The Knight Marshal (The Silk & Steel Saga) (32 page)

“Sea drunk?” Puzzled, she looked at
the others. Blaine was whey-faced and Sidhorn leaned across the far rail,
retching his morning meal. Compared to the others, perhaps she was sea drunk,
intoxicated by the effortless speed of wind and wave. Kath flashed a joyous
smile. “I’m fine, Bear. Look after the others.”

She turned to find Juliana watching
her.

“The sea god favors you.”

“Is it always like this?”

“We’re on a broad reach with a
powerful aft wind, our fastest line of sail. It’ll get tricky once we leave the
bay, especially with the storm brewing ahead.” Juliana pointed west, toward the
bay’s mouth. Black spires thrust up from the roiling sea, guarding the bay’s
entrance like jagged teeth. Beyond the teeth, a curtain of gray sleet obscured
the sea and sky, as if the world came to a sudden end. “I don’t like the look
of that storm.” Juliana prowled her ship, issuing terse orders.

Kath remained on the rear deck.
Staring east, she watched as the Dark Citadel grew small. Holding her thumb
aloft, she blotted out the fortress, a measure of the distance crossed. Relief
washed through her, elated to escape the Mordant’s insidious trap. Glancing at Blaine, she saw an echoing smile on his face. “I guess we won’t be needing our chainmail!”

Blaine gave her a terse nod and
then abruptly gripped the railing. Leaning out, he emptied his stomach into the
slate-gray sea.

Kath crossed to the far side,
gradually growing accustomed to the rocking motion. Seagulls dipped and
screeched overhead, following the ship’s wake. Their incessant cries sounded
hungry, as if begging for morsels, like pigeons of the sea. Her painted
warriors drifted away, some slumping to sit cross-legged on the deck.
Gray-faced and miserable, they sought shelter from the wind and waves, but Kath
remained standing, one hand gripping the rear railing, thrilled by the feel of
the ship.

Under full sail, the
Sea Sprite
skimmed
across the waves, cutting a straight path for the mouth of the bay. As the Dark
Citadel dwindled to insignificance, the great sea stacks loomed large. Dark
spires, jagged as teeth, rose in a grim line cutting across the bay’s narrow
mouth. Waves beat against the pinnacles, breaking white at their base, a swirl
of foam surrounding the sinister rocks.

Kath stared beyond the pinnacles,
yearning for her first glimpse of the open ocean.

“
Ship ho!”
 The cry rang
from the rigging.

Kath felt an electric jolt race
through the crew.

Sailors leaped to action. Scurrying
up the rigging, several pointed north.

“
Red sails approaching!”

“A MerChanter trireme!”

“Ware the north!” 

Kath heard fear in their voices.

Juliana snapped a volley of orders.
“Release the jib and turn one point to larboard! I want every scrap of speed we
can muster! Let’s see if we can out run the bastards!”

Grim-faced sailors scurried to obey.

Kath sidled close to the captain.
“An enemy ship?”

Juliana sent her a baleful look.
“It seems the north is not done with you.”

53

The Knight Marshal

Under cloak of darkness, the marshal sought a glimpse of the
enemy. Lothar and Sir Rannock rode at his back, but he missed Sir Abrax. His
steady strength and the surety of his blue steel sword could not be replaced. A
hollow sadness gripped him. The winter war was taking a ferocious toll on the
maroon, yet he would not relent. Like a badger locking jaws on a lion’s throat,
he continued to gnaw and chew, desperate to bring down the larger beast. He
wondered if the Octagon stood a chance.

A shooting star blazed a path
across the night sky. With the moon nearly dark, the slash of light flashed
brilliant as a drawn sword. Such a glorious burst of light, but so brief…as
brief as a warrior’s life. The marshal shook his head, dismayed by his gloomy
thoughts.

They rode along the ridge, the
horses picking a path among the winter-bare trees. Fetlock-deep snow crunched
beneath hooves, enough to leave tracks without slowing the horses. A scout
stepped from behind a cedar. “This way, my lord.” Clad in a dark gray cloak, a
bow strung over his back, Targin led them towards a rocky spur overlooking Raven Pass. Hobbling the horses, they crept towards the edge. 

Campfires crowded the valley below,
too many to count. Like a river of fire, the enemy encamped the length of Raven Pass, securing the gateway to the south.

Beside him, Lothar hissed, “By the
gods!”

The marshal shared his friend’s
anguish. For nigh on two turns of the moon, they’d fought the Pentacle, waging
a winter war, yet for all their bravery and blood they’d barely culled the
horde.

