The Prince Deceiver (The Silk & Steel Saga Book 6) (21 page)

38

The Knight Marshal

The bonfire
crackled a fierce heat at his back, a beacon summoning his enemies to battle.
Girded for war, the marshal stood atop the trailhead, the Dark Sword gleaming
naked in the firelight, hungry for souls. Dragons entwined the dusky hilt, runes
inscribed along the blade. Forged for heroes, the sword was magnificent, the
sapphire-blue blade forever darkened to midnight black. The rune-carved blade
belonged in his hands, of that the marshal was certain. Beneath his gauntleted
grip, it thrummed with power...the power of invincibility.

Light streaked
the sky, the first spears of sunrise illuminating Raven Pass, the campground of
his enemies, a horde of swords. The bonfire had burned through the night, a
beacon and a warning, summoning his foes to battle.

A murder of crows
cawed overhead. Circling, the dark cloud settled amongst the pine trees, his
feathered heralds come to witness the battle. Further down the trail, he heard
the clank of armor.
They're coming.
Footsteps pounded up the steep
trail. He glimpsed their banners before he saw their faces. Midnight black
embroidered with a golden pentacle, their pennants rippled in the cool breeze.
What
color their cloaks?
The marshal pushed the nagging question aside, for
colors had ceased to matter. Instead of banners, he sought souls wielding
swords, foes to be vanquished in battle, fodder for his blade, nothing more and
nothing less.

Broadening his
stance, he waited for battle, an eager grin on his sun-weathered face.

The ogres came
first, barreling up the steep trail. Malformed monsters, bulging with muscles,
they wore leather armor and wielded massive war cudgels studded with steel
spikes. Once he would have thought them formidable, but no longer. Now they
were merely another foe, fodder for his sword.

The marshal
waited, letting them come, letting them spend themselves on the steep slope.

The first ogre
lumbered towards him, a massive creature with curved tusks protruding from his
lantern jaw. The ground shook at his approach, his cudgel raised for a killing
blow.

*Kill them
all!*
The Dark Sword whispered its siren song.

The marshal
stepped towards the ogre, loosing the Dark Sword in head-high swing. The blade
took the ogre at the neck, slicing clean through flesh, sinew and bone. With a
single satisfying stroke, he severed the ogre's ugly head. The body crumpled to
the ground, gushing blood. He kicked the head, watching it bouncing down the trail.
The marshal flashed a fierce grin, serving proof of his prowess.

The enemy
ignored the grisly warning. Ogres had immense strength but it seemed they were too
dumb to know fear. A pair of tusked brutes thundered up the trail, bloodlust in
their tiny eyes.

The marshal
leaped to battle. Cut, thrust, and parry, he slew the ogres as they topped the
trail. More swarmed up the steep slope, the living taking the places of the
dead. Ogres crowded the trailhead, wielding their war clubs while bellowing
curses. The marshal slew them all, the Dark Sword feasting on their souls. Corpses
piled around him, creating a bulwark of the slain, yet he wanted no defensive
barrier, nothing between him and his prey. Leaping over the dead, he attacked
the living. The Dark Sword keened in his hands, supping on souls. For every
life he took, strength poured from the sword into the marshal's gauntleted
hands. Elation thrummed through him, the wild flush of battle lust. The marshal
fought like a whirlwind. Flowing from one form to the next, he danced with the
Dark Sword, every stoke a fatal blow. Evading a battleaxe, he planted his sword
in an ogre's skull, splitting it like a ripe melon. Yanking the blade free, a
spray of blood and brains followed the sword's arc like a battle banner. More
corpses clogged the trail. The press of ogres slowed, supplanted by men in dark
armor. Men were easier to kill, much easier. The ogres died growling...the men
died screaming, either way he took their lives and reaped their souls.

Blood and gore
slicked the trail, making the footing treacherous. Fighting against three at
once, the marshal evaded their weapons while finding their weak spots. His
boots slipped on slime. Cursing, the marshal raised the Dark Sword in a
defensive parry. The bearded enemy grinned, attacking with a double-bladed axe.
The Dark Sword caught the downward stroke. Ordinary steel clanged against the
Dark Sword, releasing a horrible shriek. The axe shattered to shards. Empty-handed,
the enemy glared wide-eyed, fear etching his bearded face. Snarling, the
marshal struck. The enemy died screaming, spitted on the Dark Blade.

His blade slid
like butter from the dead. The marshal whirled to face another foe, but the
pace of slaughter began to slow.

Soldiers hung
back, lurking behind boulders, unwilling to enter the killing field.

Rage thundered
through the marshal.
"Fight me!"
He could not abide cowards.
Lifting the Dark Sword, he bellowed his challenge,
"Fight me!"
but
the cowards turned and fled, racing down the steep mountain trail.

