The Knight Marshal (The Silk & Steel Saga) (34 page)

58

Katherine

The MerChanter raider cleaved the sea, rowing on a killing
path towards the
Sea Sprite
…but this time they had more warning. Kath
measured the distance, wondering if it was enough. Hovering near the captain,
she asked the fateful question, “Can you outrun them?”

“If the gods owe you any favors,
ask now.” Juliana snapped orders while sailors scuttled to obey. The
Sea
Sprite
jigged left and then right, tacking across the ocean like a
frightened hen evading an eagle’s talons. The vast open ocean proved a wild
place compared to the placid bay. Massive gray waves rolled in from the deep,
tossing the ship between watery hills and deep troughs. Kath’s warriors turned
wretched. Clinging to the railings, they spewed their guts to the sea. Kath
pitied them, but she could do nothing to ease their suffering. Remaining by the
captain, she clutched the railing and stared at the sea. The
Sea Sprite
slid
down a slate-gray wave into a deep gully, massive walls of water on either
side. Kath feared the walls would collapse, crushing the
Sprite
, but the
plucky ship gained speed, always climbing the next wave. At every peak, Kath
looked back, praying for empty seas…but always the MerChanter followed like a
hound locked on their scent.

For nigh on half the day, they
sailed south on a zigzag path, following the dark coastline, but the MerChanter
raider held to the hunt. Dark oars slashed the slate-gray sea in deadly unison,
the red-hulled raider churning towards them, slowly eating the distance.

Tension gnawed at Kath. “If we keep
on like this, they’ll catch us.”

“I know.” The captain stared aloft,
a calculating look on her face. “Time to roll the dice. Hard to starboard.”

Marcus repeated the order in a loud
bellow. “Hard to starboard!”

Sailors climbed the rigging,
tending the sails. The
Sea Sprite
swung hard to the right, heading due
west into the ocean deep. Salt spray licked the prow as they beat into a
massive wave.

Beside her, Juliana said, “Now
would be a good time for the god’s favor.”

Kath clung to the railing, the wind
whipping her hair. “Why?”

“An old sea captain’s rumor says
that MerChanter raiders never sail beyond sight of the coastline. I’ve never
had reason to test it. Pray that it’s true.”

The
Sea Sprite
leaped
forward like a startled horse, beating a path through ferocious waves. Kath
gripped the railing, watching for the enemy ship, praying for it to cling to
the coast. For the longest time, she saw nothing but waves…but then she spied
the red hull. The MerChanter had turned to the west, black sails straining
overhead, chasing the
Sprite
towards the briny deep. “
Damn.”
Kath
cursed their ill-luck.

Juliana said, “It’s not over yet.
They can still see the coast.”

Kath stayed with the captain,
keeping watch on the enemy. It seemed they sailed for an eternity, pressing
deeper into the mountainous sea. Towering waves battered the ship like a mighty
hand swatting a fly. Her painted warriors flopped on the deck like dead fish,
pale and empty. Sailors moved among them, offering flagons of water. Kath
widened her stance, riding the waves, like balancing on a bucking horse. She
fixed her gaze on the distant coast, the last glimpse of land. The dark horizon
dwindled, shrinking to nothing, as if swallowed by the sea.

Beside her, Juliana muttered, “Now
we’ll learn the truth of the rumor.”

Nothing but waves in every
direction,
Kath swallowed, gripped by a primal fear. Her knuckles strained
white on the ship’s railing. Beyond sight of land, the sea stretched to
forever, vast and cold and hostile, every rolling wave filled with deadly
menace.

Juliana sidled close. “You feel it,
don’t you?”

Her mouth suddenly dry, Kath could
only nod.

“Many a captain will not sail
beyond the sight of land. Pray that the MerChanters feel it too.”

Kath prayed to Valin like she’d
never prayed before, wondering if the warrior god could hear her amidst the
pounding waves.

The sun began to set, turning the
ocean to a violent crimson…as if they sailed into nightmares. Making the hand
sign against evil, Kath scanned the waves for the enemy ship. And then she saw
them. The dark sails had shrunk small…but they never vanished. “Will they turn
back?”

Juliana shook her head, her face
grim. “They should have turned long ago.” Her voice dropped to a harsh rasp.
“They’ve got our blood scent. They won’t stop without a fight.”