Sir Rannock whispered. “At least
we’ve kept them bottled in the north.”

The knight had the truth of it. The
horde might have splintered, leaving a smaller force to chase the Octagon,
while the rest plundered the south…but it seemed a slim comfort...and an odd
strategy. “Come, we’ve seen their numbers.” The marshal turned, leading them
back from the edge. Reaching their horses, they mounted as the scout slipped
back into the forest. They rode in silence, retracing the trail back along the
ridgeline.

Lothar nudged his mount forward,
riding beside him. “We should move the camp. Stonehand is too near Raven Pass.”

“The scouts say it lies beyond the
Pentacle’s regular patrols. Far enough to be safe yet close enough to be
ignored. They’ll never expect us to have so much audacity.”

Lothar tugged his mustache. “I
don’t like it.”

“One more night till the dark of
the moon. We’ll collect our scouts, stragglers and supplies and be off, forging
a path deeper into the Spines.”

“You saw their numbers,” Lothar
cast him a sideways glance. “It will take more than steel to win this war.”

The black sword again,
the
marshal bristled. “That way is damned.”

“Yet it may be our only hope.”

Anger riddled the marshal’s words.
“I’ll not speak of it.” Yet in his heart, he feared it was true.

54

Katherine

A ship emerged from behind a sea stack like a lurking
marauder. Blood-red sails billowed in the wind, a horned skull emblazoned in
black on the canvas. Three rows of oars flashed from the ship’s sides. Painted
red, the oars knifed the sea with deadly precision, thrusting the ship on a
straight path towards the
Sea Sprite
. Kath knew little of ships, yet
this one cut the waves like a predator, like a falcon stooping for prey. “An
enemy ship?”

Marcus, the first mate, flicked a
glance her way. “Aye. The MerChanters are fearsome raiders. They’ll take us if
they can.”

“Take us how?” but Marcus had
already turned away, attending to his captain. 

Juliana barked a string of orders.
Sailors leaped to the rigging, adjusting sails and tugging on lines. A
triangular sail burst from the ship’s front spar. Canvas-white it puffed with
wind, straining at its bindings. The
Sea Sprite
leaped forward like a
startled horse, moving from a brisk canter to a spurred gallop.

The deck lurched beneath her boots.
Kath clutched the railing, her gaze locked on the enemy. Unlike the
Sea
Sprite,
the trireme moved by wind and by oar, a lethal menace plowing the
waves.

The enemy’s oars flashed bright,
doubling their pace. Cleaving the water with frightening speed, the ship leaped
forward like a hound slavering for the kill. Indifferent to the wind’s
direction, the MerChanter knifed through the waves, cutting a straight course
for the
Sprite.

Kath gripped the railing, urging
the
Sprite
to speed. “
Faster
…
faster!”

The enemy oars maintained their
furious pace. Churning the water, they clawed the distance between the two
ships, narrowing the gap.

“We’re not going to make it.” Kath
gripped Bear’s arm. “Tell the men to prepare for a fight. Have them don arms
and armor, ready to rush the top deck.”

Bear nodded. “As you say, Svala.”

Kath sidled towards Juliana. “Can
you evade them?”

The captain gave the barest shake
of her head, her gaze fixed on the enemy ship. “This is our best line. If we
tack, we’ll only bleed speed.”

“My warriors are fierce but we’re
unaccustomed to the sea. We need to know how the enemy fights.”

Juliana spared a glance her way.
“We can’t outrun them, but I know a trick or two.”

The captain started to turn away,
but Kath gripped her arm. “I can help but I need to know what to expect.”

Juliana’s gaze raked Kath with a mixture
of anger and annoyance. Kath thought the captain might pull away but
practicality won out. Her answer was short and clipped. “They’ll try to ram us,
to hole our ship. They’ll use grapples to bind us close and then they’ll board.
They’ll kill us or enslave us and take our cargo, and then they’ll leave the
Sprite
to sink to a watery grave.” 

“But you’ve got a plan.”

Juliana flashed a lethal smile,
like a predator about to bite. “I won’t let them ram us. When they get close,
I’ll jibe the ship around, avoiding their ram and smashing them with our
starboard side.”

Kath interrupted. “Jibe?”

“A sudden wrenching turn, like a
violent pivot.”

“And starboard?”

“Our right side.”

“So our right side will smash into
their ship?”

