Gambling that his prey would make a dash for the wall, he wasted no time searching for tracks. Intent on speed, he flew across the grasslands.
The wall loomed large with every passing league. He scanned the trail, praying for a glimpse of the deserters. Overhead the storm clouds thickened, a brooding menace but no rain fell. Perhaps the hunt still had a chance.
At twilight, he saw them; a gleam of armor clustered on the trail ahead, four soldiers jogging toward a break in the wall. Time had almost run out.
Deciding to attack from the east, Duncan moved into the tall grass. A final sprint put the enemy within reach of his longbow. He nocked an arrow and he paused, fighting to slow his breathing. With the wall looming close, he needed to make every arrow count. Judging the wind and the distance, he raised the longbow. His muscles strained against the mighty yew, drawing the bow to a curve. A fat raindrop slapped his face, speeding his pulse. Ignoring the threat, he focused on his prey. He loosed the bowstring, sending an arrow into the sky. As if pierced, the clouds broke, releasing a sudden downpour. Seven more arrows soared into the crying sky, defying the rain.
Cursing the weather, he unstrung the bow, putting the bowstring deep in an inner pocket, next to his heart. Wiping the length of yew with a soft cloth, he slipped a leather cover over the bow, tying the end tight, desperate to keep the wood dry.
A scream split the twilight sky; at least one arrow had found its mark.
Lightning forked the dark clouds unleashing a torrent of rain, as if the gods had turned against him.
Duncan jerked canvas covers over his quivers and reached for the captured sword, hefting its weight. The short sword felt awkward in his hand but it was the only weapon left to him. He ran toward his prey, determined to finish the hunt.
Rain beat against his face, soaking his wool cloak, muting his senses, another advantage lost. His boots squelched in puddles but they kept his feet dry. Tightening his grip on the sword, he raced through the downpour. Wary of an ambush, he slowed as he reached the edge of the trail.
Only three! The words pounded through his mind, a warning and a curse.
One man lay dead, while a second writhed in pain. A third soldier knelt to tend the second, his back to Duncan…but where was the fourth?
Risking ambush, Duncan lowered his bow to the ground and crept toward the third soldier, the captured sword poised to strike.
Lightning cracked the sky.
The soldier whirled as if warned, his sword rising to meet the attack.
Steel met steel, a mighty clang that competed with the thunder. The soldier glared over the crossed blades, his eyes full of hate. “I’ll have your head!” He disengaged and lunged, releasing a flurry of blows.
Duncan danced away, using the captured sword as a shield, doing his best to parry the rain of blows.
“Fight, you cat-eyed bastard!” The soldier sent a slashing blow toward Duncan’s face.
Duncan twisted away, narrowly avoiding the blade. Stroke and parry, slash and dodge, the archer evaded the sword but he had no attack, he was no swordsman trained to the cut and parry. Sweat trickled down his face as he strove to avoid the soldier’s blade. A sword stroke whispered close to his chest, slashing at his leathers, drawing a thin trickle of blood. Duncan danced back, desperate for a way to take the soldier’s skill out of the fight.
The soldier flashed a feral grin, his eyes gleaming with confidence. Brandishing his bloody blade, he leaped forward with an overhand cut. Duncan raised his sword in a two-handed grip. The two swords met in a furious clash. Like rams locked in battle, they grappled, steel straining against steel, feet churning the ground into mud.
Duncan saw his chance, a risky ploy. He dropped his own sword and wrestled for control of the other blade. Lashing out with his boot, he caught the man’s shin with a wicked kick. Grunting in pain, the soldier slipped and fell. Duncan followed him to the ground, throwing his weight on top. Rolling in the mud, they fought for the blade. Slippery with blood and rain, they grappled one on top of the other. Duncan got his left hand free, reaching for the dagger at his belt. Struggling to hold the sword at bay, he positioned the point under the man’s breastplate, aiming a desperate thrust deep into the belly. The soldier’s eyes widened, his mouth gaping in a silent scream. Shuddering, he arched his back and lay still.
