The Knight Marshal (The Silk & Steel Saga) (29 page)

46

The Knight Marshal

The knight marshal crossed the slaughter field, holding his
horse to a walk. A putrid stench rose from the gore.
Sixty ogres slain by
one squire,
it was a prodigious feat, nigh on impossible, the stuff of
ancient legends. Surveying the carnage, the marshal had no doubt that Baldwin had saved the maroon…yet the field held a dark warning.
Not just slain but
slaughtered.
Entrails and innards smeared the sullied snow, raising a
puking stench. Severed limbs and cleaved heads sat stacked in a grisly pyramid,
blood and gore painting gruesome spatters upon the trampled snow. Even the
ravens shunned the dead, as if the corpses were tainted. He’d fought on many
battlefields, but never in his long years of service had he seen one like this,
as if the lords of Hell had come calling.
Not just slain, not just slaughtered
…
but
butchered.
The marshal shivered at the thought, making the hand sign
against evil.

Reaching the far side, he turned
for one last look. His gaze sought Sir Abrax lying wrapped in his maroon cloak.
A good friend and a stalwart champion felled by the king’s squire, a tragedy
cloaked in arcane treachery. It hurt to leave his friend lying upon the bloody
field, but the maroon could neither spare the time nor the strength to raise a
cairn over every dead hero. The marshal saluted his friend, his fist thumping
his armored breastplate. “By Valin, you shall be remembered.”

Turning his horse away, he led the
long line of maroon knights back into the woods. Time was against them. Despite
his mount’s weariness, he urged his warhorse to a trot, desperate for distance.
The maroon needed to escape before the circling ravens enticed the enemy.

Sunlight quenched to crimson,
setting the mountain peaks aglow. In the waning light, he followed a faint
trail around the backside of the mountain. The ice-encrusted Dragon Spines
loomed in every direction. Fierce and jagged, the jumbled mountains had proved
a boon, hiding the maroon in a labyrinth of trails and valleys, a bulwark
against the enemy…but the mountains also took their toll. Cold and bleak and
desolate, he’d lost too many men to frostbite and hunger. He longed for a warm
bed snug behind stout walls, a pine log fire crackling in the hearth, a goblet
of mulled wine in his hand…the marshal shook himself awake. Straightening in
the saddle, he lifted his visor exposing his face to the wind’s biting-cold slap,
yet he could not banish the nagging aches pervading his battered body.
Everything hurt. A deep bone-weariness bludgeoned him, slumping his shoulders.
Too many battles in too short a time, he was getting too old for this.

*Wield me!*

The marshal startled alert.

*Wield me!*

An insidious voice hissed in his
mind. A cold certainty gripped him,
the dark sword!
Bundled in furs and
tied to his cantle, he wasn’t even touching the dark-damned blade, yet it
preyed on his mind like a curse. Desperate to snuff the voice, he built a
mental wall, images of stone and mortar, yet still the vile whisper invaded.

*
Wield me now!*

 He felt like vomiting.

*Wiled me and victory shall be
yours!*

“No!”

“
No
…
nooo
…
noooo!
”
The marshal’s shout echoed against the mountaintops.

A thunder of hooves galloped from
behind. Lothar pulled rein on his left, Sir Rannock on his right. Weapons
bared, they scanned the forest. “What is it?”

Chagrined, the marshal muttered,
“nothing.” Regaining his composure, he made his voice firm. “Stand down.”

Sir Rannock saluted, but Lothar
threw a skeptical look his way.

His friend saw too much, but
thankfully he kept his questions for another time.

Shrugging his shoulders, Lothar
sheathed his battleaxe. “We’re all war weary, flinching at shadows.” He flicked
a glance towards the darkening sky. “Nearly the dark of the moon.”

“Just so. Time to make for
Stonehand.”

“How many do you think we’ll
gather?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it?”
Since the bitter loss at Raven Pass, Stonehand had become the maroon’s secret
gathering place. On every dark of the moon, the war host returned to the great
mage-stone statue, a chance to gather lost scouts and missing patrols, to gain
supplies from Castlegard and bolster the strength of the maroon.
His men needed food and rest, but
most of all they needed reinforcements. The marshal turned to stare at his
friend, the truth bitter upon his lips.
“However many come, it will not
be enough. Not nearly enough.” The marshal spurred his horse to a canter, but
he could not escape the dark whispers slithering through his mind.

47

Katherine

Kath stood atop the rampart watching the ship, but instead
of turning towards the Citadel, the brightly checkered sails changed course.
The ship zigzagged back and forth across the bay, as if taunting the Citadel.

