The Knight Marshal (The Silk & Steel Saga) (27 page)

In The North

42

Katherine

Kath paced the highest ramparts, staring out at the endless
white, a gauntlet of killing cold.
Winter subverted to evil, harnessed as a
lethal guardian
…only the Mordant could make winter his slave. It explained
why the oldest harlequin chose to reside in the far north. Kath shivered at the
thought, daunted by the dark logic. The Citadel, like its master, was
formidable in more ways than one. Crenellated battlements spiraling to a
dizzying height, the dark fortress cast a long shadow across the winter-bound
steppes. Conquering the Citadel should have felt triumphant, instead it tasted
of ashes, bitter in her mouth, for the Citadel was empty, her true enemy long
gone. And the price…she could not think of the price, better to think of her
foe. Somewhere in the south, the Mordant worked his will upon Erdhe, yet she
was stuck in his fortress, trapped by winter. Without even trying, the Mordant
had outmaneuvered her. The realization galled her. Kicking ice from the
rampart, she gripped the crystal dagger, feeling like a caged wolf.

It did not help that the others
pecked at her with a thousand questions, a thousand decisions that seemed
paltry and quarrelsome. A gaggle of painted warriors and citadel citizens
lurked on the far side of the rune-carved courtyard, awaiting an audience. They
gathered like starving geese, before the impotent sun barely cracked the chilly
sky. Kath scowled, sending them a sideways glance meant to discourage. Ripe
with petitions and endless problems, they formed a trap of another sort. Death
by a thousand details, their problems could wait. Kath turned a resolute stare
towards the frozen steppes, obsessed with finding a way south.

A fresh stare speared her.

Kath turned to find Zith waddling
towards her. Swathed in so many sheepskins, the monk actually looked fat. She
wondered what need had drawn him from his mountain of scrolls. Feeling
stubborn, she waited, letting the monk come to her.

His breath puffed into the cold
like a bellows. Drawing near, his gaze was full of reproach. “Put your grief
aside.”

His words hit hard. Kath closed her
eyes, as if she could shutter her soul. She’d never spoken of her marriage to Duncan, yet the monk had wise eyes, shrewd eyes.

“You shirk your duties.”

His words hit below the belt. “My
duties?
”
Her frustration erupted like a lanced boil.
“I’m not meant to be here! I
need to get south!”

His face softened. “True, for all
of Erdhe depends on it.”

The weight on her shoulders
multiplied.

“You’ve conquered the north and now
you must rule it.”

Kath slumped against the rampart.
“The painted people can rule. The Citadel is theirs to keep.”

“You are their Svala. Till you find
a way south, you must rule.” Zith gestured towards the petitioners huddled on
the far side. “They expect it of you.”

Kath felt a second trap closing
around her, tight as a noose.

“Your victory of swords will be for
naught if you do not change the north.”

His comment cut close to the bone,
too close. “What do you mean?”

“Taming a city is a thorny problem,
so different from conquering it. Instead of slicing the knot with a sword, you
must find a way to untangle it, weaving something new from the
strands…something different, something better, something stronger.” Zith gave
her a solemn look. “Power is more than just swords.”

Kath had never sought any power
save the sword. She fingered her sword hilt, wondering what Queen Liandra would
do.

“In the scrolls of history,
conquerors come and go, little more than passing plagues…unless they change
those they conquer. You cannot stay, for your destiny lies in the south, but
you can make a great difference while you are here.”

Kath chewed on his words, finding
much food for thought.

Zith leaned towards her, his voice
dropping to a whisper. “And while you untangle the Citadel’s thorny knots, you
will learn the ways of your enemy, for this fortress is a reflection of the
Mordant’s will, his Dark intent.”

Learn the ways of your enemy
.
Kath looked at the Citadel with fresh eyes. She gave the monk a rueful smile,
resolved to untangling the knot. “Just so.”

Zith gave her a shrewd look. “You
are meant to rule.”

When she tried to protest, he stilled
her with his stare.

