The Knight Marshal (The Silk & Steel Saga)

by Karen Azinger

  Sir Rannock appeared leading a string of saddled horses. “Sounds like we’ve got a fight on our hands.”

  The marshal swung into the saddle, his ribs still sore from the last battle. “It seems like a never ending fight.” He stood in the stirrups, his voice ringing above the tumult. “A hundred knights to me! The rest of you follow Sir Lothar!”

  The swirling chaos quickly resolved into order. Lothar got the others moving, a long maroon line riding the ridgeline, while the marshal gathered his vanguard beneath the great Stonehand.

  Warhorses stamped and snorted in the cold night air, breathing plumes of frost, eager to be released. On the marshal’s command, his vanguard deliberately milled their horses, creating an army of hoof prints, as if a much larger force stood poised to attack. Satisfied with the ruse, the marshal called them to order. Three rows of knights formed below the Stonehand, poised for the charge. The marshal looked left and right, seeing a grim resolve mirrored in their faces. The maroon line readied for battle, knights tightening their armor, weapons whispering from scabbards. For half a heartbeat, the marshal stared aloft, beseeching Valin. Stars glittered overhead, cold and keen as ice-chips in the moonless night, but if the gods cared, he could not tell. Reaching back, he drew Sir Tyrone’s sword, five feet of good Castlegard steel gleaming sharp in the night, a welcome weight in his mailed fist. Standing in the stirrups, he raised the sword to the heavens. “For Honor and the Octagon!”

  “Honor and the Octagon!” More than a hundred voices roared their answer.

  The marshal spurred his mount to a gallop, the others following behind. Ironshod hooves churned the shallow snow, a jangle of arms and armor galloping over the crest. The line of knights plunged downhill into the waiting darkness, the snow muffling their hoofbeats. The balding mountaintop gave way to a thicket of trees, bare branches snatching at maroon cloaks like feeble hands. The marshal shrugged off their touch, barreling through the thicket. His vanguard formed a deadly wedge, like the armored wings of a raptor stooped to the attack. They plummeted down the steep slope, horses snorting with effort, armored knights clanking, both steaming with heat like otherworldly beasts. Leaning forward, the marshal peered between the trees, seeking the enemy, the snowy landscape bright despite the darkened moon. His grip tightened on his sword, battle lust mixed with anxiety. The steep slope pulled them ever downward, adding speed to their charge. Weapons couched, they rode amongst the trees, seeking fodder for their blades.

  And then he saw them. Clad in horned helms and thick furs, the ogres lumbered uphill like malformed monsters loosed from hell, huffing and puffing gouts of frost. One stopped to sniff the night, bellowing a howl.

  The marshal marked his foe, a towering ogre carrying a massive cudgel. He loosed his warhorse to a full gallop, speed adding weight to the blow. Horse and rider barreled into the beast. His stallion whinnied at the impact, like riding into a stone wall, but then the ogre toppled backward, bowled by the charge. Leaning from the saddle, the marshal struck a two-handed blow. Blood spewed across the snow, hot and foul. He hacked at the beast, desperate to slay it.

  “Behind you!”

  The marshal whirled, narrowly evading a spiked cudgel. He asked his stallion for a rear, ironshod hooves lashing at the ogre’s ugly head. Grunting from the impact, the ogre backed away. The marshal attacked, slashing at the beast’s chest. His blade found flesh, biting deep, but the beast did not die.

  The ogre roared, lashing out. A massive fist struck the marshal’s chest, punching the air from his lungs. He struggled for breath, bruised by the blow. The second blow punched him from the saddle. The marshal hit the ground hard. Stunned, he sprawled on the trampled snow. His warhorse reared overhead, ironshod hooves keeping the ogre at bay. Disarmed, his ribs aflame with pain, the marshal floundered for his sword.

  *Wield me* the voice of the dark sword thundered through his mind.

  “No!” He glimpsed his sword and lunged for it. Hands locking on the hilt, he came up swinging. His stallion bugled, attacking the ogre’s head. The marshal knelt, hacking at the beast’s hamstrings.

  The ogre fell in a roar.

  Ironshod hooves plunged down, delivering the killing blow.

