The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga) (23 page)

28

The Knight Marshal

Red eyes stared back at him, demon
eyes, full of hate, taunting him with visions of defeat. The marshal bolted
awake. Soaked in sweat, he shivered.
Another
nightmare
, he wondered if it was a warning or a threat. Either way, those
red eyes mocked him, as if the fate of the Octagon rested on his shoulders
alone. Groaning, he banished the thought, a disloyalty to his king. “Enough of
sleep.” Wiping the sweat from his face, he threw off the wool blanket and
climbed from his cot. Still dressed in fighting leathers, ready for any summons,
he pulled on his boots.

Ice rimed the water bucket. He used
a dagger to break through, splashing cold water on his face. Grimacing against
the chill, he fingered the stubble on his face. Too cold to shave but he did it
anyway, a matter of pride, setting an example for the men. Shrugging a
chainmail shirt over his head, he fastened his wool cloak with a pin and then
reached for his sword. The harness felt right across his shoulders. Another
man’s sword had become his own. Good steel should never be wasted.

Guards saluted as he strode the
length of the hallway. He climbed the stairs to the tower top, stepping out
into the bitter wind. Leaning on the rampart, he watched a bloody sun rise on
the steppes, another cold day of waiting. He’d learned long ago that battles
were mostly about waiting, long stretches of boredom punctuated by frenzied
periods of killing. Judging by the empty grasslands it’d be another day of
boredom but he dare not let the men grow complacent. So he made the rounds,
inspecting arms and armor, adjusting duty rosters, bolstering morale, but all
the while the red demon eyes haunted his mind. How could men defeat demons? How
could swords defeat magic? Questions nagged him like a plague of worries. He
dare not burden the king with his premonitions and Lothar had little patience
for nightmares. A pity the king had turned against the monk. He bet there was
much the blue-robed monk could have told them, but that chance was gone, flown
south like a frost owl on the wing. He shook his head in chagrin; he shouldn’t
even think such thoughts. Morale was fragile enough without rumors of magic and
shapeshifters.

Finished in the yard, he found his
footsteps turning toward the eastern tower. With so many men drawn from across
the Domain, the towers of Raven
Pass were jammed to the
hilt, men billeted in every nook and cranny. But one floor remained eerily
empty, a pity it wouldn’t stay that way.

The sharp smell of lye soap mingled
with the scents of dried herbs, proof he’d reached the healery. The outer ward
was deserted; rows of cots waiting for the wounded, but a crack of light
beneath the far door betrayed the healer’s presence. The marshal crossed the
ward and rapped on the door.

“Come.”

It was a small room, made smaller
by a jumble of crates and bottles. Rows of dried herbs hung from the beamed
ceiling, releasing a medicinal scent. A single window stood wide open. Admitting
the morning light and a breath of cold air, the wind competed with a blazing hearth,
a tug-of-war between heat and cold. The master healer sat with his back to the
door, fiddling with a flask boiling over a lit brazier.

“Yes?” Quintus threw a glance over
his shoulder, his eyes widening at the sight of the marshal. “Something I can
do for you?”

“I’ve come to see how you’ve
settled in.” The marshal closed the door and turned the latch. “Do you have
everything you need?”

“I brought two wagonloads of supplies
with me from Castlegard.” Short and pudgy, with a mop of unruly black hair, the
healer set the flask aside and banked the brazier. Turning, he gave his full
attention to the marshal. “But only the gods can say if it will be enough.”

“Just so.” The marshal circled the
chamber, pretending an interest in the odd assortment of bottles, instruments,
and scrolls that littered the crates. “How was the ride from Castlegard?”

“Long and bumpy, why?”

The marshal guessed the healer was
in his early forties, relatively young for such a learned position. A modest
man, he wore a dark brown robe, the color of peat, cinched at his waist, a
dollop of paunch overshadowing his thick leather belt. His face was disarmingly
pudgy and jovial, but the marshal knew a keen mind dwelt beneath the amiable
appearance, a perfect combination for a healer. “I heard a visitor shared a
ride on your wagon.”