Juliana nodded. “Just before their
ram hits.” Her face sober. “Then it will come down to knife work, their
tridents against our swords.”

“A battle of swords, I’ll take that
bet.”

“You’ve never fought MerChanters.
They’re fierce fighters. They’ll show no quarter.”

Kath flashed a feral grin. “Yes,
but they’re expecting merchant sailors not seasoned warriors.”

Juliana looked at her then, as if
truly seeing Kath for the first time. “Jordan sent me north for you…but what
are you?”

“A woman who wields a sword.”

Juliana gave her a piercing stare.
“I suspect you’re more than that.”

Kath shrugged. “I don’t like to
lose.”

An iron determination flooded the
captain’s voice. “Then help me win this battle else you’ll never leave the
north.”

55

The Knight Marshal

Horns blared in the night, a desperate call to arms.
The
marshal leaped awake, reaching for his sword. In the dim brazier-light, the
first sword that came to hand was bound in furs. A jolt raced up his arm.
*Wield
me!*

Repulsed, he flung the cursed sword
aside.

Horns blared in warning, summoning
the maroon to battle. Beyond the canvas walls, he heard men scrambling for arms
and armor.

Lothar and Martyn burst through the
curtain into the marshal’s sleeping cell. Lothar was already gird for battle,
his battleaxe in his gauntleted hand, his silver surcoat gleaming in the dim
light. “Scouts discovered a troop of ogres approaching from the east!”

Martyn stirred the brazier to life
and began armoring the marshal.

“How many?”

“Eighty or more. Hard to tell in
the dark.”

“
Eighty!”
Visions of the
slaughter field assaulted his mind. “Where do they get these beasts?” He
shrugged on a gambeson followed by chainmail.

“Valin only knows, but they’re
coming.”

“From the east, you say?”

Lothar nodded. “They’re making
their way up the backside of Stonehand Mountain.”

Martyn strapped on his breastplate
and then knelt to buckle his greaves.

“At least we have the high
ground…and some time.”

Lothar scowled. “Time to flee or
time to attack?”

That was the question. “What word
from the west?”

“None so far.”

“None?” The answer bothered him, a
prickling at the back of his neck. “Ogres are attacking from the east, yet
there’s nothing to the west? This close to Raven Pass that makes no sense.” He
swirled his maroon cloak across his shoulders. “Either there’s nothing there…or
our scouts are dead.”

“A trap?”

“Eighty ogres attacking at the dark
of the moon, sounds like a trap to me.” The marshal reached for Sir Tyrone’s
great sword, shrugging the harness across his shoulders. “They know we’re
here.”

“Betrayed?”

“Or merely discovered.”

Lothar scowled. “Fight or flee?”

The marshal moved to the map table.
The rugged terrain held answers but the telltale snow remained their enemy. “If
we flee they’ll only follow, especially if a larger force lurks to the west.”
He considered his choices. “Our scouts foiled their surprise and we have the
high ground, so somehow we have to turn that to our advantage.” 

Martyn thrust a stale biscuit into
the marshal’s hand and then began to pack.

“Lothar, I want you to lead the
bulk of our forces north along this ridgeline” his finger traced a path along
the map, “and then cut down this ravine. Double back around behind the ogres
to…this meadow, and I’ll meet you there.”

Lothar raised a bushy eyebrow.
“You’ll meet me there?”

“I’ll lead a charge of a hundred
mounted knights down the Stonehand’s backside. With the mountain at our backs,
they’ll be no stopping us. Our horses will barrel through their lines, our
swords cutting like scythes.”

“You’ll charge
eighty
ogres?”

“They won’t be expecting it.”

“They bloody well won’t.”

“Then I take it you like my plan?”

“It’s mad…and daring…but the odds
could be improved.” Lothar stepped close, his voice dropping to a whisper.
“Give me the dark sword and
I’ll
lead the charge.”

“No.” The marshal’s voice held
firm, but his gaze slid away. “We’ll kill what we can and then punch through
their lines to meet you in the meadow.”

A horn sounded beyond the canvas.

“Silence that horn! We’ve given
them enough warning!” Beyond the canvas flap, someone scurried to obey. The
marshal turned to Lothar, grasping his arm. “Get the war host away. Save the
maroon to fight another day…I’ll meet you in the meadow.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” They
locked stares and then Lothar hastened away.

“Martyn, take the maps, food and
weapons. Leave the rest.”

“Yes, lord.”

The marshal reached for the black
sword. Even through the fur wrappings, he could feel it pulsing with power.

