Kath slipped her sword from its scabbard. They crouched in the shadows, tensed for battle. Bear and Boar loosed their slings, a quick whirl followed by a sharp crack. The two guards dropped, felled in their tracks, and then everything erupted in a blur of motion. Bear and Boar raced for the gate while Kath guarded their backs. The big men put their shoulders to the massive crossbeam, straining to open the gate. Blaine led the others up the stairwell, attacking the archers on the barbican.
“Who’s there?” A shout rang from the ramparts, followed by a scream.
A crossbow bolt whistled into the courtyard, but it struck only stone.
“Hurry!” Kath stood in a crouch, holding her blade at the ready, searching the shadows for enemies.
Boar grunted, struggling to lift the massive beam.
Shouts rang from the ramparts. A man screamed and a body tumbled from the walls, landing with a thud on the cobblestones. Kath flicked a glance toward the corpse, relieved to see a stranger’s face. “Hurry!”
A door crashed open and more guards poured out.
“They’re coming!” Kath tensed, tightening her grip on her sword and shield.
A troop of guards raced towards her, their weapons bared.
Behind her, the massive beam crashed to the cobblestones. The gates creaked open.
“They’re coming!” And then the fight was upon her. She parried the nearest sword thrust. Steel clanged met with a fearsome clash. The brutal blow shuddered down her sword arm. Kath pivoted away, slashing toward her opponent’s knees. A second sword flashed towards her neck. Spying the blow from the corner of her eye, she pulled away at the last moment. Sweat erupted beneath her chainmail. Badly outnumbered, she lurched backward, keeping her shield raised, too many to fight. Slash and turn, she gave ground, trying to blunt their attack.
And then the others came. With a wild howl, her painted warriors poured through the open gate. They roared into the guards, pushing them back, leaving a trail of death in their wake.
The battle swept past Kath. Sheathing her sword, she ran to nearest torch. Wresting it from its bracket, she leaped towards the gate. Standing in the open mouth, she waved the torch back and forth, once, twice, thrice.
A howl erupted from the steppes. Her army was coming. Tossing the torch aside, she unsheathed her sword and ran to join the others. “For Castlegard and the Light!” She raced up the cobblestone street, torchlight glinting on arms and armor. The battle for the Dark Citadel was begun.
62
Katherine
The night became a confusion of swords, a running battle fought in the streets. The cobblestones ran slick with gore. Kath fought in the vanguard, struggling to push the guards up hill. One step at a time, they claimed the street, a bloody clash of steel.
A sword stroke rushed towards her face. Kath took the blow on her shield and then lunged forward. Her sword found an opening, severing a guard’s hand. Another guard leaped to take his place. All around her, swords rang to a furious beat. Men in sheepskins battled men in armor. Her rag-tag band of painted warriors fought like demons, pushing the soldiers back, their fury defeating discipline. But Kath knew fury was fleeting. She urged her warriors forward, desperate to break the guards.
Beside her, a painted warrior slumped to the cobblestones, a feathered bolt lodged in his back. More bolts rained down. The street became a deathtrap. “Push them back!” She redoubled her effort. They needed to get away from the gate.
Feathered bolts hissed among them. More warriors fell. Some clutched arms and legs but there was no time for the wounded. Once begun, the battle was to the death.
The fighting was fierce, a desperate struggle on both sides. Men yelled and screamed. Wounded crawled away, trailing slicks of blood. Horns blared, adding to the confusion. Kath screamed her battle cry, “For the Light!” Bear and Boar fought beside her, a sword on her right a spiked mace on her left. The big men dodged in front, taking a blow aimed at Kath. Fighting like lions, they forced the guards to give ground, but not fast enough. Crossbow bolts hissed from the wall, bleeding their ranks from behind.
Somehow Blaine found her. Screaming his battle cry, “For the Octagon!” he pushed his way to the front, cleaving a path through the enemy. His blue sword cut like a scythe, driving the enemy back, but still the guards did not break.
