Toward the rear of the lines, he found the master healer working among the wounded. Somehow the pudgy healer had loaded the worst of the wounded onto a half dozen wagons, along with a smattering of supplies, cured hams and casks of ale. Because of the healer, the men ate this night.
“You did well, Quintus.”
The healer looked exhausted, dark smudges under his eyes, smears of blood on his brown robe, yet he kept working. “We do what we can.”
“How did you know the Mordant would come with monsters and magic?”
The healer shrugged. “All the tales say so.”
“Yet, they’re nothing but tales.”
“Most tales carry a kernel of truth, else they’re soon forgotten. All the tales of the Mordant say the same things.” The healer looked up, firelight flashing golden in his eyes. “The Mordant is evil and his favorite weapons are cruelty, deceit, and magic.” He shrugged. “I expect you know that.” He finished wrapping a bandage on the arm of a wounded knight and then rose, wiping his hands on his robe. “But you didn’t come to ask about the songs of bards.”
“No. The Mordant will come on the morrow.”
“Will you fight or flee?”
They all asked the same question. “What would you do?”
Quintus shrugged. “I’m a healer not a fighter.”
“But I’m asking anyway.”
The healer stared at him, as if weighing the question. “You won’t defeat him without magic. And if you believe the Kiralynn monks, then you shouldn’t even try to kill him without the crystal dagger.”
“Yeah, well the gods didn’t gift us with any weapons of magic, just steel and blood and courage.”
“Then you’ll lose.”
Anger flared within him. The marshal turned away. But the healer reached for his arm, holding him back. “Fly to the hills and wait for other allies. Live to fight another day. You have more friends than you know.”
“Allies? What allies?” The marshal’s anger boiled to a rage. “When we stood atop the walls and faced the dark horde no other banners came to our aid.”
The healer blanched and the marshal felt ashamed, the man deserved better. He softened his words. “You’ve served the Octagon well. At first light take the wagons east to Castlegard. You’ll find sanctuary there.”
“Are you saying they’ll be no more wounded?”
The marshal did not answer.
“I’ll send the wagons with the worst of the wounded, but I’m staying. We all have our work to do.”
The marshal nodded, the pudgy healer had his own brand of courage. “As you wish.” He turned away and made his way back toward the king’s campfire, but his footsteps were slow and his thoughts troubled. He didn’t like the healer’s talk of defeat…yet the man had been right more times than naught. Still, the Octagon had fared better than he had a right to hope. It was hard to tell in the dark, but he figured two thirds of his forces had survived. Tattered and weary, driven from the walls with few supplies, yet most of the men had found their way to the third wall. It seemed a miracle that so many still lived but he knew the walls were the true reason for their numbers. Without the stout walls of Raven Pass, he doubted the maroon would last a day against the Mordant’s hordes. The third wall, the Whore, offered little protection, but little was better than none.
He reached the king’s fire and took a seat amongst the other captains. Sir Abrax handed him a mug of tea. He sipped the bitter brew, grateful for the warmth.
Baldwin sat cross-legged beside him, polishing the king’s armor. The great war helm gleamed in the firelight, silver surmounted by a golden crown, untarnished by the ragged retreat. The marshal watched the lad work, knowing the value of symbols. Courage and pride were bound deep into the men of the Octagon, but he wondered if it would be enough.
“So what do you think?” Sir Rannock asked the question, but the marshal wasn’t ready to answer. Instead, he stared across at the king.
Clad in scarred fighting leathers, King Ursus cradled his blue sword in his arms, staring into the blazing fire. His silver hair was disheveled to a wild mane, his face graven with lines of grief, but his green eyes gleamed cold and keen. Perhaps the ragged retreat had shocked the king back to his senses…but the naked hatred blazing in the king’s gaze left the marshal cold. He was relieved the king was back in command but he feared the blazing hatred would lead to reckless decisions.
“So what do you think, fight or flee?” Sir Rannock worried the question like a hound with a bone. The marshal might have shrugged it off but he felt the king’s gaze.
