
for his gauntleted hands. Strength flowed through him, strength and
determination and a roaring ambition.
Lead the Octagon to victory,
the
thought pierced his mind. Startled, he chewed on the thought. It felt right; it
felt like destiny, a calling to become the true heir of the king. He’d wield
the dark blade to victory and then claim the octagon throne for his own.
King
Baldwin,
the thought whispered through him till it became a roar. He knew
what he had to do. Behind him, the crows took wing, filling the dawn with their
raucous caws. Like heralds they flew before him, dark wings riding a tide of
death.

15

Katherine

Kath hugged Duncan’s boots close, slowing climbing the
cobbled street. The magpie’s tale filled her mind, a tale of courage, betrayal
and death.
A hero to the people of the Pit,
Duncan had lived a hero’s
life, yet the gods let him die, pierced by a hundred dark-cursed knives. Kath
railed against the cruelty of fate, against heaven’s cold indifference. At
least she’d avenged him, dealing justice with a swipe of her sword.
Justice
…yet
it felt so hollow.

A girl shouted, “Look out!”

Someone shoved her from behind.

Kath staggered forward, her sword
leaping from the scabbard.

A rock shattered the cobbles where
she’d stood,
a rock thrice the size of her head.
A captured soldier
raced towards her, his empty hands outstretched, madness glazing his eyes.
“Witch!”

Kath raised her sword, but before
she could strike, a blade erupted from the soldier’s stomach. Skewered from
behind, the attacker died spitted on Bear’s blade. Putting his boot on the dead
man’s back, Bear shoved the corpse from his sword. He turned to glare at the
captured soldiers, all of them bearing rocks intended for the bloody cavern.
“Anyone else?”

The prisoners looked away, hastily
passing rocks from one pair of hands to the next.

Their guards snarled, cracking
whips, laying bloody stripes across the prisoners. Rocks moved with renewed
vigor, passed from hand to hand, toiling up the human chain.

Behind her, Boar hissed, “They
should all be killed.”

Kath turned, her voice sharp with
rebuke. “Then we’d be no better than Darkness.”

Boar scowled. “They’ll never
change. Soldiers of the pentacle are weaned on cruelty.”

“He’s right.” The words came from
the magpie. She stood a hand span away from the thrown rock, her face
chalk-pale. At Kath’s stare she retreated a half step.

“So you think they won’t change?”

The blonde-haired girl looked from
Kath to the line of soldiers and back again. “The ones taken from the Pit or
the poorest tiers might…but not those born to serve the Pentacle.” Mara
gestured towards Boar. “The painted warrior has the truth of it. Those born to
the Pentacle truly are weaned on malice and cruelty.”

Kath considered her words. “Can you
tell the difference?”

“Of course,” the magpie brightened,
“by the tattoos on their arms.”

Kath knew those who served the
Pentacle bore tattoos but she’d never known the meaning behind the marks. “How
can you tell?”

The magpie rolled up her left
sleeve. Extending her arm, she revealed a rune tattooed in black ink. “We’re
all tattooed at birth.” Her face flushed red. “This is the rune for the Pit,
the lowest of the low.”

Kath studied the rune. “And those
born to be soldiers bear a different rune?”

“Yes.” Mara pulled down her sleeve,
covering the mark, as if ashamed of it.

Kath crouched by the dead attacker.
Drawing a dagger, she slit his left sleeve. Peeling back the dark wool revealed
a single rune tattooed on his forearm, different from the one Mara bore. “And
this rune?”

Mara craned over her shoulder.
“It’s the rune for the fifth tier, the tier of soldiers.”

“So if a man is born in the Pit but
is trained as a soldier?”

“Then he’d bear his birth-rune, the
rune of the Pit, as well as the rune for the fifth tier, giving him the privileges
of a soldier.”

Kath had seen the disparity between
surviving the Pit and thriving in the top tiers. “That’s quite a promotion.”

Mara gave her a solemn nod. “Enough
to tempt a man who knows better into doing things he shouldn’t.”

Kath stood, considering the dead
soldier. “Can you help my warriors sort the fanatics from those who might
change if given a chance?”