  Spattered with gore, the marshal staggered to his horse. The chaos of battle roared around him. He climbed into the saddle, hewing left and right. Sweat ran in rivulets down his face. Hampered by his helm, he flung it off, needing to see. A nightmare of screams surrounded him. The ogres closed in, smashing with ham-handed fists and massive cudgels. Ducking low, he evaded a spiked club. A knot of four knights formed around the marshal. Surrounded by ogres, they fought back to back, slashing and hacking, desperate to hold the beasts at bay.

  *Wield me!* the dark sword whispered in his mind but the marshal refused. “We need to cut our way out!” Having lost the impetus of their mounted charge, the battle slowed to a slaughter.

  Sir Rannock appeared from the left, ramming into an ogre. The big brute went down, pummeled by ironshod hooves.

  An opening appeared. “To me! To me!”

  The marshal spurred his horse through the gap. The others followed, fighting through the tangle. Breaking free, they galloped downhill into open ground, gaining a respite. The marshal turned his horse. His stallion stamped and snorted, lathered in sweat. Men and mounts were both spent, yet the battle continued to rage on the mountainside. The sound of clashing steel echoed from above, the shouts of men mixed with the bellow of ogres. The marshal could not abandon his men. He looked at the others. Fourteen knights had won free, all of them battered and bloodied. “We need to break the others loose!”

  A charge up hill was usually ill-advised, but he saw no other way.

  “Form a line! We’ll slam into their rear, create an opening and then turn and ride for the meadow.”

  Their horses were tired, lathered and blowing, yet they formed a ragged line. The marshal gestured and the knights put spurs to their mounts. The warhorses obeyed, lumbering uphill for one last desperate charge. Armor and weapons clanking, the knights couched their weapons, riding in grim silence, urging their mounts up the steep hillside.

  Fortune favored the bold, for the ogres never turned. Consumed by battle lust, they kept at the slaughter.

  The ragged line slammed into their rear.

  The marshal used the last of his strength to strike a mighty blow.

  The ogre dropped like a boulder, opening a path to the trapped knights.

  “To me! To me!” The marshal shouted above the tumult. Whirling his horse, he slashed left and right, desperate to hold the opening. Amidst the clashing steel, a horse squealed in terrible pain. He turned at the sound, catching a glimpse of ogres mobbing a fallen horse. Locked in a feeding frenzy, they tore hunks of raw flesh from the still-kicking horse, their lantern jaws dripping a disgusting slaver of blood and guts. The marshal pitied the horse, yet it kept the ogres occupied.

  “Rally to me!” He spurred his stallion into the nearest ogre, attacking the beast with a two-handed stroke. Dark blood spurted from its shoulder, yet the beast roared in defiance. The marshal stabbed his sword into the ogre’s gaping mouth. Teeth snapped shut on steel, as if the ogre would eat the blade, but the marshal had rammed his sword deep. Blood gushed from its mouth. Struck dead, the ogre toppled backward, its great weight nearly dragging the marshal from the saddle. Yanking his sword free, he whirled to find another foe. Scanning the battle, he realized his men had opened a narrow corridor to the trapped knights. Standing in the stirrups, he yelled, “To me! To me!” The trapped knights responded, charging through the gap, some riding double.

  “Away! Away! Ride for the meadow!”

  As the last knight passed, the marshal put spurs to his mount. Fleeing death, they thundered downhill. He spied a knight afoot, stumbling in the snow. Leaning low in the saddle, the marshal extended his hand. Locking hands with the knight, the marshal swung him over his stallion’s withers, grunting at the sharp pain in his shoulder. For three heartbeats, his horse floundere
d under the added weight, but then the warhorse proved his heart, surging to a desperate gallop. They raced downhill, a ragged ride, beating through naked branches.

  Tearing through a dense thicket, they burst into an unsullied meadow.

  The marshal slowed his mount, steam rising from his spent stallion.

  The rescued knight slid to the ground, sprawling in the snow.

  Lathered in sweat, his valiant warhorse lowered his head, sucking air like a bellows about to burst. The marshal slipped from the saddle, staggering when his boots hit the cold hard ground. Ambushed by his own exhaustion, the marshal sank to the snow. Bone-weary, he stared up at the wooded hillside. If the ogres chose to follow, he did not have the strength to fight.

  56

  Katherine

  Kath crouched behind the railing. The great trireme bore down on the Sea Sprite like a many-legged beast. A drumbeat boomed across the closing gap, tolling the time. Oars cleaved the frothing waves with determined menace. Striking the water in deadly unison, they flashed blood-red. A brass ram shaped like a saw tooth protruded from the enemy’s prow. Jagged and keen, it turned the trireme into a fearsome weapon, like the snout of a monstrous beast. Eyes were painted above the ram, as if the ship could see its prey. Kath’s heartbeat thundered. Death rowed towards them with a reaper’s speed.

