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

by Karen Azinger

  The crowd jostled elbows, anxiously waiting. At first there was nothing to see, just the empty corridor between the inner and outer ramparts, but then Quintus heard the clop of hooves on stone. Anticipation rippled through the watchers. The first riders came into view, but instead of maroon knights in burnished armor, they saw a patchwork of farmers riding mules and nags, tugging milk cows on leads. A bedraggled lot poured through the great gate, villagers, farmers, and peasants, the small folk of the domain. Women carried swaddled babes while small children clutched at their skirts. Youths led goats and herded chickens. Men burdened with stuffed sacks walked like hunchbacks. Pots and pans rattled as they shuffled past, their dust-stained faces bearing a mixture of relief, exhaustion and fear.

  Beside him, the smith said, "They've come seeking sanctuary."

  Sanctuary, the word had a hollow sound, for the great castle was no longer invincible.

  And then Quintus saw the knights riding escort at the rear of the column, maroon cloaks stirring in the breeze. Many of their faces were familiar, but he saw no captains riding among them. Beneath their helms, many were fresh-faced youths hastily raised to knights...or wounded veterans that he'd patched up multiple times and sent back to battle. Farmers seeking sanctuary guarded by the young and the infirm, the truth sent a chill down his back. Quintus made the hand sign against evil, a dark dread rising in him. The Octagon Knights were losing the war.

  42

  The Knight Marshal

  The sun rose bloody in the east, not a cloud in the sky, the perfect day for war. The knight marshal girded for battle, tightening straps and buckles, donning breastplate, gorget, and greaves. He set a visored helm of black enamel embossed with gold upon his head, a showy piece yet he liked the fit. Most of his armor was fresh-scavenged from the newly-dead. Colors, the thought annoyed him, the word buzzing in his mind like an angry hornet...and then he remembered the phrase. What color their cloaks? He remembered the phrase but he could not remember why it mattered. He shook his head against the pesky thought.

  Like a snake becoming more, he'd outgrown much of his old armor. Too dented, too tight, too worn, he shed the old, scavenging for something better. The dead gave him everything he needed. Clad from head to toe in armor, he unsheathed the Dark Sword and danced the classical forms, checking the armor's fit. For this battle, he'd suffer no hindrance of any form. Satisfied, he took up the ogre's shield. A golden pentacle shone from its curved front, but sigils mattered not anymore. A spoil of war, the massive wall shield stood five feet tall and nearly four feet wide. Such a shield was not meant to be wielded in battle, yet a dead ogre had converted it to a melee shield, affixing stout arm straps to the back. Cumbersome and heavy, a mere man could never wield it, yet the marshal found it suited him.

  Sheathing his sword, he swung into the saddle. The black stallion pranced as if anticipating the glory to come. "Soon." He settled his warhorse and steered his mount along the ridge till he came to a trailhead, one of the few that reached all the way to the valley floor.

  He reached the trailhead just as the bloody sun cleared the Dragon Spines, throwing spears of light into the valley below. Raven Pass, the narrow valley was infested by the horde. Tents and battle banners and men in black armor cluttered the valley. Their numbers were staggering. The marshal smiled, a fitting test of his prowess. To defeat an entire army, he hungered for the glory. This day would be a day of days. Bards would forever sing of this battle, for this fight would be the stuff of legends, when one man dared to defeat an army. A hunger for bloodshed and glory raged through him with the strength of ecstasy.

  "Soon," his whispered voice caressed the Dark Sword.

  Turning his stallion down the trail, he held his mount to a careful walk. His warhorse fought the bit, tossing his head, but the marshal kept a tight rein. Too steep and treacherous for speed, he forced his stallion to walk lest his horse take them both to a deadly fall. Narrow and winding, the trail snaked its way past boulders and windswept pines, providing a good view of the valley. Down in the throat of the pass, the enemy awoke, lighting campfires and changing patrols. The marshal listened, but he heard no blare of horns, no warning shouts. His foe seemed unaware of the threat riding towards them. The marshal flashed a predator's grin. He'd meet them without fanfare, no trumpeters, no heralds, no battle banners, just an implacable thirst for battle. Soon enough, they'd learn the grim fate they faced.

