The Knight Marshal (The Silk & Steel Saga) (3 page)

In The North

1

Katherine

Kath woke with a harsh gasp. Sodden with sweat, she fled her
nightmares…only to realize they were true.
Duncan
!
She keened his
name, remembering the horror of the bloody cavern. Tears threatened but Kath
refused to let them flow. She’d tried to save him, but silver daggers riddled
his flesh, biting deep, a hundred gaping wounds. Breaking the chains, they’d
rescued him from the foul darkness, carrying him up into the dawn’s bitter
light, but the victory proved hollow. So short the time she had with him, she
would have held him forever, clutching him close beneath the gulls’ mournful
cries, but the others intruded, insisting he was dead. They buried him out on
the steppes, in clean earth untainted by darkness, the vast blue sky arching
overhead. The Painted People raised a warrior’s mound over his grave, an
earthen cairn of captured weapons and battle banners, a hero’s tribute. She’d
watched as if she wore someone else’s body, unable to believe he was gone. Her
heart ached beyond the telling, yet she’d promised to live. Words so easily
spoken, yet so hard to keep.

Hollow with hurt, she abandoned her
bed, belting her sword to her side, the crystal dagger secure in its sheath.
Twirling her maroon cloak around her shoulders, she shrugged on her throwing
axes. Night lurked beyond the lead-paned windows, as cold and bleak as her
soul. Bleary-eyed, she wandered the Mordant’s palace. Every room screamed of
decadence, marble columns, golden doors, and gilded braziers. The gaudy display
bludgeoned the senses with tasteless wealth, a monument to Darkness. The palace
repulsed her, yet night after night Kath roamed the labyrinth hallways as if
seeking something lost. Retreating to her memories, she pulled her maroon cloak
close.
Duncan
,
his name throbbed in her heart. She gripped his
silver warrior’s ring, her fingers tracing the aspen leaves, willing herself to
remember his face, his touch, his voice.

Something intruded. She felt
watched. Her hand gripped the crystal dagger. Kath woke from a trance and found
herself surrounded by nightmares.

Demons leered down at her. Devils,
harpies, and orcs carved in stone, so real their talons seemed to reach for
her, stone hungering for flesh. She lurched backward, remembering the gargoyle
gates, but the carved stone remained fixed to the wall, a frozen frieze.
A
hallway of monsters,
the riddle drew her forward. Beneath the show of
wealth, the Mordant’s palace hid nightmares but this was blatant, unlike
anything she’d seen. A pantheon of monsters capered along the walls and across
the ceiling, a seamless horror carved in gray stone,
but why?
Duncan’s dying words whispered in her mind, “
Find the demon hallway and press the
devil’s horn.”
And then she remembered. “
Eye of varg and claw of balrog,
tongue of ghoul and skull of lich.”
Like a code writ in stone, she searched
for the first clue. A grinning devil winked at her as if he kept a secret.
Setting her thumb against his left horn, she pushed. The horn slid into the
wall, a soft grinding noise. Intrigued by the stone riddle, yet Kath slowed,
warning herself that this was the
Mordant’s
secret. Caution was
advisable. Keeping a grip on the crystal dagger, she followed the clues. Hidden
amongst the details, she found the pressure points cunningly wrought, secrets
sculpted into stone.

She pressed the last clue.

A secret door ground open.

Kath crouched, sword in hand,
expecting shadowy demons to belch from the doorway…but the hallway remained
still as night. She crept forward and peered inside.

A lich-king glared from the
darkness, ruby eyes glinting in the torchlight.