*Wield me!*

Grinding his teeth against the
temptation, he slung the cursed blade across his back and strode beyond the
canvas curtain. In the pavilion’s heart, knights struggled to don their armor.
“I need a hundred mounted knights for a diversionary charge. Who’s with me?”

“I’m with you, my lord!”

“And me!”

“Count me in!”

Their rousing response lifted his
heart. “Tonight we ride into the teeth of death!”

“For Honor and the Octagon!” 
They
followed him out into the cold night, scrambling for their mounts. The camp
swarmed with men preparing for battle. A pair of stewards struggled to bring
down the pavilion but the marshal gainsaid them. “Food and weapons only, we
haven’t time for more.”

Sir Rannock appeared leading a
string of saddled horses. “Sounds like we’ve got a fight on our hands.”

The marshal swung into the saddle,
his ribs still sore from the last battle. “It seems like a never ending fight.”
He stood in the stirrups, his voice ringing above the tumult. “A hundred
knights to me! The rest of you follow Sir Lothar!”

The swirling chaos quickly resolved
into order. Lothar got the others moving, a long maroon line riding the
ridgeline, while the marshal gathered his vanguard beneath the great Stonehand.

Warhorses stamped and snorted in
the cold night air, breathing plumes of frost, eager to be released. On the
marshal’s command, his vanguard deliberately milled their horses, creating an
army of hoof prints, as if a much larger force stood poised to attack.
Satisfied with the ruse, the marshal called them to order. Three rows of
knights formed below the Stonehand, poised for the charge. The marshal looked
left and right, seeing a grim resolve mirrored in their faces. The maroon line
readied for battle, knights tightening their armor, weapons whispering from
scabbards. For half a heartbeat, the marshal stared aloft, beseeching Valin.
Stars glittered overhead, cold and keen as ice-chips in the moonless night, but
if the gods cared, he could not tell. Reaching back, he drew Sir Tyrone’s
sword, five feet of good Castlegard steel gleaming sharp in the night, a
welcome weight in his mailed fist. Standing in the stirrups, he raised the
sword to the heavens. “
For Honor and the Octagon!”

“Honor and the Octagon!”
More
than a hundred voices roared their answer.

The marshal spurred his mount to a
gallop, the others following behind. Ironshod hooves churned the shallow snow,
a jangle of arms and armor galloping over the crest. The line of knights
plunged downhill into the waiting darkness, the snow muffling their hoofbeats.
The balding mountaintop gave way to a thicket of trees, bare branches snatching
at maroon cloaks like feeble hands. The marshal shrugged off their touch,
barreling through the thicket. His vanguard formed a deadly wedge, like the
armored wings of a raptor stooped to the attack. They plummeted down the steep
slope, horses snorting with effort, armored knights clanking, both steaming
with heat like otherworldly beasts. Leaning forward, the marshal peered between
the trees, seeking the enemy, the snowy landscape bright despite the darkened
moon. His grip tightened on his sword, battle lust mixed with anxiety. The
steep slope pulled them ever downward, adding speed to their charge. Weapons
couched, they rode amongst the trees, seeking fodder for their blades.

And then he saw them. Clad in
horned helms and thick furs, the ogres lumbered uphill like malformed monsters
loosed from hell, huffing and puffing gouts of frost. One stopped to sniff the
night, bellowing a howl.

The marshal marked his foe, a
towering ogre carrying a massive cudgel. He loosed his warhorse to a full
gallop, speed adding weight to the blow. Horse and rider barreled into the
beast. His stallion whinnied at the impact, like riding into a stone wall, but
then the ogre toppled backward, bowled by the charge. Leaning from the saddle,
the marshal struck a two-handed blow. Blood spewed across the snow, hot and
foul. He hacked at the beast, desperate to slay it.

“
Behind you!”

The marshal whirled, narrowly
evading a spiked cudgel. He asked his stallion for a rear, ironshod hooves
lashing at the ogre’s ugly head. Grunting from the impact, the ogre backed
away. The marshal attacked, slashing at the beast’s chest. His blade found
flesh, biting deep, but the beast did not die.

The ogre roared, lashing out. A
massive fist struck the marshal’s chest, punching the air from his lungs. He
struggled for breath, bruised by the blow. The second blow punched him from the
saddle. The marshal hit the ground hard. Stunned, he sprawled on the trampled
snow. His warhorse reared overhead, ironshod hooves keeping the ogre at bay.
Disarmed, his ribs aflame with pain, the marshal floundered for his sword.

