The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga) (11 page)

11

The Knight Marshal

Sir Lothar leaned on the rampart,
counting the newcomers. “Will it be enough?”

A cavalcade of mounted knights
thundered into the yard below, a proud flurry of maroon cloaks and battle
banners come to man the walls at Raven
Pass. The marshal did not
hesitate, “It has to be.” Morale was as much about words as numbers so he kept
his voice confident. “One knight is worth three of the enemy.”

“Only three? I’d heard it was
five.” Lothar flashed a grin, his dark eyes gleaming in a weather beaten face.
“Or perhaps the young ones aren’t as good as we were in our prime.”

“They’re good enough.” The marshal
flexed his shoulders, still unaccustomed to the weight of the great sword.
“They just don’t brag as much as some.”

“Bragging is a hero’s art. It takes
more than a hint of truth to be good at it.” Lothar tugged on his mustache, his
right hand fingering the battleaxe strapped to his side.

“You should know, my friend. When
you’re in your cups I’m never sure where the truth ends and the tale begins.”

Lothar chuckled. “Just as it should
be.”

A cold wind blew out of the north,
snatching at his words, as if the wind begrudged them a moment’s respite. So
cold, the first breath of winter, the marshal turned his back on the north.
Wrapped in maroon cloaks lined with fur, the two men walked the battlement,
watching the tide of new arrivals. Warhorses churned the muddy yard below, a
column of mounted knights newly come from Castlegard, answering the summons of
the king. Each day, men and arms arrived from all points of the Domain,
swelling the ranks at Raven
Pass, but the marshal
feared it would not be enough.

“How many?” Lothar worried the
numbers like a man with a bad tooth.

“Should be nigh on three thousand knights
and twice as many foot. More than enough to man the walls. And winter will
fight beside us, an ally in white. The enemy will freeze on the steppes before
he ever breaks our gates.” The marshal cast his gaze along the valley. Steep
granite walls reared up on either end of the battlement, snow-capped mountains
looming overhead. Raven
Pass cut a swath through
the heart of the Dragon Spines, an open invitation to the Mordant were it not
for the Octagon. Three walls blocked the pass, stout and strong with ironbound
gates. The first sealed the entrance to the valley, a thirty-foot wall, topped
with crenelated battlements. A killing field of three hundred feet separated
the first from the second. Beyond the muddy lane, the second wall rose to a
height of fifty feet, a pair of drum towers guarding the central gate. The
third stood half a league south, a stubby twelve-foot wall serving as the last
line of defense. The two men walked the second wall, gazing out over the
steppes. “Not mage-stone but the builders wrought well. The walls will stand
against the north.”

“By Valin’s sword, they’d better.”
Lothar kept pace beside him. “Have you heard their new names?”

“What?”

“The walls.” Lothar ran a gloved
hand along the granite battlement. “The men dubbed the first wall
Shieldbreaker. And this one Swordbreaker. Venture a guess on the third?”

From the wry grin on his friend’s face,
he knew it must be something lewd. “
Ball
breaker?”

“Ha!” Lothar barked a laugh.
“Spoken like a drunken bard!” His face sobered, his voice dropping to a throaty
growl. “No, they’ve named the third the Whore. ‘Cause if we have to retreat
that far, we’re well and truly raped.”

Both men fell silent, considering
the odds.

“It doesn’t help that the men are
divided.”

The marshal shot a searing glare at
his friend. “You mean the succession?”

Lothar nodded. “With war looming,
the king should name his heir. The men fret at the question like hounds with
thorns in their paws.”

The marshal swore, knowing morale
was ever a fragile thing. “What are they saying?”

“Some want Ulrich, they see him as
a strong warrior, a champion of the sword, but others fear he’ll rush to battle
without thinking, spilling blood like water.”

“And Prince Griffin?”

“Too shrewd for most. They see him
as a plotter, a schemer, not one to lead from the front, not a monarch they can
trust.” Lothar shook his head. “King Ursus casts a long shadow. He rules too
well. His sons suffer by comparison. Yet the king grows old,” he snorted in
disgust, “as do we all.”

“You could have stayed at Salt Tower.
The captains were not expected to answer the king’s summons.”