  So close, the details became clear. She saw the enemy crowding the deck, thrice the number of her own band. Big swarthy men with dark braided hair and forked beards, they hefted tridents and double-bladed axes. Beneath their horned helms, the raiders looked fierce and eager, but Kath judged their armor to be their weakness. Copper scales sewn onto leather brigandines, a meager defense against sharp steel. Outnumbered and unaccustomed to the sea’s bucking motion, her painted warriors desperately needed the slender advantage.

  Kath’s gaze sought her own men. Blaine, Bear and Sidhorn, crouched by her side, the others spread across the deck. Hiding from the enemy, they kept low. Weapons sheathed, they braced for the collision. Twenty-seven seasoned warriors, they’d fought the Mordant’s gorehounds and stormed his Citadel and lived to gain their glory. Mountain lion, eagle, bear, owl, wolf, badger and boar, she claimed them all, fierce fighters and loyal friends, risking their lives on a chancy sea voyage. It seemed the thrice-cursed north would not release them without a blood price. Gripping her gargoyle for luck, Kath whispered a prayer to Valin, grant us victory…and protect my men.

  Beside her, Blaine hissed, “Look at that thing!”

  Oars flashed to a frantic drumbeat, the great trireme bore down on them at a ramming speed. Her gaze fastened on the ram, a jagged saw of hardened brass. So close, it loomed lethal. Kath cringed for the impact, fearing the captain had left it too late.

  “Ready about!”

  Sailors scurried up the rigging.

  “Helm’s alee!”

  Canvas snapped and timbers creaked. The Sea Sprite groaned, heaving violently to the right. Kath gripped her shield and clutched the nearest railing. The deck pitched to a steep angle. Torkin, a wolf-faced warrior, lost his grip, sliding across the deck, headed for the briny deep. Kath lunged for him, her fingertips snagged his, nearly yanking her arm from her shoulder. Refusing to let go, she swung him to the right, aiming for the nearest railing.

  The Sea Sprite smashed into the trireme, a violent blow. The raider’s oars snapped and shattered. Someone shrieked in pain. The two ships hit with a fearsome crunch. Kath was thrown backwards, landing hard, tasting blood in her mouth.

  Grappling hooks arched through the air, impaling the Sea Sprite.

  Kath scrambled to her feet and drew her sword. “Attack!” Racing across the deck, she jumped to the railing and leaped the gap. Shield first, she slammed into the enemy’s ranks, hitting with her full weight. Beneath her, a sea raider crumpled to the deck. Kath got her sword up and lunged for his throat, a killing strike. Hot blood spurted across her hand. Cut and slash, she fought for space, she fought for her life.

  Men screamed and yelled, locked in close quarters. Blood slicked the deck. Kath spun left and then right, evading a battleaxe. The deck rolled beneath her boots, yet she took it in stride. A trident snaked in below her guard, slamming into her side. Her chainmail deflected the triple barbs, but the blow staggered her, knocking her to her knees. A heavy boot stomped on her shield arm, pinning her to the deck. A battleaxe whistled towards her head. Kath wrenched to the right, desperate to twist away, but then Blaine was there, his great blue slicing the axe from the arm. Blood spurted across the deck as the maimed MerChanter staggered away.

  Released, Kath scrambled to her feet.

  Blaine waded into the enemy, bellowing his war cry. “For the Octagon!” Sparks flew as steel clashed against steel. His great blue sword cut a swath through the enemy, hewing limbs from bodies and severing heads from shoulders. None could stand in his path. Kath rushed to fight by his side. The deck rocked beneath her boots, making the footing treacherous. A trident slashed towards her face but she parried the strike with her shield. Sidhorn and Bear joined her. They formed a wedge, following Blaine, hewing into the enemy. Stroke and parry, they forced the MerChanters back.

  More of her maroon band leaped the gap, adding their swords to the fighting wedge.

  The MerChanters bellowed a mighty roar. Surging forward, they fought to reclaim their ship. Packed in the narrow deck, the fighting was fierce. Kath could smell fish oil in the enemy’s braided beards. A wild-eyed raider pressed towards her. Kath ducked beneath a vicious slash of his double-bladed axe. Lunging forward, she buried her sword in his armpit. Howling in pain, he crumpled to the deck.