“Damn,” Battered by the sea, Kath
knew her warriors were in no fit state to fight. “We can’t fight them, not
here, not now. What can you do?”

“Outrun them…or evade them.”

“Evade them?”

“When the sun sets, there’ll be
naught but a thin crescent moon. With luck, the clouds will shutter the
moonlight and then we’ll turn and race for the south. Under cover of darkness
we’ll duck between the waves, trying to evade them. With a favorable wind and a
lot of luck, we might lose them.”

Kath stared at the captain. “So it
comes down to luck?”

“Luck and boldness and the wind’s
favor.”

She did not like the odds. “We
haven’t had much luck in the north. I’d rather trust to wits and steel.”

“It may come to that.” Juliana
studied the rigging, taking stock of her ship. “At least this strong westerly
has outrun their oars. We’ve bought some time.”

“How much?”

“A day. Less if the wind dies, more
if we evade them.” Juliana gave her a grim look. “Best if you and your men get
below. You’ll need food and rest.”

Kath heard the warning beneath the
words. “Just so.” Taking leave of the captain, she made the rounds, careful not
to be ambushed by a rogue wave. Salt spray leaped the railings, stinging with
numbing cold. Crouched on the deck, she spoke to each of her men, checking
their spirits and their wounds, advising them to go below deck, to get dry and
stay warm. Despite the rolling waves, she urged them to eat and to rest, for
tomorrow their swords might be needed. Wretched with seasickness, yet they gave
her dogged smiles. “We’ll keep our swords sharp, Svala.”

The trust in their faces touched
her heart, untarnished despite the sea’s ill treatment. A fierce pride leavened
with duty swelled through her. Kath felt the burden to protect them…but the sea
was a battleground she did not understand. “Come, we need to get below.”

Making her way to the ship’s
center, Kath pried open the main hatch and descended the rope ladder. Warmth
embraced her, the warmth of too many bodies laden with the scent of fear and
piss and seasickness. She nearly gagged on the stench.

Lanterns swung from the ceiling
beams, swaying with the ship’s motion. The swinging light somehow made the
swaying worse, multiplying the affect. Kath swallowed, forcing down the taste
of bile.

Hammocks crowded the hold, strung
at different heights, crisscrossing the space like canvas cocoons. Many were
filled, more than a few moaning with seasickness. Across the hold, she saw Blaine peeling off his soaked surcoat, Dermit lending a hand. At least the knight had the
good sense to get dry. Kath searched for Zith and found the monk sleeping
fitfully, his face as pale as curdled whey.

“Let him sleep, Svala.” Seffer
looked at her, one of the wolf-faced warriors in Neven’s pack. “The sea’s taken
a hard toll on the monk.”

“And you?”

He shrugged, feigning indifference
despite looking green beneath his wolf tattoo. “I’ll live.”

“And Danya?”

“Still sleeps.” He gestured across
the hold.

Neven sat with his back against the
ship’s curved hull, surrounded by a nest of bedrolls, Danya’s head cradled in
his lap. Kath crossed towards him, ducking beneath hammocks. Bryx raised his
shaggy head, looked at her, and then slumped back to the deck. The wolf looked
miserable, like most of the men in the hold. “How is she?”

Neven stroked Danya’s hair. “Still
asleep, still peaceful, as if she hasn’t a care.”

Kath regretted bringing her friend
south, but at least she was spared the sea’s malady. “Perhaps you should have
stayed in the Citadel.”

Neven gave her a level stare. “We
gave our word, Svala.”

She nodded, wondering if Danya’s
magic would work at sea. Angered by the thought, Kath rebuked herself,
dismissing the idea as unworthy. Danya paid a steep price for their victory at
the Dark Citadel. “There’s another raider chasing us. The captain’s will try to
loose them in the dark. If it comes to another fight, we’ll need every sword.”

“The wolf band will fight with the
maroon.”

“My thanks.” She looked at Danya.
“Keep her safe.”

“Always.”

Kath worked her way through the
hold, passing word of the MerChanter ship. Towards the rear, she found her two
badger-faced squires, Talbert and Conit. Both looked bright-faced and alert, as
if their youth protected them from rollicking sea.

“Svala, we saved a hammock for
you!”

