The Knight Marshal (The Silk & Steel Saga) (11 page)

16

The Knight Marshal

Snow blanketed the forest, so silent, so cold, so deadly.
The marshal surveyed the hillside, checking for telltale signs. Winter made for
tricky warfare, the thrice-damned snow betraying every movement. Nested
ambushes proved their best weapon, a deadly game of cat and mouse.

He led a troop of thirty mounted
knights behind a copse of cedars, a screen of dark evergreen obscuring the path
below. Weapons bared, they listened for the signal. Horses stamped and armor
jangled, every noise sounding like a shout to the marshal’s ears. Throwing a
stern glare at the others, he settled his horse and gripped his sword, the
borrowed weapon of a dead knight. For the thousandth time, the marshal pondered
his impulse to claim the great sword from the ashes of a funeral pyre. Always a
saber man, he’d come to appreciate the added heft and extended reach of the
great sword, yet he wondered if the blade had last served a hero or a traitor.
He scowled at the futility of his musings. Sir Tyrone was long gone, nothing
but ashes blown on the wind. Only the gods knew the truth of it.

Sir Abrax gave him a warning
glance, and then he heard it, the muffled tramp of an enemy patrol, but there
was no sound of hooves and harness. The invaders rarely risked their horses,
one of the few advantages left to the maroon. Lowering his visor, the marshal
nodded to the others, poised for the signal.

Bowstrings twanged, answered by the
first scream. A warning horn blared from below, cut short in mid-note. “
Damn!”
the marshal swore. Urging his horse to a gallop, he led his men around the
cedars. Silent as death, they fell on the invaders, thirty mounted knights
against fifty foot soldiers.

His warhorse slammed into the
nearest enemy, bowling him backwards. The marshal dropped the reins, guiding
his horse with just his knees. Wielding the great sword with two hands, he lay
into the enemy, cleaving heads from bodies with a single stroke. The battle
lust took him, his breath sounding harsh in his helmet. His one-eyed gaze
reduced to a narrow visor-slit, he turned left and right, searching for foes. A
spear stabbed towards his face, but he hacked it away. Swords clanged around
him, blood spattering the freshly fallen snow. An enemy attacked on his
blindside, landing a solid blow to the chest. He swayed in the saddle, gripping
with his knees, thanking the gods his armor held. Beating the sword away, he
regained his balance and found himself deep within the enemy’s ranks. Hands
grabbed at his legs, determined to pull him from the saddle. He swung his sword
like a scythe, desperate to gain some space. Trained for battle, his horse
reared, hooves lashing at the enemy. Screams died beneath those iron shod
hooves yet the enemy pressed close. A soldier clawed at his stallion’s bridle
till the marshal slew him with a single stroke. Another grabbed at his boot,
but he kicked him away. Striking left and right, he fought to win clear.

“
To the marshal!”
Sir Abrax
led the charge, his great blue sword cleaving a swath through the enemy. The
others thundered around him, a spearhead of maroon pushing back the black.

The enemy broke and ran.

Discipline held within the maroon.
The knights slowed their mounts, refusing to give chase. Breathing hard, the
marshal lifted his visor to better survey his men. Sir Brock was bent over his
horse, his armor rent showing a nasty wound in his side. Sir Keifer was
blanched pale, his left arm dangling at an unnatural angle. If any of the
others were wounded, he could not tell, yet the trampled snow ran red with
blood. More than thirty of the enemy sprawled along the trail. Thirty for two,
it seemed a fair trade, till he considered the size of the enemy horde.

“Sir Zakery and Sir Tradon, see the
wounded back to the main camp.”

The two knights saluted, escorting
the wounded up the steep mountain trail.

A handful of archers ghosted out of
the forest, maroon octagons sewn on their leather jerkins. Saluting the
marshal, they set about pilfering the dead. A deplorable practice but such was
the necessity of a winter war. The maroon needed supplies, especially food and
arrows. Anything scavenged was a welcome addition to their meager stores.

Benford, the lead archer
approached. “We’ll take what we can and then head for the ridge.”

The marshal nodded. “Choose your
trail wisely. The last time they brought their cursed hellhounds.”