“Aye, you mean the monk, Aeroth.”
The healer shrugged. “He preferred the bump of the wagon to the bounce of a
saddle.”

No doubt. Horses can’t abide a
changeling, or perhaps that’s just superstition.
The marshal pulled a
scroll from a bundle and found a list of ingredients for an ointment. “A long
trip from Castlegard, you had plenty of time to talk.”

“So you’ve come about the monk.”
Something dark flashed in the healer’s eyes. “I’ve heard the rumors. Did the
prince’s eyes really glow red?”

 
“Aye, red like the fiery pits of hell.”

 
“Then the monk did the Octagon a great
service. A demon hiding beneath the face of a prince could have destroyed the maroon.”

“True enough. But such a discovery
is not without shock, or pain.”

“So you blamed the messenger?” A
sharp-edged question, flung like a dagger. The healer’s eyes bored into him, as
if passing judgment.

The marshal bristled under the
scrutiny, but then he sighed, realizing it was no more than the truth. “The
king was grief-struck. His treatment of the monk was ill done.”

The words hung between them, as if
weighed on a scale. “And what about the monk’s crystal, how did it end up in
the king’s hands?”

“The demon hurled it across the
room.” The marshal shrugged. “Lothar found it abandoned in the fire grate.
Amazing it didn’t break.”

“Lucky for the Octagon.” Quintus
gave him a searching stare. “Mounting the crystal on the king’s sword was well
done. With one stroke, you counter the foul rumors, proving there are no more
demons among us.”

“One was too many,” the marshal
scowled, “and a prince at that.”

“True enough.” The healer’s glaze
softened and it seemed as if some tension leached out of the chamber. “But
you’re here for more than just rumors.”

Suspicion rose like a tide in the
marshal. “Why so prickly about the monk?”

Anger flashed in the healer’s dark
eyes. “Because day after day we sit here on this bloody wall, without a lick of
help from any ally, waiting for the Mordant’s hordes to attack, and finally
someone comes to help. A monk warns us of treachery and when that treachery
proves true, the king seeks to lock him in the dungeon. That’s not the Octagon
I
serve.”

The marshal crossed stares with the
healer. “Have a care, healer.” He brooked no disloyalty to the king…but the
words were true enough, so he bridled his temper. “As I said, the king was
grief-struck. A debt of thanks is owed to the monk.”

Anger bled from the healer’s face.
“Sorry.” He turned toward his workbench, his shoulders hunched, a hint of weariness
in his voice. “It is hard to sit here, waiting for cartloads of wounded to
arrive. Quintus shrugged, fiddling with a mortar and pestle. “You wanted to ask
me something?”

“Aye.” Now that it came to the
asking, the marshal found it hard to explain. He paced the chamber, frustration
riding his shoulders like a harness. “The monk said a lot, but he also said too
little.” He shrugged. “There was never any chance for questions.” The marshal
raked a hand through his hair. “Swords I know. But demons and dark magic?” He
shrugged, forcing the words out. “Whatever comes from the north won’t just be
swords and spears. I need to know how to fight magic.”

Quintus stared at him. “You should
have asked the monk.”

“Yes, but that chance is lost. So
I’m asking you.”

“I’m just a healer.” Turning his back
to the marshal, Quintus swirled a flask filled with a pea-green potion, a puff
of smoke rising from the brazier.

The marshal refused to be defeated.
“You’re the most learned man among us. I’ve even heard tales that you once studied
in the queen’s great library in Pellanor. Surely with all that learning you’ve
read something of magic?”

Quintus sighed. Setting the flask
aside, he turned. “Its true I’ve been to the queen’s library and in all those
thousands of scrolls you won’t find a single mention of magic except in the
bards’ tales. The War of Wizards was a long,
long
time ago.”

“But you must know something?” The
marshal’s stare drilled into the healer, desperate for answers.