  Steel clanged and blood flowed. Corpses became obstacles, tripping the living. The MerChanters fought like fiends. Stabbing low with their barbed tridents, they pressed forward.

  Flaming arrows whistled overhead. One stuck the red sails. Overhead, the canvass ignited with a deadly whoosh, flecks of flame falling to the heaving deck.

  The MerChanters howled, redoubling their effort. Jabbing with tridents, they brought their numbers to bear.

  Kath slipped on blood, stumbling over a body. She flicked her shield down, protecting her center while her sword stabbed upwards, slicing a MerChanter between the legs. Bright blood spewed across her arm. Screaming, the man crumpled on top of her. A hand grabbed her by the back of her chainmail, hauling her to her feet. Kath turned to strike, but then stayed her sword.

  Bear steadied her. “Take care, Svala!”

  She crouched beside him, taking stock of the battle. The enemy ship was on fire, the great sail flaming overhead, but too many of the MerChanters still lived. Fighting like demons, their eyes’ crazed, they attacked with tridents and axes, berserkers forcing her men back. Blaine held the center, his blue sword taking a deadly toll, but the warriors on either side of him retreated under the MerChanters’ crazed attack, the wings slowly collapsing under the onslaught. Once the wings collapsed, they’d all die. She had to do something to turn the tide.

  Heat beat down at her, singeing her hair. Kath stared aloft at the burning canvas, a great square of flames, and then she noted the wind’s direction. Her gaze followed the ropes to the ship’s railings. “Bear!” She gripped his arm, pointing. “Cut that rope!” She left him, slashing her way to the far side. Reaching the railing, she hacked at the rope, but her sword had little effect, the blade blunted by the battle. Swearing, she sheathed her sword and reached for a throwing axe.

  Three sharp whistles came from the Sea Sprite, the signal to retreat.

  Fear spiked her. “No! Too soon! Hold the line!” Kath yelled the command, but some of her painted warriors started to retreat. “Hold the line!”

  Kath struck at the rope, desperation lending her strength. The axe proved sharp. The rope parted. She stared aloft. The great sail fluttered and fell. Pushed by the wind, it collapsed backwards onto the MerChanters, a fiery shroud straight from hell. Shrieks erupted from the enemy. Flaming figures writhed beneath the burning canvas, horrible screams raking the air.
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  “Retreat! Retreat!” Kath danced backwards, yelling to her men.

  Three urgent whistles came from the Sea Sprite.

  Her painted warriors began to disengage, rushing for the side railing. Kath waited long enough to see Blaine pull back, his silver surcoat reflecting the flames. Sheathing her axe, Kath jumped on the railing and then leaped across the widening gap. Her jump was short, her fingernails raking the Sprite’s railing. Strong hands grabbed her. A pair of sailors hauled her aboard. More of her painted warriors made the leap. She watched as Bear and Sidhorn reached the Sprite. Torven climbed the railing, a terrible gash on his face. Many bore wounds but they’d live to fight another day.

  “Shove off!”

  Sailors cut the enemy’s grappling hooks.

  “No!” Kath pushed her way to the railing, certain there must be others. “Wait!” Two more painted warriors reached the Sea Sprite. Kath helped pull Torkin aboard. Looking across the widening gap, she saw Blaine on the enemy ship, a wall of flames behind him. Sheathing his blue sword, he leaped for the Sprite…but the gap was too wide. Landing on shattered oars, he made a desperate lunge but fell short. Weighed down by his chainmail, the sea sucked him under.

  Kath saw the horror on his face. “No!”

  A sailor with a rope tied round his waist, dove in Blaine’s direction. The sea thrashed white, but then a hand emerged clutching the rope. Sailors heaved the line, pulling them both aboard. Shivering and sopping with seawater, Blaine collapsed on the deck, gasping for breath.

  Kath sagged in relief.

  The distance between the ships widened.

  The trireme burned like an inferno. Flaming figures dove from the enemy ship, plunging into the foaming sea. Most sank like rocks but a few heads bobbed among the waves, shouting for help. Dark fins appeared in the churning water. A streamlined shadow cruised beneath the waves, circling the survivors. One man yelled, a single horrid shriek, and then disappeared in a thrash of blood.