Her heart lurched, but it was just
another carving, a horror etched in stone. Beyond the carving, spiral stairs
wound down to absolute darkness. She shuddered, remembering the red cavern but Duncan’s dying words urged her on. Wresting the nearest torch from its bracket, she dared
the stairs. Cobwebs hissed in the flames, a reminder that this way was secret.
Down and around, the torchlight played against dark stone, a cold musty smell
riding the air, like entering a tomb. She reached the bottom and light
reflected back at her. Gold glittered from every corner, a treasure trove of
coins strewn across the floor. She lowered the torch, discovering jeweled
crowns and gilded armor lying scattered amongst the coins, wealth beyond
imagining. So this was the Mordant’s treasure vault, but Kath cared little for
gold. Raising the torch, she explored the hoard, coins clinking at her feet.
Silver gleamed in the darkness, catching her gaze.
A winged throne,
her
breath caught. Sculpted into silver wings, the throne glowed like captured
starlight. Elegant yet powerful, the throne called to her, like something long
lost yet somehow dear and familiar. Letting the torch fall, she crossed the
chamber. Yellow diamonds glittered along the tall seat, fashioned in an
eight-pointed star.
“The Star Knights!”
Her fingers caressed the silver
armrests, needing to know it was real. Memories of the ruined tower lost in
Wyeth crowded her mind, the very place where she’d found the crystal dagger. A
certainty shivered through her, this throne did not belong here, a prisoner
chained in Darkness. 

Pulling her maroon cloak close,
Kath bowed low, wondering if she dared. Gripped by curiosity mixed with a
hungry need, she sat upon the throne.

At first nothing happened, but then
chimes filled the air like windblown music, defying the stillness of the crypt.
The throne flared to life, glowing like unchained starlight. Light blazed from
the silver wings, filling the chamber with radiant beams.

And then she saw him, hovering at the
Light’s edge, his body whole and unbroken, his mismatched gaze full of love.
Duncan
!

She froze, afraid to hope, her
words a whisper. “Am I dreaming?”

“
Perhaps we’re both dreaming.”
He
gave her a smile that filled her with warmth. “
You must not lose heart, for
the Light is as real as the Dark.”

 She wanted to touch him, to wrap
her arms around him and hold him close…but she feared he would disappear,
nothing more than a delusion. “I miss you.”

 
“And I you.”

 “Will you stay?”

“You know I cannot. Yet I will
wait for you in the Light.”
His smile softened.
“Do not lose hope, do
not lose heart, both are needed to defeat the Dark.”

The throne began to dim. “No!
Stay
with me!
” She gripped the silver armrests, willing the sculpted wings to
stay bright, but the glow faded to darkness.

“Duncan!”
She screamed his
name but he was gone, disappearing with the light. She willed him to return,
willed the throne to blaze bright…but the winged silver remained dormant.
Darkness encroached, the torch sputtering among the coins. Battered by
emptiness, her dam of tears burst. Kath sobbed, wracked by loneliness and loss,
a river drenching her leathers.

An eternity later, her tears ran
dry.

Gasping for breath, she struggled
for composure, grateful no one had seen her weakness.

Darkness crowded close. The torch
was nearly extinguished, nothing but a faint glimmer.

She refused to succumb. “Darkness
is real but so is the Light.” She’d married Duncan under the starlight and
nothing would ever change that. Binding her grief with memories, she reached
for the torch. At the stairs she paused, her gaze drawn to the silver throne.
Among the Mordant’s gold, she’d found a single treasure. She did not know if
her vision of Duncan was real or imagined, but she clung to the memory like an
elixir meant to last through an endless drought. Gripping her sword, she
climbed the stairs back to duty.

2

The Knight Marshal

A cold wind howled out of the north, a bitter herald of
death and destruction, but the knight marshal refused to be cowed. Like an old
oak with roots gnarled deep in the soil, he stood unbowed, keeping vigil by a
fresh-laid cairn of rocks, the tomb of his king. The world had changed and not
for the better. Raven Pass was broken, the Octagon Knights scattered, their
king felled by deceit, but honor and courage had to count for something. He
tightened his grip on his great sword, watching as the dawn’s first light
crested the Dragon Spine Mountains, bringing an end to his vigil…but he did not
want to be released. “I never thought to outlive you.” His heartfelt words went
unanswered. Sorrow battered his soul like an enemy sword yet duty claimed him.
“For Honor and the Octagon.”

