The marshal shot his friend a piercing stare. “Damn knee doesn’t like the cold.”
“And I trust you kept Sir Abrax on your blindside.”
The marshal scowled. “I’ve been fighting with one eye for longer than Abrax has fought with two.”
“More reason you shouldn’t be leading the sorties.”
Anger spiked the marshal’s retort. “The men don’t have a king. They need victories and they need an example.”
“You’ve given them both, let the captains take the risk.”
“The king always led from the front.”
Lothar glared, “You said yourself that this is a different sort of war, a game of hounds and foxes. The maroon can’t afford to lose you.”
The marshal’s chest still ached from the battering, but he was damned if he’d admit it. “We’ll need to change tactics anyway.”
“What do you mean?”
“This is the fourth double ambush. They’re bound to learn.”
“So you think they won’t come?”
“No, they’ll come.”
“Why?”
“Because of Raven Pass.” Lothar raised a bushy eyebrow but the marshal forestalled his question. “That battle’s been scratching at my mind like a splinter. Think about it. The Mordant sent his hordes against our walls, but he sent them without cavalry, without catapults, without siege engines of any sort. He let the hordes hurl themselves against unbreakable walls for nigh on a week before he ever loosed his foul magic against our gates.”
Lothar’s gaze widened. “Fodder. He uses men like fodder.”
The marshal nodded. “He’s got the numbers but he does not care how he spends them…but that makes no sense unless…” his voiced dropped to a deadly whisper, “unless this war is just a feint.” The idea had been festering in his mind like an open sore. Troubled, the marshal stared at his friend.
“What do you mean, a feint?”
The marshal shrugged. “I’m not sure, just a nagging suspicion.”
“A vast horde just a feint? It makes no sense.”
“Unless it’s one part of a larger battle plan.”
Lothar gaped. “You mean another horde? One horde is more than we can handle.”
“No, something else.”
“Then what?”
“That’s what plagues me. I’ll be damned if I know.”
Lothar fingered his battleaxe, his face troubled. “How do we defeat such a foe?”
The marshal had no easy answer. “We do what we can.”
Lothar scowled, stirring the ashes. “A war of attrition…except we’re the ones getting nibbled to death.”
They sat in silence, hunched over the dying embers, the snow falling around them like a curtain. Other knights approached, taking seats around the dead fire. They all knew the battle plan so there was no need to speak of it. Instead, they traded words about small things, remembering better meals and warmer beds. The marshal listened, heartened by the camaraderie. Hungry, cold, and badly out-numbered, yet the maroon remained unbowed, determined to fight. Warmed by pride, the marshal took a whetstone to his great sword, taking comfort from the steady rasp of steel against stone. A mere hour passed before a scout came running. “They’re coming!”
The marshal looked up. “So soon?”
Breathless, the scout nodded.
“How many?”
“Jansen reckons six hundred and they’re all afoot.”
“By the nine hells!” Lothar swore, “How’d they assemble so many so quickly?”
The marshal gave his friend a warning glare. “Their tactics are changing.”
The scout blurted the rest. “They’ve brought their hellhounds.”
A cold silence blanketed the men.
Sir Abrax said, “So do we run or fight?”
A circle of stares as thick as spears surrounded the marshal. The odds were bad, but better than facing the horde. “This battleground is of our choosing. We stand and fight.” The marshal raised his sword. “For the king.”
“For the king!” The men saluted and then scattered to their horses, making adjustments to girths and armor. The marshal pulled on his gauntlets and swung into the saddle. Lothar rode on his right, Sir Abrax with his blue sword on his blindside. The maroon formed a column behind, five knights across and over sixty deep. They carried no banners and blew no horns. The pomp of war had died in Raven Pass. Like iron forged to steel, the knights rode as pure warriors, intent on killing.
Spurring his horse to a trot, the marshal led them to the pinch point, to the narrow throat of the valley, and then he reined his horse to a stop. Unsheathing his great sword, he stared across the valley floor.
At first there was nothing but white.
