The Knight Marshal (The Silk & Steel Saga)

by Karen Azinger

  “I steer my ship from the aftdeck.”

  The Mordant did not seem to hear. “Once the last of the light leaves the sky, order your men below, confined to quarters until morning. I’ll brook no interference this night.”

  “I’ll not leave my ship to founder.”

  “Don’t you trust your sea god?”

  “The sea god expects a captain to look after his ship.”

  The Mordant nodded, a sly smile playing across his face. “Then you alone may remain,” his eyes darkened, like looking into two bottomless wells, “but if you interfere, you will die, and if you watch, you will be forever changed.”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  “So be it.” The Mordant turned, disappearing down the stairs, his servant following like a stunted shadow.

  Lord Askal shivered as if coming out of a trance. Around the aftdeck, crewmen stood frozen, staring with wide eyes. “Back to work!” The men scuttled like crabs looking for a hole.

  Sails beat overhead, filling with wind. The Dark Fin cruised on a southerly heading, pulling away from the small island till it was just a speck on the rear horizon. Gulls followed in their wake, singing a mournful dirge. The setting sun lingered on the horizon, as if the day was reluctant to surrender to night, but the darkness was inevitable. All too soon, the first stars appeared, sending a shiver down his spine.

  Tormund approached, a scowl on his swarthy face. He leaned close, his voice a whisper. “Let me stick a knife in this land-lord’s back and be done with it. We’ll feed him to the sea and none will be the wiser.”

  Lord Askal shook his head. “Would that we could, but the Miral has bound our hands. Best play along and hasten the journey to its end.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “Nor do I, but we sail the sea despite the storm.”

  “Aye, that we do.”

  “Then I’m trusting you to keep the men below deck while I see to the ship.”

  “As you command, but keep your cutlass close.”

  Lord Askal nodded. “Aye, I will.” He strode to the heart of the aftdeck and roared a string of commands. “Strike the sails and ship the oars! All oarsmen to stand down. All crew confined below deck till morning light.”

  Crewmen scurried to obey. In short order the sails were furled, the sheets secured, the oars shipped, and the men disappeared below deck. The pulse of his ship slowed, the drumbeat in the hold silenced. A strange stillness settled over the great trireme, like the calm before a terrible storm. Without sails, their speed bled away. The Dark Fin slowed to a drift, rocked to a slow lull by the waves’ caress. The lord captain stood alone on the aftdeck, his hands on the tiller, as if he sailed a ghost ship on a midnight sea.

  Footsteps on the stairs.

  The Mordant appeared, a strange red light glowing from the tip of his staff.

  Dark magic, Lord Askal sketched the sign of the sea god, sending a fervent prayer to Naff.

  The Mordant loomed close, his face pale in the red light. “Know this, no matter what you see, no matter what you hear, your ship will not be harmed.”

  Lord Askal nodded.

  “Do nothing, say nothing, if you wish to live.”

  The servant appeared carrying a large stoppered flask. The Mordant took the flask, throwing the stopper into the sea. Moving to the center of the aftdeck, he stood with his head bowed, muttering a sibilant chant.

  Lord Askal stood gripping the helm, every sense alert. The Mordant’s gibberish washed across him, slapping at him like a drowning wave, but he understood nothing. Meaningless words dripping with evil, the Mordant summoned the Dark. The night grew thick and heavy, wrapping around his ship with ill-intent. Even the stars disappeared, shrouded by Darkness. Lord Askal shivered, resisting the urge to flee.

  The Dark Fin swayed, floundering like a ghost ship lost at sea. Time seemed to drag…and then the chant stopped. Lord Askal dared to look.

  The Mordant raised the flask to the heavens and then poured a libation onto the deck, but this was no mere flagon of ale. The liquid glowed red, like molten lava, and where it struck the deck, it hissed, raising the stink of burnt wood.

  “No!” Lord Askal reached for his cutlass, but the small man pounced, holding a knife pressed to his jugular. “Interfere and you die.” Lord Askal froze, a trickle of blood at his throat. His hand released his cutlass and the knife disappeared. Like a malevolent shadow, the Mordant’s servant retreated; melting into the darkness, but the captain could feel his stare. Keeping his hands on the helm, Lord Askal’s gaze slid back to the Mordant. What he saw made his blood run cold.