Beside her, Blaine said, “What are
they doing?”

Kath studied the ship, noting they
way it kept a wary distance. With fresh eyes, she stared down at the Citadel.
The fearsome fortress overshadowed the bay, tiers of crenulated battlements studded
with trebuchets and catapults. The Mordant’s black and gold banners were long
gone, cut loose to ride the wind, but nothing replaced them. Kath had no banner
and neither did the painted people. The Mordant’s Citadel was conquered, yet
from a distance it looked the same, a forbidding fortress of dark stone
bristling with menace. “They’re testing the Citadel.”

“What?”

“They’re hoping for friends but
they fear a foe.” Unclasping her cloak, Kath pressed the maroon wool into
Grenfir’s hands. “Take this and wave it upon the ramparts. We need to signal
the ship.”

“Yes, Svala.” Grenfir leaped to the
battlement, waving Kath’s maroon cloak high above his head like a battle
banner.

“Blaine, your cloak! Give it to
Tangor.”

The badger-faced warrior joined
Grenfir on the battlement. Yelling and jumping, they waved the cloaks,
desperate to be seen. 

Kath stared at the ship, willing it
closer, yet it stubbornly veered back and forth, scudding across the bay at a
wary distance. “It’s not enough.” She pounded the dark rampart with her fist.
“They don’t see our cloaks…or they don’t trust them.” A sudden fear gripped
her, knowing she dared not let this one hope pass by. Somehow she needed to
lure the ship to shore, yet it held its position, sailing a trebuchet’s throw
from the dark coastline.
A trebuchet’s throw,
the idea teased her mind.
Kath peered over the rampart to the tier below. Satisfied, she turned back to
the others, her voice ringing with command. “Grenfir and Tangor keep waving
those cloaks like your lives depend on it.” Kath’s gaze found the two
badger-faced boys. “Talbert and Conit run and get fresh baskets of bread and
bring them to that trebuchet.” She pointed to the tier below. “And be quick
about it. Run as if your lives depend on it!”

The two boys set off at a hard run.

“The rest of you come with me.”
Leaping from the rampart, Kath raced across the courtyard, scattering
petitioners like wolves through a sheep herd. Blaine and her maroon band
pounded at her heels, a jangle of arms and armor. They burst through the ruined
gate, following the curving street down and around into the lower tier. People
turned and stared, some shouting questions, but Kath never slowed. She led them
to the west side, to the first trebuchet overlooking the ocean. “This will do.”

Her painted warriors gathered
around.

“Do any of you know how this
works?”

Blank stares answered her. Kath
realized it was a silly question, but she had to try. “Fine, we’ll just have to
figure it out.” She’d watched trebuchets hurl rocks from Castlegard’s walls,
but she’d never done it herself, and this trebuchet seemed different, bigger
and far more intimidating. Crouched like a wooden dragon upon the rampart, the
trebuchet had a long arm angled skyward. A leather sling on a rope dangled from
the top. The sixty-foot arm was attached to a heavy tripod frame linked to a
massive counterweight. Within the frame sat a large caged wheel, like the wheel
of a millhouse turned on its side. “First we have to lower the arm.” She
considered the contraption. “Bear and Sidhorn, stand in the wheel and start
walking.”

Questioning looks flashed her way,
but both warriors obeyed. Gingerly climbing into the wheel, the big men began
to walk. Surprise lit their faces when the wheel began to turn.

“That’s it! Keep walking.” The
massive contraption creaked and groaned. Shards of ice rained down as the great
wooden beast came to life. The levered arm descended while the heavy
counterweight slowly rose. Kath studied the trebuchet, knowing she was missing
something. Twice she circled the huge contraption. “There has to be a pin
somewhere.”

Fanggold searched the far side,
hefting a thick iron rod secured to a length of rope. “Is this it, Svala?”

The rod looked like a giant’s
knitting needle. “Yes!” She took the pin, watching as the great arm sank lower.
When it reached the base, she rammed the pin into the aligning holes to lock
the arm. “Stop walking and get out!” Sidhorn and Bear scrambled from the great
wheel.

The two badger-faced lads appeared.
Red-faced and puffing plumes of mist, they carried baskets laden with great
wheels of bread.

“Talbert! Load a round of bread
into the sling.”

“The bread, Svala?”

“Just do it!”

The boy scurried to obey.

“Everyone step back.”

The trebuchet sat coiled with
tension, like a deadly dragon poised to strike. She’d heard terrible stories of
trebuchets flying apart, killing everyone who stood near. Stepping as far away
as possible, Kath whispered a fervent prayer to Valin and then she yanked the
rope on the restraining pin. The iron pin pulled free.