Lothar snorted. “And leave all the
glory to you? I think not.” He tugged on his mustache, stopping to stare across
the steppes. “Will the Mordant come? And how many will he bring?”

“The king says they’ll come. War is
certain as winter. But only the gods know how many ride under the Darkflamme.”
The marshal shrugged, adjusting the harness of his great sword. “The king has
an uncanny sense for battle, so we have a chance to prepare. Better to meet
them here on the walls than out on the grasslands. Walls have a way of leveling
the numbers.” He quickened his pace. “Come, we still have the trebuchets to
inspect.”

“Filthy contraptions.” Lothar spat.
“Knights should fight steel to steel, so we can stare into each others eyes. Battle is as much a test
of will as strength. There’s no honor in these infernal engines.”

“You’ll thank Valin for these
engines once the Mordant comes.”

They reached the first trebuchet; a
monstrous wooden beast crouched on the edge of the battlement. Routinely used
to destroy walls rather than protect them, the king had ordered it disassembled
and carried to the topmost battlement. It looked like a long-necked dragon, a
thick beam of wood rearing up into the sky, a massive counterweight squatting
on the short end. A leather sling dangled from the top like a noose awaiting a murderer.
The marshal scowled, the trebuchet was an ugly thing, a cold cruel killing
contrivance, but the Octagon needed every advantage.

A gray-cloaked sergeant spied the
marshal and snapped to attention. “Everything’s in working order, sir.”

The marshal nodded. “Then let’s see
how far it throws.”
 

“Yes, sir!” The sergeant yelled a
stream of orders. A team of twenty men rushed to service the beast. Soldiers
worked the windlass, cranking the counterweight into the air. As the weight
rose, the great arm slowly sank, bringing the sling to the rampart floor.
Timbers groaned, protesting against the strain. Men swore, struggling with the
final turn of the windlass. A soldier rushed to set the slip-hook, securing the
counterweight. Four men wrestled a boulder into the leather sling. The sergeant
barked an order, and the men leaped away.

Timbers flexed and groaned. The
counterweight crashed down as the massive arm jerked upright. Snapping like a
whip, the sling unfurled, hurling the boulder into the air. As if lobbed by a
giant hand, the boulder tumbled upward, rising over the first wall and sailing
out over the steppes. The men roared a cheer, urging it higher. The boulder
seemed to tumble forever, finally landing with a bone-crushing thud. A cloud of
dirt marked the new-formed crater. The marshal figured the distance at more
than two thousand feet. “Impressive. But the engine is only worth the number of
boulders ready to throw.” He glanced at the stack of stones littering the
rampart. “I want the number doubled in the next two days.”

The men groaned but the sergeant
saluted. “As you command.”

A gust of wind beat against his
face, a hint of snow in the air. The marshal pulled his wool cloak close and
resumed walking.

Lothar kept pace beside him. “The
wooden beast is impressive. What other surprises have you got?”

The marshal gestured to the steep
sides of the valley. “Sharpened stakes run along the ridge line, to keep the
enemy from scaling the cliffs. We dare not let them get above us. And we’ve
brought wagonloads of lamp oil from Castlegard. I’ve ordered the oil set atop
the first wall, to keep their siege engines at bay. And if the fighting
breaches the first wall, I’ve got barrels of caltrops ready to fling into the
killing field. A nasty weapon, but the spikes will wreck havoc with the enemy’s
horses.”

Lothar shook his head. “Tricks and
traps.”

“Whatever it takes to win.” He gave
his friend a piercing stare. “If the king is right, this is one battle we dare
not lose.”

“
My lord, a moment!”

The marshal turned to find the king’s squire chasing him down. A tall
skinny lad with a shock of red hair, Baldwin
skidded to a stop. “The king asks for you.”

“In the main tower?”

“Aye. This way.”

He took his leave from Lothar, following the squire to the nearest drum
tower. “Did he say why?”

“A troop arrived from Castlegard. They brought a visitor.” Baldwin tugged on the ironbound door, releasing a breath
of warm air.

“A visitor?” He followed the squire down the spiral stairs, grateful
for the warmth. “Does the man have a name?”

“I didn’t hear it, but he wears a dark blue robe.”