*Wield me*
the voice of the
dark sword thundered through his mind.

“
No!”
He glimpsed his sword
and lunged for it. Hands locking on the hilt, he came up swinging. His stallion
bugled, attacking the ogre’s head. The marshal knelt, hacking at the beast’s
hamstrings.

The ogre fell in a roar.

Ironshod hooves plunged down,
delivering the killing blow.

Spattered with gore, the marshal
staggered to his horse. The chaos of battle roared around him. He climbed into
the saddle, hewing left and right. Sweat ran in rivulets down his face.
Hampered by his helm, he flung it off, needing to see. A nightmare of screams
surrounded him. The ogres closed in, smashing with ham-handed fists and massive
cudgels. Ducking low, he evaded a spiked club. A knot of four knights formed
around the marshal. Surrounded by ogres, they fought back to back, slashing and
hacking, desperate to hold the beasts at bay.

*Wield me!*
the dark sword
whispered in his mind but the marshal refused. “We need to cut our way out!”
Having lost the impetus of their mounted charge, the battle slowed to a
slaughter.

Sir Rannock appeared from the left,
ramming into an ogre. The big brute went down, pummeled by ironshod hooves.

An opening appeared. “To me! To
me!”

The marshal spurred his horse
through the gap. The others followed, fighting through the tangle. Breaking
free, they galloped downhill into open ground, gaining a respite. The marshal
turned his horse. His stallion stamped and snorted, lathered in sweat. Men and
mounts were both spent, yet the battle continued to rage on the mountainside.
The sound of clashing steel echoed from above, the shouts of men mixed with the
bellow of ogres. The marshal could not abandon his men. He looked at the
others. Fourteen knights had won free, all of them battered and bloodied. “We
need to break the others loose!”

A charge up hill was usually
ill-advised, but he saw no other way.

“Form a line! We’ll slam into their
rear, create an opening and then turn and ride for the meadow.”

Their horses were tired, lathered
and blowing, yet they formed a ragged line. The marshal gestured and the
knights put spurs to their mounts. The warhorses obeyed, lumbering uphill for
one last desperate charge. Armor and weapons clanking, the knights couched
their weapons, riding in grim silence, urging their mounts up the steep
hillside.

Fortune favored the bold, for the
ogres never turned. Consumed by battle lust, they kept at the slaughter.

The ragged line slammed into their
rear.

The marshal used the last of his
strength to strike a mighty blow.

The ogre dropped like a boulder,
opening a path to the trapped knights.

“
To me! To me!”
The marshal
shouted above the tumult. Whirling his horse, he slashed left and right,
desperate to hold the opening. Amidst the clashing steel, a horse squealed in
terrible pain. He turned at the sound, catching a glimpse of ogres mobbing a
fallen horse. Locked in a feeding frenzy, they tore hunks of raw flesh from the
still-kicking horse, their lantern jaws dripping a disgusting slaver of blood
and guts. The marshal pitied the horse, yet it kept the ogres occupied.

“
Rally to me!”
He spurred
his stallion into the nearest ogre, attacking the beast with a two-handed
stroke. Dark blood spurted from its shoulder, yet the beast roared in defiance.
The marshal stabbed his sword into the ogre’s gaping mouth. Teeth snapped shut
on steel, as if the ogre would eat the blade, but the marshal had rammed his
sword deep. Blood gushed from its mouth. Struck dead, the ogre toppled backward,
its great weight nearly dragging the marshal from the saddle. Yanking his sword
free, he whirled to find another foe. Scanning the battle, he realized his men
had opened a narrow corridor to the trapped knights. Standing in the stirrups,
he yelled, “
To me! To me!”
The trapped knights responded, charging
through the gap, some riding double.

“
Away! Away! Ride for the
meadow!”

As the last knight passed, the
marshal put spurs to his mount. Fleeing death, they thundered downhill.
He spied a knight afoot, stumbling
in the snow.
Leaning low in the saddle, the marshal extended his hand.
Locking hands with the knight, the marshal swung him over his stallion’s
withers, grunting at the sharp pain in his shoulder. For three heartbeats, his
horse floundered under the added weight, but then the warhorse proved his
heart, surging to a desperate gallop. They raced downhill, a ragged ride,
beating through naked branches.

Tearing through a dense thicket,
they burst into an unsullied meadow.

The marshal slowed his mount, steam
rising from his spent stallion.

The rescued knight slid to the
ground, sprawling in the snow.