Stiff from standing, he bowed to
his king one last time and then sheathed his sword and made his way down the
hill to the others. He found them clustered around the wagon, three knights, a
squire, and the brown-robed healer. Their weary stares speared him with a
single question but he had no answer. “The king is dead. I’ll lead the Octagon
till another is found.”

His gruff words quelled their
question…at least for a time.

Sir Abrax spoke for the others.
“What now?”

“I gave orders for the Octagon to
scatter and regroup. We’ll meet at Stonehand. Sir Lothar will be named as
knight marshal if I fall.”

Sir Abrax flashed a feral grin.
“Then we fight?”

Sir Blaze and Sir Rannock fingered
their weapons, a deadly edge to their faces. The marshal was not alone in
wanting vengeance for the king. He gave them a slow nod. “We lost the first
battle but not the war. We’ll bleed the dark horde for the king.” Approval lit
their faces, their courage undaunted. The marshal drew strength from their
conviction. “We best be gone, we have a war to fight.” He strode to the wagon
and took up the king’s blue steel sword, Honor’s Edge, and thrust it into the
bedroll affixed to his saddle. At least his lord’s sword was safe. Mordbane lay
shattered on the battlefield, the prince’s blue sword broken by the black, but
before the fight the king had entrusted his own sword to his squire’s care, a
legacy for his heir. “Baldwin, you did well to protect the king’s sword.” The
young man burned bright red under the compliment. “But duty calls us in other
directions.” His gaze turned to the healer, “Quintus, you’d best unhitch the
horses and empty the wagon. From now on we’ll need to be stealthy.” The pudgy
healer moved to the traces, the king’s squire leaping to lend a hand. “Baldwin, to me. I’ve a more important task for you.” Surprise flashed across the squire’s
freckled face, but he was quick to obey.

“This way.” The marshal led the lad
into the woods. In the dim morning light he scoured the ground, using his sword
to hack at the brambles.

“Sir, what do we seek?”

“The blade that killed the king.”
He heard the squire’s sharp intake of breath. “I think I threw it in this
direction.” They split up, searching the thicket.

“It’s here.”

“Don’t touch it.” He scrambled to
the squire’s side. The great sword lay among the brambles like a slash of
Darkness. Despite the dark color, it was well crafted with dragons coiled
around the hilt in an intriguing design. Dark and deadly, the sword was made for
a champion’s hand, so tempting to claim it, like a siren’s promise of power. He
found himself reaching for it till the monk’s warning blazed in his mind,
not
meant for the hand of man
. Snatching back his hand, he gave the squire a
stern look. “The blade’s said to be cursed. Never touch it.” As an
afterthought, he added, “Go fetch a blanket from the wagon and a length of
rope.”

As Baldwin sped away, the marshal
used his sword to lever the dark weapon from the thorns. It fell to the ground
at his feet, deadly black against the snow. Crouching, he studied the blade,
careful not to touch it. Steel so black it seemed to drink light, but it was
the pommel that snared his attention. “
By Valin, it cannot be!”
 The
sword held the shape of a legend, an octagon pommel with a pair of coiled
dragons gracing the crossguard. Beneath the guard the blade held the final
damning detail, the maker’s mark, an octagon surrounding the initials
OS. Orrin
Surehammer,
the first smith to forge a blue steel blade. He staggered backwards,
stunned by a legend twisted to a curse.

Baldwin returned clutching a
bloodied blanket and a length of rope. “What’s wrong?”

“A legend twisted to an
abomination! This sword was forged for Boric.”

Awe flooded the lad’s face, “
The
first blue steel blade!”

“Just so,”

“But why is it dark?”

“It’s been corrupted, perverted by
evil.” A shiver of foreboding raced down the marshal’s back. It was said that
blue steel blades held their shape forever, never dulling, never melting,
refusing to be reforged, but somehow the Mordant had corrupted the very metal
of the sword, turning the sapphire-blue steel to darkest black. He wondered at
the power required to corrupt the very nature of steel. “Somehow the Mordant
tainted the sword with evil. An octagon-forged blade turned black, sent against
us like a curse.”