“Born in Castlegard, yet you were
forbidden the sword. Despite a multitude of obstacles, you learned the way of
warrior and now you’ve conquered the north.” His gaze drilled into her. “Born a
girl, you were never raised to wear a crown, yet it is in your blood to rule.”

A shiver raced down Kath’s spine,
the spectral finger of an undreamt destiny.
Castlegard,
the very name
rang in her soul, yet she shook her head, denying the scant hope. “The maroon
will never be ruled by a woman.” Bitterness rode her words.

“By your deeds you will be known.”

Her frustration boiled over. “None
in the south even know of our victory, and worse yet, none will believe it.
None save Blaine, and one knight is not enough.”

“The future has yet to unfold.”

“You speak in riddles.”

“Life is a riddle till you put
meaning to it.” Zith leaned towards her, his face stern. “You must deal with
the Citadel. Wits and heart enabled you to win the north, not just your sword.”
His voice dropped to a harsh whisper. “Rule the same. Grasp your destiny. Dare
to rule…and rule well.”

She’d never thought to rule, yet
she’d always longed to lead…perhaps the two were the same. An immense weight
settled on her shoulders. “I will need your advice.”

“As long as I live, you shall have
it.” He gave her a solemn bow.

“Thank you.” Kath smothered her
rising emotions with a simple question. “And what of you and your scrolls?”

The monk shrugged. “I’ve mountains
to read and little time in which to do it.” A troubled look crossed his
careworn face. “But a worrisome pattern is emerging. Many of the scrolls deal
with soul magic…and mage-stone.”

“Mage-stone?” Her thoughts flashed
to Castlegard.

Zith nodded. “The Mordant seems
obsessed with mage-stone, collecting every scroll and scrap of parchment he can
find on the subject.”

“To make it?” 

“No, to break it.”

Fear spiked through her. “Can he?”

“What the Mordant cannot control,
he seeks to destroy, but mage-stone has proven impervious through the ages, a
secret only the Kiralynn monks could wield.”

Zith’s words were meant to be
reassuring but a nagging doubt plagued her.

“The scrolls make one thing
certain. The history of Erdhe is very different when written by the Dark.”

Steel laced her voice. “Then we
cannot let the Dark write it.”

“Just so.”

“Keep searching the scrolls, for
we’ll need every insight and advantage you can glean.” Kath gripped the monk’s
arm, intensity in her touch. “We each fight the Dark in our own way. Perhaps
something in the scrolls will lead to the Mordant’s undoing.” Straightening her
shoulders, she crossed the courtyard, determined to untangle the evil of the
Citadel and fashion something new.

43

Katherine

Kath trudged across the great rune-carved courtyard, her
maroon band at her back. A cold wind battered against her, flaring her maroon
cloak and freezing her breath to frost. Winter held the Citadel in thrall.
Despite the bitter cold, Kath was determined to hold court beneath the open
sky, as if exposure to the sun’s light could solve the Citadel’s thorny
problems.

Talbert and Conit, two badger-faced
lads were busy laying out sheepskins and feeding peat to the braziers. Flames
crackled and snapped, throwing off a welcome heat. Greeting the two boys, Kath
sat cross-legged on a thick sheepskin, setting her back to the black ramparts,
a shield against the knife-sharp wind. Pulling a second sheepskin across her
shoulders, she sat hunched, hoarding her warmth. Bear sat to her left, Sidhorn
on her right, both men looming large as woolly bears. The rest of her maroon
band sat in a crescent around the fire. Her painted warriors shunned chairs,
preferring to sit on the open ground. Kath supposed it was a malady of cave
dwellers, or perhaps a lack of wood, either way, she complied with their
custom.

Conit produced a wicker basket stuffed
with great wheels of bread almost as large as small shields. Kath tore a large
chunk before passing it on. Brown bread laden with nuts and raisins, still warm
from the oven, Kath savored the honest fare. Mugs of heated honeyed mead made
the rounds, an added warmth to chase away the winter chill. Huddled around the
brazier, her maroon band shared bread and mead while talking of small things.
Kath savored the companionship of warriors. As they broke their fast, the
dawn’s light finally cracked the cloud-strewn sky, seagulls wheeling overhead.
The tepid sun rose late in the north, as if it feared to show its face.