“I can help sort the runes, yes,
but some might still be fanatics, tainted by the priests.”

“Good enough.” Kath sheathed her
dagger. “Walk with me.”

Mara fell into step beside her,
Bear and Boar shadowing behind.

Kath cast sideways glances at the
girl. Her long blonde hair was clean but tangled, her tunic worn to a drab
brown, but carefully sewn and patched. On her feet she wore black leather boots
laced to her knees, obviously too big for her, probably taken from a dead
soldier. Her face was young and girlish, but beneath the shabby tunic she had a
woman’s budding curves. She walked with a slouch, as if trying to hide the
truth of her age, a riddle wrapped in rags.

“My boots are stolen.”

“What?”

The girl flushed red. “I saw you
looking at my boots.”

“So?”

“I got them from a dead soldier.”

Kath shrugged. “More use to you
than the dead.”

“In the Pit, boots are a sign of
wealth…and betrayal.”

Talking with this girl was like
unraveling an endless riddle. “Why betrayal?”

“Because they’re a sign of favor,”
her voice was laced with venom, “a sure sign you serve
them
.”

Curiosity got the better of Kath.
“What did you do in the Pit?”

“I was a serving girl, and later a
seller of dung patties…and at night, I served…” her voice choked to silence,
her face twisting in hate. “Beauty was a curse in the Pit.”

The Citadel was like a
cesspool…filled with endless layers of evil. “And now that you’re free of the
Pit, what will you do?”

The girl gave her a sheepish look.
“I…don’t know.”

“There must be something you’ve
always longed to do?”

Mara stopped, her head tilted back
to stare at the afternoon sky. “Born in the Pit, I longed for a glimpse of the
true sky.” Wonder touched her face. “I heard it was the color blue. And at
night, it’s full of stars!” She looked at Kath and flashed a warm smile. “You
gave me blue!”

The honest joy in the girl’s face
staggered Kath. She could not imagine a life deprived of the stars and the sky.
“So now that you can choose, what will you do?”

Mara stared at her. “I’ve never had
a choice. How does one choose?”

Kath slowed to a stop. “Are the
people from the Pit all like you? Unaccustomed to choices?”

Mara flushed. “We are born to our
station. We live to serve. We work to eat. And we obey or die.”

Such a harsh life, the
soul-numbing yoke of pure Darkness,
Kath shivered, making the hand sign
against evil. “You still have to work to eat…but now you have a choice. A
choice of what you do and how hard you work.”

Mara stared at her. “Yes, but how
does one choose?”

Kath could not imagine a life with
no
choices. Defeating evil was not just about swords. “Look around you. It takes
many crafts, many trades to run a city. People need food, and boots, and
candles, and clothing. You could be a healer, or a baker, or a candlestick
maker.”

“Or a warrior?”

Kath gave her a slow nod. “Or a
warrior, but it takes many long years of training if you don’t want to be a
dead
warrior.”

“And how do you gain these skills?”

“In the south, we have
apprenticeships. Master craftsmen take on apprentices who work for food and
lodging while learning the skills of the trade. After an agreed upon number of
years, the apprentice becomes their own master. Then their success depends on
how well they learned the trade and how hard they work.”

“And this could happen here?”

“Yes, of course. The upper tiers
are full of skilled masters, from blacksmiths and weapon makers, to chandlers,
cobblers, weavers, herbalists, seamstresses and scribes.”

Mara looked thoughtful, her brow
furrowed.

“Come, I’ll take you to Zith. After
you show my warriors how to separate the prisoners by their rune markings,
perhaps you can help the people of the Pit gain apprenticeships?”

Mara gave her a slow smile. “I
would like that.”

The girl was both clever and
brave…all she needed was a chance…and a choice. Kath gripped her sword hilt,
shuddering at the foul evilness of the Pit. All her life she’d fought for a
chance and a choice…and now she’d help bring both to the north. It felt better
than justice…or perhaps it was a different kind of justice. Staring up at the
blue of the sky, Kath swore she’d find a way to defeat the Mordant.