Baldwin jerked awake, alerted by a nervous whinny. His fire had died to embers, the first streaks of dawn lighting the eastern sky, and then he heard it. A shrieking yowl pierced the forest, the call of a saber-toothed cat. The sound shivered down his spine, setting his teeth on edge, the kind of primal sound that loosed men’s bowels and made them run for shelter…and it was close, too close. He snatched up his short sword and scrambled to his feet. His horse nickered and squealed, multiplying his fear. Movement snared his gaze, a pair of tawny mountain lions prowling the snow-dusted forest, but these were big, unnaturally big, and they padded straight towards him. He tightened his grip on his sword and backed towards the root wall. The cats drew close, undaunted by naked steel or glowing embers. Staring at him, they yawned, displaying saber-sharp teeth. Baldwin shivered, too many teeth, rows and rows of them, an unnatural bristle of death. And then he noticed their claws, like the talons of eagles, wicked and keen. One of them issued a low growl. Baldwin locked stares with the beast…but there was something wrong with its eyes, something knowing, something hateful. A chill shivered through him. These things were monsters, twisted abominations, minions of the Dark Lord loosed on the south.
His horse squealed, breaking the spell. The stallion had the truth of it, better to flee than fight. Baldwin kicked at the embers, scattering hot coals towards the saber-cats. Snatching up the blanket-wrapped sword, he tugged the reins loose and vaulted onto the stallion’s back. The horse leaped to a gallop, panic giving wings to its hooves. Baldwin clutched the stallion’s mane, riding bareback, struggling to keep his seat. White-eyed and stinking of fear, the horse tore a path through the forest, running at a blind gallop. Baldwin risked a glance behind. The two saber-cats followed at a ground eating lope, but they did not close the distance, almost as if they were toying with him.
His horse lurched to the right. Nearly flung from his seat, Baldwin turned to find a branch snapping across his face. The branch hit hard, sending him sprawling. Snow padded his fall. Dazed, he watched his horse gallop away.
A snarl brought him back to his senses. He sprang to his feet and unsheathed his short sword. The saber-cats circled, displaying their teeth. Fear pushed him backwards. Baldwin scurried towards the nearest tree, putting his back to the trunk. The cats tightened their circle, undaunted by his sword. Baldwin nearly wept, a short sword against such monsters, he didn’t have a prayer in hell. Hurling his sword at the nearest cat, he reached for Boric’s blade. Even through the wrappings, he could feel the cold steel scalding his skin, but he paid it no heed. Tearing away the bindings, he loosed the great dark sword. A thing of deadly beauty, he held it aloft, a pair of dragons entwined on the hilt. Gripping the sword with both hands, he felt a jolt of power. Strength and courage and something else flowed into him, like an elixir searing his veins. He felt powerful. He felt invincible. He felt destiny calling. Brandishing the sword, he reveled in his new-found strength, feeling like a hero of old. “This is what you want! Come and get it!” Flush with confidence, he barked a laugh. Testing the sword, he slashed left and right. Perfectly balanced, it sliced the air, so keen and light and deadly. The black blade seemed alive, hungry for blood. Infused with courage, Baldwin snarled a challenge. “Attack if you dare.”
The first cat sprang, revealing a snarl of saber-sharp teeth. The thing was fast, but the dark sword was faster. A quick downward slash and the dark blade cleaved flesh and bone. Beheading the first in a single stroke, Baldwin whirled to meet the second. Tawny fur flashed towards him, talons outstretched. Sidestepping the charge, he struck out with the sword. The dark blade struck quick as lightning, severing a talon-tipped paw. The cat shrieked in pain, but it did not die and it did not retreat. Blood spewed across the snow, steaming in the cold. Hobbling on three legs, it snarled, spitting at him, its golden eyes glowing with hate.
Any other animal would retreat, but this thing stood its ground. Baldwin kept his sword tip raised. “What are you?”
The beast attacked. The sword moved with frightening speed. The black blade struck true, going straight to the heart. Impaled, the beast stared at him, making a strange guttural sound. Baldwin thought he heard laughter, and then he caught two words amongst the low growl, “I’m…you.”