Snow drifted into the valley like gently blowing veils. Evergreens darkened the steep hillsides, a counterpoint to the white. So peaceful, so deceptive, but then he heard it. A deadly howl knifed the valley. Eerie and chilling, it sent a primal shiver down his spine. His warhorse shied, but he settled it with his knees. And then he saw them, dark shapes erupting from the snow. Like hounds loosed from hell, they tore across the valley floor. Tongues lolling, teeth bared, spiked collars around their necks, the shaggy beasts slavered as they ran, howling for the kill. Larger and more vicious than wolves, they reeked of evil, deadly demons fashioned into fur.
“Steady!” The marshal watched them come, keeping a tight rein on his horse.
Howling like the damned, the hellhounds ran at a ground-eating lope. Halfway across, the archers loosed the first volley. Growls of pain erupted from the pack but none fell. More arrows rained down, a deluge of feathered shafts. The marshal expected carnage, but it took multiple arrows to fell a single hellhound. The pack thinned to half. The remaining beasts kept coming, slavering for the kill.
“Better to meet them at a gallop.” The marshal raised his sword. “For the king!”
“For the king!” the war cry echoed through the maroon.
The marshal spurred his horse. The bay stallion leaped forward, churning the snow to a gallop. Behind him, the maroon knights surged, thundering to a charge. Spreading wide like armored wings, they swept across the valley floor. “For the king!” Visors snapped closed and lances lowered, a solid wall of armored knights galloped to meet teeth and claws. The marshal picked a foe, a massive hellhound with a single arrow protruding from its shoulder. Leaning forward, he aimed a blow for its head, but the beast swerved at the last moment, avoiding the blade. Shocked, the marshal nearly lost his seat. A second hellhound charged. Claws scrabbled against his saddle. The beast lunged, dagger-sharp teeth snapping for his face. Too close to bring his sword to bear, the marshal punched its snarling snout. His mailed fist hit a solid blow. Squealing, the brute dropped to the ground, slithering under his stallion’s belly. His horse reared, hooves lashing. The marshal sought to control his mount while frantically searching for the hellhound. It lurked behind, hunched for a rear attack. The marshal whipped his sword around. The beast’s own leap impaled it on the blade, spitting it through the mouth. Teeth snapped shut, gnawing on the sword. So close the marshal could smell its fetid breath, he locked stares with the beast, shocked to find a knowing hatred in its gaze. “By the gods!” The marshal yanked his sword from the toothy maw, kicking the cursed carcass away.
Lifting his visor, he took stock of the battlefield. Chaos swirled around him, a primal battle of steel against claw. Hellhounds howled and horses screamed, thickening the air with fear. Nearby, a hound pulled a knight from the saddle. Clawing the helmet open, it savaged the knight’s face. The marshal spurred his horse to a charge, his great sword descending in a reaping blow. The blade struck deep, severing the beast’s spine. Yelping, the brute collapsed, but the knight was already lost, his face nothing but a bloody maul.
The marshal reined his mount to a halt, searching for another foe, but all the howls were silenced, replaced by squealing horses. A dozen writhed in agony, ironshod hooves churning in pain. Half as many knights la
y savaged, but the cursed hellhounds were vanquished, their blood darkening the snow.
“They’re coming!”
The marshal snapped his gaze to the far end of the valley. A swarm of black-cloaked soldiers poured down the mountain trail. Howling vengeance, they came at a run.
The battle of beasts was done; it was time to slay men.
17
Katherine
Kath tossed and turned, besieged by the need to escape the north. Twisting beneath the wool blanket, she found no answers and she found no peace. Her glance speared the lead-paned window but it remained stubbornly dark, proof it was too early to rise.
A fist pounded on her door.
Startled, she reached for her sword, steel slithering from leather.
The pounding continued, hard and incessant.
“Coming!” Kath cracked the door and cast a wary glance into the hallway.
Blaine grinned back at her. Clad in chainmail beneath his surcoat, his great sword rearing over his shoulder, he looked ready for battle. “I’ve heard rumors of another a nest.”
His words made no sense. “A nest?”
“A nest of acolytes and priests, they’re infesting the palace.”
Kath rubbed the last remnants of sleep from her eyes. “And we need to do this now?”
His grin widened. “Catch the bastards while their sleeping.”