The marshal
started to give chase...but the sword's voice yanked him back.

*Wait.*

Like a chained
dog, he snarled, wanting to finish the kill.

*Wait.*

The marshal
fought the compulsion. He hated the voice, yet he could not disobey.

And then the voice
said something that pierced his battle-fogged mind. *
The survivors serve as
your heralds, giving witness to your prowess.*

The marshal
staggered to a stop, staring at the dark blade.

*
Great deeds
deserve witnesses, else they will not be remembered.*

The marshal
watched the enemy scurry down the trail, taking word of his prowess back to the
horde camped below. The Dark Sword had the truth of it. His victories deserved
to be remembered...and then he had another thought. A foe forewarned was a foe
better prepared to fight. A hungry grin split his face. Let them prepare for
his coming. Let them tremble at his approach. He longed for an epic battle, a
victory to rival the legends of old.

*Soon.*

The word
thundered through his mind like a boon.  Raising the Dark Sword to the heavens,
the marshal bellowed his challenge. "
Soon! Soon, I will slay you
all!"

"All,all,all..."
the words echoed through the pass.

The crows came
calling.

Victorious once
more, the marshal stood on the ridge top, surrounded by death.

39

Commander Crull

Commander Crull
strode the wall of Raven Pass. The battlement was now his to command. Black banners
fluttered overhead, giving proof of the Pentacle's conquest, yet the pass was
nothing more than a couple of stout defensive walls and a long valley churned
to mud. No gold, no women, and no real power, he'd drawn the short straw.
Again. As usual, his commanding officers had taken the plum assignments,
leaving him to mop up their shit, but such was service under the Pentacle. He
was sorely tempted to take his army south, to seek plunder and glory at the tip
of a spear, but one did not disobey a gorelabe and live. Better to bide his
time and find a way to serve the gorelabe's orders while seeking his own way to
power

"Commander
Crull!"

His second,
Captain Andrius, strode towards him. Judging from the scowl on his face, the
news did not bode well.

Saluting fist to
chest, the captain gave his report. "Survivors have returned from the
ridge top."

"
Survivors?"

"Only
twenty-eight out of better than two hundred, all of them men."

Suspicion laced
his voice. "They survived victorious, or fled?"

The captain bit
the word. "Fled."

Crull drew a
deep breath, for he could not abide cowardice. It weakened his command and
ruined his own chance for advancement. "And the foe? What waited for them
on the ridge top?" Smoke from the signal fire still rose from the ridge,
like a dark spear stabbing straight towards a leaden sky.

"More than
half the survivors saw nothing, fleeing when the others fled, but a handful
spew the same story."

"And?"

Andrius
hesitated, clearly cautious. "My lord, what they say is impossible."

"I'll be
the judge of that."

Andrius nodded,
catching the rebuke. "They claim a single knight held the ridge top,
butchering the cadre as they crested the trail. They say he slaughtered every
Taal, then he killed the officers, working his way through the men. The dead
were stacked like battlements around him, a fortification of corpses. The few
survivors decided to retreat."

One man, one
foe,
he'd heard this tale before. Afterward General Haith had ordered the
scout quietly murdered. Murdered messengers were a sure sign of importance, but
there had to be more to the tale. "Bring the one who brays the loudest
before me. Have the others draw lots. One in every four shall be flayed from
head to heel for their cowardice, their bodies fed to the gorehounds while the
rest watch. I will have no cowards in my command."

"Yes, my
lord." The captain saluted and then sped away.

Crull found his
gaze drawn to the smoky column rising from the ridge.
A fiery beacon lit in
the night,
this foe was formidable...but he was also brazen. This enemy
sought battle, he sought a challenge...but he also sought to be noticed, as if
fame mattered.
Fame, the empty coin of dead heroes,
his mouth twisted in
a contemptuous scowl, just what he'd expect from the Octagon knights. Yet if
the scout's tale was true, and murder named it so, then a lone knight had
slaughtered an entire cadre of Taals. Such a feat could not be disregarded. It stank
of magic, dark magic. He liked it not. Chewing the thought, Crull made his way
to the stairs, descending to the king's war room. A single map was spread
across the table. General Haith had taken all the captured maps with him save
this one, the one map he no longer needed. A masterwork of map making, the
brightly painted vellum showed the Domain of Castlegard, every keep, tower and
waystation clearly inked among the craggy peaks of the Dragon Spine Mountains.
The Spines had proven a warren of death, traps within traps, keeping the Pentacle
from bringing their superior numbers to bear. Of late, the death toll had grown
horrendous, whole patrols slaughtered. Wooden markers painted red showed the
location of every butchered patrol. The markers told a grim tale, a red arrow
aimed at the heart of Raven Pass. Crull walked around the table, studying the
map from every angle. General Haith had been obsessed with this map, and
whatever interested Haith, fascinated Crull.
An arrow aimed at Raven Pass,
the
general had looked decidedly relieved with the gorelabe ordered him south. The
general's actions indicated the threat was real. And now Raven Pass was his to
hold, his to defend, like a bag of angry vipers dumped in his lap. Crull leaned
on the table, glaring at the map. If they expected him to fail, if they
expected him to die, then his superior officers were sorely mistaken.

