The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga) (37 page)

Small stones tumbled down the
beehive. Alarmed, Kath reached for her sword…but it was only a sheep,
scrambling along the beehive’s crest. So many sheep, if only the painted people
were half as numerous.

Kath stretched, staring up at the
sky. She watched the distant storm dissolve to nothing, leaving a clear
horizon. The sun sank toward the west, a great orb of red. Snuggled beneath her
sheepskin, Kath watched the landscape change, the stone beehives deepening from
burnt orange to a deep crimson. A bloody sunset, an ominous sky painting the
land red, the steppes would run with blood if she didn’t find a solution.

Pieces of the puzzle tumbled
through her mind, but they made no sense. Try as she might, she couldn’t find
an underlying pattern. She knew the Mordant’s army had already marched south,
the citadel’s great gates thrown open, disgorging a horde of soldiers. But had
the Mordant marched with them, or had he stayed in the citadel…or had he gone elsewhere?
First deceive and then divide.

Like a bolt of lightning it hit
her. The Mordant had divided his forces, emptying the citadel. Her best
opportunity lay in the north…but she still did not have the numbers, not enough
to take a fortress…and she had no time for a siege.

The sun sank toward the horizon in
a blaze of reds and golds. Shadows cast by the beehives undulated across the
land like great sea serpents, creating a compelling illusion, simple but
deceptive. And then she saw it, an elegant solution. She needed a deceit of
swords, a way to make the rule of numbers work in her favor. Kath studied the
hills, seeing everything they held. A smile lit her face, a plan inspired by
the gods. The plan would require every element from her past, her gargoyle, the
crystal dagger, the magic of a Beastmaster, a knight with a blue steel sword,
and a small army of fierce warriors. Together they’d deceive, they’d divide,
and then they’d conquer, dealing the Darkness a crippling blow.

45

The Knight Marshal

Drums thundered in the dead of night.
The marshal bolted awake. Boom…boom, boom, the sound shuddered through the
walls, loud enough to wake the dead. His heartbeat quickened, answering the drums…so
the enemy had finally come. Dressing with haste, he strapped his great sword to
his back and grabbed his shield.

The marshal took the steps two at a
time, climbing to the rampart. A cold wind buffeted his face, tugging at his
maroon cloak. Beneath the night sky, unmuffled by stone, the drums sounded
twice as ominous. Clouds hid the moon, too little light to see by, yet he was
drawn to the battlement, staring down into the inky darkness. Knights lined the
wall, summoned by the drums, straining for the first glimpse of the enemy.

Despite the dark, Lothar found him,
a gruff voice at his shoulder. “How many?”

The marshal shook his head. “Too
dark to tell. But judging from the sound, they’ve brought a battalion of
drummers.”

Lothar growled, “Leave it to the
Mordant to come calling in the dead of night, ruining a man’s sleep.”

The marshal grinned, appreciating
his friend’s levity, yet there was truth beneath his words. “I’m sure it was
planned. The drums will fray nerves before the battle ever begins.” His gaze
was drawn to the other men crowding the battlement. “We should double the night
watch and get the others to rest. I doubt they’ll attack before first light.”

Lothar nodded. “I’ll see to the
watch.”

The marshal roamed the wall,
speaking words of courage to those on duty while urging the others to return to
their pallets. The young ones were too riled to leave but the veterans nodded,
knowing the value of sleep. Five times he traversed the wall and all the while
the drums boomed, a deep, spellbinding throb, shouting the promise of war.

His gaze was drawn to the north.
Curiosity warred with dread, fueling a need to see their numbers. Hours passed
and the weight of sleep dragged at him, but he could not leave the wall. He
found a niche shielded from the wind and sat wrapped in his maroon cloak.
Perhaps he dozed; a veteran knight could sleep anywhere.

Dawn broke across a cloud-shrouded
sky, red as blood. The marshal woke and stared in shock, staggered by the
truth. Morning’s first light revealed the enemy’s numbers, too many to count.

Lothar stood at his shoulder, “
By
the gods!”

The enemy swarmed the grasslands
like a kicked anthill.

Lothar shook his head. “Where in
the nine hells did he get them all?”

The marshal agreed, but the words
stuck in his throat. In his wildest nightmare he’d never imagined the north
held such an army.

Lothar leaned on the battlement,
caressing the mitered stone like a grateful lover. “Thank Valin for strong
walls, else we’d be overrun in less than a day.”

“Mind your tongue!”

Lothar bristled. “You’re thinking
the same.”

The marshal could not disagree.
Instead, he stared at the enemy, searching for a weakness in their ranks. Their
numbers filled the steppes, an ugly roil of black armor, a grim bristle of
spears and battle banners. And then he saw it.
“No siege engines!”
Disbelief warred with hope. He searched their
ranks for trebuchets and siege towers but found none.