  By midmorning, he reached the valley floor. He lingered in the forested fringe, watching from between the pines. Seeing no signs of ambush, he readied for battle. One last time he checked his armor, tightening straps and buckles.

  The marshal lowered his visor, shuttering the world to a narrow slit. He settled the great wall shield on his arm, protecting his left side from heel to helm. Unsheathing the Dark Sword, he brandished the blade aloft and loosed his battle cry. "For Death and Glory!"

  The Dark Sword answered, hungry for souls. Power roared through the blade, surging into him with the strength of an unchained dragon.

  He felt invincible.

  He felt the raw thirst of his sword, a siren's song urging him to kill.

  He felt as if the coming battle was a stone-carved destiny.

  A smile slid across his face, hungry for a feast of souls.

  It was time.

  Let my destiny begin! The marshal urged his warhorse to a gallop. Racing out of the forest fringe, he rode towards the horde, one warrior daring many. His armor jangled to the chime of war, his steed's hoof beats drummed the ground with a hungry beat. His sword throbbed in his hands, keening for battle. Leaning forward, the marshal pressed his horse for speed.

  A blare of horns called a desperate warning.

  The enemy awoke to the danger.

  Through the narrow slit of his visor, he saw a confusion of soldiers forming battle lines. So the enemy is not as lax as they appeared, it was a welcome thought, for he wanted no easy victory. Glory needed to be earned, and he intended to earn it this day.

  He galloped closer, yet the enemy proved their discipline. Holding their line, their shields turned outward, they formed a stout wall of steel and burnished leather.

  The marshal grinned, your wall will not avail you!

  And then he heard the lethal whistle of arrows.

  The marshal raised the mighty wall shield, holding it above his head and the head of his steed, a feat no ordinary man could accomplish. Crouched beneath the massive shield, he urged his stallion to a hard gallop. A storm of arrows dropped from the sky, all of them seeking one target. Feathered shafts fell like hail, a rain of death surrounding him. Iron warheads punched into his raised shield, hard blows seeking flesh. The archers found their target, but the massive shield held. He rode through the rain of death...and came out the other side, unscathed.

  The marshal lowered the shield to his side. Half a hundred arrows protruded from it. Laughter bubbled out of him, teetering on the edge of a berserker's rage. With a single swipe of the Dark Sword, he severed the arrows. Urging his horse to a lathered gallop, he charged across the open ground, closing the distance. Too close for arrows, he saw the details of his foes. Black shields, black armor, they waited with spears, swords, and battle axes, yet he noted how their line bowed slightly backwards, as if they cringed away, fearing his charge. One against an army, he must look like a madman...or the God of War incarnate. He roared his battle cry against their armored line. "For Death and Glory!"

  And then he struck, hitting at a full gallop. His warhorse barreled into their line, knocking men backwards, churning soldiers beneath ironshod hooves. The marshal took advantage of the breach. Wielding both sword and shield, he loosed a fearsome attack. Stroke and parry, he slew every foe around him. The Dark Sword cut like a scythe, lopping heads and severing limbs. The massive shield struck like a battering ram, knocking soldiers senseless. His warhorse kicked, bit, and stomped, adding to the carnage. Soldiers fell like wheat around him. Screams of the dying rose around him like a dirge from hell. A huge ogre lum
bered toward him, loosing a head-high swing of an axe. The marshal evaded the axe and then took the ogre's head, a spray of blood spewing from the headless corpse. Sensing a spear thrust aimed at his back, he swiveled in the saddle and knocked it aside, disemboweling the spearman. Cut and parry, he moved with lightning speed, guiding his horse through the fray while the enemy fought as if they were encrusted in ice. The battle became a lethal dance. The marshal anticipated every threat, parried every blow, always finding the sweet spot for a lethal strike. He slew countless foes and the Dark Sword drank their souls. Strength and vigor roared into him. Instead of growing weary, he grew stronger.

  He was Death unchained.

  He was the God of War.

  The battle field was his.

  None could stand in his path. Shields splintered and swords shattered, unable to withstand the Dark Sword. The dead and dying fell like cordwood around him, creating a rampart of corpses. Seeking fresh prey, he urged his horse to a jump, clearing the grisly barrier.