A
meddling monk
, the marshal swore
under his breath, an omen of dread shivering down his back. He quickened his
footsteps.

Through an arched doorway, they reached the king’s council chambers. A
pair of guards snapped a salute. The marshal nodded. Pulling the gloves from
his hands, he strode into the small round chamber. A fireplace on the far side
roared with heat, while wooden shutters struggled to hold back the cold at the
two windows. The room was spare and plain, a round table with ten chairs, an
iron candelabra dripping tears of wax onto the oak table. The only ornament was
a shield emblazoned with the octagon. Cracked and dented, it hung above the
fireplace mantle, a relic from another war.

The marshal bowed toward the king.
Ever a warrior, King Ursus
sat at the table wearing scarred fighting leathers and a chainmail shirt, a
sheaf of dispatches spread before him.
Sir
Abrax stood at the king’s back, a sapphire-blue great sword looming over his
right shoulder. As the champion of the sword, the presence of Sir Abrax told
the marshal much. He nodded, approving of his king’s caution.

“Osbourne, we have a visitor.” The king’s voice was cold, no hint of
courtesy.

The monk stood on the far side of the table, his dark blue robes
mud-spattered at the hem.
Tall and lean, his face was fair as a
nobleman’s, his shoulder length hair carrying more gray than black. He smiled a
greeting but his eyes were dark and sunken as if weary with strain.

The marshal stared, surprised to
recognize the monk. “We’ve met before.”

The monk nodded. “At Castlegard.”
He held his right arm straight out, a blue Seeing Eye tattooed across his open
palm. “My name is Aeroth and I bring a message to King Ursus of Castlegard from
the Grand Master of the Kiralynn Order.”

The king’s voice cut like a sword. “By
any map the Southern Mountains are far from here. How is it you cross the
kingdoms with so much ease?”

“My Order has its secrets.”

“That’s what bothers me.” The two
men locked stares, a stalemate of wills. “Your Order brings nothing but ill
tidings. Are your robes blue or just another shade of black?”

The monk bore the insult well. Only
a slight narrowing of the eyes betrayed his anger. “It’s true we often herald
dark tidings but is it not better to be warned than to fall to surprise,
ambushed by the enemy?”

The king eased back in his chair,
the faint creak of leather and chainmail.

The monk raised his right hand,
displaying the Seeing Eye like a talisman of truth. “The Kiralynn Order has
always walked in the Light. Will you hear my message?”

The king grunted assent.

“Our Order sought to avoid a
perilous war, but that opportunity is lost.” The monk’s voice deepened, as if
cloaked in prophesy. “The Mordant has crossed the Dragon Spines, reclaiming the
power of the north. A dire time is upon us, a time of trials and tests, when
the decisions of a few will impact many. Be warned, for the Mordant will hurl
the full might of the north against the Octagon. Seeking to eclipse Erdhe with
Darkness, he will risk all to succeed in this lifetime. His legions will march
south wielding weapons of dark magic, weapons that time has nearly forgot. But
above all, the Mordant is always the Deceiver. The Grand Master warns the King
of Castlegard to beware of deceit. The Octagon is strong in war but deceit will
ever be your downfall.”

A grim silence settled over the
chamber.
 

The king shook his head, his voice
gruff. “Words couched in riddles. Speak plainly or leave.”

“The Order fears that a harlequin
lurks within the maroon, waiting for the perfect chance to betray the
Octagon.”
 

“More talk of traitors,” the king’s
voice dropped to a dangerous growl. “My men are loyal. You slight our honor.”

“Forgive my words, majesty, but it
is not a matter of loyalty. harlequins are awakened when their hosts are in
their early twenties. The host has no choice in the matter, a victim crushed
beneath an older soul, subsumed by a great evil. Once awakened, the harlequin
can masquerade as the host knight until the time of the Dark Lord’s choosing.”
The monk spread his hands in entreaty. “The Octagon is the shield of the
southern kingdoms. If you fail, the consequences are dire. The Order fears a harlequin
hides among you, waiting to turn the tide of battle.” His voice dropped to a
harsh whisper. “How long can you hold the walls if a traitor opens the gates?”

The king glared daggers at the
monk, a storm of anger riding his face. The marshal intervened. “Grim words,
but what help do you offer?”