All too soon, they finished the
meal, a signal for the petitioners to start their stormy deluge.

“
Svala, they come.”
Beside
her, Bear whispered a warning.

A few started across the courtyard,
but then the petitioners hung back as leaders of the painted warriors swaggered
through their midst. Mountain lion, eagle, bear, boar, wolf, fox, badger, hawk
and owl, a menagerie of proud predators stared from their tattooed faces.
Studded with weapons, they wore a haphazard mix of sheepskins, leathers, and
dark armor. Captured breastplates, black cloaks, and dark helms inscribed with
pentacles proved the painted people survived the steppes as scavengers. But
instead of dented heirlooms, they boasted polished armor embellished with gold.
As conquerors of the Citadel, they’d gained much to choose from. Bristling with
fresh-won weapons, their captured finery suited their fierce pride.

Kath stood, her hand on her sword
hilt, studying their faces. All were comrades-in-arms, but a few she also
called friend. Royce led the pack, a big lion-faced man with a wild mane of
auburn hair. Gold glinted on his breastplate, the captured armor of a dead
general. Fanggold’s armor was nearly as ornate, a jeweled helm on his head.
Aware of her scrutiny, the wolf-faced war leader gave her a savage grin,
showing off his captured finery.

“Svala,” Royce gave no sign of
deference beyond the use of her battle-won title, “we have come to parlay with
the War Helm.”

So it was to be a formal meeting,
Kath nodded assent. “The words of warriors are ever welcome. Join my fire.”

The others sat, completing the
circle around the fire, a clink of armor and weapons.

“Svala,” Royce met her stare across
the brazier, “you have led us to a great victory.”

“A great victory,” the others
echoed their agreement.

“Long have we lived in the
Citadel’s shadow, always outnumbered, always harried by dark soldiers, but now
we rule the steppes!” Royce thumped his chest and the men rumbled agreement.
“We’ve gained a victory worthy of legends, fame enough for every warrior.” The
men hurrahed and Royce smiled. “And we’ve gained a bounty of plunder, new arms
and armor for every man.”

“And the wine’s good too.” Fanggold
gave a loud burp, a sign of deep satisfaction.  “And the women are most
willing.” He flashed a rogue’s grin.

The men laughed, pounding Fanggold
on the back, but Royce stilled them with a raised hand. “Plunder and pleasure
are a warriors due, but too much of it will dull the sword and addle the mind.”
His face turned solemn. “We’ve gained a victory long dreamt but never believed.
Svala, we’ve come to ask if you still wear the War Helm?”

Kath froze, caught by the weight of
the question.

Royce leaned forward, his voice
intent. “Will you lead us to war, Svala, or will you put the War Helm aside to
rule the Citadel?”

To rule the Citadel,
how
little they understood. She stared at their tattooed faces, searching for the
right words. “We took the Citadel to cripple the Mordant, to rid the north of
his shadow. The Citadel belongs to the painted people.”

“Huzzah!”

The men cheered their victory,
clashing weapons against armor, but she stilled them with a raised hand. “The
Citadel was taken not as a spoil of war, but as a second home.” She stared at
them, conviction in her gaze. “It is yours to rule. My destiny lies in the
south.”

“The
south!
” Uneasy mutters
rumbled through the warriors, “but what of the War Helm?”

Kath sensed her painted warriors
were as restless with victory as she was. “The War Helm is still mine.”

Their stares fixed on her.

“You’ve taken the Dark Citadel but
not its ruler. The victory is not complete till the Mordant lies dead.”

“But the bastard’s gone south.”

“He fled the citadel, afraid to
face our swords.” 

Kath raised a hand, quelling them.
“He marched his army south to attack the southern kingdoms.”

Ringol, the fox-faced leader
snarled. “The southern kingdoms are naught to us.” Many nodded their agreement.

She challenged them with a question.
“Do you know why we won?”