For half a heartbeat, the trebuchet
shuddered…then the great counterweight came whomping down with a bone-jarring
thud. The long arm swooped upward with a raptor’s speed. The counterweight
struck bottom, stopping the arm at the top of its arc. Yanked by the arm, the
sling cracked like a whip, swinging upward with lightning speed, hurling the
wheel of bread out across the ocean.

Gaping at the trebuchet’s fearsome
strength, Kath rushed to the rampart with the others.

Holding her breath, she watched the
great bread wheel tumble out across the sea. It stuck the gray waves with a
splash, disappearing into the depths. The others cheered but Kath knew they’d
only half succeeded. She stared at the ocean, gauged the distance between the
bread’s splash and the sailing ship. “Again! We need to do it again!”

48

Juliana

The
Sea Sprite
sailed off the charts into
rumor-drenched seas. Juliana had never sailed this far north. No ship from Navarre ever did, for the north held no profit, only terrible risks and a creeping dread.
The risks came in many forms, from tricky currents and dangerous shoals to
raging tempests and savage MerChanter raiders. The creeping dread came from
ancient legend and whispered lore. Sailors deep in their cups spoke of a cursed
sea broiling with monster kraken, deadly whirlpools, and a ghost fleet that
lurked in a living mist. Juliana paid scant attention to the rum-soaked tales,
but all sailors were superstitious, including hers. With each passing league,
she felt the tension tighten like a slip knot. Good luck charms appeared,
dangling from the mastheads. Sailors saved a portion of their meal as offerings
to the sea god. Crewmen who should be sleeping crowded the foredeck, red-rimmed
eyes scanning for threats, real and imagined.

“Bring her two points to larboard
and hold her steady.”

“Aye, captain.”

Chartless, she followed the
coastline north. Black basalt cliffs towered three hundred feet above the
crashing waves, as if some giant had used a sword to sunder the land from the
sea. The black cliffs formed a formidable rampart. If wind and wave turned
against her, she’d find no succor on the harsh coast. To the north and the
west, a vast endless ocean stretched to infinity, a slate-gray sea furrowed
with white-toothed waves, cold and forbidding. And to the south, on the distant
horizon, always staying just within sight, the sails of the merchant fleet
billowed bright like a glimpse of home. Juliana measured the leagues with a
single glance. The distance was the price she paid to bring the others north.
Despite the king’s seal, the captains balked at the strange orders, insisting
the risk was too great. So the
Sea Sprite
took the lead, the tip of the
spear, the bait in the trap, forging a path into the bitter north. If evil
befell her ship, the others would turn and run, hence the tension clawing at
her shoulders.

“
Ware to larboard!”
The
lookout called a warning from the crow’s nest.

At first, she saw nothing, an
endless expanse of waves, but then she noticed it. A dark shadow inked the
depths, a leviathan of the deep, thrice the length of the
Sea Sprite
…heading
straight for her ship.

“Captain?”

Changing course might bait the
beast’s attention, so she made her voice stone-certain. “Steady as she goes. It
will pass.” Gripping the railing, she watched the leviathan, willing it to keep
to the depths.

The massive shadow loomed close.
Sailors rushed the rails, staring down. A few reached for fishing gaffs, mere
pinpricks against the great beast.

“
Nearly upon us!”
the
lookout called.

The great shadow approached at a
frightening speed, faster than any sailing ship. Juliana braced for impact, her
feet spread wide, her face a stony mask. Wood creaked and sails snapped while
heartbeats hammered. Time seemed to slow, an eternity of waiting…and then the
shadow passed beneath, cruising the briny depths without a care for the
surface. Sailors cheered and clapped, dancing a jig. 

Juliana smiled, the only sign of
her relief.

Marcus cast her a questioning
glance. “How did you know?”

“Captain’s intuition.”

He tugged on his seashell earring,
respect gleaming in his blue-eyed stare. “May the captain’s intuition ever be
true.”

“Just so.”

The wind shifted slightly, adding
speed to their sails. Empty of cargo, the
Sea Sprite
skimmed across the
white-topped waves. Checking the lines, Juliana ordered full canvas pressing
for more speed.

They sailed north into frigid
waters, ice riming the sheets and slicking the decks, making the footing
treacherous. Darkness held sway for the better part of each day, eldritch lights
dancing in the sky like a spectral warning. Fierce storms blew out of the
north. Gales battered her ship, hurling stinging ice at her crew. The
Sea
Sprite
pitched and rolled over mountainous waves. The northern ocean proved
forbidding as any bard’s tale, cold and dark and treacherous. Her sailors
turned surly, reading dire omens in every luff of sail, every seagull’s cry,
yet she ruled her ship with an iron will, pressing to the very edge of the
world.

