The Knight Marshal (The Silk & Steel Saga) (31 page)

51

Katherine

The Citadel broiled like a kicked anthill, everyone working
to hasten the army’s departure. Casks of fresh water were filled, rounds of
bread were baked and provisions prepared, while bands of warriors said their
farewells and boarded the ships. In the midst of the chaos, Kath slipped her
guards and stole away. Taking one of the few remaining horses, she rode alone,
cantering along the windswept cliffs. Seagulls wheeled overhead, their mournful
cries offset by the muffled boom of waves battering the cliffs below. A killing
cold snatched at her breath, frosting it to plumes of white. The north was such
a desolate and brutal place, it pained her to leave him here.

At the edge of the sea cliff,
beyond reach of the Citadel’s shadow, the burial mound stood twice the height
of a tall man. Weapons and battle banners piled high, a tribute for a fallen
hero, yet it did little to salve her heart. Tethering her horse, Kath knelt by
the grave. There should have been trees overhead, a great grove of grandfather
trees to guard his bones and hum his name for all eternity. Duncan would have
wanted that, but none grew north of the Dragon Spines, another reason to curse
the north. Kath wondered if the Treespeaker knew. Tugging off her gauntlet, she
thrust her hand beneath the snow crust, delving into the fresh-turned soil, as
if she could reach him. “
Duncan, my love, my heart, my husband…”
a
single tear coursed down her cheek. For the longest time, she knelt by the
grave, remembering his smile, his voice, his touch. She yearned for the past;
she yearned for a future by his side, anything but this. Memories of her
wedding night filled her mind, tenderness and longing overflowing her heart.
She swayed, remembering every touch, every kiss. Shadows lengthened and the
seagulls screamed a mournful cry, yet she noticed neither. 

A sheepskin dropped across her
shoulders. Startled, Kath reached for her sword, but her hand was too cold to
obey.

“Svala, you will freeze to death.”
Bear stood behind her, his tattooed face full of concern.

Kath staggered to her feet,
suddenly crippled by the biting cold. “I did not hear you.” Shivering, she
pulled the sheepskin close.

“Your senses yearned for the
Otherrealm. But it is not your time to cross over.” He tucked the wool blanket
around her, rubbing warmth into her arms and hands. “You are needed. You have
much to do.”

Pins and needles lanced her, a rude
return to life. “Yes, the gods must have their due.”

“Svala,” his voice held a hint of
reproach, “this man you loved would not want this. He died a hero, be joyful in
his memory.”

“But I ache for him.”

“That is fitting, but while your
heart will always miss him, you must still drink from the joy of life.” Bear
gestured to the burial mound. “You must drink for him as well as yourself, else
you do him a great disservice.”

His words struck like the truth,
filling a hollow in her heart. “When did you get so wise?”

Bear flushed beet-red, his voice
turning to a low mumble. “Something the Ancestor told me when my wife died.”

She hadn’t even known he’d had a
wife. Shame and sorrow gripped her in equal measure. Kath felt her face flame
red. “I’m sorry.”

He shrugged. “It was long ago.”

“Did you come to bid farewell to
Boar?” A smaller, fresher mound sat beside Duncan’s, another bitter loss in the
war against the Mordant.

“Svala, I came for you.” Bear
nodded towards the smaller mound. “Boar is in the Otherrealm, feasting in the
hall of heroes.” He untethered the horse. “Come, we should return.” He gave her
a leg up, and then he took the reins, and began leading her back to the
Citadel.

“Wait.” Kath turned in the saddle.
Closing her eyes, she thought of Duncan, whole and unharmed, muscles clad in
black leathers, a warm smile on his ruggedly handsome face. Her voice dropped
to a soft whisper, pitched to carry to the Otherrealm. “I’ll look for you in
the Light.” She held her breath, listening hard, but the only answer was the
booming waves and the seagulls’ cries… the sounds of life. Perhaps Bear had the
truth of it. Perhaps she needed to live for the both of them. Nodding farewell,
Kath turned in the saddle and rode back to life and to duty.