A knock sounded
on the door.

"Come."

Captain Andrius
entered. "I've brought the songbird."

"Good."
Crull took a seat at the head of the table. "I'll hear him sing."

The captain
ushered a disheveled soldier into the chamber. Sweat stained his jerkin with
dark rings, his face grubby with dirt and stubble, his eyes laden with fear.
Bowing low, he hovered near the door.

"Captain,
shut the door."

Andrius closed
the door and stood in front of it, his hand on his sword hilt.

The soldier
sidled away, his gaze darting from the captain to the commander.

Crull poured
himself a goblet of wine, a rich red leftover from the king's stores.
"Tell me what you saw."

"You won't
believe me."

"Sing, if
you value your life."

The soldier
cringed under the threat, but he found his voice. "They sent us to take
the bonfire at the ridge." The soldier shuddered. "Tweren't a battle
but a bloody slaughter. We obeyed orders, followin' the others up the trail,
but when we reached the top, tweren't nothing but death waitin' fer us. Bodies
piled chest-high. All the Taals and officers dead. Blood soakin' the trail. No
one left to give commands." His voice turned to a whine. "Tweren't my
fault."

Crull studied
the soldier. "Sing better, or you'll join the flayed."

The soldier
paled. Sweat erupting from his forehead, he began to babble. "Nathor was
our commander. He ordered the Taals first, followed by the officers mixed with
the best swordsmen. The trail was narrow and steep. We heard the clang of
blades and the screams but none of us knew what we was facin' till we reached
the top. By then the trailhead was slick with blood, bodies piled high, all of
them dead, nothin' but corpses, nothin' but food for crows."

"And the
foe?"

The soldier
swallowed, his gaze darting around the chamber like a rat seeking escape.

Crull impaled
him with his stare. "The foe?"

"Tweren't
but one, one knight. Swear it's true, m'lord, by Darkness I do." The
soldier began to shake. "The others will tell the same. Only one knight,
killin' em all, one knight, one demon-damned knight with a bloody big
sword."

"I believe
you."

The soldier gasped.

Behind him,
Andrius betrayed a glimmer of surprise.

Crull swirled the
wine. "Tell me about this knight. Every detail, for your life depends on
it."

The soldier
nodded like a hound desperate to please. "A knight, he were a knight. His
armor was bloody, the sigil hid by gore, but I spied his cloak, spied it I
did." His voice dropped to a hushed whisper. "It were maroon."
He grinned a gap-toothed smile. "A maroon cloak, a bleedin' maroon knight.
He were a knight of the cursed Octagon."

Crull waited.

The soldier
flashed an idiot grin, as if he expected a reward. Crull's silence wiped the
grin from the man's face.

"A big man,"
the soldier stammered, clearly grasping at details, "with a thick dark
beard. Unnatural, he were. He moved like a ruddy demon, as if he could bleedin'
sense a sword stroke before it came at him. Nothin' touched him, as if he were
made of smoke. Ain't never seen anything like it. Bleedin' unnatural."

Crull swirled
the goblet, his gaze fixed on the soldier.

"And..."
the songbird struggled for more, "he fought with one of them fancy
two-handed great swords, the kind the knights favor."

Crull set the
goblet aside. "Tell me more."

The soldier
squirmed looking desperate. His shoulders hunched and he bit his lip, but then
his eyes brightened. "I remember somethin' now. Somethin' odd. Somethin'
about that sword. Yeah, that blade were black. Yeah," he nodded, "and
it tweren't just the blood and gore. The blade were black as sin, swear it were
so."

"Anything
else?"

The soldier
fidgeted and scratched but then hung his head. "No, m'lord."

"You can
go."

The soldier's
head snapped up, his eyes wide with relief. "Yes, m'lord. Thank ya,
m'lord." He scurried from the room.

Crull waited
till the door closed. "Andrius."

"Yes,
lord?"

"Do you
believe him?"

The captain's
voice was cautious. "You do, m'lord, and in all the years I've served you,
you've seldom been wrong."

A wise
answer, a shrewd answer,
he'd have to keep a close watch on his second.
"Kill the songbird. Do it discretely and then return here. We have a
battle to plan."

"Against
one man?"

"Against a
demon."