“We did it!” Kath grinned with excitement.
Her maroon band cheered a mighty bellow.
Blaine gripped her arm, pointing west. “Look!”
Kath stared beyond the ship. Sails filled the bay’s mouth, too many to count…all of them bearing Navarre’s colors. “The ships of Navarre have come north!” Tears glistened in Kath’s eyes, sundered by the unexpected miracle.
“You did it! You found a way south!” Blaine swept her into his arms, planting a kiss on her lips.
Shocked, she stiffened at the ambushed intimacy, but Blaine did not seem to notice.
Setting her back on her feet, he turned and cheered with the others.
Kath backed away, needing to gain some distance. She ran into Bear, a wall of muscled armor at her back.
“Svala, are you well?”
His question brought her back to the moment. The ships of Navarre had come north, and nothing else mattered. “We need to greet them, lest they change their minds.” She returned to the rampart, peering over the edge, craning to see a way down.
Fanggold said, “This way, Svala.”
Abandoning the trebuchet, she followed the wolf-faced warrior down and around the Citadel’s spiral streets. Blaine and thirty warriors ran behind, sounding like a legion pounding at her back. They raced down through the tiers, garnering sharp looks and questioning stares, but they did not slow. The citadel’s immense size took its toll. Puffing like bellows blowing frozen plumes into the cold morning air, they reached the bottom tiers. Slick with sweat, Kath counted the gates. By the time they reached the ninth tier, a sharp ache pierced her side. Kath slowed, too winded to speak.
A pair of painted warriors saw her and leaped to open the north gate.
Gasping for breath, Kath ran through the last gate. A bone-chilling wind struck from the west, icy fingers piercing wool and leather and flesh. Beyond the dark ramparts, the cold seemed twice as killing. Shivering, Kath tugged on a pair of gauntlets lined with wool. “Which…way?”
Fanggold gestured to a cobbled pathway leading toward the sea.
The pathway led straight over a sheer basalt cliff. Kath staggered to a stop, staring down. Giant stairs were carved from the cliff, wide enough for six men abreast, but there was no railing, a deadly drop to the crashing waves far below. Snow encrusted the stairs, adding to the peril. Stone gargoyles crouched at the outer edge of every tenth step. Cloaked in ice, they glared at the sea like demonic sentinels keeping watch.
Staying close to the cliff side, Kath dared the stairs, trailing one gloved along the dark rock. Seagulls roiled overhead, their startled cries calling a warning. Her boots slid on ice. She clung to the cliff, regaining her balance. Bear grabbed her arm, holding her till she regained her footing.
The stairs seemed to go on forever. Kath wondered how many men had died carving them from the sheer cliff, more proof of the Mordant’s cruel power. Nearing the bottom, she felt the rock shudder beneath her boots, assaulted by the sea’s strength. Massive waves pounded the shore like thunder. Kath winced at the sea’s ferocity, so different when viewed from the cliff tops. She’d learned to swim in the placid waters of Castlegard’s moat, but this ocean seemed like a thing alive, like a wild beast pummeling the shore. Kath marveled that anyone dared to sail the sea. A huge wave pounded the lower steps, throwing up a veil of salt spray. Slick with sea-slime, the lower stairs grew treacherous.
Bear took her arm. “Careful, Svala.”
They reached the bottom and found a round battlement carved from the dark cliff, icicles clinging to the ramparts like monstrous teeth. A salt-encrusted catapult kept watch, a smaller set of stairs leading down to a dock. Built of dark stone, the dock jutted from the cliffs at a sharp angle, angry waves battering the far side. The salty breath of the sea hung heavy in the air.
Kath took the stairs down to the dock…and skidded to a stop.
The ship was there, sails furrowed, looming over the dock like a bucking sea monster. Swarthy seamen lined the railings…and all of them held swords.
Kath raised her empty hands, yelling to be heard. “We bid you welcome!” She scanned the sailors, pleased to see a few women among them, but one stood out. The emblem of Navarre embroidered on her leather jerkin; she stood tall and shapely, with bright red hair tied at her nape. Her hand on her long knife, she met Kath’s stare.