Duncan pulled the dagger free and slit the man’s throat, needing to be sure. Blood filled the puddles as he staggered to his feet. Tilting his head back, he drank the cold rain, letting it run across his face like tears, thankful to be alive.
A moan of pain pulled him back to his purpose.
The second soldier writhed in the mud, a feathered shaft protruding from his chest.
Duncan knelt by the wounded man, a veteran with streaks of gray in his beard. “Where’s the fourth soldier?”
The veteran fought for each breath, his face wracked with pain, but his gaze was still clear. “You won’t…catch him.” Triumph filled his face. “The Citadel…will hear…of the witch.”
A dagger of fear sliced through Duncan’s belly.
The soldier laughed, bubbles of blood foaming at his mouth.
A flash of steel silenced the laughter…but not the threat. Duncan sheathed his dagger and then retrieved his longbow. Picking up his discarded sword, he raced north, desperate to catch the last man.
15
The Knight Marshal
Silent as death, they sat in the council chamber, awaiting the captains, waiting to learn if a demon lurked inside of a friend. The marshal stared at the monk, a fierce resentment growing inside him. How easily this stranger spoke of treachery, casting suspicion on friends and comrades, men he’d fought beside in battle, men he’d trusted with his life. He clenched his fist, fighting the urge to reach for his sword.
The marshal knew his king felt the same, yet his lord hid his rage well. Stern and unwavering, King Ursus sat at the table, a chiseled look on his face, his stare fixed on the monk.
Perhaps the monk understood, for he turned away, offering his back to the room. Wrapped in robes of midnight blue, the monk drifted toward the shuttered window. Lifting the latch, he eased the shutters open, admitting a cold wind, a bitter breath of winter.
No one complained.
The sudden cold suited the chill of the room.
Candles flickered against the wind, casting an uneven light. The king’s great sword gleamed upon the tabletop, a promise and a threat.
No one spoke.
Minutes seemed like hours.
A knock at the door broke the spell, a bustle of noise from the hallway. Prince Griffin was first to arrive, followed by Godfrey. Bold and confident, the two princes mimicked their father, blond-haired warriors dressed in fighting leathers, maroon cloaks at their shoulders. Griffin started to speak but one look at his father’s face silenced him. The grim mood proved contagious. Wood scrapped against stone as the two princes took seats at the table.
The others came by ones and twos, the captains and the champions, big men bristling with weapons, maroon cloaks spattered with mud, answering the call of their king. Sir Dalt, the captain of Ice Tower, Sir Rannock, the champion of the morning star, Sir Odis, the champion of the lance, they tramped into the chamber, mud on their boots, the smells of sweat and horse clinging to their wool cloaks. Eighteen men answered the summons. Caught by the grim mood, they asked no questions. Veterans of many battles, they crowded into the chamber, standing behind their king, taking sides against the stranger.
The marshal knew them all, some of them friends, all of them brothers-in-arms, warrior-knights dedicated to the maroon. He studied their faces, wondering if a demon lurked among them, but the monk’s accusation seemed hard to believe, a stain against their honor.
Sir Lothar flashed a questioning glance his way, but the marshal kept his face impassive, better to let the king explain.
Silence prevailed, like a lull before the battle. The fireplace snapped and crackled, spitting sparks onto the stone floor. Knights fing
ered their weapons, every stare locked on the monk.
Alone, on the far side of the chamber, the monk stared out the window, his dark hair ruffled by the winter wind.
The king spoke, “My council is assembled.”
The monk turned, his face pale in the candlelight. “All of them?”
“All save three captains who remain at their posts along the Domain; Ulrich is at Cragnoth, Boris at Holdfast, and Clemet at Castlegard.”
“So be it.” The monk’s gaze circled the chamber, as if searching the soul of each man. Raising his right hand, he revealed the tattoo of the Seeing Eye. “Seek knowledge, Protect knowledge, Share knowledge. My name is Aeroth, a sworn monk of the Kiralynn Order. I come to you on the brink of war, bringing warning of a dire plot by the Dark Lord, a deceit designed to defeat the Octagon.”
A murmur of anger ripped through the chamber.
