The Prince Deceiver (The Silk & Steel Saga Book 6)

by Karen Azinger

  The marshal paced the ridge like a caged lion.

  Dark finally came, night blanketing the mountains.

  Even the moon obeyed, shuttered by clouds, cloaking the land in deepest darkness.

  Using a flint, the marshal lit the pyre. Flames leaped to the tinder and then licked up the dry wood. The blaze became a roaring bonfire, a beacon summoning his enemies to battle. The marshal pried a loose fagot from the fire. Holding the burning branch aloft, he stood at the top of the trail. Backlit by the bonfire, he roared his challenge. "Fight me! Come and meet the God of War!"

  37

  Quintus

  Quintus made the rounds, changing bandages, apply poultices, dispensing potions for fevers and pain, but still too many died. The captains had given an entire tower of the great castle over to the wounded, yet the chambers were crowded with the crippled and the ruined. The dead were taken away, wrapped in their maroon cloaks for an honorable burial in the Shield Forest, but all too soon their beds were filled. War was a ravenous beast, consuming bodies at a frightful pace, yet few of the knights ever complained at their fate. Inspired by their stalwart bravery, Quintus worked endless hours, pitting his skills from the monastery against fever, rot, and gaping wounds, striving to save as many as he could. Every loss chipped at his heart, yet he had no time to mourn.

  Daylight dimmed to twilight, yet he remained by the bedside of a young knight barely old enough to shave. "Not my sword arm, not my sword arm," Sir Jared muttered the words like a chant, delirious with pain. The delirium hid the truth, for his sword arm was already gone. A mace had shattered the bones to sharp fragments, leaving Quintus no choice but to saw at the elbow. Now he struggled to save the knight from wound fever. A pity the snow was melted, leaving him nothing but damp compresses and tincture of yarrow to fight the fever's heat. He worked through the night, striving to save the young knight. The fever finally broke. Quintus sagged in relief, another knight saved.

  A wave of weariness crashed across him. He needed sleep, he needed his own bed, else he'd be of no use to all the others. Too weary to think, he washed his hands in a basin and then made his way from the tower. Stepping into the night air, he breathed deep, the chilly crispness clearing his mind. Night cloaked the great castle, a dazzling spray of stars strewn across the sky. Pausing to admire the celestial beauty, he was struck by the peace of the moment. The great castle slept, hushed by stillness, no sounds of swords clanging, orders shouted, or boots marching. Quintus knew guards kept watch on the towers and walls, yet for a handful of heartbeats, he let himself be deluded by the dream of peace.

  The sound of a hammer intruded...a hammer striking iron.

  The forge, the thought pierced him. He'd promised the master swordsmith an answer, yet the reply from the monastery made little sense. Since Snowman's return, he'd kept the message to himself, a riddle locked in his heart, yet he needed someone to talk to, someone to confide in. Quintus wasn't sure he could truly trust the smith with his secrets, yet he found his footsteps drawn toward the forge.

  Light laden with heat blazed from the open windows. The hammer strokes fell in a measured rhythm like the beating of a steadfast heart. The master swordsmith worked alone, his massive hammer pounding iron.

  "Are you coming in? Or have you just come to watch?"

  The healer jumped like a thief with his hand on a purse. "You're working late."

  "So are you."

  Quintus shrugged. "Too many wounded."

  "Never enough swords."

  They both served Castlegard, though in very different ways. The healer ventured deeper into the forge, watching the smith work the raw bar of iron.

  Otto cast a daggered glance his way. "I wondered if you'd come." His deep voice rumbled like clashing boulders. "Your owl's been back for nearly a fortnight."

  The truth struck like a punch below the belt, leaving the healer gasping for a reply. "The owl returned...but the message makes no sense."

  "Are you a man of your word?"

  Quintus replied with quiet dignity. "Yes."

  "Then let's hear it."

  The hammer pounded against iron, marking a steady cadence.

  Quintus considered the message, a riddle scribed in his mind. Deciding to cast caution to the wind, he blurted the words, "The mage-stone magic is tied to intent. Darkness has corrupted the Octagon. Restore honor to the maroon. Aid comes in the form of a sword."

  The hammer missed a beat. The swordsmith glared at him, his eyebrows raised like two sooty smudges marked against his bald forehead. "That's the message?"