“In whose name do you welcome us?”
Kath smiled. “In my own! I’m Kath of Castlegard and these are the painted warriors of the far north. Together we’ve taken the Mordant’s Citadel.”
Tension bled from the woman’s stance. “Then my sister spoke true.”
“Your sister?”
“Jordan of Navarre.”
Kath pounced on her sword sister’s name. “Jordan! Is she well?”
The woman nodded. “She came down from the mountains with visions from the gods.”
“Visions?”
“Jordan convinced the king to send the merchant fleet north. She said you’d gained a great victory at the Mordant’s Citadel but all would be for naught if you do not find a way south.”
“Jordan knows of our victory?” Kath gaped at the revelation, feeling the hand of the gods.
The woman nodded. At a gesture, two seamen lowered a plank. Agile as a squirrel, the woman leaped to the plank and walked it with ease despite the ship’s rocking sway.
Kath met her at the base. “You must be Juliana. Jordan spoke of you often.”
“Juliana of Navarre, captain of the Sea Sprite.” She flashed a warm smile and Kath saw the resemblance.
“Then we are well met.” They clasped arms like warriors. Kath smiled with relief. “Your coming is a godsend for we do indeed need a way south.”
Juliana sobered. “That’s why we’ve come, but the northern seas are perilous, we dare not tarry. We need food and fresh water and then we need to be away. To linger here, is to court death.”
A shiver of dread pricked Kath’s soul, a warning that time was short. “Come, we’ll share meat and mead while your ship is replenished, and then we’ll be away. We’re anxious to leave the north.” Juliana joined her, climbing the great stairs. A gaggle of sailors and painted warriors trailed behind. Hungry for tidings, Kath riddled the captain with questions. “Tell me of the south.”
Juliana told a harrowing tale. A vicious holy war had nearly defeated Lanverness while deadly treachery took its toll Navarre. Poison, war and religion ran amok in the south, yet the captain made no mention of the Mordant. Sifting through the details, Kath listened for all that was not said. She found it hard to believe that the oldest harlequin remained dormant while Darkness stalked every corner of Erdhe. A cold dread grew in her heart. Having seen the Dark Citadel, Kath knew what the Mordant was capable of. Gripping the crystal dagger, she flicked a glance toward the setting comet, fearing the sands of time were nearly run out.
50
The Knight Marshal
A campfire blazed bright at the base of the great stone hand, illuminating the ancient statue. Winter stars wheeled overhead in the cold night sky, distant and indifferent, the slivered moon nearly snuffed to darkness. Nearly dark, the marshal used the dark of the moon as a beacon, summoning the scouts and stragglers to Stonehand, a chance to reunite his forces.
Leaning towards the fire’s soothing warmth, the marshal soaked up the heat, taking supper with his captains. Firelight flickered across weary faces working hard to chew their meal. The roasted horsemeat was tough and stringy yet it was better fare than anything they’d had in a long while. Second helpings were served and mugs were refilled with mulled wine. Silence reigned yet beneath it the marshal heard a clamor of questions. Just two days ago, they’d witnessed a slaughter-field of ogres and the shattering of a blue steel sword, nightmares a man did not soon forget. Decisions needed to be made, but not this night.
Weary beyond telling, the marshal finished his meal, chewing the gristle till it turned tasteless. Spitting the last of it upon the fire, he savored the s
mell of sizzling meat, and then levered himself to his feet, suppressing a groan. Bruised and battered, his entire body ached. Feeling the weight of stares, he bid his captains a good night and forced himself to walk without betraying the aching stiffness.
A make-shift camp had sprung up around the great stone hand. Rough structures of branches and canvas and shields crowded the snow, providing meager shelters for his men. At the heart stood three great pavilions brought from Castlegard by the stewards, relics of tournaments past. By rights, the largest should be his alone but the men needed shelter almost as much as they needed food. A pair of guards snapped to attention. Acknowledging their salutes, the marshal ducked beneath the canvas flap, ambushed by the sudden warmth of so many bodies. Stale sweat and woody soot clung to the warmth in a smothering mix. Men slept crowded on the floor, sending up a bevy of snores. A brazier glowed in the center, shadows flickering across the sleeping forms. The marshal stepped between them, making his way to the curtained room at the back. A second pair of guards stood watch, hands on their sword hilts. The marshal met their stares, repeating his orders. “None to pass without my express command.”