Kath was not used to having one
squire, let alone two, but the orphan lads had insisted on following her south.
Sitting perched on the swaying hammock, she tried to look solemn as they tugged
off her boots and eased her throwing axes from her shoulders. Conit thrust a bowl
into her hands filled with dried meat and biscuits while Talbert offered her a
wineskin. She took the wine, savoring the rich taste, a fine vintage from the
Mordant’s personal stock. Kath wasn’t hungry, but she forced the food down
while listening to the two boys chatter about battles and victories.

“We haven’t escaped the north.”

Conit looked at her. “The Svala
will find a way.”

Such confidence.
“If a
battle comes, I want you two to stay in the hold.”

Both lads looked indignant. “But
Svala, we can fight!”

“I know you can fight. I want you
two to help protect Danya. Her magic is important.”

The lads looked at each other, as
if weighing her order, and then they gave her a solemn nod. “We can do that.”

“Good. Now get some rest.” Swinging
her legs into the hammock, she pulled up a wool blanket and curled on her side,
swaying back and forth to the ship’s motion. Rocking like a cradle, the hammock
should have been soothing, but sleep eluded her. In her mind’s eye, Kath
refought the sea battle, recalling every warrior lost. Seven dead and twelve
wounded, she shuddered at the loss of friends and comrades. Her painted
warriors had gained a hard-fought victory…but her men had taken a mauling…and
that was before the wretched seasickness claimed them. They weren’t fit to
fight. The knowledge haunted her. Despite their stalwart courage, they’d lose
without some clear advantage. Ships were so confining, an island surrounded by
wind and wave. Kath tossed and turned, desperately seeking a solution.
Exhaustion finally claimed her. She fell asleep…and woke to nightmares.

59

General Haith

General Haith urged his horse to a canter. Lifting his
helm’s visor, he enjoyed the brisk winter wind whipping against his face. The
horses needed exercise, but in truth, the general wanted to view the enemy’s
camp for himself. Sometimes the smallest details carried the most potent
insights. Farther up the trail the gorehounds howled, their twisted cries
echoing against the mountaintops. He’d sent a vanguard ahead, a formidable
force to sweep the forest. All reports indicated the enemy was long gone, fled
the trap, leaving less than a hundred dead. Heads would roll for this failure,
but first he’d view the camp and gauge the details for himself.

His escort followed the trail
upwards, riding through a thicket of aspen before reaching the balding
mountaintop. General Haith slowed his stallion to a walk. Blackened fire rings
and hovels built of cedar branches littered the mountaintop, proof of an army
camp hastily abandoned.
Hovels built of branches;
the enemy did not even
have tents for their men yet they persisted in fighting. The Octagon displayed
an uncommon tenacity. The general might have admired his foe…if he hadn’t been
ordered to annihilate them. Near the crest sat three maroon pavilions, one of
them leaning like a drunkard.
So the officers had a modicum of luxury,
but
now even that was abandoned.

And then he saw it, the true reason
he’d come. A great mage-stone hand towered at the mountain’s crest, a relic of
a bygone age. He’d seen mage-stone before, but only from a great distance.
Curiosity pulled him forward. Riding straight to the hand, he dismounted,
flinging his reins to a waiting centurion. More than a thousand years old, yet
the sculpted stone showed no sign of weathering, no sign of age. Smooth and
unblemished, the mage-stone statue stood thrice the height of a tall man, the
pale-gray stone glistening in the waning light. The Seeing Eye chiseled in its
palm looked crisp and clear as if it was made yesterday, a stone sentinel watching
from the mountaintop, undaunted by the centuries. Forever polished to a gleam,
he saw his reflection in the great Eye.
Mage-stone, a wonder of a lost age,
he
tugged off his gauntlet, setting his bare hand against the smooth stone.
What
tales could you tell? What ageless wonders await me in the monastery?

“Beware, my lord!” Trantor, his
personal snargon waddled towards him. Pointed teeth bared, the swarthy duegar
stood no higher than the general’s belt. “I don’t like the smell of that.”

The general stepped back, fighting
the urge to wipe his hand on his surcoat. He watched as the duegar sniffed the
stone hand, his nostrils spread wide like a hound on the scent.

“Magic, very old magic.” The duegar
circled the hand, sniffing deeply but never touching. “Magic bound to the
stone, bound to its making.”

The general tugged on his gauntlet.
“Can it be wielded? Is it a threat?”