In the privacy of her cabin,
Juliana fortified her will with the message scrolls from home, her fingers
tracing the wax seals. Sitting by the lantern light, she read and reread them,
searching for surety beneath the strange orders. Jordan’s letter read like a
bard’s tale, a saga of treachery and poison and god-given visions. She’d never
thought of her swordish sister as a seer, yet she put her faith in the words.
Drawing a sealskin cloak across her shoulders, she returned to the windswept
deck, yearning for an end to the voyage.

On a cold bleak morning, the
coastline changed. The dark cliffs fell away, revealing an entrance to a bay.
Hope quickened within her. “This must be it!”

Marcus joined her on the aft deck.
“Orders, captain?”

“We’ll dare the bay.”

He gave her a hard stare. “And if
we don’t find the cursed citadel?”

“We’ll find it.”

“Captain’s intuition?”

She shook her head, knowing he
deserved the truth. “More like desperate need.” Her ship and crew were both
pushed near the breaking point. They needed to reach their goal and make a run
for the south. “Take us in.”

Marcus roared the orders. “Hard to
starboard!”

Sailors scurried up the rigging,
trimming sails as the
Sea Sprite
heaved to the starboard side.

Juliana cast a glance behind. The
fleet followed, keeping their distance, their numbers diminished by two. Two
ships lost to wind or wave or some other calamity, she shuddered at the loss,
praying the voyage was worth the price.

The
Sea Sprite
tacked to
starboard, riding the swells toward the bay. Jagged spires of dark rock thrust
from the sea like a monster baring needle-sharp teeth. At their tips, the
spires narrowed to a sharp sword-width, but at their barnacle-encrusted base,
the spires were wide enough to hide a ship…or two. “Tell the lookouts to keep
sharp.”

“Aye, captain.”

A flock of seagulls gave escort,
screaming a mournful cry. The
Sea Sprite
passed between the spires.
Juliana tensed, fearing an ambush, but the sea remained empty of enemies.
Overhead the sails fluttered and sagged, caught in the spire’s wind-shadow. The
Sprite’s
speed slowly bled away, but her impetus carried them forward
into the bay. Escaping the spire’s shadow, the wind billowed the mainsail,
snapping it full, and the
Sea Sprite
leaped forward, slicing the waves.

The entranceway opened into a vast
bowl-shaped bay. Towering basalt cliffs ringed the bay like fortress walls.
Stark and imposing, the sheer cliffs implied a cold threat instead of safe
harbor, as if the land repulsed the sea and those that sailed upon it.

Beside her Marcus growled. “I don’t
like it. This bay has a foul feel about it.”

“More proof we’ve sailed to the
right place.”

He sucked air through the gap in
his front teeth. “The Mordant’s lair.”

“Just so.” She stood on the
aftdeck, scrying the wave patterns and the subtle sea colors, the only clues to
the bay’s depths. “Steady as she goes.” She kept her ship on a straight course,
plying a path toward the bay’s heart.

“
Ware the castle!”
The
lookout sang a warning, pointing toward the northeast. 

Juliana shivered when she saw it,
making the hand sign against evil. A massive fortress reared above the sea
cliffs, dark and grim and potent with brutal power. She’d dreamt of the
Mordant’s castle at journey’s end, but this dark monstrosity exceeded all her
nightmares. Massive in scale, the fortress loomed over the bay like an armored
fist, reeking of menace. Tiers of crenellated battlements spiraled upward like
a stone beehive. Studded with catapults and trebuchets, the walls bristled with
threat. She half expected to see winged monsters perched on the ramparts,
waiting to attack her ship.

“
Captain?”

Startled from her thoughts, she
cast a wary glance at her first mate. “What do you think?”

He scowled. “Too many catapults.
One hit and we’re holed.”

“Just so.”

He tugged on his earring, a nervous
gesture. “There’s no banners on the walls. How do we tell if the dark-damned
fortress is held by friend of foe?”

A chill shivered down her spine.
She’d expected bright pennants to flutter from the ramparts, proof the citadel
was defeated. Instead she saw nothing but dark battlements studded with
catapults, a fortress gird for war.

“Friend or foe?”

After such a long voyage, Juliana
knew what her answer had to be, but it sat in her stomach like a bilge water.
“We tempt them.”

