The Knight Marshal (The Silk & Steel Saga)

by Karen Azinger

  She’d never thought to rule, yet she’d always longed to lead…perhaps the two were the same. An immense weight settled on her shoulders. “I will need your advice.”

  “As long as I live, you shall have it.” He gave her a solemn bow.

  “Thank you.” Kath smothered her rising emotions with a simple question. “And what of you and your scrolls?”

  The monk shrugged. “I’ve mountains to read and little time in which to do it.” A troubled look crossed his careworn face. “But a worrisome pattern is emerging. Many of the scrolls deal with soul magic…and mage-stone.”

  “Mage-stone?” Her thoughts flashed to Castlegard.

  Zith nodded. “The Mordant seems obsessed with mage-stone, collecting every scroll and scrap of parchment he can find on the subject.”

  “To make it?”

  “No, to break it.”

  Fear spiked through her. “Can he?”

  “What the Mordant cannot control, he seeks to destroy, but mage-stone has proven impervious through the ages, a secret only the Kiralynn monks could wield.”

  Zith’s words were meant to be reassuring but a nagging doubt plagued her.

  “The scrolls make one thing certain. The history of Erdhe is very different when written by the Dark.”

  Steel laced her voice. “Then we cannot let the Dark write it.”

  “Just so.”

  “Keep searching the scrolls, for we’ll need every insight and advantage you can glean.” Kath gripped the monk’s arm, intensity in her touch. “We each fight the Dark in our own way. Perhaps something in the scrolls will lead to the Mordant’s undoing.” Straightening her shoulders, she crossed the courtyard, determined to untangle the evil of the Citadel and fashion something new.

  43

  Katherine

  Kath trudged across the great rune-carved courtyard, her maroon band at her back. A cold wind battered against her, flaring her maroon cloak and freezing her breath to frost. Winter held the Citadel in thrall. Despite the bitter cold, Kath was determined to hold court beneath the open sky, as if exposure to the sun’s light could solve the Citadel’s thorny problems.

  Talbert and Conit, two badger-faced lads were busy laying out sheepskins and feeding peat to the braziers. Flames crackled and snapped, throwing off a welcome heat. Greeting the two boys, Kath sat cross-legged on a thick sheepskin, setting her back to the black ramparts, a shield against the knife-sharp wind. Pulling a second sheepskin across her shoulders, she sat hunched, hoarding her warmth. Bear sat to her left, Sidhorn on her right, both men looming large as woolly bears. The rest of her maroon band sat in a crescent around the fire. Her painted warriors shunned chairs, preferring to sit on the open ground. Kath supposed it was a malady of cave dwellers, or perhaps a lack of wood, either way, she complied with their custom.

  Conit produced a wicker basket stuffed with great wheels of bread almost as large as small shields. Kath tore a large chunk before passing it on. Brown bread laden with nuts and raisins, still warm from the oven, Kath savored the honest fare. Mugs of heated honeyed mead made the rounds, an added warmth to chase away the winter chill. Huddled around the brazier, her maroon band shared bread and mead while talking of small things. Kath savored the companionship of warriors. As they broke their fast, the dawn’s light finally cracked the cloud-strewn sky, seagulls wheeling overhead. The tepid sun rose late in the north, as if it feared to show its face.

  All too soon, they finished the meal, a signal for the petitioners to start their stormy deluge.

  “Svala, they come.” Beside her, Bear whispered a warning.

  A few started across the courtyard, but then the petitioners hung back as leaders of the painted warriors swaggered through their midst. Mountain lion, eagle, bear, boar, wolf, fox, badger, hawk and owl, a menagerie of proud predators stared from their tattooed faces. Studded with weapons, they wore a haphazard mix of sheepskins, leathers, and dark armor. Captured breastplates, black cloaks, and dark helms inscribed with pentacles proved the painted people survived the steppes as scavengers. But instead of dented heirlooms, they boasted polished armor embellished with gold. As conquerors of the Citadel, they’d gained much to choose from. Bristling with fresh-won weapons, their captured finery suited their fierce pride.