  "All of it, I swear."

  The hammer resumed its beat, but the rhythm held an angry edge. "How can you restore something that's not lost?"

  Quintus sagged in relief. "Exactly! The knights fight a valiant war despite their losses, never wavering against the Pentacle. The Octagon bleeds heavily for the Light." Quintus shook his head. "The message makes no sense."

  The smith issued a low growl, his muscles bulging, his gaze fixed on his work. The massive hammer beat a hypnotic rhythm. Stroke after stroke pounded the iron into the anvil, the rod slowly becoming a blade, bending to the will of the smith. Quintus watched, lulled by the sound. Heat beat against him laden with the metallic scents of charcoal and iron. The forge was a primal force, the birthplace of swords. The rod changed shape, flattening to a deadly blade. Quintus swayed on his feet. He began to think the smith would not reply.

  "Valiant is not the same as honor."

  The words struck a chilling chord with the healer. "I suppose so."

  Like a god of the forge, Otto thrust the sword-shaped blade deep into the furnace fire, releasing a breath of red sparks. "Come." Hefting his hammer, the smith stoked the furnace and then strode toward the rear of the forge.

  Quintus shook himself awake and then followed the smith to a backroom. Bins filled with iron ore lined one wall, sacks of charcoal and other minerals stacked along another. Footprints crisscrossed the floor, tracking through a thick coating of red dust. The storeroom smelled heavy with the earthy scents of the underworld.

  Otto grabbed a torch from the wall and thrust it toward the healer. "Come."

  "Why?" Quintus held the torch aloft, following the smith to the rear of the storeroom.

  "I need to see for myself." Setting his hammer aside, the big smith put his shoulder to a bin of iron ore...and shoved.

  Quintus gasped, for it seemed an impossible load for any lone man to budge.

  The swordsmith strained, massive muscles bulging...and then the bin began to move, pushed along the floor like a sledge. The scrape of metal across stone clawed at his ears, and then came to a sudden stop. "This will do." The smith straightened and retrieved his hammer.

  "Why are we here?"

  "I need to see for myself."

  "See what?"

  "If mage-stone is truly failing."

  Quintus stared, wide-eyed. "You don't believe me?"

  "What if the scrape you saw has been there all along?"

  "No, I saw it happen. The wagon's axle chipped the stone." Quintus uttered the words, but in truth, he did not want to believe it.

  "Let's see for ourselves." The smith hefted the hammer. He struck the wall, iron ringing against mage-stone.

  Nothing happened.

  Casting a glance toward the healer, the smith gripped the hammer with both fists. He struck the wall again, a resounding hit.

  Nothing happened.

  A smile burst across the healer's face. "Nothing!" Relief poured through him. "Mage-stone is sound!"

  Otto gave him a warning glare. "That last blow was but half my strength. This one will tell the tale."

  Quintus sobered, gripping the torch.

  The smith broadened his stance, his feet spread wide. Roped with muscles, his arms were as thick as most men's thighs. He held the hammer high, his gaze fixed on the mage-stone wall. Quintus muttered a fervent prayer. Grunting, the smith loosed the hammer, striking a mighty blow. The hammerhead struck a discordant note
, an ugly tone. The mage-stone wall chipped. It chipped! A palm-sized chunk fell to the floor.

  Both men stared, slack-jawed.

  Quintus felt dizzy, as if the world were coming undone. "How can this be?"

  The smith reached for the sundered piece. "It's as if the magic has fled...leaving ordinary stone."

  Both men locked stares. "The castle is not invincible."

  Quintus crumpled to the floor, all the strength fled from his legs. "This can't be happening."

  Otto growled, "We must warn the captains."

  "No." Conviction rode his voice. Quintus was ambushed by the vehemence of his own reply. "We dare not tell them."

  Otto gave him a flinty glare. "No? Why not?"

  "I've told you before, because of morale."

  The smith waited as if needing more.

  "I've tended the wounded. I know what this war costs. The knights fight against perilous odds. Take morale away from them...and the war is lost."

  "But if they don't know..."

  "What can they do about it?"

  "But..."

  Quintus cut him short. "What does it matter unless the enemy brings siege engines against Castlegard?"