“What?”

“We sail within range of their war
engines and tempt them to attack.”

He stared at her, his voice
dropping to a low growl. “A tricky gambit. Is it worth the risk?”

“We’ve come this far, we have to
know.”

“And if they attack?”

She swallowed hard. “We turn sail
and run for home.”

He held her gaze. “Seems a risky
ploy.”

“It’s all we have.”

He gave her a grim nod. “Dance with
the devil, and pray like hell he doesn’t catch us.”

“Just so.” She gave the order.
“Helmsman hold steady. Let’s give them a chance to see our colors.”

“Aye, captain.”

She felt the tension ripple through
her crew. Sailors climbed the rigging and clung to the railing. Every spare
hand manned the rails, watching the fortress. Seagulls screamed overhead as the
canvas sails snapped taught, but not a word was spoken. The
Sea Sprite
speared
a path across the bay, closing on the grim fortress.

Juliana watched the ramparts, set
to flinch at the first sign of attack. With every passing ship-length she felt
the menace grow. Fear tightened like a serpent coiling in her stomach, yet she
held to the course. A sunbeam pierced the clouds illuminating the mainsail, a
checkered pattern of blue and red emblazoned with a white osprey, the proud
sigil of Navarre.

“They should see us now, captain.”

“Aye, there’s no mistaking our
colors. Sound the conch just to be sure.”

A seaman raised the great conch
shell to his lips. The mournful wail rang out across the bay like a challenge.
Once, twice, the conch sounded, yet there was no answer from the fortress. The
dark castle loomed large, yet the war engines remained dormant. Juliana judged
the distance with a critical eye. Close enough to taunt yet far enough to run.
“Hard to port! Let’s set a sharp tack and run before their walls.”

Sailors leaped to obey, climbing
the rigging to set the sails. Canvass snapped to the new heading and the
Sea
Sprite
hauled to port, throwing up a cold spray. They ran beneath the dark
walls, tacking back and forth, like a plump pigeon baiting a hawk.

Details became clear, a long
stairway chiseled in the cliffs ran from the fortress down to the sea. A
battlement protruded from the cliff’s base, a single catapult guarding the
stone dock, yet she saw no sign of soldiers. If the fortress feared the sea,
they did not show it.

Five times they traversed the width
of the bay, flaunting their colors, yet the fortress remained quiet, a dark
riddle wrapped in threat.

Marcus leaned close. “Do you think
it’s a trap?”

“A strange sort of trap…unless they
mean to lure us to the dock to board us.”

Marcus tugged his earring. “Not what
I’d expect from the Mordant.”

“Nor I.” She flicked a glance
toward the helmsman. “Hold her steady.” She turned back to Marcus. “We’re not
done tempting fate. One way or another, we need an answer. Take her closer by
another two ship lengths.”

The
Sea Sprite
edged closer
to the great fortress, tacking back and forth beneath the battlements.

Juliana stood on the aftdeck, her
gaze scanning the tiered catapults, every one a threat to her ship.

Something splashed white in the
slate gray sea. “Lookout report!”

Wren leaned from the crow’s nest,
pointing to larboard. “Something hit over there, captain, a splash like a large
seabird.”

She scanned the wave tops but saw
no bird rising from the foam.

“Captain, another one!” One of the
deck hands pointed.

She gripped the railing, scanning
the sea, but saw nothing.

The lookout sang out,
“Ware the
castle, one of the war engines is loosing stone!”

Her gaze snapped to the fortress.
She saw it then, near the top tier, the mighty arm of a catapult snapping
forward. Something tumbled through the sky, smaller than she expected. It
struck with a white splash, closer to her ship than she liked…yet the splash
was small.
A single splash, a single catapult,
why use only one war
engine when the fortress was ringed with them? If this truly was an attack, the
sea should be frothing with water spouts, her ship imperiled by a bombardment
of death. “This makes no sense.”

“
Captain?”

Hearing the urgency in her first
mate’s voice, she issued the order. “Hard to port!”

The helmsman put the rudder hard
over as sailors scrambled to trim the sails. Another splash hit closer to her
ship. The
Sea Sprite
heeled hard to port, the deck slanting at a steep
angle. Juliana gripped the railing, willing speed to her ship.

Splat!
Something struck the
deck.

Juliana cringed, expecting death
screams and cracking timbers…but the
Sea Sprite
sailed on. Puzzled, she
leaped from the aftdeck, needing to know. Seamen clustered in a knot at
middeck. Jango turned, a startled look on his tattooed face. “Captain, you’ll
not be believin’ this.”