“Yes, sir!” the guards answered in unison, two of his best.
Twitching the canvas curtain aside, he entered his private quarters. His worried gaze sought the bundled sword lying on the floor, relieved to find it untouched. The cursed sword belonged in a locked chest, or better yet, drowned in the deepest lake, but that was a problem for another day.
Desperate for sleep, the marshal stumbled past the armor stand to the pallet piled high with furs. His squire had been busy, his polished armor gleaming upon the stand like a champion awaiting battle. A pity his aching body did not polish nearly as well. Feeling bruised and dented, he sank down upon the bed, too weary to even undress. “Martyn attend me!”
He heard a rustle outside the canvas walls and then a towheaded lad appeared at the canvas flap. “Yes, my lord?”
“My boots.”
His squire knelt, easing his boots from his feet. Nimble fingers worked to remove the marshal’s surcoat and padded jerkin. At the tender age of eight, the flaxen-haired lad was way too young to wield a sword but his gaze betrayed his dreams, always returning to the bundled sword. “Is it true what they say, my lord? Is it really Boric’s blade?”
Lightning-quick, the marshal reared up. “You’re not to touch it!” Grabbing the boy’s shoulders, he shook him to emphasize his words. “Do you understand?”
His squire stared white-eyed like a startled colt.
“You’re never to touch it!”
“Yes, m’lord.”
He released the boy and his squire stumbled backwards, his face claimed by shock more than fear. The marshal eased back on his pallet, pulling the furs across his aching body. “It killed Baldwin.”
“The king’s squire?”
“Yes.”
“Just because he touched it?”
In many ways, it was the truth. “Yes.”
Martyn swallowed, his face going solemn. “Then I swear not to touch it.”
“Good. I’ll hold you to your word. Now get to your bed, I won’t be needing you till morning.”
“Yes, my lord.” The lad disappeared beyond the canvas curtain, leaving the marshal finally alone. His gaze roved to the bundled sword, a promise and a threat. Even wrapped in furs, its siren’s call whispered through his mind, offering a promise of glorious victory. “Lies, you spew lies.” Turning away, he made the hand sign against evil while pulling the fur coverlet over his head. Weary and aching, he sought sleep, but images of the slaughtered ogres haunted his mind. Such a powerful weapon, such a deadly trap, he tossed and turned beneath the furs. Exhaustion clung to his body yet his mind refused to rest. Sleep eventually claimed him, but in his dreams he won every battle and the color of his sword was darkest black.
“Have you died and gone to Valin?” The rough voice prodded him almost as much as the smell. Roast horsemeat, his stomach growled, rousing him from sleep. The marshal pried his eyes open. “Lothar, this better be important.”
“I need your leave to enter.” His friend’s voice came from beyond the canvas.
“Given.”
Lothar ducked inside, juggling two plates heaped with roast horsemeat and biscuits smothered in gravy. “Rumors were starting to circulate that you’d died in your sleep.”
The marshal sat up, pulling a padded tunic over his head. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve slept clear through the day. I’ve brought your supper.”
“What?” The marshal stared at the pavilion’s outer walls, shocked to find the canvas reflecting the brazier’s light, a telltale sign it was dark outside. “An entire day?”
“Just so.” Lothar shoved a plate into his hands. “You clearly needed it. What in the Nine Hells were you thinking when you attacked Baldwin?”
“I wasn’t thinking, I was surviving.” The marshal rubbed his face, scratching the extra growth of stubble. “I’m getting too old for this.”
“Aren’t we all? Eat, you’ll feel better.” Lothar sat cross-legged on the floor, methodically devouring a plate of horsemeat drenched in onion gravy, but his gaze kept stealing to the bundled sword. The marshal knew what was on his friend’s mind, but he delayed the subject, talking instead about smaller things. “Have you selected the supply squad?”