  The smith's eyes narrowed, his voice begrudging. "True."

  "In the meantime, we dare not dash the hope of victory."

  The smith gave him a flinty look. "Victory?"

  "To believe anything else is to invite defeat."

  Otto gave him a thoughtful look. "Just so."

  "So the mage-stone will be our secret unless an enemy army comes calling?"

  The smith gave a cautious nod. "For now." Setting his hammer aside, he shoved the iron ore bin back into place, hiding the terrible scar. Wiping his shovel-sized hands on his leather apron, the smith growled, "None save me will move that bin."

  Quintus believed him.

  The smith offered his hand, pulling the healer to his feet. "Now we know it's true, what'll we do?"

  "We solve the riddle."

  The smith stared at him.

  "We restore honor to the Octagon."

  "But that makes no sense!"

  "Yet we must find a way."

  The smith flashed a bitter scowl. "What? A smith and a healer? Are you daft? Sounds like something a hero would do."

  Quintus stared, for the smith's words held the ring of truth. "Then we best find a hero."

  "Castlegard is full of them."

  "Yet mage-stone fails."

  The smith made the warding sign, his voice a low growl. "The castle has fallen under an evil star."

  The healer pursed his lips, surprised by the smith's superstition. "There must be a way to solve this. Your bellows boys love gossip. Keep your ear to the ground. Perhaps some scrap of rumor will shed light on the riddle."

  Otto gave him a doubtful look. "As you say."

  Beleaguered by grim thoughts, Quintus left the forge, trudging back across the great yard. Clouds cloaked the stars, the heavy darkness adding to the weight on his shoulders. Mage-stone is failing, the words thundered through his mind like a doom. He shared a terrible secret with the master swordsmith, a terrible burden. Restore honor to the Octagon, it seemed like an impossible geas. Quintus knew how to heal bodies, but not how to heal honor...or stone, yet this burden had fallen to him. Somehow the Octagon must triumph against the Pentacle, of that he was certain. They dared not lose this war. Staring up at the cloud-shrouded sky, he prayed to all the gods to spare Castlegard and the valiant knights that served the great castle, for without the gods' help, he foresaw nothing but doom.

  38

  The Knight Marshal

  The bonfire crackled a fierce heat at his back, a beacon summoning his enemies to battle. Girded for war, the marshal stood atop the trailhead, the Dark Sword gleaming naked in the firelight, hungry for souls. Dragons entwined the dusky hilt, runes inscribed along the blade. Forged for heroes, the sword was magnificent, the sapphire-blue blade forever darkened to midnight black. The rune-carved blade belonged in his hands, of that the marshal was certain. Beneath his gauntleted grip, it thrummed with power...the power of invincibility.

  Light streaked the sky, the first spears of sunrise illuminating Raven Pass, the campground of his enemies, a horde of swords. The bonfire had burned through the night, a beacon and a warning, summoning his foes to battle.

  A murder of crows cawed overhead. Circling, the dark cloud settled amongst the pine trees, his feathered heralds come to witness the battle. Further down the trail, he heard the clank of armor. They're coming. Footsteps pounded up the steep trail. He glimpsed their banners before he saw their faces. Midnight black embroidered with a golden pentacle, their pennants rippled in the cool breeze. What color their cloaks? The marshal pushed the nagging question aside, for colors had ceased to matter. Instead of banners, he sought souls wielding swords, foes to be vanquished in battle, fodder for his blade, nothing more and nothing less.

  Broadening his stance, he waited for battle, an eager grin on his sun-weathered face.

  The ogres came first, barreling up the steep trail. Malformed monsters, bulging with muscles, they wore leather armor and wielded massive war cudgels studded with steel spikes. Once he would have thought them formidable, but no longer. Now they were merely another foe, fodder for his sword.

  The marshal waited, letting them come, letting them spend themselves on the steep slope.

  The first ogre lumbered towards him, a massive creature with curved tusks protruding from his lantern jaw. The ground shook at his approach, his cudgel raised for a killing blow.

  *Kill them all!* The Dark Sword whispered its siren song.

  The marshal stepped towards the ogre, loosing the Dark Sword in head-high swing. The blade took the ogre at the neck, slicing clean through flesh, sinew and bone. With a single satisfying stroke, he severed the ogre's ugly head. The body crumpled to the ground, gushing blood. He kicked the head, watching it bouncing down the trail. The marshal flashed a fierce grin, serving proof of his prowess.