“No!” Baldwin released the sword. Staggering backwards, he slipped on a patch of bloody snow. Panic seized him. He ran into the woods, fleeing the monster impaled on the black sword, fleeing the nightmares…but he did not go far. Hiding amongst the trees, he crouched behind a cedar, his hands shaking, blood staining his tunic. He stank of blood. He stank of fear. He smelled like a coward. Baldwin hated being scared. In the back of his mind he remembered what it felt like to wield the sword, the feeling of invincibility, the feeling of a god-given destiny. The memory gnawed at his mind till it consumed him. At twilight he returned. The sword was still impaled in the beast, the hilt standing upright as if awaiting his hand. He did not hesitate. Grasping the sword, he pulled it from the beast’s heart. Elation rushed through him. He felt like a hero of old. Baldwin raised the sword to the heavens and then he started marching north. He had a destiny to fulfill.
13
Katherine
So cold the northern winters, cold enough to freeze tears, Kath sat perched on the topmost rampart, her maroon cloak a thin shield against the bitter wind. Below her, the city fortress curled around the great monolith like a sundered seashell, icicles studding the dark walls. The Mordant chose a grim place for his capital. To the west, an angry ocean pounded a line of dark cliffs, while the snowbound steppes stretched east as far as the eye could see, as if the fortress straddled two halves of infinity, one white, the other dark, both bleak and cold and unforgiving. Her gaze sought the only horizon that mattered, a burial mound on the cliffs’ edge, a sadder form of infinity. Duncan. Seagulls circled overhead, their mournful cries echoing in her soul.
A tremor shook the city, the quaking of an angry beast chained beneath bedrock. Kath shuddered, remembering the demon’s cold smile. She’d lost the amber pyramid, but perhaps she could entomb its power. Her gaze turned to the prisoners. A human chain toiled up the tiers, winding all the way from the Pit, to the city gates, to the dark monolith. She’d ordered rock brought from the Pit, enough to choke the bloody cavern. Vanquished soldiers carried the rock across the rune-carved courtyard and down the gullet of evil. Quakes shook the city, as if the demon protested, but the work never ceased. She’d pour an avalanche of rock into the cavern till it spewed from the stairs, sealing it for all time. If only evil was so easily stoppered.
“My lady?” A blonde-haired girl approached, skinny enough to be a waif or a beggar. Her face was empty of tattoos, proving she was one of the newly freed.
Wrapped in her own misery, Kath ignored the girl.
“My lady.” The girl drew close, pecking like a magpie.
Kath sighed. “Take your troubles to Zith,” she gestured to the far side of the great circular courtyard, “the one-armed monk in blue robes, you can’t miss him.”
The girl did not move. “My lady, they say his name was Duncan.”
Kath gasped, her gaze fastening on the girl.
The waif flinched as if scalded, but she stood her ground, a straggle of long blonde hair framing a half-starved face.
“You knew him?”
The girl nodded. “In the Pit, I helped him escape from the iron mine…though I did not know his name.”
“You helped him…” tears threatened Kath’s eyes, but she blinked them back. “Tell me,” her voice scraped raw with hurt, “tell me everything.”
“My name is Mara, and I was a slave of the Pit.” In simple words, the girl told her tale, explaining how a life of cruelty and rape changed when she discovered a cat-eyed stranger prowling the mine’s upper corridors. “You need to know he was a hero, especially to me.” She spoke of crossbows and ambush and vengeance, of taking a knife to those who had raped her. In measured tones, she told how Duncan released the captives, bringing hope to the mine. Rebellion spr
ead through the carved tunnels like a whirlwind, only to be stopped by betrayal. Her voice dropped to a hush, the tale of triumph turning to pain. The girl told how Duncan and the other heroes were hung on the standing stones at the heart of the Pit, tortured by the weight of their own bodies.
Kath felt the words flay her soul. So much pain, she bit her lip, a trickle of blood running down the side of her mouth.
“They all died, save him, as if he had something more to live for.”
The words pierced Kath’s heart.
“And then the Mordant’s own guard came into the Pit. They took him down from the standing stone and bore him away. It was only later that I learned his name…and his fate.” Mara worried her hands into knots. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Kath forced herself to breathe, one breath at a time, lest she shatter into a thousand pieces.
The girl waited, her gaze downcast.
A hundred heartbeats passed before Kath could bring herself to speak. “You have my thanks…for aiding him, for telling me. I didn’t know about the Pit,” her voice cracked with raw emotion, but she reined it in. “I treasure every memory.” She fumbled to find the words, “Do you need gold or food or…”
“There’s more.” Mara raised her head. An angry fierceness glowed in her eyes, transforming the magpie into a hawk. “Yesterday I saw the traitor, the one who betrayed him.”