The duegar shook his shaggy head.
“The spark is set deep. The hand slumbers…waiting.”

“Waiting for what?”

Trantor shrugged. “Who knows? A
dead wizard? A live enemy?” The duegar must have felt the general’s anger, for
he stepped away and bowed low, wiping the sarcasm from his voice. “No way to
tell, my lord. But have a care, the ancient wizards were tricky.”

That at least was true.
Covering
his unease, the general snapped an order.
“Sniff the camp. I doubt the
knights have any magic, but I’ll have it searched anyway.”

“Yes, my lord.” The duegar bowed
and began to turn away.

“And Trantor?”

“Yes, my lord.” A quaver rode the
snargon’s voice.

“Take care, lest you lose my
favor.”

The duegar made a deep bow and
scurried away.

“General Haith!” A cadre of
centurions approached, a string of prisoners bound between them. Chained and
shackled, the prisoners were forced to their knees. Bruised and battered, their
faces showed evidence of a lost fight…or abuse by their guards, yet the general
recognized most of them.

“You failed me. Worse yet, you
failed the Lord Mordant.”

The sudden stink of hot urine
filled the air. 

Kirkbee tried to stand. “My lord,
the scouts misread the signs!”

The general flicked a glance and a
centurion struck Kirkbee from behind, hammering the prisoner to his knees.

“I expect success from my officers.
When you serve Darkness you succeed or you pay. Now it is time to pay.” He
studied their faces, fascinated by the way men met their doom. Some wept,
others cowered, but two held his gaze, pale-faced but stoic. The general
decided to be merciful. “Spare these two. Disembowel the others and feed them
to the gorehounds.”

“
No!”
Kirkbee writhed
against his bonds.
“No, I beg you!”

The general smothered a smile.
“Order the men from their cadres to watch so their deaths will be a lesson to
all.” His smile deepened. “Start with Kirkbee.”

Kirkbee groveled on the
snow-trampled ground.

The centurions saluted, dragging
the doomed men away. 

Guards released the shackles from
the two spared men. Dropping to their knees, they crawled towards the general.
Prostrating themselves, they kissed his boots.

The general indulged them for a few
moments and then sent them away with orders to join his personal guard. Mercy
shown at the right moment had a way of engendering a fierce loyalty. 

“My lord General!” Trantor
returned, waddling with his stunted gait. “I’ve found the stink of potent magic.”

The discovery ambushed him.
“Where?” So far the knights had displayed a shocking lack of magic. The
snargon’s discovery was as surprising as it was disquieting.

“This way, my lord.”

The snargon led him to the largest
pavilion, the one that tilted like a sloppy drunk. Ducking though the canvas
flap, the general was assaulted by the lingering stench of too many unwashed
bodies.
So the commander shared his pavilion with his unwashed men, how
noble, how ridiculous.
The general’s lips curled in disdain. Power and
luxury went hand in hand; to give up one was to abdicate the other. Little
wonder the knights were losing.

The snargon waddled to a curtained
chamber in the rear corner. “We found it here, my lord.”

The general ducked into the
curtained alcove. A small, cramped space, yet it held a few humble comforts. An
empty armor stand, a low pallet for a bed, a plank table, an abandoned
goblet…all spoke of an officer’s quarters…not a knight commander’s, yet it was
the only luxury in the camp. “Where?”

The snargon squatted by the pallet.
His head bent to the ground, he sniffed deeply like a bloodhound on the scent.
“Here, my lord.” The ugly little duegar closed his eyes, his face suffuse with
delight as if sniffing ambrosia. “Dark magic, powerfully Dark magic.”

“
Dark
magic? But where would
the knights get…?” And then the general understood. He bit back his question, a
smile twisting his face.
The Dark Sword,
so the Mordant’s trap had
snared its prey. At least in this, his lord would be pleased. “Well done, Trantor.”
The general turned, issuing orders. “Burn it. I want everything burned, a
beacon of futility for the enemy.” He strode from the pavilion and swung into
the saddle, an escort of sharp-faced centurions forming around him. Turning his
stallion, the general took a last look at the pitiful pavilion and the ancient
mage-stone hand. His curiosity satisfied, he turned away, secure in the
knowledge that he served the winning side. The Lord Mordant cast a long and
fearsome shadow. All of his enemies would die screaming.