The Prince Deceiver (The Silk & Steel Saga Book 6) (13 page)

23

The Knight Marshal

Blood-spattered
and mud-smeared, the marshal spun to a halt. The battle was over, yet he was
not tired...but his armor was covered in gore. He wiped at the filth and found
more filth. He no longer had a sigil or a color…unless it was blood and mud,
the colors of war.
How fitting,
he flashed a hungry grin, his stare
roving the mountain trail. Corpses littered the mud-soaked ground, proof of his
prowess. A few twitched and moaned, the dying among the dead, but none dared to
stand against him.
Look at their cloaks
…but he nudged the nagging
thought aside. Flush with victory, he held the dark sword aloft as if
challenging the gods.

Laughing, he
roamed the battlefield, seeking a foe.

"
Help
me!"
A helmeted soldier crawled through the mud. "
Water! Give
me water!"

A kneeler!
Anger
flashed through the marshal. In three strides he was on the man, the Dark Sword
whispering a keening wail. With single slice he took the head and then hacked
the body to pieces. He could not abide kneelers, cowards who refused to fight.

*Invincible...we
are invincible!*
The Dark Sword crooned a siren's song in his mind.

The marshal knew
the sword spoke the truth. He’d lost track of how many battles he’d won, how
many men he’d killed. The battles became a blur of ecstasy, the dark sword
alive in his hands like a living legend. Every fight was a thing of beauty, a
celebration of slaying. His foes fought as if encased in rusted armor. So slow,
so obvious, he anticipated their every move, dealing death with every blow.
Wielding the Dark Sword, he moved through the battlefield like a whirlwind,
like a scythe…
like a god!

No enemy blade
ever touched him. He emerged from battle without a nick, without a scratch. He
did not tire, he did not ache, he did not hurt…he felt young! Yet he was always
hungry, and his empty eye socket itched something infernal, like a thousand
stinging nettles, but otherwise he felt fit as a stallion, eager for the next
battle.

*Wield me!
Wield me and I will make you a god!*
 The Dark Sword whispered promises
drenched in glory. The ichor of victory thrummed in his very veins. He dreamt
of battle, he dreamt of war...till he could think of nothing else.

"
Osbourne!"
A stranger's voice echoed through the green-fledged mountains.

The marshal
whirled, spying a lone knight on the ridge top.
A fresh foe,
he vaulted
into the saddle, wheeling his warhorse toward the knight.

"Remember
the maroon!"

He spurred his
stallion to a frothing gallop, keen to fight.

"Remember
Castlegard!"

The enemy knight
sat mounted on a warhorse yet he did not move. He did not flee and he did not
charge, a riddle sitting on the ridge top, a sentinel blocking the trail.

"Remember
King Ursus!"

The marshal
charged toward the enemy at a full gallop. Standing in the stirrups, he raised
the Dark Sword over his head for a two handed cleave.

The enemy never
flinched. Empty handed, he sat upon his horse, a battleaxe strapped to his
side, the pommel of a great sword rearing over his right shoulder. Gird for
war, yet the foe hurled nothing but empty words.

*Kill him!*
The
Dark Sword slavered for another soul.

Enraged, the
marshal stretched to his full height, the Dark Sword held poised to strike.
He'd cleave the knave from shoulder to groin, cutting him in half with one fell
stroke.

"Remember
your honor!"

So close, he could
see the knight's sad eyes and drooping mustache...
a familiar face
.

The marshal
hesitated.

The knight
raised his shield, a maroon octagon emblazoned on burnished silver. Sunlight reflected
on the polished surface, skittering across the marshal's face. Dazzled by the
light, he was pierced by latent memories.
Lothar!
The marshal twitched
his stallion aside, but it was too late. The two warhorses collided with a
thunderous crash. His stallion kept his footing, but the other buckled from the
blow. The knight tried to leap clear, but his boot tangled in the stirrup. The
knight's horse toppled backwards, throwing his rider to the ground with a
bone-jarring crash.

The Dark Sword
descended like a scythe, keening for blood.

Wide-eyed, the
knight stared up at him, pinned beneath his horse. "
Osbourne!"

*Kill him!*

The marshal
struggled to slow the blade, a grim tug of wills.

The Dark Blade
swept downward, yet he willed the blade's descent to slow...to stop. The sword
stopped a hair's breadth from the knight's throat.