  Kath stood, her hand on her sword hilt, studying their faces. All were comrades-in-arms, but a few she also called friend. Royce led the pack, a big lion-faced man with a wild mane of auburn hair. Gold glinted on his breastplate, the captured armor of a dead general. Fanggold’s armor was nearly as ornate, a jeweled helm on his head. Aware of her scrutiny, the wolf-faced war leader gave her a savage grin, showing off his captured finery.

  “Svala,” Royce gave no sign of deference beyond the use of her battle-won title, “we have come to parlay with the War Helm.”

  So it was to be a formal meeting, Kath nodded assent. “The words of warriors are ever welcome. Join my fire.”

  The others sat, completing the circle around the fire, a clink of armor and weapons.

  “Svala,” Royce met her stare across the brazier, “you have led us to a great victory.”

  “A great victory,” the others echoed their agreement.

  “Long have we lived in the Citadel’s shadow, always outnumbered, always harried by dark soldiers, but now we rule the steppes!” Royce thumped his chest and the men rumbled agreement. “We’ve gained a victory worthy of legends, fame enough for every warrior.” The men hurrahed and Royce smiled. “And we’ve gained a bounty of plunder, new arms and armor for every man.”

  “And the wine’s good too.” Fanggold gave a loud burp, a sign of deep satisfaction. “And the women are most willing.” He flashed a rogue’s grin.

  The men laughed, pounding Fanggold on the back, but Royce stilled them with a raised hand. “Plunder and pleasure are a warriors due, but too much of it will dull the sword and addle the mind.” His face turned solemn. “We’ve gained a victory long dreamt but never believed. Svala, we’ve come to ask if you still wear the War Helm?”

  Kath froze, caught by the weight of the question.

  Royce leaned forward, his voice intent. “Will you lead us to war, Svala, or will you put the War Helm aside to rule the Citadel?”

  To rule the Citadel, how little they understood. She stared at their tattooed faces, searching for the right words. “We took the Citadel to cripple the Mordant, to rid the north of his shadow. The Citadel belongs to the painted people.”

  “Huzzah!”

  The men cheered their victory, clashing weapons against armor, but she stilled them with a raised hand. “The Citadel was taken not as a spoil of war, but as a second home.” She stared at them, conviction in her gaze. “It is yours to rule. My destiny lies in the south.”

  “The south!” Uneasy mutters rumbled through the warriors, “but what of the War Helm?”

  Kath sensed her painted warriors were as restless with victory as she was. “The War Helm is still mine.”

  Their stares fixed on her.

  “You’ve taken the Dark Citadel but not its ruler. The victory is not complete till the Mordant lies dead.”

  “But the bastard’s gone south.”

  “He fled the citadel, afraid to face our swords.”

  Kath raised a hand, quelling them. “He marched his army south to attack the southern kingdoms.”

  Ringol, the fox-faced leader snarled. “The southern kingdoms are naught to us.” Many nodded their agreement.

  She challenged them with a question. “Do you know why we won?”

  Tarmin, the owl-faced warrior was quick to answer, “Bravery.”

  Another shouted, “Courage.”

  “Daring.”

  “The favor of the gods.”

  Fanggold flashed a toothy grin. “Because we have a bloody lot of sheep and too much audacity!”

  The men roared with laughter, comrades in arms, reveling in the sweet glow of a victory they’d never dreamt possible.

  “All that you say is true, but
it is not the reason we won.” Kath let them chew on her words, waiting till they leaned forward, hungry for an answer. “We won because the Mordant disdained the painted people.” She rubbed salt in the wound. “He scorned your swords.” Venomous looks darted between tattooed faces, but Kath persisted, driving the sword point home. “The Mordant emptied the Citadel of soldiers because he did not see the painted people as a threat. He did not fear you.”

  Anger rumbled among them. “The bastard insults us.”

  “He belittles our victory.”

  “He shames our swords.”

  Ringol thumped his chest. “Yet we sleep in his city and eat his stores while his women warm our beds.”

  “It is not enough,” Fanggold snarled. “He has no honor.”

