"Commander Crull!"
His second, Captain Andrius, strode towards him. Judging from the scowl on his face, the news did not bode well.
Saluting fist to chest, the captain gave his report. "Survivors have returned from the ridge top."
"Survivors?"
"Only twenty-eight out of better than two hundred, all of them men."
Suspicion laced his voice. "They survived victorious, or fled?"
The captain bit the word. "Fled."
Crull drew a deep breath, for he could not abide cowardice. It weakened his command and ruined his own chance for advancement. "And the foe? What waited for them on the ridge top?" Smoke from the signal fire still rose from the ridge, like a dark spear stabbing straight towards a leaden sky.
"More than half the survivors saw nothing, fleeing when the others fled, but a handful spew the same story."
"And?"
Andrius hesitated, clearly cautious. "My lord, what they say is impossible."
"I'll be the judge of that."
Andrius nodded, catching the rebuke. "They claim a single knight held the ridge top, butchering the cadre as they crested the trail. They say he slaughtered every Taal, then he killed the officers, working his way through the men. The dead were stacked like battlements around him, a fortification of corpses. The few survivors decided to retreat."
One man, one foe, he'd heard this tale before. Afterward General Haith had ordered the scout quietly murdered. Murdered messengers were a sure sign of importance, but there had to be more to the tale. "Bring the one who brays the loudest before me. Have the others draw lots. One in every four shall be flayed from head to heel for their cowardice, their bodies fed to the gorehounds while the rest watch. I will have no cowards in my command."
"Yes, my lord." The captain saluted and then sped away.
Crull found his gaze drawn to the smoky column rising from the ridge. A fiery beacon lit in the night, this foe was formidable...but he was also brazen. This enemy sought battle, he sought a challenge...but he also sought to be noticed, as if fame mattered. Fame, the empty coin of dead heroes, his mouth twisted in a contemptuous scowl, just what he'd expect from the Octagon knights. Yet if the scout's tale was true, and murder named it so, then a lone knight had slaughtered an entire cadre of Taals. Such a feat could not be disregarded. It stank of magic, dark magic. He liked it not. Chewing the thought, Crull made his way to the stairs, descending to the king's war room. A single map was spread across the table. General Haith had taken all the captured maps with him save this one, the one map he no longer needed. A masterwork of map making, the brightly painted vellum showed the Domain of Castlegard, every keep, tower and waystation clearly inked among the craggy peaks of the Dragon Spine Mountains. The Spines had proven a warren of death, traps within traps, keeping the Pentacle from bringing their superior numbers to bear. Of late, the death toll had grown horrendous, whole patrols slaughtered. Wooden markers painted red showed the location of every butchered patrol. The markers told a grim tale, a red arrow aimed at the heart of Raven Pass. Crull walked around the table, studying the map from every angle. General Haith had been obsessed with this map, and whatever interested Haith, fascinated Crull. An arrow aimed at Raven Pass, the general had looked decidedly relieved with the gorelabe ordered him south. The general's actions indicated the threat was real. And now Raven Pass was his to hold, his to defend, like a bag of angry vipers dumped in his lap. Crull leaned on the table, glaring at the map. If they expected him to fail, if they expected him to die, then his superior officers were sorely mistaken.
A knock sounded on the door.
"Come."
Captain Andrius entered. "I've brought the songbird."
"Good." Crull took a seat at the head of the table. "I'll hear him sing."
The captain ushered a disheveled soldier into the chamber. Sweat stained his jerkin with dark rings, his face grubby with dirt and stubble, his eyes laden with fear. Bowing low, he hovered near the door.
"Captain, shut the door."
Andrius closed the door and stood in front of it, his hand on his sword hilt.
The soldier sidled away, his gaze darting from the captain to the commander.
Crull poured himself a goblet of wine, a rich red leftover from the king's stores. "Tell me what you saw."
"You won't believe me."
"Sing, if you value your life."