  The enemy ignored the grisly warning. Ogres had immense strength but it seemed they were too dumb to know fear. A pair of tusked brutes thundered up the trail, bloodlust in their tiny eyes.

  The marshal leaped to battle. Cut, thrust, and parry, he slew the ogres as they topped the trail. More swarmed up the steep slope, the living taking the places of the dead. Ogres crowded the trailhead, wielding their war clubs while bellowing curses. The marshal slew them all, the Dark Sword feasting on their souls. Corpses piled around him, creating a bulwark of the slain, yet he wanted no defensive barrier, nothing between him and his prey. Leaping over the dead, he attacked the living. The Dark Sword keened in his hands, supping on souls. For every life he took, strength poured from the sword into the marshal's gauntleted hands. Elation thrummed through him, the wild flush of battle lust. The marshal fought like a whirlwind. Flowing from one form to the next, he danced with the Dark Sword, every stoke a fatal blow. Evading a battleaxe, he planted his sword in an ogre's skull, splitting it like a ripe melon. Yanking the blade free, a spray of blood and brains followed the sword's arc like a battle banner. More corpses clogged the trail. The press of ogres slowed, supplanted by men in dark armor. Men were easier to kill, much easier. The ogres died growling...the men died screaming, either way he took their lives and reaped their souls.

  Blood and gore slicked the trail, making the footing treacherous. Fighting against three at once, the marshal evaded their weapons while finding their weak spots. His boots slipped on slime. Cursing, the marshal raised the Dark Sword in a defensive parry. The bearded enemy grinned, attacking with a double-bladed axe. The Dark Sword caught the downward stroke. Ordinary steel clanged against the Dark Sword, releasing a horrible shriek. The axe shattered to shards. Empty-handed, the enemy glared wide-eyed, fear etching his bearded face. Snarling, the marshal struck. The enemy died screaming, spitted on the Dark Blade.

  His blade slid like butter from the dead. The marshal whirled to face another foe, but the pace of slaughter
began to slow.

  Soldiers hung back, lurking behind boulders, unwilling to enter the killing field.

  Rage thundered through the marshal. "Fight me!" He could not abide cowards. Lifting the Dark Sword, he bellowed his challenge, "Fight me!" but the cowards turned and fled, racing down the steep mountain trail.

  The marshal started to give chase...but the sword's voice yanked him back.

  *Wait.*

  Like a chained dog, he snarled, wanting to finish the kill.

  *Wait.*

  The marshal fought the compulsion. He hated the voice, yet he could not disobey.

  And then the voice said something that pierced his battle-fogged mind. *The survivors serve as your heralds, giving witness to your prowess.*

  The marshal staggered to a stop, staring at the dark blade.

  *Great deeds deserve witnesses, else they will not be remembered.*

  The marshal watched the enemy scurry down the trail, taking word of his prowess back to the horde camped below. The Dark Sword had the truth of it. His victories deserved to be remembered...and then he had another thought. A foe forewarned was a foe better prepared to fight. A hungry grin split his face. Let them prepare for his coming. Let them tremble at his approach. He longed for an epic battle, a victory to rival the legends of old.

  *Soon.*

  The word thundered through his mind like a boon. Raising the Dark Sword to the heavens, the marshal bellowed his challenge. "Soon! Soon, I will slay you all!"

  "All,all,all..." the words echoed through the pass.

  The crows came calling.

  Victorious once more, the marshal stood on the ridge top, surrounded by death.

  39

  Commander Crull

  Commander Crull strode the wall of Raven Pass. The battlement was now his to command. Black banners fluttered overhead, giving proof of the Pentacle's conquest, yet the pass was nothing more than a couple of stout defensive walls and a long valley churned to mud. No gold, no women, and no real power, he'd drawn the short straw. Again. As usual, his commanding officers had taken the plum assignments, leaving him to mop up their shit, but such was service under the Pentacle. He was sorely tempted to take his army south, to seek plunder and glory at the tip of a spear, but one did not disobey a gorelabe and live. Better to bide his time and find a way to serve the gorelabe's orders while seeking his own way to power