  A red pentacle glowed on the Dark Fin’s deck, the mark of the Dark Lord.

  The Mordant lifted his hands, as if invoking the gods. And then he began to dance, circling the pentacle, pounding a strange rhythm into the deck. Round and around, he danced a frenzy. Like a priest of the netherworld, the Mordant screamed a chant, a strange hissing sound, like no language the captain had ever heard. Leaping and shouting, he raised his staff to the heavens.

  Overhead, the clouds began to boil. A funnel cloud appeared, churning above his ship, a promise of death on the high seas.

  “Sion tarmath!” The Mordant hurled a command skyward, stabbing his staff toward the swirling cloud.

  Lightning answered.

  A bolt of red lightning crashed down, striking the staff.

  The power of the strike hurled Lord Askal to the deck. Cringing backwards, he shielded his face. All around him, the air hissed and crackled, the sulphurous stink of brimstone choking his throat, as if the gates of hell were thrown wide open. Fearing for his ship, he dared to look.

  The Mordant stood in the center of the pentacle and he glowed. A nimbus of red light surrounded him, as if he’d swallowed the lightning bolt. “Bring them!” The voice that roared out of the Mordant held the power of a god.

  Lord Askal clutched the tiller, his heart thundering. This was no mere man he’d brought aboard his ship; this was a demon, a devil incarnate.

  The dark-clad servant moved to the prisoners. Shredding their clothes with flicks of his dagger, he cut their bonds. Naked and cowering, the sheepherders clung to the deck, fingernails scraping against wood, begging for mercy. “Spare us!” The stink of urine filled the air, but the Mordant’s servant was relentless. Dragging the naked men towards the pentacle, he hurled them across the glowing lines.

  Red light flared as the prisoners crossed the glowing boundary. Something gripped the two men, like a hand claiming a sacrifice, holding them upright within the glowing pentacle. The two sheepherders writhed in pain, their backs arching, their mouths stretched wide in horror. Lifted a hand span above the deck, their bare feet flailed the air. Screams erupted from the two men, as if their very souls caught fire. The Mordant waved his hand and the screaming stopped. Released, the prisoners crumpled to the deck as if their bones were turned to water. Pale as worms, they stared up at the Mordant, making strange mewing sounds.

  The albatross was next. The great seabird squawked and fought till it was thrust inside the pentacle and then it flopped to the deck like a sack of feathers, its great wings all askew.

  The Mordant stood in the pentacle’s heart, glowing like a fiery fiend. Pointing his staff at each of the victims, he bound them with lines of red light, and then he began to chant, a strange discordant song. Twisted and wrong, the ancient words roared out of him like vomiting darkness.

  Lord Askal closed his eyes. Clinging to the tiller, he bit his lip. Focusing on the pain, on the taste of blood, he tried to distract his mind, but he could not stop his ears.

  An unearthly howl rose from the prisoners, like nothing he’d ever heard. Human voices clawed the night, ripping at his soul, but Lord Askal refused to look. His skin prickled and the hairs rose on the back of his neck. Shrieks and howls beat against him, the torment of the damned, yet he kept his eyes closed. Drenched in sweat, he clung to the tiller, like a man afraid of being sucked into a whirlpool. Lightning flashed across the deck a
nd heat seared his face, but he never once opened his eyes, keeping his teeth clamped tight against a scream.

  And then it was over.

  A heart-pounding silence claimed his ship, like slamming the door to hell.

  He dared to look, and what he saw would forever haunt his mind. The Mordant no longer glowed, his magic spent, but the albatross was changed. Lord Askal shook his head, bile rising like a flood to his mouth. Unable to look away, he watched as the albatross bowed to the Mordant. No longer just a bird, it was a living horror, a ghoul-bird with the eyes and mouth of a man!

  The Mordant bent over his creation, whispering words in a strange tongue and then he raised his staff to the heavens. “Fly! And let my will be done!”

  The ghoul-bird raised its human face, great white wings beating against the deck, and then it rose into the sky, flying toward the east.

  The Mordant slumped to the deck, but his servant caught him. Without a word, he carried his master down the steps.

  Lord Askal watched them leave. Unable to move, he knelt on the aftdeck, clinging to the tiller, clinging to his sanity. His stomach convulsed, and his dinner roared out of him, but he could not purge his mind. Exhausted, he lay sprawled on the deck.