A flicker of fear kindled in the
man’s face but it was quickly smothered. “We’ll follow the streambed before
turning north.”

“See that you do. Archers are
scarcer than arrows and we’re not like to get more.”

“Yes, m’lord.” Benford saluted,
melting back into the snow-dusted trees.

The marshal turned his horse away,
picking a path through the dead. “Come, we’ve got more battles to fight.” The
others fell in behind, Sir Abrax riding on his blindside.

With the battle over, the pain
intruded. The marshal pressed a fist to his breastplate, plagued by the ache
beneath. His armor had held but his chest felt bruised, making every breath
painful. Other hurts vied for his attention. His right arm began to stiffen and
his left knee ached from the infernal cold. He was getting too old for the
battlefront, but the maroon needed every sword and the men looked to him to set
an example. Swallowing his pain, he kept his horse to a walk, giving the men
and their mounts a chance to recover. At least there was no need to rush. The enemy
would follow, of that he was certain, but they’d come afoot, howling for
vengeance. The key was to pick the next spot, an ambush nested within an
ambush, Lothar’s solution to thwarting the traitorous snow.

More flakes began to fall, veiling
the mountains. The trail snaked up and around a rocky outcrop and then plunged
back down into a narrow saddle-shaped valley, the perfect spot for the second
ambush. The marshal let his horse pick a path across the snow-crusted valley. A
sixth sense warned he was being watched, but the marshal quelled his unease,
knowing the rest of his archers hid in the wooded hillside, awaiting the second
ambush. He scanned the hillside but saw no telltale signs, just winter-green
blanketed in white. Snow continued to fall, bringing a hushed peace to the
valley but it was an illusion, an added trap for the enemy.

The valley narrowed to a funnel,
the woods dense on either side. Smoke from campfires drifted toward him, a dead
giveaway. Emerging from the pinch point, he found Lothar and three hundred
knights encamped in a meadow, all of them armed and armored, awaiting the next
battle. Sentries saluted as he passed, snow crusting their maroon cloaks. The
marshal swung down from the saddle and turned to find Lothar striding towards him,
relief scrawled across his face. “I gather the ambush went well?” The
leather-faced captain offered him a steaming mug.

The marshal tugged off his
gauntlets and wrapped his bare hands around the mug, savoring the warmth.
“Brock and Keifer were both wounded. We traded two knights for thirty of their
foot. The others broke and ran.”

“Will they come?”

“They’ll come.” He sipped the soup
and nearly spat it out. “Bloody hell, it tastes like old saddle!”

Lothar chuckled, “We had to throw
something in the pot! Besides, it’s hot.”

The marshal glared but then took
another sip, knowing he’d get nothing else. “You’ll need to put those fires
out; I smelled the wood smoke halfway up the valley.”

“The men have orders to douse them
on your arrival.”

He looked around and saw that it
was true. Despite the cold, discipline held. Lothar steered him towards one of
the snow-doused fires. The other knights saluted and then withdrew, giving
their commanders a respectful distance. The marshal eased down on the felled
log nearest the glowing embers, grateful for the residual warmth. 

“You’re limping again.”

The marshal shot his friend a
piercing stare. “Damn knee doesn’t like the cold.”

“And I trust you kept Sir Abrax on
your blindside.”

The marshal scowled. “I’ve been
fighting with one eye for longer than Abrax has fought with two.”

“More reason you shouldn’t be
leading the sorties.”

Anger spiked the marshal’s retort.
“The men don’t have a king. They need victories and they need an example.”

“You’ve given them both, let the captains
take the risk.”

“The king always led from the
front.”

Lothar glared, “You said yourself
that this is a different sort of war, a game of hounds and foxes. The maroon
can’t afford to lose you.”

The marshal’s chest still ached
from the battering, but he was damned if he’d admit it. “We’ll need to change
tactics anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

“This is the fourth double ambush.
They’re bound to learn.”

“So you think they won’t come?”

“No, they’ll come.”

“Why?”

“Because of Raven Pass.” Lothar raised a bushy eyebrow but the marshal forestalled his question. “That battle’s
been scratching at my mind like a splinter. Think about it. The Mordant sent
his hordes against our walls, but he sent them without cavalry, without
catapults, without siege engines of any sort. He let the hordes hurl themselves
against unbreakable walls for nigh on a week before he ever loosed his foul
magic against our gates.”