Footsteps thundered from behind. Painted warriors poured through the gates, joining the fray, their tattooed faces savage in the torchlight. Like a relentless tide they pounded up the street, adding their numbers to the vanguard, a battering ram pushing from behind. The line surged forward, trampling the wounded. The guards gave ground…and then they broke and ran.
“For the Light!” Kath led the charge.
Her painted warriors gave chase, howling like banshees.
The cobblestone street curved upward, taking them beyond the reach of the deadly crossbows. Houses crowded close, creating a canyon of stone. Doors slammed shut all along the street. Grim faces peered from half-shuttered windows. The people of the citadel neither hindered nor helped. A smoldering rage erupted in Kath. She longed to drag the watchers from their homes and convince them to fight, but she dared not stop. The tides of battle were fickle. The advantage had swung to her side and she needed to ride the wave all the way to the top.
Someone howled like a wolf and the others took up the cry, as if a rabid pack stalked the citadel. Stone walls echoed the sound, multiplying their numbers. Tattooed faces leered in the torchlight, hungry for vengeance.
Their savagery had the intended effect. All resistance melted away.
The guards fled, disappearing into side alleyways. Kath kept her men together, refusing to be lured into rabbit warrens. Weapons held at the ready, they pounded up the main street, a relentless army of savage-faced warriors grinding their way toward the top.
The street curved around a bend, spilling into a second courtyard. Another gate blocked the way, a gleam of armored soldiers on the ramparts. But the torchlight revealed an obstacle of a different sort. Brown-robed citizens clogged the courtyard. A frightened mob pounded on the gates, demanding sanctuary. A black-robed priest stood atop the barbican, exhorting the people to fight. “Stay within your tier! Protect your homes! Take up arms and fight! Kill the invaders and your reward shall be great!”
Kath’s army slowed to a crawl, crowding the mob from behind. She leaned toward Bear. “Can you reach the priest with your sling?”
“Yes.”
“Then wait for my word.” Kath raised her voice to the crowd. “Why do you listen to the priests, when they are your true enemy?”
The crowd milled in confusion, frightened faces staring back at her.
“We’ve come to save you not to fight you! Join us! Kill the priests and take the citadel!”
The priest’s face twisted into a mask of rage. “Kill the invaders!”
Kath hissed, “Now!”
Bear’s sling whirled.
Crossbow bolts hissed from the walls, striking warriors and citizens alike. Kath took a bolt on her shield, staggering under the blow. A woman shrieked and children wept. Screams erupted through the courtyard, a massacre in the making.
Bear’s aim struck true.
The priest tumbled from the wall, a flutter of dark robes landing on the cobblestones. The mob surged forward, attacking the priest and the gate.
More sling stones whirled through the air, striking the guards atop the wall.
Crossbows answered with a rain of death.
The courtyard became a deathtrap. Kath had to break the stalemate. Choosing a handful of warriors, she led them into a side alley. “We need to open the gate!” Left and then right, she made her way toward the wall. Bear and Blaine kept pace at her side. She gripped their arms, and they ran for the wall. “Don’t stop!”
They leaped into stone. Darkness clawed at Kath but she barreled forward, never breaking stride. The inner walls were not as thick as the outer. They stumbled into air…and found themselves in a bedroom. A woman shrieked,
clutching sheets pulled to her chin. Beside her, a naked man blustered.
“We mean you no harm.” Kath made for the doorway, Bear and Blaine pounding behind. They tumbled through a kitchen and then another door, before reaching the street.
The sounds of battle drew them toward the gate.
Torches lined the barbican, a halo of light against the crenelated battlement. Soldiers crowded the walls, but they stared the other way, loosing bolts at the mob. Only four guards barred their path to the gates.
Surprise was their best ally. Quiet as death, they raced toward the gate. Kath hurled her twin axes at the nearest guards. Blaine leaped forward, his blue sword held high. One guard fell, an axe embedded in his throat. Another staggered backward, taking an axe in his shoulder. Before they could raise an alarm, Blaine reached the two remaining guards, attacking with a head-high swing. Blue steel keened a deadly whistle, cleaving straight through flesh and bone, taking two heads with a single blow. Bear dispatched the wounded guard and Kath retrieved her axes. “Hurry!”
