The Knight Marshal (The Silk & Steel Saga) (37 page)

67

The Knight Marshal

The marshal spurred his horse to a hard gallop, the dark
sword clutched in his mailed fist. Thundering down the mountainside, he wove a
path through the trees. Spying an obstacle, he veered towards it, urging his
stallion over the fallen log. They took the jump at a flying gallop, clearing
the log with room to spare. Standing in the stirrups, he loosed a triumphant
shout. Flushed with exhilaration, he scanned the forest for a foe, keen for a
true test of the dark sword…and then he remembered.

He slowed his horse to a trot,
shaking his head at the reckless ride. Lifting the dark sword, he glared at the
midnight-blade. “You are not the master. I am,” But the blade did not reply.

Angling his horse toward the
northwest, he eventually found the path. By midday, he reached the Broken Keep.
An ancient ruin, little more than a circle of timeworn stones, the broken tower
served as a landmark in the forest wilderness. Slowing his horse to a walk, he
rode to the hill’s crest. Dark stones crowned the hilltop like broken teeth,
the remnant of another age. Spying a gleam of armor, the marshal fought the
urge to attack. Rounding the tumbled tower, he found Lothar sitting upon a
toppled stone, basking in the sunshine.

Lothar glanced his way, but
otherwise he remained relaxed, his hands empty of weapons. “So you’ve claimed
the sword.”

“I have.” The marshal lifted the
sword, a flash of darkness in the sunlight. “And it is like no other I’ve ever
held.”

“Yet you remembered.”

The truth came hard to his lips.
“Just.” The marshal dismounted, standing over his friend.

“You should have let me bear it.”

The black sword came up, the tipped
aimed at Lothar’s heart, but the knight-captain remained statue-still. By dint
of will, the marshal lowered the dark sword, his voice a low growl. “Mine to
wield.”

Lothar gave him a measured look. “Yes,
it’s done. And now you’re keen to wet the blade.”

The marshal grinned.

“Brannock’s found a patrol for you.
Forty soldiers with two ogres among them.”

Only forty,
he quelled his
disappointment.
“A fair test of the blade.”

Lothar scowled, “Sounds like a
death-wish to me.”

“I have to know.”

“And the other sword?”

The marshal gave him a puzzled
look.

Lothar gestured to the marshal’s
saddle. “Sir Tyrone’s sword.”

Disdain flashed across his face. “A
mere pig-sticker compared to the dark blade.” Slashing the bindings, he threw
the scabbarded sword toward the knight. “Yours to wield.”

Lothar caught it. “I’ll keep it
safe for you.”

“I’ve no need of it.”

“All the same.”

“Forty, you say, and two ogres?”

Lothar nodded.

The marshal swung back into the
saddle…but something gnawed at his mind. The words struggled to his lips.
“Watch over the maroon.”

Lothar nodded.

Their stares locked, a friendship
remembered, so many years of duty and honor and battles well fought.

*Wield me!*
The marshal
shook his head, trying to keep his mind clear. “You best point me towards that
patrol.”

“Brannock will lead you.”

A brown-clad scout ghosted out of
the trees. Saluting, he kept his distance, standing on the edge of the ruins, a
longbow in his fist.

A single archer, not much of a
threat,
the marshal silently soothed the dark sword. Turning his horse
towards the scout, he said, “Lead the way.”

The scout set off at a loping run.
The marshal followed at a steady trot. They plunged down the hillside, forded a
swiftly flowing stream and then turned towards the southwest. Brannock led him
to a cliff overlooking a valley. Crouched on the rocky outcrop, the scout
pointed below. The marshal nudged his horse forward. Peering over the edge, he
saw the dark-cloaked patrol toiling up the mountain path.
Forty with two
ogres,
the marshal grinned, eager to wet his sword.

Leaving the scout behind, he forged
a path along the ridgeline, gaining a lead on the enemy below. Satisfied with
his position, he put spurs to his horse and galloped down the steep hillside.
Branches beat against his chainmail, as if to hold him back. Putting spurs to
his mount, he bulled through the low scrub, emerging at the crest of the trail.
The marshal slowed his horse to a stop. Bred for battle, his warhorse stamped
and snorted, pawing at the dark earth. “Soon,” he soothed the horse as much as
himself. Taking a position in the center of the trail, the marshal blocked the
way forward, the dark sword gleaming wicked-keen in his gauntleted fist.

He heard them before he saw them,
the tramp of heavy boots, the clangor of armor, and the harsh breath of men
climbing a steep rise. The first foe came into sight, a plumed helmet over dark
armor, the black shield inscribed with a golden pentacle. The leader saw him
and paused, a startled look on his face.

The marshal raised the black sword
in salute.

The black-cloaked leader hesitated,
reaching for his sword.