Kath sprang from the rampart, naked steel whispering to her hand. “Where?”
“He’s claimed a house in the third tier. His name is Bruce.”
“Show me.”
With a slight bow, the girl turned, cutting a straight path across the circular courtyard. Kath followed like an avenging wraith, her naked sword gleaming in her fist, her maroon cloak billowing in the wind, oblivious to everything except the magpie turned hawk, loosed from her fist to hunt a traitor.
They crossed the rune-carved courtyard, an unlikely pair, the waif leading the warrior. A part of her knew that Bear and Boar followed, faithful companions guarding her back, but Kath did not spare them a glance. Zith hailed her, but she did not stop. A handful of painted warriors approached, but once they glimpsed Kath’s face they shied away. The girl led her to the top tier’s shattered gates, torn asunder by battering rams. Passing beneath the ruined gates, they took the spiral road down into the tiered city.
People stopped and stared. A few bowed. Others called out, “Svala!” The human chain of moving stones slowed at her passing till whips cracked, the captives hefting their burdens with renewed vigor. Kath ignored them all, her gaze intent on the magpie turned hawk. A crowd followed in her wake, but nothing mattered save the traitor.
The girl never slowed, leading Kath to a well-appointed house in the third tier. The door was locked. Gripping her gargoyle, Kath reached through the stone to unlatch the door. She kicked it open, the bang heralding her entrance. A hallway tiled in mosaics led to a large room heated by braziers. A big blond-haired man leaped to his feet, a dark-haired woman lying naked upon the divan. The woman screeched, clutching a blanket to cover her breasts, while the man hastily laced his pants. “What’s the meaning of this?” Naked from the waist up, he yanked a metal poker from the brazier, the tip glowing red hot. “Who dares break into my house?” He brandished the poker like a sword. “Get out! Get out or I’ll break your bones!”
Kath studied him through hooded eyes. A tall man with the advantage of reach and plenty of muscles earned by hard labor, but he held the poker like a thug instead of a soldier. And then she saw his boots, gray lizard-skin boots. Her heart lurched and her blood ran cold. “Your name?”
His gaze narrowed. “What of it?”
Others crowded behind her, but Kath kept her gaze on the traitor.
Mara hissed, “He’s the one.”
Kath took a step forward, her sword arm hanging loose by her side. “Your name?”
“Bruce Tragger. I fought in the Pit and then in the city.” Sweat beaded his forehead, his eyes darting to the crowd behind. “I’ve earned this house,” he feigned a grin, “to the victors go the spoils.”
“And those boots?”
Confusion clouded his face. “Boots?” He shrugged, “a gift.”
“Payment for betrayal.”
Truth flashed in the depths of his eyes, quickly smothered by bluster. “Get out.”
Behind her, Bear growled a warning.
“Do you remember him? The one who led the rebellion?”
The big man flinched backwards, the glowing poker held like a sword.
“His name was Duncan.” Kath glided forward, her voice as cold as night. “Take off those boots.” She read his eyes, the way his gaze weighed her and found her wanting.
“Get out!” Anger sparked across his face, so predictable. He leaped forward, the glowing poker arching toward her head, enough power to crush her skull.
Kath exploded in movement. Her sword clanged against the poker, knocking it from his grasp. Swift as thought, she swept the blade down in a classic form known as Slash of the Dragon. Steel cut flesh, slicing through his abdomen, careful to cut just deep enough. “For Duncan!”
A scream rent the chamber. The big man crumpled to the floor, struggling to hold his guts in place. Writhing in pain, a pool of blood seeped across the mosaic, a fatal stain, as ugly as betrayal.
Kath wiped the gore from her sword. “A mortal wound but your death will be slow and painful, as befits a traitor.” She flicked a glance back toward Bear and Boar. “I want his boots.”
The two painted warriors sheathed their weapons, and then knelt, yanking the boots from the writhing corpse.
Zith pushed his way through the crowd. “What have you done?” His gaze swept the chamber, his face going pale. “At least kill him and be done with it.”
Kath pulled a dagger from her belt and dropped it at the monk’s feet. “If you want him dead, kill him yourself.”
Bear handed Duncan’s boots to her. She hugged them to her breast. The traitor’s screams growing feeble behind her, the smell of shit fouling the chamber.