Taking a deep breath, he plunged into a roundabout answer. “I figure two-thirds of our men survived the retreat, more than we have any right to hope for, but a thin defense against the Mordant. And most of them have few supplies. With careful rationing, we might have two meals before we start to go hungry. And while we have most of the horses, only half have saddles and tack. And the archers have no arrows, so we’ll get no support from them.” He paused to take a deep breath. “I’ve half a mind to send the archers, the squires, and the wounded back to Castlegard. No sense risking those who can’t fight.”
“I’m not going.” It was Baldwin, the king’s squire.
“You’ll do as your ordered.”
The red-haired lad shook his head, a stubborn look on his face. “I swore to serve the king and I’ll keep my oath.”
Before the marshal could utter a reprimand, the king raised his hand. “Enough. Such courage will never be turned away for it is the very bedrock of the Octagon.” The king stood, his sapphire sword gleaming in the firelight. “Send the wounded and the archers back to Castlegard, but the rest will stay.” He stared at each of his captains, lingering the longest on the marshal. “You’d best get some rest, for tomorrow we meet the Mordant in battle.”
For the sake of the men, the marshal dared gainsay his lord. “Sire, we might do better to harry the enemy from the mountains, biting them in the flanks, chewing them down to size. We haven’t the numbers for a direct assault.”
The king’s control cracked like fine marble…and anger bled out. “We have enough for vengeance. And by the gods, that’s what I’ll have.”
No one dared say a word. The king turned from the fire, disappearing into the dark. The moon rose in the sky and still the marshal sat unmoving. No one spoke. Someone honed a sword with a whetstone, the rhythmic scrape of stone across steel sounding loud in the night, holding dread at bay. So there would be a battle tomorrow. The inevitability settled across the marshal’s shoulders like a heavy yoke. He knew the other captains would not protest. The men would follow the king to hell and beyond…but he feared the morrow. True they’d have a wall to fight behind, but the Whore would provide little protection, especially against the Mordant’s endless hordes. The marshal pulled a whetstone from his belt pouch and began to sharpen his sword, the sword of a dead knight, another fallen hero. There’d be plenty of blood on the morrow, but the outcome seemed assured, for the odds did not favor the Octagon. If the maroon knights fell beneath the Dark tide, then what hope did Erdhe have?
52
Blaine
Kath took two steps and crumpled to the ground. Blaine leaped forward but he wasn’t quick enough. Still as death, she lay sprawled amongst the shattered gargoyles, dwarfed by the broken monsters. He crouched beside her, calling her name. “Kath!” Ghost pale, her eyes were sunken and her skin cool to the touch. His breath caught with sudden fear. He grabbed her wrist, frantic for a heartbeat. “Don’t leave me.” A faint beat quelled his fears.
The others pounded across the roadway, a horde of blue faced warriors bristling with swords and spears. Bear and Boar led the pack, surprisingly fleet for such big men. Bear arrived first, scooping Kath into his massive arms. “The Svala is hurt!”
Blaine was quick to put him right. “She lives but the gargoyles took their toll.”
Bear pressed his hand to her neck and nodded. “She pays a price for her victory but the Svala will pr
evail.”
Blaine sneered in disdain. Such blind devotion was just what he expected from a barbarian.
A raven faced healer pushed his way through the pack. “Let me see.” He knelt, examining Kath, holding a sprig of crushed leaves beneath her nose, but she did not stir.
“Just like Danya.”
The healer turned to stare at him. “What do you know of this?”
Blaine shrugged. “I’ve seen it before, only not with Kath. It seems magic is a two-edged sword. Such power exacts a price. She’ll sleep like the dead but when she wakes she’ll be fine.”
“Sleep for how long?”
Blaine shrugged. “Hard to say.”
Torven, the eagle-faced warrior took charge. “We dare not linger. Feldon and Brent, we need a litter. Tingold pick ten men and do a sweep on this side of the gate. We must be away.”
Tattooed men leaped to their orders, quiet and efficient. A pair of badger faced warriors used spears and blankets to build a litter.