The soldier cringed under the threat, but he found his voice. "They sent us to take the bonfire at the ridge." The soldier shuddered. "Tweren't a battle but a bloody slaughter. We obeyed orders, followin' the others up the trail, but when we reached the top, tweren't nothing but death waitin' fer us. Bodies piled chest-high. All the Taals and officers dead. Blood soakin' the trail. No one left to give commands." His voice turned to a whine. "Tweren't my fault."
Crull studied the soldier. "Sing better, or you'll join the flayed."
The soldier paled. Sweat erupting from his forehead, he began to babble. "Nathor was our commander. He ordered the Taals first, followed by the officers mixed with the best swordsmen. The trail was narrow and steep. We heard the clang of blades and the screams but none of us knew what we was facin' till we reached the top. By then the trailhead was slick with blood, bodies piled high, all of them dead, nothin' but corpses, nothin' but food for crows."
"And the foe?"
The soldier swallowed, his gaze darting around the chamber like a rat seeking escape.
Crull impaled him with his stare. "The foe?"
"Tweren't but one, one knight. Swear it's true, m'lord, by Darkness I do." The soldier began to shake. "The others will tell the same. Only one knight, killin' em all, one knight, one demon-damned knight with a bloody big sword."
"I believe you."
The soldier gasped.
Behind him, Andrius betrayed a glimmer of surprise.
Crull swirled the wine. "Tell me about this knight. Every detail, for your life depends on it."
The soldier nodded like a hound desperate to please. "A knight, he were a knight. His armor was bloody, the sigil hid by gore, but I spied his cloak, spied it I did." His voice dropped to a hushed whisper. "It were maroon." He grinned a gap-toothed smile. "A maroon cloak, a bleedin' maroon knight. He were a knight of the cursed Octagon."
Crull waited.
The soldier flashed an idiot grin, as if he expected a reward. Crull's silence wiped the grin from the man's face.
"A big man," the soldier stammered, clearly grasping at details, "with a thick dark beard. Unnatural, he were. He moved like a ruddy demon, as if he could bleedin' sense a sword stroke before it came at him. Nothin' touched him, as if he were made of smoke. Ain't never seen anything like it. Bleedin' unnatural."
Crull swirled the goblet, his gaze fixed on the soldier.
"And..." the songbird struggled for more, "he fought with one of them fancy two-handed great swords, the kind the knights favor."
Crull set the goblet aside. "Tell me more."
The soldier squirmed looking desperate. His shoulders hunched and he bit his lip, but then his eyes brightened. "I remember somethin' now. Somethin' odd. Somethin' about that sword. Yeah, that blade were black. Yeah," he nodded, "and it tweren't just the blood and gore. The blade were black as sin, swear it were so."
"Anything else?"
The soldier fidgeted and scratched but then hung his head. "No, m'lord."
"You can go."
The soldier's head snapped up, his eyes wide with relief. "Yes, m'lord. Thank ya, m'lord." He scurried from the room.
Crull waited till the door closed. "Andrius."
"Yes, lord?"
"Do you believe him?"
The captain's voice was cautious. "You do, m'lord, and in all the years I've served you, you've seldom been wrong."
A wise answer, a shrewd answer, he'd have to keep a close watch on his second. "Kill the songbird. Do it discretely and then return here. We have a battle to plan."
"Against one man?"
&nb
sp; "Against a demon."
40
The Knight Marshal
The knight marshal roamed the ridge top...waiting. The enemy no longer sent patrols into the mountains, content to cower in the valley below. The marshal scowled in disdain. With nothing to slay he grew impatient...and the Dark Sword grew hungry. Restless, he turned his horse toward the burnt beacon, the site of his last triumph.
He smelled it before he saw it. The stench struck like a hammer blow to his gut, making him gag. Bloated corpses lay heaped in mounds around the charred pyre. Hacked by sword cuts, their faces bitten and chewed by carrion feeders, the rotting bodies gave off a horrible stench. Grisly body parts lay strewn between the mounds, the ground crisscrossed by animal tracks. Crows cawed, flapping their dark wings in annoyance at his intrusion, but they did not take flight. Leaping out of his way, they hopped from one corpse to the next, pecking at the feast. So many roving crows, the dark-winged birds endowed the dead with the illusion of movement.