52

Katherine

Voices drifted up from below, feeble as gnats compared to
the waves’ incessant pounding. Kath leaned on the cliff-top rampart, watching
the last of the ships come and go. A captain bellowed orders as men scurried
across the sea-drenched dock. Tethered by ropes, the great ship bucked like a
wooden beast angry to be loosed. One by one, the merchant ships took turns at
the stone dock, loading men and provisions before setting sail for the south.
Most were already loaded and gone, their sails billowing in a diagonal line
across the storm-tossed bay. She watched as the lead ship entered a haze of
iron-gray sleet at the bay’s mouth. For a fleeting heartbeat, the ship stood
bold against the storm, but then it disappeared, as if swallowed…or fallen from
the edge of the world. Kath studied the sea with fresh eyes. Storm and wave,
the ocean held a mighty ferocity unlike anything she’d ever experienced. For
the thousandth time, she wondered if the sea was the only way south.

“Svala, are you sure about this?”
Bear stood behind her, his voice laden with doubt. “Men are not meant to trod
the sea.”

“The gods heard our need and sent
ships north so we could defeat the Mordant. The sooner we reach the south, the
better.”

“As you say, Svala.”

Chainmail tugged at her shoulders,
but the added weight felt like a comfort. Kath favored fighting leathers like
her lord father, but the treacherous nature of the Citadel had taught her the
value of chainmail. With her axes strapped to her back and her sword belted to
her side, the added weight felt right. A sixth sense warned her that the dark
fortress would not let her leave without a fight. Glaring up at the oppressive
battlements, she made the hand sign against evil.

“What is it, Svala?”

“Nothing, we need to be gone.” A
sack held her few possessions, a small octagonal shield, the War Helm wrapped
in a sheepskin cloak, spare clothes…and Duncan’s boots.
Duncan
,
his name echoed in her soul. She gripped his silver warrior ring worn on a
chain around her neck.

A shuffle of many footsteps came
from behind. Zith strode towards her, his midnight blue robes billowing in the
wind, his empty left sleeve pinned at the elbow. Eight of her maroon band
followed the monk, struggling to carry four massive chests.

Kath gestured to the chests.
“Plunder from the citadel?”

Zith gave her a rare smile.
“Secrets and power plucked from the Mordant’s treasury crypt.” His face
clouded. “I hope I chose wisely. Without the Quickner, it’s impossible to
winnow the magical from the mundane.”

Kath paled, her hand reaching for
her gargoyle. So much had been lost in that bloody cavern; she prayed it wasn’t
a fatal mistake.

Zith’s voice dropped to a
conspirator’s whisper. “If we can’t wield them, at least we can deny them to
the Mordant.”

“Just so.” She watched them pass,
struggling to carry the heavy chests down the steep cliff-carved stairs.

Neven came next with four
wolf-faced warriors. They bore Danya on a litter, strapped and cocooned in
sheepskins. The mountain wolf, Bryx, trotted close by, never far from Danya.
Kath stopped them, her gaze fixed on Neven. “Are you sure?”

“We promised, Svala.”

Swathed in sheepskins, Danya looked
pale yet serene, despite being lost in a magic-induced trance. Kath did not
want to risk her friend, but she could not afford to leave her behind. “Look
after her. And tell me the moment she wakes.”

“As you say, Svala.”

Blaine strode towards her,
shimmering in his silver surcoat, the hilt of his great blue sword rearing over
his shoulder, looking like a hero from the bards’ songs. A dark-haired lad
walked in Blaine’s shadow, wearing a pilfered helmet too big for his head. A
short sword belted to his side, the lad struggled to carry a large sack.

Kath gestured to the boy. “Who’s
this?”

“My squire, Dermit.”

She raised an eyebrow, the lad’s
naked face proving his origins. “A squire from the Dark Citadel?”

“Just so.”

She’d taken two squires herself,
two badger-faced lads, both orphaned by the fight to capture the Citadel.
“Castlegard will forever change if we ever make it home.”

“We’ve a long way to travel ere we
worry about that.”

“Just so.” She noticed Blaine wore chainmail under his surcoat. “So you feel it too?”

Blaine gave her a grim nod. “The
dark-cursed fortress makes my shoulder blades itch.” He gave her a level stare.
“I’ve seen things here I’d sooner forget, yet the war is far from over.”

Kath knew what he meant. She
carried nightmares of her own, too many nightmares. “All the more reason we
dare not lose.”

“Just so.” He stayed by her side,
staring down at the storm-tossed sea. 