The monk reached into his pocket, revealing the crystalline shard. “A prophecy warns of a harlequin hidden among you, a servant of the Dark Lord wearing the face of a knight.” He raised the crystal aloft, candlelight reflecting off the milk-white facets. “I ask each of you to hold this crystal in your naked hand. If it remains dormant, it proves you walk in the Light. If it glows bright red, it proves a harlequin hides beneath your face, a demon disguised as a knight.”
“Demons!” Sir Dalt made the hand sign against evil.
A murmur of outrage rippled through the room. The captains cast uneasy glances at the monk, their hands at their weapons.
King Ursus leaned forward, stretching his open hand across the table. “I will be the first.”
The monk had the grace to look embarrassed. “Majesty, it is not necessary.”
The king’s fist banged the tabletop, his voice a roar. “Of course it’s necessary! You come here speaking of treachery. Your words stain the honor of us all.” The king skewered the monk with his stare, his voice a command. “Give me the shard.”
The monk moved to the table. Leaning forward, he offered the crystal to the king. Their hands met over the sapphire sword. The king took the crystal and held it aloft. The shard remained dormant. A sigh of relief rippled around the chamber.
Godfrey was the first to speak. The youngest among them, his voice burned with righteous indignation. “How dare you test our king! How dare you come here and impugn the honor of the Octagon!”
The king turned toward his third-born son, a glint of approval in his eyes. “You’ll soon learn the monks dare much. But if the Octagon is to be tested, it’s fitting the king be first.”
But the prince was not mollified. His voice brimmed with outrage. “We spill our blood guarding the southern kingdoms!” He stabbed an accusing finger at the monk. “By what right does a weaponless monk dare judge us?”
The marshal stared at the prince, fearing he protested too much.
“Enough!” The king’s roar echoed through the chamber. “By my order, each of you will take this test, but never speak of it past these walls.” His stare scoured his captains, slaying any protest. He turned towards, his third-born son. “We lead by example.”
Godfrey glowered, but then bowed under the weight of his father’s stare. He accepted the crystal, holding it aloft. The marshal held his breath, but the shard remained dormant, a dagger-length of milk-white crystal held in the prince’s fist.
The king said, “And now Griffin.”
Godfrey passed the crystal to his older brother. Griffin took the shard and held it aloft. “It sleeps.” He turned to pass it to the next man.
The monk intervened. “Remove your glove.”
Griffin shrugged. “It matters not.”
“Remove your glove.”
A snarl filled the prince face. “Curse your crystal.” Erupting from his chair, he hurled the shard at the monk. Quick as lightning, he unsheathed a dagger and held it to his brother’s throat. “Back, all of you!”
The marshal drew his sword, a stab of horror at his heart. Not the king’s son!
Weapons sprang from scabbards, a thicket of steel surrounding the prince.
Godfrey struggled, a wild look in his eyes, but the dagger drew a line of blood at his throat. “Father!”
“Godfrey!” The king stood, knocking over his chair, his face a blaze of disbelief. “Don’t harm my son!”
The knights growled, tightening the cage.
The demon retreated, setting its back to a wall, holding the younger brother like a shield. “Keep back, or I’ll kill him.”
“Do as he says.” At the king’s command, the knights came to a stop, their weapons raised in a ring of steel.
Only the marshal inched forward, seeking a way to save the younger son.
“All of you keep back.” The demon glared at the marshal. “You too, old man.” Holding the dagger to Godfrey’s throat, it shuffled toward the door, its back pressed to the wall. “Drop your weapons.”
The king gestured and the captains complied, a rain of steel hitting the stone floor.
Empty-handed, the marshal sidled to toward the door, desperate to stop the demon.
The king took a step toward his sons, his hands spread wide in entreaty. “Griffin don’t do this. Fight this monster and release your brother. I know you’re strong…”
“Strong!” The thing that was Griffin snarled. Evil leached onto the prince’s face, a twisted look of pure hatred. “Your son is weak, a slave crushed beneath my will. For twelve years I’ve worn this face and you never knew! I ate at your table, diced with you, , sparred with you, listened to your petty plans, but none of you knew! None of you knew!” It laughed, a cruel sound full of spite. “Shall I let you speak to your precious son? To prove he’s held captive to my will?” For half a heartbeat, the face went slack, and then it filled with life, a deep intelligence blazing from the eyes. “Father, I’m sorry!” Pleading eyes stared at the king. “Don’t let it keep me. Let me die a knight.” The words came in a rush. “Kill me to kill it!”