Enraged, the
Dark Blade keened for blood.
*Kill him!*

The marshal
yanked the blade away. Struggling to prevail, he roared his frustration at the
fallen knight. "Are you afraid?"  

The knight did
not answer.

"You should
be!" The marshal turned aside.

The felled horse
whinnied. Snorting with effort, it lumbered to its feet and then shied away,
shaken but not harmed.

The fallen
knight remained sprawled on the ground, his face ashen, his shield sigil-down
in the mud, his hands well away from his weapons.

The marshal
turned his horse in circles, carving a path around the fallen knight. "Why
won't you fight me?"

"For the
same reason you won't slay me."

Memories intruded,
unwanted memories. Caught between the sword's desire to kill...and his strange
need to spare this man's life, the marshal pulled his stallion to a halt. Such
a familiar face, a name flitted in and out of his mind. "Do I know
you?"

"Lothar...my
name is Lothar...and you are the knight marshal of the maroon."

The words beat
against him...but they found little purchase.

"Look at my
face, look at my surcoat...we are brothers, we are
friends!"

The face was
familiar...and so was the surcoat.
Lothar...
his friend, his brother-in-arms.
Memories came crashing back. And then he noticed the blood. Blood beaded across
the knight's throat in a thin hairline slice, a cut that could have taken his
head. Horror roared through him, realizing that he'd nearly slain his friend.
"Lothar...
run!
"

The knight shook
his head, his words coming in a tumbled rush. "You're losing your soul to
the sword. Better if you give it up and come back with me. The Octagon needs
you. We need the marshal back. Come with me. Come back to the maroon."

Memories of brotherhood,
of friendship shared, roared through his mind...but they were soon drowned by
the Dark Sword's clamor.
*Kill him.*
The marshal shook his head,
struggling to quell the command, struggling to hold on to his humanity.

The knight tried
one last plea. "Come back to us and lead us to victory!"

Victory,
the word roared through
his mind like a battle cry, but the Dark Sword gave victory a new meaning. The
marshal gripped the peerless blade, his gaze skewering  the knight. "
Run,
Lothar. Run if you value your life!"

24

Alric

A bell chimed in
the mountain mews. Alric leaped from his pallet, grabbed a lantern and
scrambled up the stairs to the tower top. A brisk wind blew in through the open
windows, carrying a bone-numbing chill, a gift from the snowbound peaks. Alric
reached the tower's crown, shuddering against the cold despite his fur-lined
cloak. A great frost owl sat on the central perch. Regal and seemingly
impervious to the mountain chill, the owl's snowy-white feathers glistened in
the lantern light, its eyes glowing like golden orbs. "You're a
beauty." Alric used his soothing voice. The owl bated his wings and the
bell chimed again, triggered by the owl's weight, or perhaps by its impatience.
Frost owls were uncommonly clever birds, the pride of the mountain mews.

Carefully
setting the lantern aside, he pulled on a thick leather gauntlet. "Such a
beauty, yet I'll wager you've had a long flight." Alric murmured sweet
nothings, his tone mattering more than his words, his voice calm and soothing
as a caress. From the pouch at his belt, he took a choice tidbit scavenged from
the monastery's kitchen. With his gauntleted hand, he offered the owl a chicken
liver. The great owl looked hungry, yet he took the offering with a delicate
snap of his curved beak. "There you go. You're home now, safe from your long
journey." Alric fed the bird, curbing its hunger. Twice more the bird bated,
ringing the bell.

"No need
for that, you've got my attention." He fed the bird till it was well and
truly settled. Tugging off his gauntlet, Alric stroked the bird's downy chest
before working on the leather jess. He checked the embossed mark.
Castlegard,
the name of the great castle shimmered in his mind like a legend. "You've
flown a long way, little wonder you're so hungry." With deft fingers, he
removed the small bone-carved message tube secured by the jess. "That's
it, my beauty." Calming the owl with his voice, he settled the precious
tube deep in his pocket. He tugged the gauntlet back on, the leather sleeve
rising nearly to his shoulder, a protective sheath against the owl's sharp talons.
Tempting the bird with another savory tidbit, he offered his forearm to the
great owl. "Come, my beauty, we'll find you a warmer perch."

The frost owl
accepted the bribe, hopping onto Alric's forearm.

The perch bobbed
in the absence of the owl's weight, causing the bell to chime overhead.

"
Whoooooo"
the great owl hooted his inquisitive call.