  Angry murmurs swirled through the leaders.

  Royce raised a hand to still the others. “Svala, what will you have of us?”

  Kath waited till quiet prevailed, and then she unsheathed the crystal dagger, raising it to the heavens. Sunlight glinted on the crystalline blade. “This dagger is meant for the dark heart of the Mordant. I’ll not rest till its finds its true sheath.”

  The men cheered, weapons clashing against bucklers.

  “Svala,” Royce raised his voice above the din, “give us the chance to make the victory complete. Lead us to war, for we’ll follow you to the end!”

  The men stood, weapons raised, shouting a great cheer. “Svala! Svala!”

  Tears crowded her eyes, awestruck that such fierce warriors believed in her when so many others did not…not even her own father. For a handful of heartbeats, she reveled in their acclaim, but then she raised her voice above the tumult. “I see you! I know your true strength, your courage, your unfettered daring! The painted warriors are a force to be reckoned with! You are the sword hidden in the north! The Mordant scorns you at his peril!”

  They cheered her words. Others from across the courtyard came to swell the throng.

  Someone shouted, “Svala! We’ll follow you to the ends of the Erdhe!”

  She raised her voice to a shout. “I will find a way to lead you south, for the greatest victory is yet to come. But you must never follow a leader to the end.”

  They stilled, their stares full of puzzlement.

  “Good leaders find a way to new beginnings, not endings. Follow me to a new beginning, to an Erdhe forever free of the Mordant’s shadow!”

  They cheered her then, drunk on thoughts of victory. She let them celebrate, but when their revelry subsided, she spoke. “Who among you knows a way to cross the steppes in winter?”

  “Cross to the south?”

  She nodded, holding her breath.

  Dark looks passed among them. Finally Royce spoke. “Winter is the season of the caves. To cross the steppes in winter is to court death.”

  It was just as she thought, trapped in the Citadel while the Mordant worked his will upon the south. A crushing weight pressed against her, yet she faced the leaders with iron resolve. “Those who would follow me south must be prepared to leave at a moment’s notice. Each warrior must gather two moonturns worth of rations and must keep his weapons sharp. Any belongings must fit within a single sack. When we leave, we’ll travel light and fast.”

  They nodded their assent.

  “And I’ll not deprive the north of protection. One in every four warriors must stay behind to guard what we’ve gained.” She spoke over their protests. “Lose the Citadel and our victory is for naught.” Kath drilled them with her stare. “Glory resides in holding the north as well as going south. You must decide who will stay and who will go.”

  Her words raised a whirlwind of arguments. Finally Royce spoke for the others. “It will be as you say, Svala.”

  They took their leave, warriors planning their next campaign.

  She’d given them much to think about, but anxiety rode her shoulders. She’d kept her army, but somehow she had to find a way south. Kath stared at the winter-locked steppes, beseeching the gods for help.

  44

  General Haith

  Screams ripped through the tent, proving the torturers plied their work well, yet the answers he sought were slow in coming. Impatient, the general followed the screams across the sullied field. A pair of guards leaped to hold the canvas flap aside. General Haith strode from winter directly into hell. The sudden heat was striking, oppressive with the stink of voided bowels and heated metal, fear ripe with the scent of blood, smells he’d long learned to endure in the service of the Mordant.

  The torturer snapped to attention, a pair of bloody tongs in his gloved fist, but the prisoner had fallen insensate. Naked and spread-eagled, the knight was strapped upright to a metal frame, the torturer’s brutal work written upon his flesh.

  “Rouse him.”

  “Yes, m’lord.” The torturer doused a bucket of dirty water over the prisoner’s head.

  The knight sputtered, licking his bloody lips. One eye was swollen shut but the other roved the tent, fixing on the general. His body stiffened, his nostrils flaring in fear.

  “Yes, you recognize my armor if not my face.” He’d taken to wearing the breastplate of the Skeleton King, a formidable armor steeped in fear. “The time has come for answers.”

  “Told you…what I know.”