  Tormund found him there the next morning, but the captain was not alone. Two things, naked and pale, lay crumpled within the charred outline of the pentacle. One had no mouth and the other no eyes, pale flesh sprouting where the openings should have been. They lay on the deck, soiled in their own filth, like worms without any will. Whatever spark made them men was missing, drained and sucked out, leaving mere husks of flesh.

  Tormund helped his captain stand. “What in the Nine Hells are those…things?”

  “Sheepherders turned sacrifice.” His voice sounded hoarse in his ears. “Kill them and dump them overboard before the crew lays eyes on them.” He gripped the railing, fighting to suppress a shudder. A second wave of bile rose to his mouth as he stared at the pentacle branded on his deck. “And get the shipwright up here. I want that cursed symbol erased from the deck.”

  Tormund was quick to obey. His dirk slashed the throats of the two worm-men, rolling their bodies over the side, horrors consigned to the sea. Dark fins churned the water, following his ship; Naff’s hounds come to claim the corrupted flesh.

  The crew emerged from the lower decks and his ship slowly came to life, but everything had changed. His men stared at the pentacle branded into the aftdeck, horror etching their faces. Muttering charms against evil, they whispered of demons haunting the night. Fear had finally claimed his ship, yet his men obeyed.

  Reeking of sweat and brimstone, Lord Askal clung to the tiller. “Speed, we need speed.” Over and over, he repeated the words like a chant. “Give me speed!” A fresh wind blew out of the north, filling the sails. The oars ran out, answering the beat of the drum. The Dark Fin leaped forward but the captain took no joy in his ship. He haunted the aftdeck, worrying every detail, desperate to reach a port in the distant south. Speed might save his crew, might save his ship, but nothing could save his soul.

  In The North

  1

  Katherine

  Kath woke with a harsh gasp. Sodden with sweat, she fled her nightmares…only to realize they were true. Duncan! She keened his name, remembering the horror of the bloody cavern. Tears threatened but Kath refused to let them flow. She’d tried to save him, but silver daggers riddled his flesh, biting deep, a hundred gaping wounds. Breaking the chains, they’d rescued him from the foul darkness, carrying him up into the dawn’s bitter light, but the victory proved hollow. So short the time she had with him, she would have held him forever, clutching him close beneath the gulls’ mournful cries, but the others intruded, insisting he was dead. They buried him out on the steppes, in clean earth untainted by darkness, the vast blue sky arching overhead. The Painted People raised a warrior’s mound over his grave, an earthen cairn of captured weapons and battle banners, a hero’s tribute. She’d watched as if she wore someone else’s body, unable to believe he was gone. Her heart ached beyond the telling, yet she’d promised to live. Words so easily spoken, yet so hard to keep.

  Hollow with hurt, she abandoned her bed, belting her sword to her side, the crystal dagger secure in its sheath. Twirling her maroon cloak around her shoulders, she shrugged on her throwing axes. Night lurked beyond the lead-paned windows, as cold and bleak as her soul. Bleary-eyed, she wandered the Mordant’s palace. Every room screamed of decadence, marble columns, golden doors, and gilded braziers. The gaudy display bludgeoned the senses with tasteless wealth, a monument to Darkness. The palace repulsed her, yet night after night Kath roamed the labyrinth hallways as if seeking something lost. Retreating to her memories, she pulled her maroon cloak close. Duncan, his name throbbed in her heart. She gripped his silver warrior’s ring, her fingers tracing the aspen leaves, willing herself to remember his face, his touch, his voice.

  Something intruded. She felt watched. Her hand gripped the crystal dagger. Kath woke from a trance and found herself surrounded by nightmares.

  Demons leered down at her. Devils, harpies, and orcs carved in stone, so real their talons seemed to reach for her, stone hungering for flesh. She lurched backward, remembering the gargoyle gates, but the carved stone remained fixed to the wall, a frozen frieze. A hallway of monsters, the riddle drew her forward. Beneath the show of wealth, the Mordant’s palace hid nightmares but this was blatant, unlike anything she’d seen. A pantheon of monsters capered along the walls and across the ceiling, a seamless horror carved in gray stone, but why? Duncan’s dying words whispered in her mind, “Find the demon hallway and press the devil’s horn.” And then she remembered. “Eye of varg and claw of balrog, tongue of ghoul and skull of lich.” Like a code writ in stone, she searched for the first clue. A grinning devil winked at her as if he kept a secret. Setting her thumb against his left horn, she pushed. The horn slid into the wall, a soft grinding noise. Intrigued by the stone riddle, yet Kath slowed, warning herself that this was the Mordant’s secret. Caution was advisable. Keeping a grip on the crystal dagger, she followed the clues. Hidden amongst the details, she found the pressure points cunningly wrought, secrets sculpted into stone.

