The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga) (16 page)

19

The Knight Marshal

Rumors spread like a plague through
the maroon, slaughtering morale. The marshal prowled the walls, listening to
the men, watching their faces, collecting their words. Dark tales grew with the
telling, a grapevine of whispers on the ramparts, a gale of grim tidings in the
great hall. Everywhere he turned, he heard tales of demons, dead princes, and
treachery, proof the Octagon was cursed, fated to fall before the Mordant.
Problem was, most of it was true. The god-cursed demon had done its work well.
Defeat hung across the maroon like a pall yet the enemy was nowhere in sight.

The marshal balled his gauntleted
hands into fists, anger in his stride. Morale was his responsibility. He had to
find a way to kill the doubt or the battle would be lost ere the first sword
was drawn.

A cold wind blew out of the north,
bitter and harsh, suiting his mood. Reaching the central drum tower, he yanked
the door open. Down the spiral steps and into the hallway, he strode towards
the king’s council chamber.

So much had changed in a single fortnight.
Normally abuzz with dispatches and commands, the council chamber stood
deserted, the hearth cold, the candles extinguished, the shutters latched shut.
The stewards had done their work well. Bloodstains were long since washed from
the floor, the bodies given honorable burial. But a deep cut remained on the
door, a scar marking the fatal thrust of a blue steel blade. He flexed his
sword hand, remembering. Two princes impaled on one sword, yet it seemed as if
the demon still lived. Doubt stalked the Octagon like a hungry ghoul. Mired in
worry, he paced the chamber, waging a battle of words in his mind.

The door creaked open.

He looked up, hoping to see the
king, but it was just Lothar.

“Thought I’d find you here, a ghost
haunting his gravestone.” He eased the door shut and leaned against the wall, a
grim look on his weathered face. “You’ve heard the talk.”

“A belly full.”

Lothar grunted, fingering the hilt
of his battleaxe. “It grows worse by the day. Some are starting to see demons
behind every face. Soon there won’t be a lick of trust left among the maroon.”

And then we’ll have desertions.
Neither
man said it, but the thought hung in the room like a curse.

Lothar moved to the window, easing
the wooden shutters open, letting a sliver of daylight pierce the gloom. “It
doesn’t help that the king stays locked in his chambers, lost in his cups.”

“The king mourns his sons.”

“And neglects his duty.”

The truth stung, but the marshal
could not disagree. “The question is, how to undo the damage? You saw his face.
How do we mend a cracked blade?”

“A cracked blade is discarded,
melted down for scrap. But we only have one king.”

The marshal nodded. “Just so.”

“And the number of heirs grows
perilously short. At least the men won’t be arguing about succession anymore.”

But will Ulrich make a good
king?
Another thought left unsaid, hanging between them.

Lothar turned away. Leaning on the
windowsill, he stared into a gray sky. “What did you see that day, after the
monk jumped?”

He hadn’t spoken of it to anyone.

Lothar sent him a piercing stare.
“Your face was ghost-pale when you turned from the window…and the monk’s body
was never found.”

His friend saw too much. “An owl. I
saw a giant frost owl.”

“
A changeling!
” Lothar swore, his face grim. “Bloody magic.”

“Seems there are more powers at
work here than we know.” The marshal’s voice dropped to a harsh whisper.
“Sometimes I wonder if we aren’t being used, just pawns in a greater game.”

Lothar grunted. “Shapeshifters and
magic, it’s too deep for me.” He sketched the hand sign against evil. “Always
thought changelings were a myth.”
 
He
stared at the open window. “If a simple monk wields such powers what will the
Mordant hurl against us?”

“Now you know why I walk the walls
so late at night.”

Lothar scowled. “We need the king.
Now more than ever.”

The marshal nodded. “Just so.”

A cold wind howled outside, banging
the shutters wide open. Sunlight streamed into the chamber, a shaft of light
striping the floor. The marshal pulled his maroon cloak close, a buffer against
the bitter chill.

“What’s this?” Lothar followed the
sunlight to the fireplace grate. Something gleamed among the ashes. He knelt to
work it free. Gasping, he pulled back as if snake-bit, but then he bent to pick
it up. “The monk’s crystal.” He stood, holding the milk-white crystal aloft. “I
never took the monk’s test.” His gaze turned to the marshal. “I guess I passed,
not a demon in disguise.” He set the crystal on the table.