  Horns blared across the field, trying to bring order to chaos. Officers screamed commands, desperate to rally their troops. The enemy pulled back, forming a new battle line. Spears bristled towards him, but their iron tips wavered, presenting a hesitant hedgehog. Black-clad soldiers cowered behind a trembling shield wall, their courage shaken.

  The marshal leaped from his horse.

  Yanking the helm from his head, he tossed it aside, gaining a better view. Helmless, he strode towards them, coming close enough to smell the pungent ripeness of their fear, and then he unleashed the Dark Sword. Slashing left and right, he decapitated their spear tips with each stoke, turning their weapons into blunt sticks. His foes backed away. Fear bled from their eyes...as well it should.

  Battering their impotent spears aside, he weighed into them, attacking with sword and shield. The Dark Sword thrummed in his hands, keening an unquenchable thirst. Heads toppled across the ground. Entrails spilled from grasping fingers. Bones crunched beneath his shield. Severed limbs littered the mud. Screaming soldiers became still as corpses, their blood congealing in empty footprints. The coppery stench of death prevailed. The line broke and crumbled, yet the marshal pursued. With each stroke, he fed the sword, becoming a whirlwind of death.

  Horns blared, calling a desperate retreat. Three times the enemy gave ground, retreating to reform their wavering line. Three times he broke their shield wall, dealing death. The marshal never slowed, he never tired, reveling in the glory of war. The Dark Sword was insatiable. Drinking souls, it fed him strength.

  The battle began to slow.

  The enemy retreated, pulling away from him, opening a wide swath of space, a killing zone filled with nothing but corpses.

  No fodder for his sword.

  The marshal slowed to a stop, taking stock of his surroundings. Crows circled overhead, soaring on silent wings. The sun was nearly set, throwing long shadows across the dead. He'd fought for the better part of a day, yet he wasn't even winded. Looking behind, he saw a river of corpses stretching towards the eastern ridge, a feast for crows. Thousands of dead...yet it wasn't enough.

  He turned to face the living.

  The Dark Sword still hungered.

  The enemy stood in a ragged crescent. Weapons dangling from tired arms, their shields slumped to the ground, they trembled before him. Bloody and battered, they looked exhausted, they looked defeated.

  "Fight me!" The marshal tightened his grip on his shield and raised his sword, for he could not abide cowardice. He advanced towards them, but for every step he took, the enemy retreated the same distance, shrinking away. "Fight me!" The words roared out of him.

  And then they began to kneel. Dropping to the trampled mud, they offered their weapons, prostrating themselves before him.

  "Kneelers!" He spat the word, his face twisting to a snarl. He hated kneelers, for they deprived him of his rightful glory. He stalked towards them, fury in his stride.

  A few cringed away, but most remained prostrate. Some prayed while others whimpered, but most stayed silent, their faces pressed to the blood-soaked mud.

  "Stand and fight!" He roared his challenge, yet they remained stubbornly prostrate, hugging the muddy ground like craven worms. Anger burned through him, igniting a killing rage. The marshal attacked. Hewing heads from bodies, he turned cowards into corpses. He strode among them, wielding the sword like an executioner. The Dark Sword feasted on an endless sea of souls.

  The strident sound of a battle horn pierced his mind.

  The marshal staggered to a stop.

  The dead and dying littered the ground around him. Beyond the corpses, the rest of the army remained prostrate in the mud like penitents awaiting their fate. Contempt snarled his face, but then he saw a lone rider coming towards him. Bedecked in dark armor, his breastplate embossed with gleaming gold, he wore a plumed helm and carried a saber in his gauntleted fist.

  A commander, perhaps a champion, come to do battle, finally a worthy foe for his sword. The knight marshal raised the Dark Sword in salute. "Fight me!"

  The enemy rode within five sword lengths and then he reined his warhorse to a stop. For the longest time he sat unmoving, as if waiting for something, but then he slowly removed his helm, tossing it aside. A man of middling years, he had swarthy skin the color of warm bronze offset by dark hair, dark eyes and a dark mustache. A scar rode his left cheek, proof he was no stranger to battle.