“Prepare to die!” The marshal
charged. His warhorse rammed into the leader, forcing him backwards into the
others. Leaning from the saddle, the marshal swung the dark sword like a
scythe. With a single stroke, he took the man’s head. The headless body took
one last lurching step before crumpling to the ground. Head and helm bounced
down the trail, a fitting herald.

Exhilaration roared through the
marshal.
“Fight me!”
He galloped into the enemy, hewing left and right.
His progress slowed as the weight of numbers pressed against him. Frustrated,
he leaped from his horse, the better to slay them. Surrounded by enemies, the
battle became a blur. Slash and turn, he moved through the forms, killing and
evading. The dark sword thrummed in his hands, power flowing through him like a
heady elixir. He dealt death like a god. The battle slowed, as if his foes
fought in rusted armor. So slow, the marshal anticipated their every move.
Strike and evade, he cut a path through their numbers.

An ogre approached, towering over
him. The malformed beast wielded a spiked war club with deadly force, rending
the earth with each blow…but to the marshal’s one-eyed stare its movements
appeared dull and slow, as if the beast swam through molasses. Avoiding a
head-high swing of the war club, the marshal glided within the ogre’s reach,
slicing an arm from the shoulder. Blood gushed and the beast roared, the war
club falling useless to the ground. Another cut and the marshal took its ugly
head.

Raising the black sword in triumph,
he felt invincible, he felt like a god. “
Fight me!”
The challenge roared
out of him. Spying the second ogre, the marshal cut a path towards the hulking
brute. The dark sword moved in a blur, slicing through flesh and bone and
sinew. The ogre charged, smashing his war club in a head-high swing. Ducking
low, the marshal slipped inside to hamstring the beast. The ogre toppled forward,
crashing to the ground like a felled tree. The marshal leaped atop the beast’s
back. With both hands, he drove the dark sword down, plunging through armor and
bone. Heart’s blood fountained up. Wrenching the dark sword loose, he roared
his prowess. “
Fight me!”

A space opened around him, nothing
but the dead and dying. The remaining soldiers cringed away. Dropping their
weapons, they fell to their knees, begging for mercy.

“Spare us!”

“We yield!”

“Mercy!”

“
No!”
Anger roared through
him. He craved blood not meek surrender. “
Fight me!”
 

Enraged, he attacked, slicing at
heads and hands, forcing the kneelers to reach for their swords. A few picked
up their weapons, offering a feeble defense, but others simply cowered,
covering their heads with their hands. Consumed with battle lust, the marshal
slew them all, the kneelers and the sword wielders, hewing left and right,
striking till there were no more to kill.

He staggered to a stop.

The trail was littered in corpses,
heads and limbs, butchered and hacked, all dead save him. Surrounded by death,
the marshal realized he was not even winded. Unscratched, unharmed, unscathed,
he felt invincible. Elation thrummed through him. Victory was his. He raised
the dark sword to the heavens. “I am a god!” His shout echoed against the
mountains, a challenge hurled to all of Erdhe. “
I am the god of war!”

68

Katherine

Kath cut the last grapple, willing the
Sprite
to
separate from the trireme. A blistering heat beat against her, the crackling
flames too near the ship. Checkered sails rippled overhead, stirred by a faint
breeze, a mere tease of wind. The
Sprite
began to drift south, opening a
small sliver of sea, but it was not enough. Sparks erupted from the trireme,
releasing a belch of dark smoke. The MerChanter ship burned with infernal heat.
They needed distance or both ships would be lost.

A trident thrust towards her face.
Kath ducked, lurching backwards. Regaining her balance, she slashed at the
MerChanter, but the looming enemy had the advantage of reach. Reeking of fish
oil and sweaty leather, he barked a berserker’s mad laugh, attacking with wild
abandon. Towering over her, he stabbed at her with his trident, the triple
barbs flashing orange in the flickering flames. Kath hacked at the deadly
prongs, deflecting the blow. Stroke and parry she beat him back.

A sharp pain pierced her chest.
Transfixed, Kath crumpled to the deck, her sword slipping from her hand. Her
vision wavered, shuttering to darkness. The world flickered and blurred as if
it was about to unravel. Something was wrong, terribly wrong.

Steel clanged in front of her face.

The song of swords snapped the
spell.

Shrugging off the pain, Kath
startled alert.

A trident speared towards her.

She flinched backwards.

A sword blocked the trident. Torkin
grinned at her. “Just paying my debt, Svala.” The wolf-faced warrior forced the
MerChanter back with a vicious slash.