Dismounting, the marshal rummaged through the corpses. His armor had grown tight across the chest, his breastplate pinching him beneath his arms. Shedding his breastplate, he searched for another with a better fit. Twice he discarded salvaged breastplates as too small and a third bore a terrible rent straight to the heart. Spying a large soldier lying face down in the mud, the marshal turned him with his boot. Tinged green, the ghoulish head canted at an unnatural angle, nearly severed from the neck, but the breastplate was intact, the armor embellished with gold scrollwork around the pentacle. "Must have been an officer." The marshal knelt, loosening the bindings. The dead officer gave up the armor with a wet sucking sound. A horrid stench clung to it, but the fit was good. Satisfied, the marshal picked his way back to his horse when he spied a massive shield half hidden by an ogre's body. For a heartbeat he stared at it, puzzled. He didn't recall facing such a massive shield, but his memories of battles were often an exquisite blur. Since taking up the Dark Sword, he'd fought without a shield's protection, but a stout shield could be handy against the horde.
The ogre lay like a felled log. Putting his shoulder to the corpse, he shoved the deadweight aside. The shield proved whole and intact, emblazoned with a gold pentacle painted on black. A massive wall shield, it stood five feet tall and nearly four feet wide. Wall shields were aptly named. Made of laminated wood and leather, the rectangular shield had a convex bow to deflect arrows and to keep it sitting upright on the ground, creating a stout barrier. A round metal boss added to the center of the pentacle averted sword blows. Unwieldy and inordinately heavy, such shields were usually used by archers or crossbowmen as bulwarks or screens, but the ogre had converted it to a melee shield, affixing sturdy arm straps to the back. The marshal tested the straps and found them sound. It would take a giant to heft such a shield in battle. Intrigued by the challenge, he slipped his left arm through the straps. Grasping the shield, he lifted, bearing it on his arm like a melee shield. Much heavier than a normal kite shield, yet he found it surprisingly manageable. Unsheathing the Dark Sword, he practiced with the shield. Fighting imaginary foes, he dodged and whirled, striking with the sword, blocking with the shield. He soon found a deadly rhythm and a new balance. Shadows lengthened across the ridge before he spun to a stop.
He wasn't even breathing hard.
He liked the shield. He liked the legendary size of it. The marshal grinned, imagining the terror it would inspire when his foes saw him wield such a massive shield in battle. A shield befitting the Dark Sword.
Walking back to his horse, he came across his discarded breastplate, the maroon octagon nearly obscured by blood and mud. For half a heartbeat he hesitated, a memory clawing at his mind, a regret trying to shame him...but then he kicked it aside and walked on. Colors and sigils no longer matter, for he sought only battle, caring for nothing save glorious victory.
Reclaiming his stallion, he swung into the saddle, keeping the shield on his left arm. Already accustomed to the weight and size of it, the massive shield protected his entire left side from boot tip to helm, a formidable barrier. The marshal grinned. War was sweet, providing him everything he needed.
He drummed his horse to a gallop, riding the ridge, eager for the battle to come.
41
Quintus
The flood of wounded slowed from a deluge to a steady rain. Quintus dared to hope for an end to the war. The healery tower began to clear more beds than it filled, but there were still too many wounds to mend, too many terrible injuries to sew shut, too many lives that needed saving. Desperate for help, he drafted three stable lads, a pot boy, and a scullery maid to serve as his assistants. The stable lads proved apt at making and applying poultices, something they'd learned from the master of horse. Quintus taught them how to change bandages and smell for rot and then charged them to work their way through the wounded, starting with the rooms at the tower top. The pot boy proved dumb as a post, but with so many wounded, the healery tower had an endless supply of chamber pots in danger of overflowing, so he kept the lad busy. The real find was Elise, the scullery maid. Graced with nimble fingers, a quick mind, and a compassionate heart, the flaxen-haired lass had the makings of a first rate healer. When the war finally ended, he intended to speak to her about seeking a place in the monastery. Erdhe needed more healers and the girl showed great promise. Perhaps she'd even earn her master's knot, something he hadn't the patience for.