“It’s strange that you ask. Aeroth
spoke of it on the ride from Castlegard.”

The marshal waited.

“You have to understand that magic
is nearly gone from the lands of Erdhe. Most people don’t believe in it. So if
they’re suddenly confronted with magic, people either feel mind-numbing fear or
worshipful awe. I suspect either will get you killed on the battlefield.”
 

“So how do I counter it?”

“You keep your wits about you.”

“That’s it? That’s your advice?” He
would have laughed except those demon-red eyes kept haunting him.

Quintus shrugged. “What I mean is,
consider magic like a sword, like a weapon, albeit a very dangerous weapon, but
like most swords it can only cut one way.”

“Explain.”

Quintus sighed. “If the legends are
to be believed, then most surviving magic is dependent on an artifact, a focus,
leftover from the War of Wizards. And each artifact has a single purpose, a
single magic, like being able to sculpt stone with just your mind, or summoning
a fireball. But most magic wielders can only do
one
thing, one single magic. So once you know what that one thing
is, you keep your wits about you and you find a way to block that skill so it
doesn’t turn the tide of battle.”

It made a strange kind of sense,
like dealing with the first trebuchet. “And if the magic wielder is killed?”

“Then the skill will be lost to the
enemy.”

So
wizards can be killed
, the marshal took comfort from the answer. “So what
kind of magic will they have?”

Quintus barked a laugh. “Only the
gods know.”

“You must have some idea?”

“Legends are full of stories about
magic. Any or all of them could be true.”

The marshal studied the healer
through hooded eyes. “And the monk didn’t say anything about what we might
face?”

Quintus sighed. “There was one thing
Aeroth kept harping on, something troubling. He said the Mordant collects
power, and the one power he covets above all others is soul magic.”

“
Soul
magic?” A shiver raced
down the marshal’s back. “What in the nine hells does that mean?”

“It means the Mordant can twist
flesh as well as spirit. It means his army may contain more than just men.”

“I don’t understand.”

The healer’s face turned grim. “The
Mordant won’t be bound by the Laws of Light. By wielding soul magic he can
sculpt abominations. Beasts and humans melded together creating creatures of
horror. Legends are rife with them. You’ve heard the tales and you know their
names. Ogres, goblins, hellhounds, fearsome creatures twisted by the Dark, abominations
loosed against mankind.”

S
omething big at the window
,
gliding like a ghost
. The marshal drew his sword, a scrape of steel on
leather.

“Put up your sword.” The healer
stood. “It’s just Snowman, my frost owl.”

Wings spread wide; a white frost-owl
soared through the window, landing on a crate. Ruffling its feathers, the owl
stared at the marshal, a blink of golden eyes.
“Whoooo?”

“Just an owl?” The marshal stared
at the bird.

“He hunts the mountains late at
night or early in the morning. It’s why I leave the window open.”

Was
this
the owl he’d seen? It would explain why there were no rumors
of shapeshifters…but then what happened to the monk? “I’d forgotten you kept an
owl.” He sheathed his sword. “You’ve given me much to think about. I thank
you.” He stepped toward the door and lifted the latch.

“Lord Marshal.”

He turned back to face the healer.

“If it’s true the Mordant is
coming, expect nightmares.”

The marshal gave a weary nod, for his
dreams already brimmed with nightmares.

29

The Mordant

A line of maroon cloaks fluttered
in the stiff winter wind. Thirty knights bearing the Octagon blazon stood at
the heart of the Dark Citadel, a maroon slash marring the great circular
courtyard. Such a sight would have been a blasphemy were it not of the
Mordant’s own making.

Amused by the irony, he walked
among them, studying each man with a critical eye. His brief time at Cragnoth
Keep had proved fruitful. By understanding his enemies he found ways to defeat
them. Stealing the garb of the knights was a small thing yet it would serve him
well.

Craftsmen of the citadel mimicked
his cast-off garments, transforming elite soldiers of the Pentacle into knights
of the enemy. Trickery appealed to the Mordant. He’d worn many guises across
many lifetimes, but the Deceiver always suited him best, the role that most
profited the Dark Lord.
 