Blaine sidled close to Torven. “Kath said to send the signal, to call the army.”
Torven flashed a fierce grin, looking more like an eagle than a man. “The Svala has gained a great triumph. None will doubt her now.” He turned to the others, barking a brisk command. “Grenfir, send the signal. Let the council know of the Svala’s victory.”
An owl faced warrior sped toward the nearest pedestal. Climbing to the top, he stood perched among the fractured legs of a ruined gargoyle. A small square of polished silver flashed in his hands, sending a coded signal back toward the Ghost Hills.
Torven clapped Blaine on the back. “There’ll be much rejoicing in the caves tonight. It was a good day when you brought the Svala north.”
That strange name again, bandied about like a title. Blaine cast a sideways glance at the eagle faced warrior. “What does that mean, Svala?”
“It is an old word, an ancient hope, a legend from another time. One of our first Taishans foresaw the coming of a woman warrior, a champion to end the slavery of our people.” He stared at Blaine, his face thoughtful. “In your words, a queen of swords.”
A queen of swords! He’d heard those words before, from Sir Tyrone when he spoke of the fortuneteller on the Isle of Souls. Blaine shook his head; it was all just superstition, they needed to survive the steppes. “How long before a patrol comes?”
“Hard to say. This gate is the farthest north and the least used. We might have more than a fortnight or merely hours.” Torven studied the sky. “The clouds are low. We best hope for snow to cover our tracks.”
“How many in a patrol?”
“At least a hundred spears on horseback.”
A hundred was way too many, especially mounted. “Then we best be away.”
“Aye, we must move fast and be twice as vigilant. The lands of the Mordant are fraught with danger.” Torven moved among the men, urging them to their tasks.
It did not take long before Kath was tucked into the litter, wrapped snug in sheepskins. Bear and Boar claimed the right to carry her, snarling at anyone who offered to share the burden.
And then they were away, running faster than before. Blaine caught the urgency of the others, feeling the need to get far from the ruined gate. West and then south, they ran at a blistering pace, changing directions for no reason Blaine could see. He settled into a rhythm, the cold searing his lungs with every breath. Hard to believe they ran on land claimed by the Mordant. A spark of pride warmed him; Blaine doubted there was another knight alive who could make such a claim. Yet the land looked the same as the rest of the steppes, frozen grasslands stretching in all directions, a frigid hell.
The sun set in a blaze of reds and still they ran. Blaine struggled for breath, falling behind, running at the back of the pack. Sweat ran in rivulets down his back, his chainmail adding a crushing weight. He wondered how long the others could keep pace.
A painted warrior veered toward him. “Keep up or die.” The gruff voice held no rancor, only a warning not a threat.
Blaine redoubled his efforts, ignoring the savage ache clawing his side.
Twilight vanished in the blink of an eye. Darkness descended like a war hammer and still they ran. Blaine sucked air through his mouth, fighting both the cold and the pain, nearly numb to both. It wasn’t until he ran into another man that he realized they’d stopped. He bent double, desperate to catch his wind.
A hand gripped his shoulder. “You did well for a plain face.”
Blaine didn’t have the breath to respond.
“We’ll make camp here.” He recognized Torven’s voice. “Bringold, Seigen and Tarly take the first watch. The rest of you eat and then into your bedrolls. Tomorrow will be a long day.”
Blaine was too tired to eat. He picked his way through the others till he found Kath’s litter. “Has she woken?”
“Not yet.” Bear’s gruff voice answered. “We’ll keep watch over the Svala.”
“As will I.” Annoyed, Blaine found a spot nearby and dropped his bedroll. Shrugging his harness from his shoulders, he set his sword close to hand. He tugged off his boots but was too weary to remove his chainmail shirt. When the flagon of mead came his way, he took a long drink but he could not be bothered to eat. Desperate for rest, he curled within his bedroll, pulling his cloak up over his head. Sleep claimed him before he’d even shut his eyes.
A scream split the night.
Blaine bolted awake, reaching for his sword.