“Ready to ride at first light.”
“You chose the fresh-made knights?”
Lothar nodded, “Just as you ordered.”
“Good, give them a chance to live before battle claims them.” Suddenly ravenous, the marshal shoveled a mouthful of horsemeat chased by a bite of biscuit. “And Sir Abrax and Baldwin, I want their names added to the list for the Chronicler.”
“Already done. When the squad returns to Castlegard their names will be inked on the Roll of Honor.” Lothar stared at him, his voice querulous. “But why Baldwin? He slaughtered three knights and tried to kill you! Why does he deserve to be among the honored dead?”
The marshal snapped with anger. “Because he served the maroon. I should never have burdened a mere squire with that sword.” He shook his head, remembering the slaughter field. “Even tainted by the cursed blade, Baldwin gave the Octagon a great victory.”
“If you truly honor what he did, then use the sword! If a mere squire can kill sixty ogres, what can a champion do?”
“How many patrols have we lost?”
“What?”
“You saw Baldwin’s mismatched armor. Who’s to say he only fought the black?”
Lothar’s eyes widened. “You’re clutching at straws.”
“Am I? I crossed swords with him. I saw the madness in his eyes.”
Stubbornness rode his friend’s gaze. “The sword is a god-given gift.”
“From which god?”
“With Boric’s blade we could turn the tide of war!”
“Boric’s blade was sapphire blue, not sin-drenched black!”
Lothar sputtered.
The marshal pressed the attack. “And who will wield it?”
Lothar stared like a man being robbed of a dream.
“Baldwin fought like a demon instead of a man. That sword changed him, corrupted him.”
Lothar’s voice dropped to a harsh whisper. “We’re losing the war.”
The truth hurt like a thousand sword cuts. Wounded, he stared at his friend.
Lothar raked a hand through his graying hair. “Yes, we win battles, and your strategies of ambushes have stretched the lives of our men, but we both know we need something more, something to level the numbers and turn the tide. Boric’s sword could be the answer.”
“No, it’s tainted, it’s cursed. Whoever wields it will become demon-damned.”
Lothar stared at him and then at the bundle-wrapped sword.
A surly stillness settled between them.
Lothar gave him a measuring look. “I will wield it.”
“Are you mad?”
“No, listen
. I’ll go alone, keeping the sword under wraps until I reach the enemy’s main camp. Only then will I wield it.”
“The sword is cursed. It’ll drink your soul.”
“How do you know?”
The marshal could not answer, unable to speak of the whispering voice.
Lothar scowled. “Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps the dark-damned sword will drink my soul, but not before the enemy is slaughtered and the war won.” Lothar gave him a ragged look. “I’d trade my soul to save the maroon.”
The marshal sighed. “I know.” He shook his head, his voice laden with worry. “You might destroy an army…or you might spawn something worse. You heard Baldwin. With that demon-cursed sword in your hand, you’ll yearn for a crown. And then who will stop you?”
His friend met his gaze. “You will.”
“What?”
“You slew Baldwin.”
The marshal looked away. “A lucky strike.”
“No, something more. We all saw it. The black blade shattered the blue steel sword like it was glass, but not your blade.” Lothar shook his head, his face glazed with wonder. “Your blade remained whole, an ordinary sword of Castlegard steel. Why?”
The marshal shoved his plate aside, his hunger suddenly fled. “I don’t know.”
“You know something; I saw it in your face.”
His friend knew him too well. Stalling for time, the marshal drew a deep breath. “When the supply squad returns to Castlegard, I want another name added to the Roll of Honor.”
Lothar gave him a flinty look. “Who?”
“Sir Tyrone.”
Lothar stared at him, as if trying to place the name. “The knight they burned in the signal tower of Cragnoth Keep?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“It’s his sword I’m wielding.”
Lothar raised a bushy eyebrow brimming with questions.
The Knight Marshal (The Silk & Steel Saga) Page 29