A
swagger of footsteps followed. The Mordant turned to study Sir Raymond, another
spoil of treachery. Clad in black chainmail over dark leather, the unmade
knight had turned his colors, serving as a captain in the Mordant’s elite
guard. Cloak colors were easily changed, but it was the darkness of a man’s
soul that truly mattered. In Raymond’s case, the truth lay exposed on his face.
Stubborn eyes, a square jaw, and a nose made crooked by too many brawls…but the
darkest truth was branded deep into his skin. Each cheek bore the scar of a
broken octagon, marking him as an unmade knight of Castlegard. The Mordant kept
him close, for the fallen knight had his part to play in the great dark design.
“What do you think of my loyal knights?”

Raymond
studied the men. “The silver surcoats are well done. And the maroon cloaks are
near perfect.”

“Near
perfect?”

“Near
enough. Even at Castlegard the dye is not always consistent. But it takes more
than a maroon cloak to pass for a knight. Let me see how they move.”

The
Mordant gestured and the maroon-cloaked captain barked an order. “Search the
courtyard for enemies.”

Thirty
knights unsheathed their weapons, a whisper of steel on leather. Moving in
pairs, they patrolled the courtyard, swords held at the ready.

Raymond
took the time to study each pair. “They move well enough, like men bred to
their weapons, confident in their ability to kill. Elite soldiers carry a
certain swagger, like lions on the prowl,” he cocked his head, “but something’s
not right.”

Annoyed,
the Mordant studied the knights, knowing the smallest imperfection could foil
the ruse.

“It’s
their boots.”

And
then he saw it. Craftsmen of the Octagon used tanned leather, subtle shades of
natural brown for belts, scabbards and boots, while the Pentacle used leather
dyed to an unrelenting black. Their black boots betrayed them, such a small
detail to ruin his dark deceit. “I ordered an
exact
copy. Have the
quartermaster killed, and make it painful.”

Sir
Raymond flashed a feral grin. “I’ll do it myself.”

“Now
call them to attention.”

Orders
echoed through the courtyard.

A
cold wind blew out of the west, a tang of salt in the air.

The
Mordant turned, his black cape billowing in the wind. Darkness rose within him,
making his voice more than mortal.
“First we deceive, then we divide, then we conquer.”
He studied the line of battle-hardened soldiers.
More than a few bore scars on their faces, proof of their battle prowess. “A
glorious task awaits you, for you are my knights of deception. Cragnoth Keep is
held by traitors to the maroon. You’ll cross the Dragon Spines at the keep and
then fall on the southern kingdoms, raping and pillaging wherever you ride.
Wearing the Octagon blazon, you are ordered to sate your every desire.” His
gaze bore into them, “
your
every desire.”
More than few men smirked
hungry smiles. “Rape, torture, and murder, your every atrocity will tear at the
knights’ precious honor. Betrayal is the weapon that breaks men’s heart and
melts their resolve. Your actions will shatter the Octagon before our army ever
marches south.” His voice rose to a command. “Now finish your preparations and
make all haste, for Darkness yearns to claim the whole of Erdhe.”

The
line of knights saluted, fists thumping their silver surcoats.
“
Honor and the Octagon!”

The
Mordant laughed, his false knights would serve their purpose well. He turned, a
swirl of black, and strode toward the palace. Six guards rushed to open the
massive doors. He entered the palace, embraced by heat, a haven from the bitter
wind.

A
black-robed bishop and two priests scurried toward him, an ambush of boredom.
The sallow-faced bishop waved a thick scroll. “My lord, the citadel has need of
your decisions.”