“But Boric’s blade was lost long
ago.”

The lad saw the truth of it. “Lost
centuries ago, yet the Mordant saved it for our time. Saved it to slay a king.”
The weapon screamed of power and planning and foul intent. A legend-forged
blade yet it lay at his feet as if cast aside by a demon, waiting for a knight
to take it up. The marshal looked away, refusing to be tempted. “The monks have
the truth of it. This blade was not meant to be wielded by men.” He used the
blanket to wrap the sword. Even through the thick wool, he could feel the
blade’s keening cold, like a malevolent force trying to suck the life from him.
Shuddering, he bound the blanket-wrapped blade with rope, fashioning a strap
for carrying across the back. Finished, he turned to the squire. “I have a task
for you, a final service to your king.”

“Anything.”

Seeing the eagerness in the lad’s
face, the marshal hesitated, but he had no knights to spare. “Take the sword to
Eye Lake. Get one of the fisher folk to row you out and hurl it into the
deep. Perhaps the lake can cleanse the blade of taint, or at least keep it
hidden, locked away in the watery depths.”

Baldwin saluted. “As you command.”

For the first time he noticed the
hint of red stubble on the lad’s chin, nearly a man grown. King Ursus had
talked of raising his squire to a knight. “You served the king well. This is a
man’s task that I ask of you.” He settled the rope strap across the young man’s
shoulders, the blanket-wrapped sword riding high across his back. “Ride swift
and hard and cast the gods-cursed blade deep into the lake. Let no one
interfere with your mission. And when you return, you’ll be raised to a knight.
The octagon has need of every sword.”

Baldwin’s eyes blazed bright. “It
will be done.”

They returned to the others and the
marshal saw the squire mounted on the swiftest horse. Saluting with his fist to
his chest, Baldwin set spurs to his warhorse and rode for the south, soon
swallowed by the trees.

A hushed stillness settled on the
forest. The marshal turned to the others. “Mount up. The sooner we get to
Stonehand, the sooner we wet our blades against the enemy.” They swung into
their saddles; the healer perched bareback on one of the dray horses. Swords
held at the ready, they rode through the winter-bare woods following the ridge
till they reached a snowy knoll overlooking the valley. The marshal dismounted,
Sir Abrax at his side. The two crept forward till they gained a view of the
valley. A grim sight awaited them. The enemy army choked Raven Pass like a black pestilence, but instead of a slavering horde, they marched in disciplined
ranks.

Beside him, Sir Abrax grunted. “I’d
not have believed it.”

The marshal knew what he meant.
“More proof the Mordant rules with an iron gauntlet.”

“It will make the horde harder to
defeat.”

A hundred thousand boot prints
marred the valley below, churning the snow to mud. Finding the view too grim
for words, the marshal had no reply.

Sir Abrax scowled. “Looks like
they’ve claimed the wall. Little good the Whore will do them.”

But the marshal saw their strategy.
“The Whore will help them hold the pass while their foragers ransack the other
walls. They’ll be feasting on our winter stores whilst we go hungry.”  His
stomach chose that moment to rumble, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten in over
a day. “We need to find the others.”

They edged backwards, keeping their
heads low. Remounting, they followed the ridge south, always keeping well
within the trees, the horses forging a path through the lightly crusted snow.
Single file, they rode throughout the day, hunger gnawing at them like a second
enemy. By twilight they ran out of ridge, descending a steep trail to the flat
lands.

A low growl echoed through the
woods. Instead of retreating, the marshal turned his horse toward the sound.
They emerged from a stand of white-barked aspen to find a pack of wolves
feasting on a fresh-felled stag. A dozen wolves snapped and snarled over the
kill. Sir Abrax drew his great sword, “Looks like we’ve found dinner.”

The marshal gave him a stern look.
“Careful. Voices carry.”

