The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga) (41 page)

Bear and Boar pushed forward, their weapons unsheathed. “Let us fight
for you.”

She gave them a soft smile. “Loyal and brave, you’ll both fight by my
side in the citadel but not here. Honor my wishes and stand with the others. Swords,
no matter how stalwart, cannot prevail against stone.” Kath hefted the crystal
dagger, holding the milk-white blade aloft. “This is the only weapon that can
damage such a foe…and by the will of the gods it’s mine to wield.” Sunlight
danced along the blade. For half a heartbeat she seemed more than a mere girl.

The others backed away, their faces fierce with blue tattoos. Hands on
weapons, they stood thirty feet from the gates, every stare locked on Kath.

Sighing, Kath sheathed the crystal dagger, and then turned her stare
toward Blaine.
Any trace of uncertainty was buried beneath a mask of stone. “This way.” She
led him around the back of the nearest gargoyle. “This one will do.”

Even from the back the stone beast looked menacing.

“Give me a boost up but then get away. And take care, lest you touch
the stone.”

“What are you going to do?”

“What I must.” She gave him a half smile. “End a nightmare or die
trying,” but the smile did not reach her eyes. “Tell Duncan I love him.”

He stared at her, lost for words.

“It’s time.” She drew him toward the monster’s pedestal, stopping a
dagger’s length from the stone.

The beast’s malformed shadow loomed overhead.

Blaine
’s mouth went dry but he did not flinch.
Lacing his hands together, he bent down as if to give her a boost onto a tall
horse. Kath set her left boot in his hands and leaped up. He pushed, straining
to give her extra lift.

She vaulted upward, her hands catching the lip of the pedestal.

Blaine
edged away, expecting the beast to pounce,
but the gargoyle remained frozen.
 

Kath swung up onto the pedestal, dwarfed by the stone beast.

Steel hissed from leather. Blaine
unsheathed his blue sword, but the gargoyle remained lifeless.

Kath stood on the pedestal, staring up at the gargoyle. The monster
reared over her, thrice the height of a tall man, a nightmare cast in stone.
Kath drew the crystal dagger, her voice a whisper, “
For Honor and the
Octagon!”
She touched the dagger’s tip to the statue’s flank. Crystal touched stone yet
the gargoyle remained quiescent, nothing but a statue. Kath stepped forward and
disappeared
into the gargoyle.

“By the gods!”
Blaine
staggered backwards, his sword clutched in his fist.
She’d disappeared into the stone!
He hadn’t known what to expect, but not that,
never
that! His heartbeat thundering, Blaine joined the others, his stare locked on
the gargoyle.

At first he thought it was a trick of his eyes, but then he was sure.
The statue moved!
Muscled rippled beneath stone as the beast awoke.
Wings unfurled and claws reached for the heavens. Jaws of a lion, claws of a
dragon, wings of a bat, the great stone beast rose to its full height. Its huge
jaws stretched wide and then snapped shut, as if it had swallowed something it
did not like. The beast clawed at its own belly, stone raking against stone. It
writhed upon its pillar, its claws making an ominous sound, but it did not
roar.

And then it suddenly stilled…frozen once more.

Blaine held his breath.

The steppes went quiet, not even a
breath of wind stirred.

The world seemed to wait.

The gargoyle shuddered. The great
head reared back, jaws gaping wide.

Blaine thought he heard a sound, like the
release of a long held sigh.

Without warning, the gargoyle
exploded. Bits of stone blew in all directions. A piece of jaw thunked into the
steppes. A clawed talon landed near Blaine’s
left boot. He staggered backwards, his hands raised to guard his face.

The rain of stone stopped.

The dust cleared.

Kath stood alone on the pedestal,
the crystal dagger raised to the heavens.

“Svala!”
All around him, the
painted warriors knelt, a single word on their lips like a prayer.
“Svala!”

They
knelt, but Blaine
would not bend the knee. Instead, he kept watch, his blue sword gripped in his
fist.