While the two men grappled, Kath
scrambled for her sword. She rubbed her aching chest, but found no wound, no
sign of blood. Befuddled, she swallowed her uncertainty and sprang to battle.
Fighting beside Torkin, she lunged towards the MerChanter, seeking a chink in
his armor. Her sword slid beneath a bronze scale, piercing his side. Jerking
away, he snarled, jabbing at her with his trident. Blood blossomed on his
armor, yet still he fought. Enraged, he hurled his trident at her. She dodged
the barbs, but was yanked backward, strangled by her cloak. A glance behind
showed the trident pinned her cloak to the railing. Steel whistled towards her
head. Trapped, she raised her shield blocking the blow. The battleaxe struck an
arm-numbing blow. Wood splintered into a hundred shards. Deflected by her
shattered shield, the axe shaved past her, narrowly missing her shoulder.
Hurling the useless shieldstrap at her enemy’s eyes, Kath drew a dagger from
her belt. Pinned against the railing, she snarled up at the MerChanter, a sword
in one hand, a dagger in the other, a poor match against a battleaxe.

The half-moon blade flashed
sinister, reflecting the flames.

Kath braced for the blow.

A sword skewered the MerChanter
from behind, the blade erupting from his gut. Surprise flashed across his
bearded face as the light died from his eyes.

Bear shoved the corpse from his
sword and then reached for the trident pinning her to the railing. Tugging the
prongs loose, he hurled the forked weapon into the sea. “Are you well, Svala?”

“Well enough.”

Canvas snapped and timbers creaked.
The
Sea Sprite
began to move, slowly pulling away from the flaming
trireme.

Across the deck, the wolf howled, a
feral call to battle.

As the two ships separated, Kath
hoped the MerChanters would surrender, but instead of yielding, they fought
with a desperate ferocity. Steel clashed and blood flowed. Corpses from both
sides littered the deck. Standing shoulder to shoulder with Bear and Sidhorn,
she cleaved a path into the enemy…and then she found herself facing Blaine. Kath lowered her sword. “Is it done?”

“Near enough.” He gave her a weary
grin, blood dripping from his sapphire sword.

The sounds of battle fell silent,
replaced by the moans of the wounded.

Kath looked around her, finding too
many friends among the dead and dying.

Blaine grinned. “Another victory.”

Kath felt no elation. “Give the
dead to the sea and tend to the wounded.”

Suddenly too tired to stand, she
crumpled to the deck. Everything ached, her arms most of all. Too tired to
think, too weary to move, she stared out to sea. As if by magic, waves
appeared, breaking the wind’s stalemate, bringing the ocean to life. The
Sea
Sprite
gained speed, scudding south. Across the widening distance, the
trireme collapsed in hellish flames, a pillar of dark smoke marring the sky.

A shadow blocked the sun.

Kath looked up to see Juliana
watching her.

“You’d best get that armor off.”

Kath shook her head. “I’d rather
sink like a rock than be eaten alive.”

“Sometimes the sea offers hard
choices.” Juliana nodded, respect in her voice. “Your battle plan turned the
tide.”

“Your flaming arrows helped.”

Juliana smiled. “A skill from my
childhood.” Her face sobered. “You saved my life…and the lives of my crew.”

“If you hadn’t come north, you
wouldn’t have been in danger.”

“Perhaps not…or perhaps the danger
would have found us anyway. Darkness looms close these days.” Her voice dropped
to a pensive whisper. “My sister sent me north for a reason.” Her gaze
narrowed. “What are you?”

Kath shrugged. “Someone who does
not give up.”

“No, you’re more than that.”
Conviction laced the captain’s voice. “You’re a force to be reckoned with.”

Kath studied the captain’s face,
the details so similar to her sword sister’s despite the bright red hair. “Can
you get us to Navarre?”

“The sea can be fickle. Storms,
leviathans of the deep…and MerChanter raiders, there’s always a challenge, but
the gods willing, we’ll make it home.”

“I’ll hold you to that, and the
gods as well.” Weary to the bone, Kath slumped to the deck. Befuddled by the
sharp pain that had pierced her chest, she tugged aside her chainmail and
gambeson, straining to see. Beneath her armor, she found no sign of a wound…but
her skin tinged red in the shape of her gargoyle.
Her gargoyle.
An icy
fear shivered through her. Something was wrong, very wrong. Making a quick
check of the crystal dagger, she gripped Duncan’s warrior ring and stared west,
her gaze seeking the red comet. It was still there, hanging a thumb’s width
above the horizon, a mocking goad writ upon the sky, a reminder that time was
running out. Somewhere in the south, the Mordant schemed, planting deceits and
twisting souls, plotting the Battle Immortal…but the oldest harlequin was not
the only threat. Kath rubbed her chest, grimacing at the strange warning, as if
Hell had opened all its gates, disgorging countless nightmares. More than one
kind of evil stalked Erdhe. While she sought to escape the north, Darkness was
winning. Darkness was laughing.