Both men stared at it, as if it
might spring to life.

Lothar broke the silence. “The
bloody demon almost got away with it, wearing gloves on his hands.”

The marshal shuddered at the
thought, a demon-prince hiding among them, so close to the throne. In the thick
of battle, the demon’s orders would have been obeyed, betraying the Octagon.
“The monk did us a great service…but the price was high, perhaps too high.”

Lothar tugged on his mustache. “The
king should not have turned on the monk.”

“That was ill-done.” The marshal
reached for the crystal. “But this might prove a boon.”

“How so?”

“Fight magic with magic. Prove to
the men there are no demons among us.” He fingered the crystalline shard,
smooth as glass. “A wonder it didn’t shatter against the hearth floor.”

“A crystal tough as steel. It’s not
natural.” Lothar’s voice dropped to a low growl. “The king won’t like it.”

“Sometimes duty is a hard road.”
The marshal slipped the crystal into his pocket. “Time to rouse the king from
mourning. Will you join me?”

“Me?” Lothar shrugged a bushy
eyebrow. “I’ll walk you to the bear’s den but no farther.”

“And you call yourself a knight?”

“Only a lowly captain, not the Lord
Marshal.”

The marshal grinned, grateful for
his friend. “If you won’t face the king, then go and spread some rumors,
something positive to counter all the doubt.”

“A tale or two told over a cup of
ale? Now that’s a task worthy of a true knight.” Lothar flashed a rogue’s grin.
“What will it be? A story recounting the king’s heroism, or do you fancy
something new? Something about a crystalline shard?”

“Both. But don’t stray too far from
the truth.”

“Never.”

“And no talk of the owl.”

Both men sobered. Shapeshifters
were an unfathomable evil and magic was an enemy swords couldn’t fight. Both
would cause doubts…doubts the Octagon could not afford.

The marshal stepped to the door.
“I’ll see myself to the king.” He threw a pointed glare at his friend. “Keep
your ear to the ramparts.”

“Aye, I’ll do that.”

He left the council chambers,
striding down the hallway and around the corner. A pair of maroon-cloaked
guards snapped a half-hearted salute. Both cast wary glances at the marshal,
like men uncertain of their orders. Even at the king’s door he found doubt.
Anger pulsed through him. “Stand straight and show some pride, for you guard
our king.”

Their eyes widened in surprise, but
the men snapped to rigid attention, spear-butts pounding the stone floor.

“Better.” The marshal made his
voice a command. “Let no one pass, for any reason.” Taking a deep breath, he
reached for the door and stepped into winter.

Every window was flung wide and the
hearth was choked with dead ashes. A cold chill claimed the chamber, cold and bitter
as a tomb. The king sat at the table, oblivious to the chill, a cup in his
hand, empty wine flagons strewn across the tabletop. Statue still, the king stared
at his empty cup, as if someone else had put it there, perhaps Baldwin. Where was the lad anyway?

The marshal approached but the king
did not stir. “My Lord, you’ll catch your death of cold.” He waited, but there
was no reply. Frustrated, the marshal decided to play the squire. Latching the
shutters, he knelt to strike a flint to the fireplace, seeking to return warmth
to the king’s chambers. The spark took and he added pine logs to the grate, a
glow of warmth beating back the cold.
  

As he moved about the chamber,
lighting candles to dispel the gloom, he talked as he worked, giving the king a
running account of the Octagon. He spoke of morale and supplies, of catapults
and horses, all in a soothing voice, like a man calming a skittish horse. Finished
with the chores, he turned to study his liege. His silver hair was straggled
and unkempt, his beard matted, fresh lines of grief graven deep in his face,
but it was the eyes that worried him most, flat and dull, staring at nothing,
lacking the spark of fire that so marked his king.

“My Lord, the men need you.” He
tossed the words out like a fisherman with a baited hook, desperate to lure a
strike. But there was no response.

Anger mixed with desperation, the
marshal’s voice turned hard. Glaring at the king, he recounted the stories
whispered on the ramparts. He spared no detail, repeating grim tales of demons
and defeat. And all the while, he watched the king’s face, hoping to rouse a
reply, but there was never a flicker in those cold dead eyes. “So you see, my
Lord, the men are rife with doubt. They need their king.” He stared at his
lord, willing a response.