  “Not enough, not nearly enough.” The general inspected the table laden with torture devices, pincers, saws, screws, brands, knives, a pear of anguish, and a particularly nasty corkscrew. “So far, you’ve only felt the torturer’s kiss, enough pain to hurt but nothing dismembered. Speak now and you’ll avoid this sordid nastiness, gaining a soldier’s quick death.”

  “Death? That’s all you offer?”

  “You’ll beg for it before Bruthus is done.”

  The knight sagged upon the rack. “I know.”

  “Then tell me what I want to know. Where is the main camp?”

  “Always moving, the marshal…keeps us moving.”

  The octagon king was dead, he’d seen the traitor knight strike the killing blow, but this marshal was proving a capable leader, as elusive as a winter fox. “If you’re always moving, how do you get your supplies?”

  “Scouts.”

  “What else?”

  The knight scowled. “Axe cuts on the trees, marks the trail.”

  Axe marks, an ingenious but infuriating solution. If he sent his men looking for axe marks on trees he’d lose them to the wooded wilderness. The Dragon Spine Mountains were proving a tangled fortress of trails and crags. His force had the superior numbers yet he could not bring them to bear for the killing blow. “I need more than that, or I cannot spare you.”

  The knight stiffened. “Nothing else to tell.”

  “Is your honor worth the pain?”

  The knight said nothing, but fear quaked across his face.

  “Honor is a ruse. A hollow coin paid to dupes. Don’t die a dupe.”

  “Damn you to hell!”

  The general chuckled. “How little you understand. Hell is coming to Erdhe, and I shall sit among the ruling lords.” His voice turned hard. “So will you serve or be damned by your silence?”

  The knight remained mute, sweat erupting on his skin.

  “So be it.” The general flicked a glance to the torturer. “Ply your trade without constraints.” The screams started before he even stepped from the tent. The general crossed the muddied field to the command pavilion. Guards leaped to hold the canvas aside as he strode into luxury. Thick wool carpets cushioned his boots, braziers giving off a welcoming heat scented with cedar chips…but he could still hear the screams.

  His officers snapped to attention, standing around a table strewn with brightly colored maps.

  General Marris said, “What word?”

  “None yet, but it won’t be long.” Striding to the map table, General Haith accepted a goblet of mulled wine.

  General Marris scowled. “We’ve had so few prisoners to work with.”

  “A poor excuse,” yet it was the truth. The octag
on tended to take their wounded with them…or give them the mercy stroke. He stared down at the map, a warren of mountains guarded by stone keeps. “What word from Dymtower and Cragnoth Keep?”

  General Marris answered, “Empty. Ransacked of men, weapons, and food.”

  General Haith nodded. “Why guard the back door when the main gate’s been breached? I’ll wager the other keeps are the same,” he traced a finger west, along the mountains to the inked image of a great castle shaped like an octagon, “except for Castlegard. They must be getting supplies from Castlegard.”

  “Will you order a siege?”

  “We haven’t the time. We need to trap them in the mountains and finish it.” His gaze snapped to Centurion Kirkbee. “What word from the Taal cadre?”

  “Nothing yet, but if the octagon takes the bait, the Taals will smash them.”

  Traps within traps, yet so far, the prey proved elusive. His gaze sought Centurion Erlint. “What of the farms and holdfasts?”

  “We’ve sent patrols ranging along the Snowmelt, seeking their holdfasts. Farms and villages are stripped of supplies and their livestock slaughtered for food. I’ve ordered the men and children crucified, while the women are brought back as spoils of war.” The centurion flashed a lurid grin. “Our soldiers have been most appreciative.”

  The general nodded. “Yes, the men must have their spoils, but I half expected the knights to come to the villagers’ aid.

  “No sign of them, my lord…but a few of the holdfasts were empty, as if they’d been warned.”

  “And their supplies?”

  “Gone.”

  The general glowered. “You disappoint me, Erlint.”

  The centurion stood braced at attention.

  “Perhaps I should have you crucified as an example to my officers.”

  Sweat beaded on the centurion’s face but he had the good sense not to beg. Perhaps Erlint was worth keeping, something to consider.