She might as well fight priests as wrestle blankets. “One moment.” Ducking back into her chamber, Kath hastily finished dressing. Swirling her maroon cloak around her shoulders, she strapped on her throwing axes, belted her sword to her waist and made sure the crystal dagger was secure in its sheath. Touching her mage-stone gargoyle for luck, she stepped from her sleeping chamber.
Bear and Boar waited in the hallway with Blaine. Both painted warriors wore mismatched armor, most of it black and gold, scavenged from the enemy. In defiance of their scavenged colors, they wore tattered strips of maroon cloth tied like proud talismans to their right biceps, the symbol of her personal guard. Hands on weapons, they nodded to her. “Svala.”
Kath shrugged. “It seems were hunting priests and acolytes before the morning meal.”
The two warriors flashed feral grins as if they preferred blood to bread.
Swayed by their enthusiasm, Kath gave them an answering grin. Tossing a quizzical look to Blaine, she said, “Where?”
“The throne room.” He turned and strode down the marble hall, setting a brisk pace.
The throne room, Kath shivered, making the hand sign against evil. Disgusted by the oppressive palace, she’d made a conscious decision to avoid the Mordant’s throne room, yet somehow Zith knew. The monk nagged her to see it, arguing she needed to understand her opponent, yet Kath found endless excuses to delay. Perhaps this was fate’s way of getting her to confront her true enemy. Her hand on her sword hilt, she marched through the shadow-choked corridors, following Blaine to the throne room. All too soon, they reached the great bronze doors.
Thrice the height of a tall man, the double doors bore a massive pentacle inlaid in gold, the symbol of the Mordant. Gripping her sword hilt, Kath nodded and Bear put his shoulders to the cold bronze. The great doors slowly swung silently open. Blaine took a torch from the wall and stepped inside.
Kath gasped, daunted by the sight, like nothing she’d ever seen.
Built of mitered stone, the cold immensity of the basilica seemed impossible. A vast domed ceiling vaulted overhead, but instead of airiness it held a brooding darkness. Pierced by the first faint rays of morning light, the sunbeams died before ever reaching the marbled floor, strangled by darkness. Twisted pillars upheld the dome, everything built of dusky-colored stone. Dark and dominating, the scale was brutal, the heavy gloom hammering down, crushing mortal souls into submission. Kath’s footsteps faltered, slowing to a stop. Vast and dark and brutal, the basilica felt soul-numbing.
“Coming?” Blaine strode down the central aisle, using his flaming torch to light candles on either side. Even the candles were massive, six foot pillars twisted and deformed. Screaming faces pressed through the pale wax as if souls of the damned writhed within, striving to break free. Remembering the gargoyles gates, Kath wondered if the twisted candles were soul traps. Shuddering, she made the hand sign against evil.
Blaine continued down the aisle, seemingly indifferent to the nightmares sculpted into wax and stone.
Candlelight illumed the path forward. Built of cloistered stone, the basilica was cold as a tomb. Pulling her maroon cloak close, Kath followed the knight into the gloom. Even her footsteps were diminished, swallowed by the cavernous space. Everywhere she looked, Kath saw opulence cunningly contrived to oppress mortal supplicants. And then she noticed the marble floor. Names were written upon the basilica’s floor. Most were unfamiliar…but then she recognized a few. Names of battlefields lost, castles betrayed, and cities plundered, forever cast in stone beneath the Mordant’s boot heels. The names inscribed the length of the basilica, a litany of pain and loss and suffering. Bile rose in the back of her throat. So this was the Mordant’s plan for Erdhe, to be forever trod beneath his boot heels, subject to his dark rule.
“Come, Svala.”
Bear’s voice pulled her deeper into the basilica. Gold gleamed in the distance, torchlight illuming the details. Hammered gold clad the stairs rising to the Ebony Throne, enough wealth to feed a kingdom for a year, used for nothing more than adornment beneath the Mordant’s boots. Kath shuddered at the cruel hubris of dark power.
Blaine prowled along the back wall, his torchlight beating back the gloom, searching for hidden doorways…but Kath was drawn towards the throne.