The two men ran to the gate while Kath stood guard. Putting shoulders to the crossbar, they struggled to lift the massive log.
“Hurry!”
Groaning, they heaved the log from the braces. The massive beam crashed to the cobblestones and the gates creaked open. Shouts rang from the barbican but it was too late to stem the tide.
Kath and the two men retreated back up the street. Ducking into a side alley, they crouched in the dark.
The gates swung wide and the mob poured through.
Peering from the alley, Kath studied the people they’d come to save. Small and slight, they seemed stunted and malformed. Dirty and dressed in drab rags, they looked like a pack of starving urchins, yet the rage on their faces was fearsome to behold. Fists raised, the mob raced up the street, howling like a pack of harpies loosed from hell. One carried a spear impaled with the priest’s severed head. The grisly trophy waved back and forth like a battle banner, spattering the crowd with blood. The mob cheered, seething with hate. Kath wondered what type of whirlwind she’d unleashed.
Blaine and Bear stayed close, their weapons held at the ready. They hid in the alley while the mob thundered passed.
Moments later the army followed. Howling like wolves, the painted warriors ran through the street like a pack loosed to the wild hunt.
Kath stepped from the alley, standing within a ring of torchlight. The painted warriors raised a great cheer. “Svala!” Their shout shook the citadel. “Svala!” She drew her sword and led them forward, feeling the weight of destiny at her back.
63
The Knight Marshal
The marshal pushed his horse to a frothing gallop. The wagon proved too easy to follow. Twin ruts carved a path into snow, an easy signpost for friends or foes. Their best defense was confusion. With the maroon in retreat, the marshal hoped they’d leave too many trails for the enemy to follow, a scattering of thousands disappearing into the foothills, like mice scurrying to countless boltholes.
Horns echoed up from the valley, a desperate blare repeating the retreat, but his only care was for the king. He gained the hilltop and skirted a stand of cedar, deep green against a forest of winter branches, a crust of snow covering the ground. The hillside dipped into a hidden valley, a small hollow nestled among the pines. Somewhere in the heights an owl hooted, a lonely sound. He spurred his horse forward, praying he wasn’t too late.
The wagon stood at the heart of the hollow, horses lathered and blowing, hobbled within in their traces. A massive oak loomed overhead like a marker, bare branches stark against a winter sky. Shadows crowded the hollow, the first touch of twilight. The marshal shivered, pulling his maroon cloak close, too many portents of death.
Three champions guarded the king, their weapons unsheathed. Sir Rannock, Sir Blaze, and Sir Abrax stood sentry around the wagon, grim-faced veterans, alert and wary, but they lowered their weapons when he rode into sight.
The marshal swung down from the saddle before the horse even came to a stop. His gaze sought out Sir Rannock. “Is he still?”
Sir Rannock nodded, his face tense. “Just.”
Sir Abrax growled, “Did you see his face? A traitor hiding beneath the Mordant’s armor,” he hawked and spat, “treachery and treason combined.”
Sir Rannock said, “If the arrogant bastard hadn’t lifted his visor we might have honored the terms.”
But the marshal had no time for idle banter. “You three stand guard at the top of the rise. The wagon paints too clear a trail. We dare not be surprised.”
The men saw through his words but they obeyed, mounting their horses with a swirl of maroon.
“And take Baldwin with you. I must speak with the king.”
Dazed with shock, the red-haired squire obeyed. He swung up behind Sir Blaze, gripping the knight’s maroon cloak.
Sir Rannock saluted. The horses whirled, a clatter of hooves on stone.
But the marshal was already focused on the king. Drawn like iron to a lodestone, he strode toward the wagon. The king lay sprawled across the flatbed, his face pale, his silver hair matted with sweat, his breastplate skewered by the dark sword. They’d removed most of his armor, but not the breastplate. The hilt of the blade jutted up from the king’s chest, dark and obscene, proof of treachery and treason.
The marshal flicked a questioning glance to the healer. “Still alive?” The words were nearly a sob but the healer gave the barest of nods.