Zith stepped close, his voice a whisper. “Revenge is a bitter road.”
“Revenge?” Kath shook her head. “I call it justice.” She moved towards the hallway. The crowd parted, opening a path to the door, but Kath barely noticed. She walked with her head down, Duncan’s boots clutched close to her heart. “There’s too little justice in Erdhe.”
14
Baldwin
A roar ripped though his mind, the roar of an angry dragon hungry for blood, the roar of his sword. The sound drove him to a killing frenzy. Baldwin slashed and spun, the black sword cutting a deadly arc. Nothing could stop him, not swords, not battleaxes, not chainmail. Like a whirlwind he tore through the enemy, fueled by the insatiable roar filling his mind.
And then the roaring ceased.
Silence, blessed silence, Baldwin staggered to a stop. He bent double, gasping for breath, blowing plumes of mist into the crisp mountain air. And then he noticed the blood. Blood everywhere, sprayed on his surcoat, splashed on the snow, crimson against white. He’d done it again. “Gods!” Exhausted, he sank to his knees, closing his eyes against the gore. Half afraid to look, he shook his head in denial, but he needed to know the truth. Through hooded eyes, he dared a glance. Relief shuddered through him. At least this time, all the dead wore black.
A patrol of sixty or more, not just dead, but hacked to pieces, slaughtered, butchered to a man. The dead rebuked him, staring with lifeless eyes. How could one man defeat so many? But in his heart, Baldwin knew the truth. It wasn’t him, it was the sword. A cursed blade, so dark it seemed to drink the light, starving for blood, starving for death. The dark steel seemed to vibrate beneath his hands, as if it yearned for more. Baldwin shuddered to hold it, a strange mixture of fear and lust. A weapon of legend, it made him more than just a man. It made him fearless. It made him invincible. It made him…evil! Something snapped inside of him. “No more!” With a roar of defiance, he stood and hurled the blade
into the forest.
Suddenly empty, he crumpled to his knees. Like a fighter who’d taken one too many punches, he flopped back onto the snow. His hands shook with a terrible palsy and sweat poured out of him, a mere mortal once more. As soon as the blade had left his hands, he’d felt drained, diminished…but he also felt cleansed. For the longest time, he lay statue-still, staring at the sky, remembering what it was like to be merely Baldwin, the king’s squire, a candidate for the maroon. Such a small ambition, a part of him wondered that it had ever satisfied him.
Dark wings circled overhead. The crows began to arrive, dropping out of the sky to feast on corpses. One landed near his boots, pecking at a dead man’s face. Appalled, Baldwin flapped his arms to scare it away, but the dark bird was relentless. Fluttering its wings, it hopped away, seeking another corpse, intent on the grizzly feast. Disgusted, Baldwin climbed to his feet. Yelling like a madman, he ran in circles till he tripped over a severed head. Snow stung his face like a cold slap. The crows cawed in victory, claiming their meal. Beaten by their numbers, Baldwin let them eat. After all, he was the killer, the provider of the feast, while the crows merely sought to survive.
Survival, his own hunger came roaring to the fore. Ravenous, he ransacked the dead. Finding half loaves of bread and dried meat and even a pouch of raisins, he stuffed the food in his mouth, taking swigs from a half-empty wineskin. It seemed of late he could never get enough, especially meat, he craved meat. Always hungry, he searched for more. Wine dribbled down his chin, he wiped it away with the back of his hand, surprised to find the red peach-fuzz on his face had grown into a prickly beard. Manhood at last, but it also meant his boots had begun to pinch and his chainmail tugged at his shoulders.
A pair of crows cawed, squabbling over a string of intestines. Annoyed, he sent the birds a glare. “There’s plenty for all,” and then his own words sank in: so many dead, so many boots to choose from. At first he hesitated, but then he told himself it was no different from taking food. He scavenged a shiny pair of knee-high boots from an officer, supple and black with plenty of room for his toes, and then took a chainmail shirt from another. Spying an especially fine pair of gauntlets chased with silver and lined with wolf fur, he took them as well, a good fit, with just a hint of blood on the fur. Another corpse yielded a dagger worked with a snarling gargoyle on the hilt. And then he found a shoulder harness embossed with garnets, a fitting scabbard for the black sword. The sword, he shuddered at the thought. Could he really leave the sword?
The Knight Marshal (The Silk & Steel Saga) Page 9