Sir Abrax nodded, lowering his
visor.

Silent as snow, the three knights
charged the wolves; their armor gleaming in the fading light, their swords
raised high. A great gray wolf whirled to meet the charge. Fangs bared, he
stood his ground, menacing a deep-throated growl, but fangs were no match for
Castlegard steel. Sir Abrax took his head with a single sword stroke while Sir
Rannock rode amongst the others, his morning star carving a deadly whirl. The
wolves broke and ran. Sir Abrax pulled his warhorse to a halt. “Knights against
wolves, how the mighty have fallen, but at least we’ve gained a meal.” He
peered down at the bloody carcass. “Does anyone know how to dress a deer?”

Silence reigned, they were knights
not huntsmen.

The healer caught up to them,
bouncing on the back of his horse. “I’ll do it.” Quintus slid from the horse,
pulling a packet of leather-wrapped surgeon’s knives from one of his many
pockets. “Skin and muscle are much the same, though some are tougher than
others.” The knights stood guard while the healer carved the stag. Beyond the
hill, the wolves howled a mixture of frustration and anger. One shaggy-maned
wolf stood sentinel, a gray shadow on the hilltop.

Quintus finished his work, blood up
to his elbows. “I’ve salvaged as much as I can, but the meat will need to be
well cooked.” He knelt, scrubbing snow on his forearms. “A pity we don’t have
salt.”

“There’s many things we don’t
have.” The marshal threw the healer a spare blanket. “Wrap the meat in this; we
need to be off.” They remounted and the marshal led them deeper into the
flatlands. Behind them, the wolves yipped and howled, reclaiming the carcass.

They rode for the better part of an
hour. Coming across a clump of boulders, the marshal called a halt. “This is as
good a shelter as we’re likely to get. We’ll rest here and dare a small fire.
Carve the venison into strips and cook all of it. From now on every fire will
be a risk.”

They picketed the horses and
scrounged for firewood while the healer cut the meat into strips. In the lee of
the boulders they coaxed a small flame to life, setting the venison to cook on
sticks. Sir Rannock filled his helm with snow and set it near the coals.
Sitting in a circle, they watched the meat like starving wolves. Too hungry to
wait, they burned their fingers on half-cooked venison, the juices staining
their beards. The marshal was just as impatient as the others, cramming his
mouth with venison. The sizzling strips proved tough and stringy but they
filled his empty stomach. Reaching for the helm, he quenched his thirst on
snowmelt. No one spoke. His hunger finally sated, the marshal watched his men,
three champions of the maroon reduced to skulking like brigands, eating meat
stolen from wolves…but at least they lived, surviving to fight another day.

Sir Abrax noticed his stare. “So
we’ll camp here tonight?”

“We dare not tarry. We need the
dark to slip past the enemy. We’ll sleep once we reach Stonehand.”

“A long ride.”

“Then we best get started.”

Dousing the fire with snow, they
filled their empty saddlebags with cooked venison and mounted their weary
horses. By the light of the moon, the marshal led them east, sneaking across
the mouth of the pass, hooves crunching on snow. Twice they paused, hearing the
clink of armor, but no challenge came their way. In the small hours of the
morning, they reached the forest on the far side, the trees offering the
promise of cover against the dawn.

Weary from the long night, the
marshal let his horse pick a path up into the snow-dusted foothills. He
struggled to stay alert but his mind kept wandering, hammered by fatigue. So
much had changed in so short a time. Only two days ago he’d fought atop
crenellated battlements, holding the Mordant’s hordes at bay till the gates
were sundered, shattered by foul magic. Two days for his world to be upended;
the Octagon defeated by trickery and gods-cursed magic. Now his men were
kingless, scattered in retreat, riding through the night like brigands. Somehow
he had to find a way to restore the maroon to glory. Honor and courage had to
count for something. “By Valin, I’ll not let the Octagon fail!” but the oath
sounded hollow in the night. He stared at the stars, so cold and distant,
wondering if the gods cared.