Lothar’s gaze widened. “Fodder. He
uses men like fodder.”

The marshal nodded. “He’s got the
numbers but he does not care how he spends them…but that makes no sense
unless…” his voiced dropped to a deadly whisper, “unless this war is just a
feint.” The idea had been festering in his mind like an open sore. Troubled,
the marshal stared at his friend.

“What do you mean, a
feint?
”

The marshal shrugged. “I’m not
sure, just a nagging suspicion.”

“A vast horde just a feint? It
makes no sense.”

“Unless it’s one part of a larger
battle plan.” 

Lothar gaped. “You mean another
horde?
One
horde is more than we can handle.”

“No, something else.”

“Then what?”

“That’s what plagues me. I’ll be
damned if I know.”

Lothar fingered his battleaxe, his
face troubled. “How do we defeat such a foe?”

The marshal had no easy answer. “We
do what we can.”

Lothar scowled, stirring the ashes.
“A war of attrition…except we’re the ones getting nibbled to death.” 

They sat in silence, hunched over
the dying embers, the snow falling around them like a curtain. Other knights
approached, taking seats around the dead fire. They all knew the battle plan so
there was no need to speak of it. Instead, they traded words about small
things, remembering better meals and warmer beds. The marshal listened,
heartened by the camaraderie. Hungry, cold, and badly out-numbered, yet the
maroon remained unbowed, determined to fight. Warmed by pride, the marshal took
a whetstone to his great sword, taking comfort from the steady rasp of steel
against stone. A mere hour passed before a scout came running. “
They’re
coming!”

The marshal looked up. “So soon?”

Breathless, the scout nodded.

“How many?”

“Jansen reckons six hundred and
they’re all afoot.”

“By the nine hells!” Lothar swore,
“How’d they assemble so many so quickly?”

The marshal gave his friend a
warning glare. “Their tactics are changing.”

The scout blurted the rest.
“They’ve brought their hellhounds.”

A cold silence blanketed the men.

Sir Abrax said, “So do we run or
fight?”

A circle of stares as thick as
spears surrounded the marshal. The odds were bad, but better than facing the
horde. “This battleground is of our choosing. We stand and fight.” The marshal
raised his sword. “For the king.”

“For the king!”
The men
saluted and then scattered to their horses, making adjustments to girths and
armor. The marshal pulled on his gauntlets and swung into the saddle. Lothar
rode on his right, Sir Abrax with his blue sword on his blindside. The maroon
formed a column behind, five knights across and over sixty deep. They carried
no banners and blew no horns. The pomp of war had died in Raven Pass. Like iron forged to steel, the knights rode as pure warriors, intent on killing.

Spurring his horse to a trot, the
marshal led them to the pinch point, to the narrow throat of the valley, and
then he reined his horse to a stop. Unsheathing his great sword, he stared
across the valley floor.

At first there was nothing but
white.

Snow drifted into the valley like
gently blowing veils. Evergreens darkened the steep hillsides, a counterpoint
to the white. So peaceful, so deceptive, but then he heard it. A deadly howl knifed
the valley. Eerie and chilling, it sent a primal shiver down his spine. His
warhorse shied, but he settled it with his knees. And then he saw them, dark
shapes erupting from the snow. Like hounds loosed from hell, they tore across
the valley floor. Tongues lolling, teeth bared, spiked collars around their
necks, the shaggy beasts slavered as they ran, howling for the kill. Larger and
more vicious than wolves, they reeked of evil, deadly demons fashioned into
fur.

“
Steady!”
The marshal
watched them come, keeping a tight rein on his horse.

Howling like the damned, the
hellhounds ran at a ground-eating lope. Halfway across, the archers loosed the
first volley. Growls of pain erupted from the pack but none fell. More arrows
rained down, a deluge of feathered shafts. The marshal expected carnage, but it
took multiple arrows to fell a single hellhound. The pack thinned to half. The
remaining beasts kept coming, slavering for the kill.

“Better to meet them at a gallop.”
The marshal raised his sword. “For the king!”

“
For the king!”
the war cry
echoed through the maroon.