The rest of her maroon band straggled
from the Citadel. Clad in captured armor burnished bright, their belts and
baldrics studded with weapons, they carried sacks bulging with the spoils of
war. Kath smiled, certain their sacks held weapons, armor and wool, instead of
gold, silver and silk. She liked them all the more for it. “Are you ready to
chase the Mordant south?”

“Yes, Svala.” Sidhorn gave her a
hearty grin. “But you’re not to leave just yet.”

Her maroon band surrounded her,
smiles on their tattooed faces. They were plotting something. Kath gave Sidhorn
a narrow gaze. “Why?”

And then she saw the others
streaming from the Citadel’s north gate, a thousand warriors or more, led by
Royce and Thera. The lion-faced war-leader hailed her. “We’ve come to see you
off, Svala.”

Royce was solemn but Thera flashed
a warm smile. “You wear our War Helm, but we’ve heard from Sir Blaine that
kings in the south fight under banners…yet you have no banner…till now.” Thera
gestured and a lanky lion-faced lad stepped forward bearing an iron standard.
Royce cut the bindings with his sword and a banner unfurled. Twelve feet of
maroon silk shimmered in the wind.

Kath stared in surprise. Dyed a
deep maroon, the banner was a perfect match for her cloak, yet it differed from
any of the Octagon’s standard. Stitched in bright gold, the banner bore an
emblem unique to the north. The detailed embroidery was amazing. Proud and bold
and shimmering in gold thread, the War Helm blazed across the banner, a perfect
image of the ancient helmet embroidered on the Octagon’s maroon.

Thera smiled. “You came from
Castlegard and your color is maroon, but you have claimed our War Helm, and we
have claimed you. It is fitting that you go south with our war sigil on your
standard. May the gods smile on your journey as they smile on your sword.”

The lad hefted the standard, waving
it in the wind. Silk snapped overhead, a long shimmer of maroon with two spiked
tails of gold.
“Svala!”
The shout roared from a thousand voices.

Kath stood humbled by their
acclaim. “I’m honored.”

And then they knelt, more than a
thousand bowing toward her.

“No!” Kath shook her head, her
voice raised. “You dared to fight the Darkness and you won! Stand, for you’ve
earned the right as warriors of the Light.”

A thousand warriors roared to their
feet, their weapons raised in triumph. Someone shouted, “Victory for the
Svala!” A multitude of voices echoed the cry, “
Victory for the Svala!”

Kath bowed toward them, both
humbled and proud.

Royce raised his hand, stilling the
throng. Turning to Kath, he said, “You wear the War Helm well. May victory ever
follow your sword.”

Kath clasped arms with the
lion-faced leader. “Keep the north safe.”

“We will.”

She turned to the raven-faced
healer. “Thank you for your wisdom.”

Thera nodded. “May the blessings of
the Ancestor protect you.”

“And you.” Kath reached for the
standard, but Sidhorn stepped forward.

“Allow me, Svala?” The big warrior
stood hunched, a sheepish look on his chiseled face.

“It’s yours to carry, Sidhorn.”

He took the standard, raising it
high, his face beaming with pride.

Bear nudged her from behind. “We
best be going, Svala.”

“Just so.” Kath took a last look at
her friends and then turned her back on the Dark Citadel. She would miss Thera
and Royce…but her destiny lay in the south. Halfway down the cliff-carved
steps, she blamed the cold wind for her watering eyes. Her cloak billowed by
the frigid wind, her maroon banner rippling overhead, Kath made her way down
the ice-rimed steps. Gray waves battered the cliff’s base, shivering the steps
with a relentless pounding. A single ship bucked against the dock, the first to
arrive and the last to leave, a red-haired sea nymph with a saucy smile carved
on the prow.

“Hurry,” a pair of swarthy seamen
urged them towards a boarding plank, “the captain wants to be away.”

The ship seemed alive, bobbing
against the dock.

The plank seemed awfully narrow,
bucking up and down, a short drop to the frigid sea.

“Best to do it quick.”

Gripping her sack, Kath leaped on
the plank and skipped upwards. Near the top, the plank and the ship suddenly
dropped, leaving Kath treading air. She toppled forward, nearly falling into
the sea. A strong hand grabbed her arm. A burly seaman pulled her over the
railing. “Welcome aboard.”