“No!” The monk screamed a warning. “You dare not kill it!”
Griffin gasped as if strangled. The gasp turned to a snarl of rage. The demon was back. “Listen to the monk! You cannot kill me.” It dragged Godfrey toward the door, a hostage held at knifepoint.
The marshal stood across from the beast, his back pressed to the edge of the table, desperate for a weapon. And then it came to him. Slow and stealthy, he groped behind his back, seeking the hilt of the king’s blue sword.
The demon reached the door, a look of triumph on its face. “You want a prophecy? I’ll give you one.” Its eyes blazed with hatred. “The Dark Lord will crush the Octagon! He’ll take your pride, then he’ll take your precious honor, and then he’ll crush you with defeat. The Octagon will be forgotten, while I live on!” It pulled Godfrey close, the dagger nicking the prince’s neck. “My name is Shmailgren! And I am the bane of the Octagon!” Its voice rose to a shout. “Behold, for I bring you despair!” The dagger bit deep, slicing halfway through Godfrey’s throat.
“No!” The king’s roar echoed through the chamber.
The younger son gasped, a bloody froth at his throat.
The blue sword came to the marshal’s hand. Without thought, he lunged, putting his full might behind the thrust. The sapphire blade struck true. Cleaving chainmail and leather, it struck straight through Godfrey’s heart and into Griffin, driving all the way to the wooden door.
Impaled upright, the demon gasped, a look of surprise on its face. It stared at the sword hilt. “I have not failed.” The demon’s face twisted into a triumphant leer. “I will live…again!” Its eyes burned red, like twin lanterns lit from hell. And then the demon was gone, the malevolent spirit snuffed out like a candle. But the spark of life was not entirely extinguished. For half a heartbeat, the true prince stared from his eyes, his gaze seeking the king. “Honor…always.” And then the face fell slack, the spark of life gone.
Two princes impaled on one sword.
Both dead.
Horror filled the room. D
arkness had struck at the Octagon’s heart.
A single tear bled down the king’s face.
The marshal gaped, like watching a hairline crack ruin a fine steel sword, a death knell in the midst of battle.
“My sons!” Grief-struck, the king staggered to the door. He gripped the sword hilt and yanked it free, hurling the blade across the room. Blue steel clattered against stone.
Released, the bodies slumped forward. The king caught his sons and cradled them to his chest. He wept and the sound shattered the chamber.
The marshal fought despair, knowing the demon had struck a perilous blow.
One by one, the captains turned away, shaken by horror, disarmed by the king’s grief, a seed of doubt in their eyes. Even the stalwart Sir Abrax turned away.
Doubt in their eyes. The captains doubt their king. The realization struck the marshal like a dagger in the back. Desperate to stem the rot, his gaze circled the chamber. A gleam of sapphire caught his gaze. The king’s blue blade lay abandoned on the floor. As if the blade called to him, the marshal strode toward the sword. Lifting the great sword, he turned to face the captains, a flash of sapphire blue in the candlelight. “Darkness shall not defeat us.” He lifted the sword like a holy talisman, his words full of conviction. “The king’s sword will never fail. Like blue steel, the Octagon will never bend, never break, never grow dull. We are the sword and shield of the southern kingdoms.” His gaze roamed the captains, willing the doubt away, seeking the strength within.
Pride returned with a rush of defiance. The captains reached for their weapons, a gleam of steel raised in salute. “For Honor and the Octagon!”
The shout broke through the king’s grief. He raised his head, a smear of tears on his face, a smear of blood on his leathers. For a moment, he looked old and confused, but then his gaze settled on the monk. “You!” His finger stabbed like an accusing sword. “You knew all along! You knew and you did nothing!”
The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga) Page 14