Lothar grinned, “Trees are scarce
in the north.”

“True enough…but to hurl an army
against fortified walls without siege engines is pure folly.” A deep dread
settled in his stomach. “And the Mordant is never a fool.”

 
Lothar stirred beside him, squinting into the
north. “And there’s not much cavalry either. He brings an army south without
siege engines and cavalry?” Lothar shook his head. “An odd way to wage war.”

A terrible foreboding gripped the
marshal. “It’s as if he’s only brought half his forces.”

Lothar shuddered. “
This
is
half?”

The marshal had no answer. He
stared at the horde, silently giving thanks for the stout walls of Raven Pass.

Trumpets blared along the wall,
competing with the drums. Knights, archers, and soldiers, answered the call. A
surge of maroon cloaks took up their positions. Most gaped at the horde,
shocked by the numbers. One man retched and another stank of urine. The marshal
strode among them, offering words of courage, working to bolster morale.

The king appeared on the
battlement, a bold gleam of gold. The men raised a mighty cheer, swords
drumming against shields. Girded for war, King Ursus wore a crowned helm and a
burnished breastplate, an octagonal shield on his left arm. His great blue
sword loomed over his right shoulder, the perfect image of a warrior king. Baldwin carried the king’s battle standard, a maroon
pennant emblazoned with a gold crown.

The marshal moved to join his liege.

Standing atop the drum tower, the
king surveyed the enemy. “So the Mordant has finally come.”

The marshal nodded. “Their numbers
are daunting but there’s no sign of siege engines or cavalry.”

The king scowled. “Another trick.
What’s the devil up to?”

But the marshal had no answer.

As if in reply, the drumbeat changed
to a faster tempo. The enemy swarmed forward, marching toward the walls. Details
became clear. Officers in plumed helms strode the front lines, pentacles
inscribed on their breastplates. Bearded faces howled a war cry. Rows of spears
bristled in a deadly thicket. Swords pounded against black shields, keeping
time to the drums. The thin strip of open grassland shrank to fifty yards, a
narrow killing field.

“Sound the alert.” The trumpets
obeyed, a trill of notes.

From the height of the second wall,
the marshal watched as knights on the first wall readied for battle. Dubbed
Shieldbreaker by the men, the thirty-foot outer wall suddenly seemed a meager
barrier against the surging horde.

A shout rose from the enemy. Spears
launched into the morning sky. So many, they rose in a thick arc, a wave of
darkness blocking the sun. Uttering an unearthly wail, ten thousand spears
screamed a shrill whistle as they fell. “
Raise
shields!”
Shields snapped skyward all along the first wall, a maroon
bulwark raised in defense. The timing was perfect. Spearheads thudded into
thick oak. A few men screamed but most roared their defiance.

“Give them our answer.” The king spoke
and the trumpets sounded.

Archers on the first wall raised
their bows, releasing a rain of arrows.

Trebuchets on the second wall
creaked and groaned, hurling massive boulders into the sky. As if lobbed by giant
hands, the boulders tumbled upward, rising over the first wall and sailing out
over the horde. An impossible weight of stone, the marshal watched them fall, clouds
of blood and gore marking each strike.

Beside him, a squire yelled.
“Twenty men with one stone!”

It seemed a mighty feat, yet it was
like dropping a pebble in the ocean. The enemy ranks closed and the bloody holes
disappeared.

Archers loosed another volley. A
wave of spears answered. The sun climbed the sky and still the rain of missiles
fell. Raised shields caught most of the spears but there were always a few
shrieks of pain. Healers raced along the wall, removing the dead and the dying,
a slow winnowing of the maroon.

Once more the drums changed their
beat.

The marshal tensed, knowing what
was to come.

Archers appeared in the enemy’s
front lines. Black fletched arrows soared skyward. A wave of darkness sailed
over the first wall, reaching for the second.

The marshal stood his ground,
watching the deadly arc. “Wait for it!” The first wave was always the hardest.
He summoned his courage, refusing to flinch. The faint whistle grew louder, the
sound of death’s herald.

“
Shields!”
He screamed the
command. Braced for impact, he lifted his oaken shield. Beside him, the king
leaped forward, raising his own shield over a fear-frozen squire. “
Sire!”
He yelled a warning but death was upon them.
A hail of steel tipped
arrows plummeted down. Feathered shafts thudded around him, biting deep. Two
struck the marshal’s shield, a third just missing his foot. Someone screamed a
howl of pain. A few frantic heartbeats later, the rain of arrows stopped.

Lowering his shield, the marshal
sprang towards the king. Miraculously, the king and squire stood unscathed, but
others were not so lucky. All along the wall, men screamed while others lay
dead, felled where they stood. “Sire, you dare not take such risks.”