All around him, men scrambled from bedrolls, reaching for weapons and armor.
Low clouds shrouded the sky, obscuring the moon, too little light to see by. Blaine stood with his back to another warrior, his sword held at the ready, straining to find the threat.
“Where did it come from?”
“To the left.”
Blaine peered into the dark, unable to tell friend from foe.
Another gut-wrenching scream, this time to the right, but there was no clash of steel. It seemed the perfect ambush.
Someone yelled, “A bloody gore hound! A gore hound’s got Seigen!”
Fear spread like lightning. The beast hunted them. The thought shivered through Blaine’s mind. He shuffled backward, needing to feel another man at his back.
A lone howl ripped the night, evoking terror in the dark.
“Stay!” The man at his back whispered a command. “It’s just a diversion.”
A diversion! “You mean those things think?”
“They think and they hate. Gore hounds hunt for the thrill of it, playing with their food before they eat. And they always hunt in packs.”
And we’re the bloody food. Blaine gripped his sword, straining for a glimpse of the beast.
The attack came without warning. A man screamed to his left, a bloody gurgle full of death. Blaine spun, just in time to meet a rush of fangs. He parried the fangs with a warding slash from left to right. Fear lent strength to the cut. Blue steel bit deep, a snarl of pain. Hot blood splashed across Blaine’s face. A claw raked his sleeve but his chainmail held true. Blaine twisted his sword and the thing fell dead at his feet.
He wrenched his sword free and moved to a crouch, standing at the other man’s back, poised for the next attack.
Terror stalked the night.
Blaine strained to see in the dark, every sense on edge.
Somewhere to the left, a man whimpered in pain. “It hurts! It hurts!”
Torven yelled, “Form a circle around the Svala!”
Someone lit a glow crystal, a pale beacon of light. “This way!”
Blaine shuffled toward the light, his sword at the ready. They formed a circle around Kath’s litter, weapons bristling outward, a desperate defense against the beasts.
Another scream, more proof the hounds remained on the hunt.
“It’s eating me!” A man’s voice screeched in the darkness. “Help me!” The voice shrieked in terror. “Kill me!”
The screams preyed on Blaine’s mind. “We can’t just let him die!”
&nb
sp; “Hold your ground!” Torven shouted over the shrieks, holding his men to their positions.
Blood-curdling screams turned to pitiful wails. The victims took forever to die. Snarls filled the night, the sounds of bones being crunched and men being eaten alive.
Sweat trickled down Blaine’s back. Every scream conjured a fresh horror. The night seemed to last forever. Silence eventually prevailed, but the men refused to be fooled. Holding their swords at the ready, they kept their position. The vigil sapped their strength and strained their nerves, but the painted warriors held their ground, as brave as any sworn knights. The dawn light saved them. A glimmer of gold streaked the sky, giving proof that the beasts were gone.
Most of the men dropped to their knees in weariness and thanks, but Blaine staggered forward, needing to know the cost of the fight. Torven joined him, giving names to the dead. Seven men killed, one of them half eaten from the boots up. Blaine looked away, a horrible way to die.
Torven knelt, closing the eyes of the mangled corpse. “Sebold was my friend.” He eased a dagger from the dead man’s hand. “Such torture is deliberate. The cursed gore hounds are nothing but pure hate.”
Blood spattered the trampled grass, most of it human. Amongst the slain they found only two gore hounds. The creatures reeked of evil. Everything about them was wrong. Snout like a wolf and teeth like a saber cat, the cursed hounds were the size of a small horse. Strong and vicious, the twisted beasts were clearly designed to kill. Kicking one with his boot, Blaine made the hand sign against evil.
“I heard you killed one.”
Blaine nodded.
“Good fighting for a bare face.” Torven moved on, scouting the battlefield, Blaine a shadow by his side. The eagle faced warrior knelt among the trampled grass. “Too many paw prints. We’ve caught the attention of a hunting pack.” His face turned grim. “They’ll be back.”
“What about the dead?”
“Food for ravens.”
The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga) Page 42