The king’s eyes remained dull, as
if focused on some other world, but then he began to speak, his voice hoarse
from disuse. “Red eyes, demon eyes, glowing in the face of my son. My son taken
by a demon, cursed by the Dark, my second-born son.” He shook his head, a mane
of straggly silver. “Two sons pinned on one sword. Four sons dead, lost to
treachery.” He stared into his empty goblet. “Five true-born sons, always a surfeit
of heirs, and now I have but one.
One.
”
He shook his head in denial. “Red eyes, demon eyes, glowing in the face of my
son.”

The marshal shuddered. He’d heard
it all before. A litany of repetition, the same words said over and over again.
As if the king’s mind was locked in a terrible loop, reliving the death of his
sons, unable to move forward. It hurt him to see the king brought so low. “My
Lord, you must break out of this nightmare. Don’t you see? You do the demon’s
work for him! There are more powers at work here than we know. We dare not let
the demons win.”

“Red eyes, demon eyes, glowing in
the face of my son…”

“Sire, this grief ill becomes you.
Your son stayed true, offering his life to kill the demon. He died a knight of
the Octagon. Don’t dishonor his memory this way.”

“Two sons pinned on one sword…” The
mad mumbling continued like a chant.

Desperation pushed the marshal to
anger. “We are the sword and shield of the southern kingdoms. We stand against
the Dark tides.” But his words made no difference. Without thought, he reached
for his sword, the sword of the black knight, five feet of honest steel. Blade
in hand, he stared at the king.
“Enough!”
He swept the sword across the tabletop, hurling flagons and metal goblets
across the chamber. “No more!”

The mumbled litany continued. “Two
sons pinned on one sword. Four sons dead, lost to treachery. Red eyes, demon
eyes, glowing in the face of my son.”

Frustration burned to rage. As if
the demon stood before him, the marshal raised the great sword in a two-handed
grip. With all of his might, he brought it down on the tabletop, a killing
blow. Oak cracked in two. The table split in half, crashing to the floor.

The king staggered to his feet, his
eyes blazing. “How dare you!”

Relief washed through him. “Sire,
you’re back.”

“What?” Dazed, the king stared
about the chamber, as if waking from a spell. He stared at the broken table and
tugged on his disheveled beard, sniffing at the sour smell of his clothes. His
lower lip curled in disgust. “How long?”

“Nigh on a fortnight, enough for
rumors to run rampant.”

Groaning, the king rubbed his hands
across his face, lines of grief graven deep, as if he’d aged a decade. “So the
men have heard the tale?”

“Heard it, re-told it, embellished
it, twisted it till they see demons lurking behind every face.” The marshal
sheathed his sword. “It’s as if the god-cursed demon still lives, wrecking
havoc amongst the maroon. Morale is pushed to the breaking point. Defeat
threatens before the enemy has even reached the gates.”

The king moved to the fireplace,
his shoulders hunched as if bracing for a blow. “Will the men still follow me?
A king with a demon for a son?”

The marshal’s breath caught, never
having considered the question. “Sire, they’ll follow you to hell and back. But
they
must
see you. They need to know
you still lead.”

“My son a demon…yet I never knew.”
The king turned to face the marshal, his gaze haggard and haunted. “I never
knew.”

So it was not just grief that
plagued his king, but doubt as well. “Sire, there was no way to know.”

The king shook his head. “Four sons
lost to treachery.”

Fear slashed the marshal, he
couldn’t let the king retreat into nightmares. “Sire, you still have an heir,
your first-born son.”

“Yes, Ulrich, the least of my
sons.”

“And there’s still a daughter.”

The king turned from the fire, a
spark of anger in his eyes. “I rule a kingdom of swords, a kingdom of steel. Of
what worth is a daughter?”

The marshal did not press the
point, relieved to have the king distracted from grief. “The men need to see
you. We need to vanquish the legacy of the demon.”

“And how am I to do that?”

The question staggered him; the
king was ever in command, a master at morale. He fumbled for an answer. “By
doing what you always do.” His words gained conviction. “Turn a disadvantage
into an advantage.”