The king replied with a frosty
glare. “Young Emmett here has learned a lesson.” The king gave the squire a
conspirator’s smile. “Next time, you’ll keep your shield raised.”

Hero-worship shown from the lad’s
face. “Yes, Sire.”

“Now get to the armory and tell
Steward Malt we’ll be needing more arrows.”

The lad sped away, the north wind tugging
at his gray cloak.

A faint whistle warned of another
assault.

“Shields!”
The marshal
screamed the order, but this time he stayed close to his king. Arrows thumped
into oaken shields while others clattered harmless against stonewalls. But some
found their mark. Beside him, a squire screamed in pain, an arrow piercing his
shoulder. The marshal bellowed, “Get him to the healers!” Two soldiers leaped
to obey. Further down the wall, someone shrieked in pain.

“Ware the arrows!”

The marshal raised his shield. Between
each wave, the Octagon replied in kind. Trebuchets groaned with effort.
Boulders and arrows hurled upward, answered by arrows and spears. The deadly
war of attrition lasted for the better part of the day. The marshal figured
they killed more than they lost, but the size of the horde remained staggering.

Late in the afternoon, the enemy
changed tactics.

Their drums beat a wild rhythm as
their front lines parted with a roar. Twenty men emerged, carrying a massive
battering ram.

“On the ram!”
The king
shouted the order and the trumpets gave a complicated trill.

A flight of arrows launched towards
the ram like a swarm of angry hornets.
 

A few of the enemy staggered and
fell, but the others ran on, bearing the ram toward the outer gate.

Prince Ulrich had the honor of
holding the outer wall. His men swarmed the barbican above the ironshod gate, a
gleam of silver surcoats and maroon shields.

Another flight of arrows and still
the ram came.

“Get them.” The marshal’s gaze
followed each flight, willing the arrows to strike true. The gods must have heard.
Feathered shafts pricked the men like quills of a porcupine. Skewered, they
dropped their burden, falling twenty yards short of the gate.

A cheer rang from the walls, but
the victory was short lived.

Another twenty men emerged from the
horde. Holding shields overhead, they raced for the ram. Taking up the fallen
burden, they lumbered toward the gate. A thicket of arrows flew from both
sides, yet the ram drew near.

Boom!
Like a massive fist,
the ram came calling. But the maroon cloaked defenders knew their craft. Men
scurried across the barbican dousing the attackers with oil. Fire arrows
followed. Flames roared to life just beyond the gate. Men screamed and flailed,
black smoke belching into the sky. Capering like fire demons, they fled from
the gate, abandoning the ram.

Cheers erupted from both walls, but
the king and the marshal remained silent.

Three times the enemy rammed the
gate and three times they failed.

The king watched from the second
wall, the marshal by his side. “Ulrich and his men fought well this day.” He
spoke loud enough for those around him to hear. The marshal knew the king’s
praise would be repeated till it reached the prince’s ear.

The sun sank toward the horizon,
calling an end to the bloody day. The drums pounded and the enemy withdrew,
leaving their dead littered across the trampled grass like flotsam on the
shores of hell. The horde retreated beyond reach of the trebuchets. Massive
boulders studded the trampled grassland, blood spatters giving proof to their
kills. A grim silence drenched the steppes, a sodden lull before the next
storm.

Struck by weariness, the marshal leaned
against the rampart plucking arrows from his shield. “The fighting seems done
for the day. Shall we retire, my lord?”

“Not yet.”

Beyond the killing ground, tents
mushroomed across the steppes, too many to count. Twilight faded and the sky
deepened to purple. The marshal kept vigil with the king. “Do you see,
Osbourne?”

And then the marshal understood. Tents
sprawled below but there were few campfires. “Just as you foretold, they have
no wood for campfires.”

The king nodded. “The Mordant uses
winter as a goad.”

“Yet we won the day.” The words
sounded hollow to his own ears. The first day in any war was always a test, two
armies trading blows, gauging the strength of the other.

The king seemed to hear his thoughts.
“They held back.”

Truth rode the king’s words, truth
and a hint of doom. The marshal put steel in his voice. “Arrows and spears will
never win the wall.”

The king gave him a piercing stare.
“The Mordant does not ride to war with numbers alone.” The king gazed down upon
the steppes. “We have not yet seen their worst.”

A cold wind gusted out of the north
like a evil portent, tugging on their maroon cloaks.

“Come,” the king turned away from
the rampart, “I’ve seen enough for one day.”

He followed his king to the stairs.
“And what do you expect on the morrow.”

“I cannot say.” The king flashed
him a grim look. “But if the gods owe you any favors, pray for snow. Winter’s
likely to be our only ally.”