Unable to avoid the countless names inscribed upon the marble floor, she reached the dais and stared up at the throne. In the Mordant’s treasury crypt, she’d longed to sit upon the winged throne, but this was different, very different. The Ebony Throne repulsed her.
Sit upon the throne, the thought shivered through her mind like a command. Kath shuddered at the words, yet she found herself climbing the dais stairs. Drawing closer, she realized the massive seat was carved from a single block of wood. Jet-black with rich swirls of emerald green in the ebony grain, the throne must have been carved from the heartwood of a great grandfather tree. Duncan would have hated this throne, nature twisted to the service of Darkness. Sickened by the abomination, she made the hand sign against evil.
Kath stood before the throne, dwarfed by its scale, wondering what secret powers it harbored. With a single finger, she dared to touch the throne.
Nothing happened.
The ebony wood was smooth and cool beneath her touch.
She cast a sideways glance at Bear and Boar. They waited at the foot of the dais, stalwart and stoic, their torches casting islands of light.
Taking a deep breath, Kath dared to sit upon the Ebony Throne. Expecting magic, she cringed, hugging her maroon cloak close.
Nothing happened, the throne remained dormant…but then the very stones began to groan.
The great basilica shuddered and shook, another tremor from the depths, as if the demons raged at her sacrilege, but the throne remained dormant. The tremors slowed to a stop, a sprinkle of dust falling from the domed ceiling. Bear coughed, the sound swallowed by the return of the basilica’s brooding silence.
Seated upon the throne, Kath drew a deep breath and stared out at the basilica. So this is the Mordant’s throne. Exulted above the great space, she took in the whole of it, from the vast vaulting darkness looming overhead, to the wealth of gold beaten into the dais, to the river of names carved the length of the marble floor. Invincible power wrought into stone…the Mordant’s chilling challenge hammered against her with the force of a battering ram…but within the details she found the monk’s potent message whispering through her mind. How many deaths in the river of names? How many souls lost to Darkness? How much pain and suffering for glory of the Mordant? This is what he would make of Erdhe, a vile temple to Darkness built on suffering. Kath realize
d she’d embarked on a struggle that was far more than an ancient prophecy, far more than justice for Duncan, it was about the brutal enslavement of all of Erdhe. It was the Battle Immortal, the struggle of Light against the Dark. Shivering with desperate resolve, she gripped the crystal dagger and bowed her head, praying to Valin for the strength to prevail.
Something snicked in the darkness.
Something metal slammed into the throne where her head would have been.
Kath glanced up to find a dart embedded in the ebony wood.
“Svala!” Bear and Boar dropped their torches. Weapons unsheathed, they sprang up the dais, standing in front of her. “Assassin!”
Bear’s warning jolted her to action. Leaping from the throne, Kath drew a throwing axe. She peered into the gloom, searching for the enemy. Something clad in black scuttled down a massive column, clinging to the marble like a cockroach. “There!” Her axe whirled, metal striking marble with a harmless clang. The assassin dropped to the floor, landing in a crouch. Elbows and knees bent, he looked like a giant spider, death lurking in the shadows.
Somewhere in the back of the basilica, she heard Blaine’s shout and the clash of steel.
Bear and Boar attacked. Bellowing a war cry, they charged the assassin, weapons raised for the kill.
The assassin remained crouched. Lifting a slender tube to his blackened face, his cheeks puffed.
“No!” Kath hurled her last axe.
Snick, time seemed to slow.
Her axe whirled, end over end, gleaming in the torchlight.
Unsheathing her sword, she raced to follow her axe.
Something struck near her heart.
Snick, the assassin blew again, and then he lurched away, but he’d waited too long. Her axe took him in the chest, releasing a spray of blood across the dusky marble. Bear reached the fallen assassin, his sword pressed to the enemy’s throat.
Boar uttered a strangled cry and crumpled to the ground.
“No!” Kath veered away, racing to Boar. “Not you too!” Falling to her knees, she cradled his head, horrified to find a dart embedded in his throat. Yanking the dart free, she flung it into the gloom. Such a small wound, a pinprick of blood, yet the big man shuddered and shook, his skin turning clammy. “We need Zith!”
The Knight Marshal (The Silk & Steel Saga) Page 11