  The marshal assumed a fighting stance. "Have you come to do battle?"

  "I've come to serve."

  A snarl rose in the marshal's throat, yet something bid him wait.

  "Do you know why they kneel prostrate, accepting death without a fight?"

  The marshal waited, statue-still, poised to fight.

  "In the north, we serve a god, a god who walks among us. We northerners know what gods do. We well know what havoc they wreck among mere mortals." He raised his saber, gesturing to the field of corpses. "Look around you. Look behind you. How can one man reap so much death lest he be a god? You are the God of Death."

  The marshal shook his head. "No, the God of War."

  The swarthy man flashed a feral grin. "Even better." Dismounting, he strode towards the marshal. "But true gods need servants. The God of War deserves an army."

  *Yes,* the voice that he thought of as the sword's whispered in his head, *let them serve!*

  "I am Commander Crull, leader of the Third Army of the Pentacle," he extended his saber hilt-first, "and I've come to serve a god." He knelt, offering his sword.

  The marshal reeled backwards. He'd expected battle, he'd expected death and glory...but never surrender. His gaze roved the battlefield, the endless sea of carnage...and the living army lying prostrate before him.

  *The God of War must have an army*

  The words thundered through him. They felt right, they felt fitting. It was as if the voice planted a battle standard in his mind, and it was glorious. The marshal echoed the words of the sword, "The God of War must have an army." He touched the commander's proffered sword hilt. "I accept your service. I expect your worship." He raised the Dark Sword to the heavens. "For I am the God of War!"

  His army stood, banging swords on shields, their voices raised in adulation. "All hail the God of War!"

  In The South

  43

  The Priestess

  The Priestess took the time to prepare. After a long soak in a steaming tub, her handmaidens washed and coiled her raven-dark hair. Naked as a blank canvas, she knelt before her two chests, considering her arsenal. Seduction and poison, she’d arm herself with both, one for offense, the other for defense.

  She started with seduction. Considering her prey, she chose a sophisticated scent, sandalwood with a touch of thyme. Subtle yet complex, she dabbed the scent in an alluring path down and around her curves. For her face, she added crushed malachite to highlight the depths of her eyes and a hint of ruby coloring on her lips, but otherwise her face needed no adornment. For undergarments, she chose layer
s of the sheerest silk, soft whispers against her skin. Instead of a gown, she chose a robe of a deep forest green flecked with gold thread, cut low to display her curves without revealing her depths. For jewelry, she wore the sundered Eye bound in silver, a reminder of the bitter price she’d paid, a cold weight dangling between her breasts. Finished, the Priestess gazed in the mirror, considering the effect. Mystery and sexual sophistication gazed back at her, the perfect foil for a thousand-year-old soul.

  Satisfied, she dismissed her handmaidens and reached for her poisons. Unlocking the rosewood chest, she opened drawers and sniffed at stoppered bottles, considering her choices. So many ways to death, poison was the most devious of weapons, the subtle kill, tailored to suit each situation, each victim, the perfect weapon for the Priestess. She might have painted a tincture of nightshade on her nipples or toes…but death was not her intent, at least not yet, not tonight. Instead, she sought something with a deliberate method of delivery. A pair of bracelets caught her gaze, coiled serpents adorned with green enameled scales on gold, jewelry of the deadliest sort. Cunningly crafted, they coiled from her wrists to her elbows serving as bracers, but their true bite came from the hidden needles exposed by a secret touch. She pressed the small button, releasing the needles along the serpent's spine. The potency of their barbed bite depended on the chosen poison. A reduction of wolfsbane seemed the perfect choice. Folklore said that wolfsbane was used to slay the hounds of hell, a fitting omen for tonight’s prey. Carefully applying the potent mixture, she made sure it was dry before resetting the needles. A predator's smile slid across her face, certain a single prick would cause a heart-stopping death. She raised her arms to the light, admiring her choice. Glittering along her forearms, the serpentine bracers carried enough hidden poison to kill ten men. For something less lethal, she chose a serpent ring, anointing the hidden fangs with henbane, a sleepy alternative to wolfsbane. Armed and dangerous, she was ready to meet the Mordant.