The deck rolled beneath her feet.
“Is it always like this?”

“Depends on the sea.”

Another seaman took her sack. “I’ll
stow this for you. The captain invites you to the aft deck.”

“Aft?”

The seaman cracked a gap-toothed
smile, a gold earring dangling from his left ear. “Rear to you landlubbers.”

“Thanks.” Kath moved away from the
plank. Staggered by the ship’s bucking motion, she felt awkward as a rum-soaked
drunk. Clinging to the railing, she tried to get her bearings. The
Sea
Sprite
had three masts tall as fir trees. The sails were furrowed, ropes
running like spider webs from the lofty crossbeams to the spindled rails.
Pennants snapped overhead, the red and blue checks of Navarre. All around her, the ship bustled with sailors securing ropes and stowing casks and crates.
Feeling lost, and more than a little bewildered, Kath climbed the stairs to the
rear deck, relieved to find Juliana and her first mate, Marcus, locked in
conversation. 

Juliana cast a distracted glance
her way. “Welcome aboard.” She gave Kath an appraising stare. “You’ll get your
sea legs soon enough, but stow the chainmail. Armor is a death knell at sea.”

Kath knew she had much to learn
about sea travel, yet she was reluctant to relinquish her armor. “I’ll wear it
till the Citadel is out of sight.”

“As you wish, but keep your feet
under you and steer clear of the sea’s reach. If a wave claims you, you’ll sink
like an anchor.”

Kath nodded, doubling her grip on
the railing.

Blaine, Bear and Sidhorn climbed
the stairs to the rear deck. Sidhorn carried her standard, the maroon banner
snapping in the wind. The three big men edged towards her, looking bewildered.
Bear’s deep voice dropped to a low growl. “What should we do, Svala?”

“Stay out of their way and learn
how a ship works.” Kath studied Juliana, noting the easy way the captain moved
about the pitching deck. She supposed it was like riding a horse, something
that came easy as breathing once you spent enough days in the saddle.

“Cast off and push her away!” The
captain spoke the order and her first mate bellowed her command. A sailor blew
three short notes on small whistle. Men leaped to obey, some rushing to the
dockside railing while others scampered up the rigging. The ship thrummed like
a kicked beehive, every sailor moving to their appointed task. Kath took it all
in, impressed by the seamless coordination of so many men doing so many
different tasks, like an intricate dance. Ropes were pulled aboard and coiled,
while sailors leaned from the railing wielding long hooked spears, pushing the
ship from the dock.

“Prepare to make sail!” Juliana’s
order echoed the ship’s length.

Timbers creaked and the
Sea
Sprite
drifted away from the stone dock. Overhead, sailors moved out along
the narrow crossbeams, risking a deadly fall.

“Make sail!” 

Ties were released and great canvas
sheets dropped open with a thunderous clap. Red and blue checked, the main sail
was emblazoned with the white sea eagle of Navarre, a proud sigil, bold and
bright. Sailors shimmied down ropes, landing light-footed on the deck. Canvas
flapped overheard, limp and lifeless as a bird’s broken wing. Sluggish and
slow, the ship ambled away from the cliffs, tossed by the waves.

“Come two points to larboard.”

Sails hanging listless from the
crossbeams, the ship wallowed in the waves, a disappointing start. Two of her
painted warriors raced for the railing, vomiting their last meal into the cold
waves, a reluctant offering to the sea god.

Slow and sluggish, the ship eased
beyond the cliff’s dark shadow. A sudden gust caught the canvas with a hard
snap. Sails billowed taut and the ship leaped forward with lively energy, like
a hound loosed to the hunt. The
Sea Sprite
scudded across the waves,
carefree as her namesake. Kath gripped the railing, feeling the thrum of the
ship’s timbers. Elated by the windborne speed, she leaned out, salt spray
licking her face.
So this is what it is to sail!
The wind whipped her
long blond hair loose from its knot. Shaking out her hair, she let it stream
behind like a battle banner. Kath reveled in the effortless speed of the ship,
in the salty tang of the waves, in the clean smell of the ocean air. She loosed
a joyful shout, “
For Honor and the Octagon!”

 A large hand gripped her shoulder.
“Careful, Svala.” Bear pulled her back, concern in his voice. “Are you sea
drunk?”