The marshal forced out the other question. “Can you?”
Quintus shook his head, his face lined with sadness. “He is beyond my skill.” The brown-robed healer knelt by the king, gently easing a poultice under the breastplate.
“Osbourne…is that you?” The king’s hand reached out.
The marshal climbed into the wagon. Kneeling, he gripped the outstretched hand, so cold the king seemed already dead, one hand reaching from the grave. “Stay with me, my liege.”
“Blue steel…failed.”
The marshal rushed to reassure his lord. “It wasn’t the fault of the sword, or the wielder.” Pride leached into his voice. “You fought like a legend, sire. But the dark blade is surely cursed, another trick of the Mordant. At least the traitor is dead, I promise you that.”
Pain ripped across the king’s face. “It burns, Osbourne. It sucks the life from me. Pull it out.”
He yearned to rip the cursed blade from his king’s body yet his gaze sought the healer.
Quintus whispered a warning. “Remove it and he dies all the quicker.”
He gripped the king’s hand, willing him to live. “My lord, there is something I need ask.”
“The men?”
“I sounded the retreat and ordered the men to scatter. We’ll regroup in a fortnight and harry the enemy from the rear.” Stubborn pride filled his voice. “Be assured, my lord, the Octagon fights on.”
“Good.” The king sighed, as if a great weight eased from his shoulders, but then his face twisted in pain. “The sword, Osbourne! It burns!”
The marshal dreaded asking the question yet it needed to be done. “My lord, the Octagon needs a king.”
The king stared up at him, a bubble of blood at the side of his mouth. “Five sons…dead.”
“Yes, my lord.” The marshal could not imagine another man wearing the octagon crown yet he persisted. “Who will you name as your successor? One of the champions or a younger captain, someone who can take the Anvril name and wear the crown? Perhaps Sir Abrax or Sir Blaze or Sir Ademar?”
The healer intervened. “My lord, you still have an heir of your body.”
The marshal rebuked the healer with a sharp stare but Quintus persisted, his voice low and urgent. “Princess Katherine is the rightful heir to the Octagon.”
The marshal reared back in shock. “A mere girl?”
“She proved herself at Cragnoth Keep, defeating Trask and the other traitors. And she lit the signal fires calling the Octagon to war. And she dared go north when others
would not listen.”
The marshal felt the weight of the great sword strapped to his back, another man’s sword, taken from the ashes of the signal tower. “True knights fought at Cragnoth, Sir Tyrone and Sir Blaine, how dare you ascribe their deeds to a mere girl.”
Anger rode the healer’s words. “You’re as blind as the others. The gods choose Katherine. She is the true bane of the Mordant.”
“A mere girl cannot wear the octagon crown.”
“Does…Katherine…still live?”
The king’s question stilled both men.
The healer answered. “Sire, she must, else our best hope is lost.” Quintus bent toward the king, conviction in his voice. “She is your true heir, a warrior and a leader.”
Blood frothed at the king’s mouth. “Only…a girl.”
Frustration rode the healer’s words. “Trust to your blood if nothing else. She is the last of your line. An Anvril, born and bred to the sword!”
“My sons…were born to…lead.”
“And all of them are dead!”
The king gasped for breath, making a painful gurgle.
The marshal heard death lurking beneath the sound. “My lord, speak but a name and they will wear the crown.” He leaned toward the king, desperate for an answer. “Will you have Katherine as your heir? Or will you name another? One of your champions or a younger captain?” He held his breath, willing the king to speak.
The king’s stare moved from the marshal to the healer and then toward the distant heavens. “My…sons!” Blood frothed at his mouth…and then his face went slack as death.
“My lord, no!” The marshal gripped the king’s hand, but there was no life left. Sorrow warred with rage. A scream ripped out of him. “My king!” He stood and yanked the cursed sword from the king’s body…and the hilt burned his hands! Like cold fire eating through mail and leather, it stung him. He hurled the cursed blade into the woods. “It burns!”
The others heard his shout and came riding at a gallop.
He stood in the wagon, consumed by grief. “The king is dead.”
The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga) Page 48