"Just me,
my beauty, me and your winged brethren." Taking up the lantern, he
carefully carried the owl down the central stairs. Other frost owls slept on
their perches, their white feathers glinting in the lantern light. A few stared
at him as he passed, watching with their golden eyes. Of late, the mews had
been busy, frost owls flying from all parts of Erdhe, bearing messages to the
mountain monastery, but this was the first from Castlegard in a long while. He
wondered what tidings brought this one so far south, but the message was not
his to read.

Finding an empty
perch, he settled the great frost owl next to an owl newly come from Salmythra.
"There you go." He filled the food bowl, watching to make sure the
owl was content, and then he raced down the remaining stairs. A welcome warmth
flowed up from the mage-stone floor, heated by the thermal springs, another
wonder of the monastery. 

Tugging off the
leather gauntlet, he plunged his hands into the basin, quickly washing. Raking
his fingers through his sandy-blond hair, he straightened his golden robes and
tidied the knot of his rope belt. Only an acolyte yet he knew the mews was his
true calling. The scriptorium and all its scholarly studies held little appeal.
He'd learned to read well enough, and he was even better at maps, but Alric much
preferred spending time with the magnificent raptors. The other acolytes could
keep the scriptorium with all its musty scrolls, for Alric chased loftier
dreams. If the gods favored him, perhaps he'd show an aptitude for magic and
gain a chance to wield one of the owl rings. To soar like a frost owl, to fly
above the mountain peaks, nothing could be more glorious.

"
Whoooooo,"
an owl hooted as if reminding him to hurry. Golden eyes watched him from
the rafters.

Unlatching the
door, he stepped from the tower into the brisk wind. Spring came late to the
mountains, the lofty peaks refusing to shed their snowy cloaks. Hunched against
the biting wind, Alric scurried across the courtyard. Stars glittered overhead
in the endless vault of night. The moon had already set, proving the lateness
of the hour. Most in the monastery would be fast asleep in their beds, but one
master was always assigned to receive the owl-borne messages. Alric fingered
the bone message tube tucked deep in his pocket, wondering at its tidings.

The rune-carved
door creaked open as he slipped inside. Warmth embraced him, as if he'd stepped
into summer. Torchlight glittered in the long hallway, dancing along smooth
mage-stone walls. Calligraphy filled every hallway, the elegant script entwined
with illuminated knights and castles, a reminder of dire prophecies. Intent on
his mission, Alric sped past the calligraphy with nary a glance, making his way
to the open doorway.

He heard the
soft sound of conversation, proving the master was not alone.

Pausing to
straighten his robes, Alric stepped through the doorway. "A frost owl has
come to the mews bearing a message from Castlegard."

The conversation
shattered to silence. Master Caleb sat behind the desk, parchments and inks
scattered across the desktop. Master Athar leaned against the far wall, his eyes
widening at the mention of the great castle. "We've not heard from
Castlegard in many a moon turn."

"True
enough." Master Caleb extended his hand for the tube.

Alric gave him
the tube and then hovered by the doorway. Oft times the master needed a runner
to take messages through the monastery. As an acolyte owl-keeper, that was part
of Alric's duties, but first the message needed to be decoded and read.
Standing in the shadows, he watched as Master Caleb opened the bone tube,
extracting the small coil of vellum. Reaching for a thick tome, the master
thumbed through it with practiced ease, using a cipher to decode the message.
His quill scratched across parchment as he scribed the decoded words in a sure
and steady hand. 

Master Caleb
stared slack-jawed, his face turning white as parchment. "The gods save
us!"

Master Athar
startled alert. "What is it?"

Master Caleb's
ink-stained hands shook as he folded the parchment. "It's Castlegard! The
mage-stone of Castlegard is failing!"

"
Impossible!"
The word burst from Master Athar like a curse.

Alric sucked a
sharp breath, shrinking into the shadows.

"Yet the
codes are correct." Mater Caleb shook his head, his voice full of
foreboding. "This message must go to the Grand Master." The two
masters rushed from the chamber, worry etched deep on their faces. 

Forgotten in the
shadows, Alric trembled.
How can mage-stone fail?
All his life he'd
thought of mage-stone as everlasting. Now it seemed as if the very world
crumbled, as if some doom had befallen Erdhe. Perhaps he'd misheard the message,
he clung to the notion. Only an acolyte, yet it felt as if the whole world had
darkened. Fleeing the monastery, he sought the safety and solitude of the mews.