Cloistered hallways filled with illuminated text, some days he sorely missed the serenity of the monastery, but in his heart, Quintus knew he was meant to be a healer not a scholar. His skills were needed in Castlegard.
Washing his hands in the basin, he moved to the next bed, praying the war ended before the bloody tide swept to the very gates of the great castle. War at the gates, he shuddered at the thought. With so many wounded, he seldom had time to dwell on the riddle of mage-stone, yet the danger nagged at his mind. Magic drained from mage-stone, something he'd always thought impossible. The strength of mage-stone was said to be as certain as sunrise, impervious to war and weather, yet he'd seen for himself what a smith's hammer could to. Shuddering at the grim thought, he made the hand sign against evil, feeling as if the great castle were under a dark curse.
"Master Quintus, we need you here!" Elise's urgent call drew him across the room. The bearers moved a scout onto an open bed. Elise cut away the man's jerkin, revealing a nasty sword gash in his side. "Hold him." While the bearers pinned him to the bed, Quintus flushed the scout's wound with wine. Screaming, the scout writhed in pain, trying to twist away from the wine's sharp sting, but the bearers held him firm. Working quickly, Quintus cleaned the wound and then smeared it with a dollop of honey, but only a small dollop, the healery was running short of honey. Quintus scowled, the healery was running short of everything save wounded. "You can release him now."
Nodding in deference, the bearers moved away.
"One defeating a hundred," the scout raved, tossing back and forth, babbling in the grip of delirium. "He killed them, killed them all!"
The scout felt hot. Quintus feared the onset of wound fever. "Elise, dose him with tincture of yarrow." He held a cool cloth to the scout's forehead while the girl ran to fetch a potion bottle.
"Steel shattered like ice, he slew every one!"
The girl returned with the potion. Holding it to the scout's lips, he cajoled him into taking half the bottle. "That should help."
A horn sounded, beating against the healery windows.
Elise muttered, "More wounded."
The horn came again, but this time it was a volley of trumpets.
"No," Quintus stilled, listening, "that's not the call for wounded, that's something else." A sixth sense spurred him to answer the summons. He pressed the potion bottle into Elise's hands. "Try to get more of this in him. We need to quell the fever or we'll lose him."
Elise took his place by the bed. "Where are you going?"
"To learn the meaning behind the horns." Shucking his gore-spattered apron, Quintus spl
ashed water on his hands and then made his way down the tight spiral stairs. He stumbled out of the tower and into the great yard, dazzled by the sunlight. Others were spilling into the yard, bellows boys from the forge, scullery maids from the kitchen, lads in training gear from the practice yard, all pulled by the horns.
Trumpets blared from every tower of Castlegard, ringing against mage-stone battlements. For half a heartbeat, Quintus feared they might be under attack, but the horns did not sound strident, more like a welcome than a warning. He followed the gathering crowd, everyone moving like a tide towards the inner gates.
A deep voice rumbled from behind. "Can you read the horns, healer?"
Quintus turned to find Otto, the master swordsmith, looming over his right shoulder. "No, can you?"
"They blare a welcome for knights returning."
A shiver raced down the healer's spine, an inexplicable feeling of foreboding.
"You feel it too." The smith's voice dropped to a harsh whisper. "Naught's been right since you shared your secret."
Quintus gave the smith a warning glare, but in truth, he felt it too.
"Come, let's meet them at the inner gate." They followed the tidal flow of the crowd.
The portcullis was raised, the great ironshod gates thrown open wide.
The big smith stood beside him, the smell of forge-heated iron surrounding him like a haze. Quintus sniffed his own robes, wondering if he smelled like blood and potions, but he just smelled like himself.
The Prince Deceiver (The Silk & Steel Saga Book 6) Page 22