The
Mordant did not break stride. Bishop Siff was a sycophant of the High Priest, a
mere administrator bloated with self importance. Like a terrier, he dogged the
Mordant’s heels, reading details from a lengthy scroll. “The longships of the
Sea Lords have been provisioned as per your orders, but the grain of the city’s
third silo has been sorely depleted. The Quartermaster begs leave to order new
shipments.” The bishop droned like a bee in his ear. “The third ward of the
first tier is rioting for more food. Two guards were killed, trampled by the
rabble. Captain Lornid seeks permission to retaliate against the mob. And the blacksmiths
require more iron ore if they are to meet the increased quota of swords, they…”

Anger flared through the Mordant,
he’d nearly forgotten the mundane drudgery of ruling. He whirled on the bishop,
his voice a cold whisper. “Enough.”

The bishop froze, his mouth sagging
open. Scuttling back two steps, he held the scroll aloft like an offering.

The Mordant struck the scroll,
sending it skittering across the marble floor. “A flood of petty details.” He
snarled at the bishop. “I know what it is you do, for I have ruled longer than
your petty mind can imagine.” The bishop gaped like a fish out of water. The
sight of the simpering fool only stoked the Mordant’s anger. “Your face
displeases me. In the future, Lord Gavis will make the reports himself. Let the
priesthood drowned in the details of the mundane,” his voice dripped with
menace, “for that is your true purpose.” He turned, a whirl of black, his boot
heels ringing on the marble hallways.
 

A slow anger burned in the Mordant;
perhaps he’d been too lenient with the priesthood. Perhaps more examples needed
to be made.

“My lord, a word.” A man’s voice
echoed from a side hallway. General Haith approached, a glitter of gold on
black.

The Mordant slowed his steps,
annoyance buried beneath a mask of calm.

The general matched his stride, a
parchment clutched in his left fist. “I’ve just received a dispatch from the
fourth border squad. There’s been a battle in the steppes.”

The Mordant came to a sudden stop.
“A battle?”

“Our scouts detected an immense
flock of ravens, a sure sign of a battle. When they reached the site, they
found more than a hundred dead. All the dead bore the tattoos of the citadel.”

“Where?”

“Deep in the steppes. Three days
ride beyond the third gargoyle gate.”

He’d entered the north through the
third gate, perhaps there was more to this than met the eye. “And the enemy?”

“Most of the bodies were trampled
to gore, leaving little to identify. But scouts report the battlefield was stripped
of steel and leather, every dead horse butchered for meat. Only one enemy
scavenges the steppes like that. The painted slaves have grown bold in your
absence.”

The Mordant resumed walking. “Bold
indeed. Any signs of movement from the Octagon?”

“None reported.” The general
matched his stride, a shadow at his left shoulder. “My lord, it is well known
that the painted men hide within the Ghost Hills. Riddled with caves, the hills
are a haven for runaway slaves and other vermin.” He clasped the hilt of his
sword. “Lord, give the order. Let me eliminate this thorn from your side.”

“How much threat is a thorn?”

“But the slaughter of a hundred
soldiers cannot be ignored?”

“Butcher them in the steppes, but
leave the Ghost Hills alone.”

The general persisted. “But why? A
troop of soldiers could easily rout the hills, putting an end to…”

The Mordant turned on his general,
his words like a lash. “You exist to
serve
,
not to
question.
” General Haith retreated
a step, his face pale. The Mordant bridled his anger; knowing the general had
his uses. “For the sake of past loyalties, I will explain just this once. The Octagon
knights cower behind their walls, rarely seeking battle, but the painted men
dare the steppes, offering a skirmish to our soldiers. The escaped slaves keep
our soldiers sharp between wars.” He leaned toward the general. “Every army
needs a whetstone.”

Understanding dawned on the
general’s face. “A whetstone, not a true threat, and so you allow them to
survive for as long as they serve.”

“Serve to live, the eternal lesson
of the citadel.” The Mordant resumed walking, his black cape flaring at his
back. “The painted people are nothing more than a thorn, easily trod beneath
our boot heel. Our true foes lie in the south. In this lifetime, old scores
will be settled.” The Mordant smiled. “Summon my battle commanders. It is time
the Pentacle prepared for war.”