  She pressed the last clue.

  A secret door ground open.

  Kath crouched, sword in hand, expecting shadowy demons to belch from the doorway…but the hallway remained still as night. She crept forward and peered inside.

  A lich-king glared from the darkness, ruby eyes glinting in the torchlight.

  Her heart lurched, but it was just another carving, a horror etched in stone. Beyond the carving, spiral stairs wound down to absolute darkness. She shuddered, remembering the red cavern but Duncan’s dying words urged her on. Wresting the nearest torch from its bracket, she dared the stairs. Cobwebs hissed in the flames, a reminder that this way was secret. Down and around, the torchlight played against dark stone, a cold musty smell riding the air, like entering a tomb. She reached the bottom and light reflected back at her. Gold glittered from every corner, a treasure trove of coins strewn across the floor. She lowered the torch, discovering jeweled crowns and gilded armor lying scattered amongst the coins, wealth beyond imagining. So this was the Mordant’s treasure vault, but Kath cared little for gold. Raising the torch, she explored the hoard, coins clinking at her feet. Silver gleamed in the darkness, catching her gaze. A winged throne, her breath caught. Sculpted into silver wings, the throne glowed like captured starlight. Elegant yet powerful, the throne called to her, like something long lost yet somehow dear and familiar. Letting the torch fall, she crossed the chamber. Yellow diamonds glittered along the tall seat, fashioned in an eight-pointed star. “The Star Knights!” Her fingers caressed the silver armrests, needing to know it was real. Memories of the ruined tower lost in Wyeth crowded her mind, the very place where she’d found the crystal dagger. A certainty shivered through her, this throne did not belong here, a prisoner chained in Darkness.

  Pulling her maroon cloak close,
Kath bowed low, wondering if she dared. Gripped by curiosity mixed with a hungry need, she sat upon the throne.

  At first nothing happened, but then chimes filled the air like windblown music, defying the stillness of the crypt. The throne flared to life, glowing like unchained starlight. Light blazed from the silver wings, filling the chamber with radiant beams.

  And then she saw him, hovering at the Light’s edge, his body whole and unbroken, his mismatched gaze full of love. Duncan!

  She froze, afraid to hope, her words a whisper. “Am I dreaming?”

  “Perhaps we’re both dreaming.” He gave her a smile that filled her with warmth. “You must not lose heart, for the Light is as real as the Dark.”

  She wanted to touch him, to wrap her arms around him and hold him close…but she feared he would disappear, nothing more than a delusion. “I miss you.”

  “And I you.”

  “Will you stay?”

  “You know I cannot. Yet I will wait for you in the Light.” His smile softened. “Do not lose hope, do not lose heart, both are needed to defeat the Dark.”

  The throne began to dim. “No! Stay with me!” She gripped the silver armrests, willing the sculpted wings to stay bright, but the glow faded to darkness.

  “Duncan!” She screamed his name but he was gone, disappearing with the light. She willed him to return, willed the throne to blaze bright…but the winged silver remained dormant. Darkness encroached, the torch sputtering among the coins. Battered by emptiness, her dam of tears burst. Kath sobbed, wracked by loneliness and loss, a river drenching her leathers.

  An eternity later, her tears ran dry.

  Gasping for breath, she struggled for composure, grateful no one had seen her weakness.

  Darkness crowded close. The torch was nearly extinguished, nothing but a faint glimmer.

  She refused to succumb. “Darkness is real but so is the Light.” She’d married Duncan under the starlight and nothing would ever change that. Binding her grief with memories, she reached for the torch. At the stairs she paused, her gaze drawn to the silver throne. Among the Mordant’s gold, she’d found a single treasure. She did not know if her vision of Duncan was real or imagined, but she clung to the memory like an elixir meant to last through an endless drought. Gripping her sword, she climbed the stairs back to duty.