Tarmin, the owl-faced warrior was
quick to answer, “Bravery.”

Another shouted, “Courage.”

“Daring.”

“The favor of the gods.”

Fanggold flashed a toothy grin.
“Because we have a bloody lot of sheep and too much audacity!”

The men roared with laughter,
comrades in arms, reveling in the sweet glow of a victory they’d never dreamt
possible.

“All that you say is true, but it
is not the reason we won.” Kath let them chew on her words, waiting till they
leaned forward, hungry for an answer. “We won because the Mordant
disdained
the
painted people.” She rubbed salt in the wound. “He
scorned
your swords.”
Venomous looks darted between tattooed faces, but Kath persisted, driving the
sword point home. “The Mordant emptied the Citadel of soldiers because he did
not see the painted people as a threat. He did not
fear
you.”

Anger rumbled among them. “The
bastard insults us.”

“He belittles our victory.”

“He shames our swords.” 

Ringol thumped his chest. “Yet
we
sleep in
his
city and eat
his
stores while
his
women warm
our
beds.”

“It is not enough,” Fanggold
snarled. “He has no honor.”

Angry murmurs swirled through the
leaders.

Royce raised a hand to still the
others. “Svala, what will you have of us?”

Kath waited till quiet prevailed,
and then she unsheathed the crystal dagger, raising it to the heavens. Sunlight
glinted on the crystalline blade. “This dagger is meant for the dark heart of
the Mordant. I’ll not rest till its finds its true sheath.”

The men cheered, weapons clashing
against bucklers.

“Svala,” Royce raised his voice
above the din, “give us the chance to make the victory complete. Lead us to
war, for we’ll follow you to the end!”

The men stood, weapons raised,
shouting a great cheer. “
Svala! Svala!”

Tears crowded her eyes, awestruck
that such fierce warriors believed in her when so many others did not…not even
her own father. For a handful of heartbeats, she reveled in their acclaim, but
then she raised her voice above the tumult. “I see you! I know your true
strength, your courage, your unfettered daring! The painted warriors are a
force to be reckoned with! You are the sword hidden in the north! The Mordant
scorns you at his peril!”

They cheered her words. Others from
across the courtyard came to swell the throng.

Someone shouted, “Svala! We’ll
follow you to the ends of the Erdhe!”

She raised her voice to a shout. “I
will find a way to lead you south, for the greatest victory is yet to come. But
you must never follow a leader to the end.”

They stilled, their stares full of
puzzlement.

“Good leaders find a way to new
beginnings, not endings. Follow me to a new beginning, to an Erdhe forever free
of the Mordant’s shadow!”

They cheered her then, drunk on
thoughts of victory. She let them celebrate, but when their revelry subsided,
she spoke. “Who among you knows a way to cross the steppes in winter?”

“Cross to the south?”

She nodded, holding her breath.

Dark looks passed among them.
Finally Royce spoke. “Winter is the season of the caves. To cross the steppes
in winter is to court death.”

It was just as she thought, trapped
in the Citadel while the Mordant worked his will upon the south. A crushing
weight pressed against her, yet she faced the leaders with iron resolve. “Those
who would follow me south must be prepared to leave at a moment’s notice. Each
warrior must gather two moonturns worth of rations and must keep his weapons
sharp. Any belongings must fit within a single sack. When we leave, we’ll
travel light and fast.”

They nodded their assent.

“And I’ll not deprive the north of
protection. One in every four warriors must stay behind to guard what we’ve
gained.” She spoke over their protests. “Lose the Citadel and our victory is
for naught.” Kath drilled them with her stare. “Glory resides in holding the
north as well as going south. You must decide who will stay and who will go.”

Her words raised a whirlwind of
arguments. Finally Royce spoke for the others. “It will be as you say, Svala.”

They took their leave, warriors
planning their next campaign.

She’d given them much to think
about, but anxiety rode her shoulders. She’d kept her army, but somehow she had
to find a way south. Kath stared at the winter-locked steppes, beseeching the
gods for help.