Eleven more gargoyles remained. Blaine expected the others
to fight, but instead they knelt.
T
hey knelt,
their clawed hands
extended in supplication.

Kath leaped from the empty pedestal
and strode to the next gargoyle. The great beast wrapped its hand around her
waist and lifted her to its chest, clasping her close as a lover. Kath melted
into the statue. This time the beast did not fight. Throwing its head back, it
uttered a long held sigh…and then shattered into a thousand pieces.

Kath stood alone atop the pedestal.

All around him, the painted
warriors cavorted and laughed, shouting the word “
Svala!”
like a prayer
or a triumph.

Blaine watched as Kath moved from one gargoyle
to the next. Each time the gargoyle gently lifted her to its breast. When she
entered the last beast Blaine
dared the roadway, walking to the beast’s pedestal. The last gargoyle shattered
into a rain of stone, but somehow the pieces missed him.

Covered in rock dust, Kath stood on
the pedestal, pale as a ghost, dark shadows beneath her eyes.

“You did it.” He reached up to help
her down. She felt light in his arms, as fragile as glass.

“Put me down.” He set her on the
ground and she stepped away as if she could not bear to be touched. Sheathing
the crystal dagger, she stared up at him, but there was no triumph in her eyes.
“They wanted to die.” Shuddering she seemed to come back to herself. “Have
Torven send the signal. Tell Danya to bring the army.”

She turned to walk away but he
couldn’t let her go. “Wait.” The question blurted out. “What did you see inside
the gargoyles?”

She gave him a bleak look. “Hell.”
Turning, she took two steps and crumpled to the ground.
 

51

The Knight Marshal

The retreat was a ragged rout, a
wild gallop half a league up the valley. Wounded limped on spears while many
knights rode double. Riderless horses careened past, freed from their stalls. Baldwin carried the king’s standard, a rallying point for
the knights. The marshal rode in the rear, trying to being order to chaos.

They regrouped at the third wall. A
relic from a bygone age, the twelve-foot wall served as the last line of
defense for Raven
Pass. Crudely built from
mud and undressed stone, the ancient wall spanned the valley but it offered a
meager defense. Without towers, trenches, or battlements, the marshal knew it
would be a bitch to defend. Little wonder the men dubbed it the Whore.

Still, it was the only wall left to
them, so they took refuge behind it, counting their numbers and licking their
wounds. The marshal posted a handful of lookouts but otherwise he let the men
rest.

Stragglers poured in at sunset.
Grim-faced, their maroon cloaks tattered and torn, they trudged to the wall,
beaten but not cowed. Most told tales of fierce fighting within the hallways of
the second wall, yet the enemy did not follow. The marshal figured the victors
were enjoying the spoils but he doubted they’d have long before the horde came
calling.

Cold and weary, he pulled his maroon
cloak tight and kept moving, taking the pulse of the men. So many faces were
missing; comrades and friends lost to the battle, yet his duty to the living
left no time to mourn.

He found Lothar sitting around a
makeshift campfire, a bandage on his head. They grasped arms like brothers, the
fierceness of their grip belying their gruff words. “So you still live.”

Lothar quirked a lopsided grin,
“Too tough to kill.”

“What happened to your head?”

“A chunk of the bloody wall up and
hit me.” The levity bled from his face. “I never knew stone could just
disappear like that.”

The marshal nodded, “Magic and
monsters, just as the healer said.”

“Makes you wonder what the blue robed
monk might have told us.” Lothar’s voice turned to a growl. “I’d like to have another
chance to talk with that monk.”

“And I’d like to have ten times the
men, but we make do with what we have.”

Lothar’s face turned grim. “So you
think they’ll come on the morrow?”

“Aye, they’ll come.”

Lothar’s voice dropped to a hushed
whisper. “Fight or flee?”

“That’s the question.” He gestured
to the west. “The king sits at the big campfire up that way. You can’t miss it.
Meet me there.”

Lothar gripped his arm, worry in
his voice. “The king?”

The marshal hesitated. “I’ve told
the others he was struck by a stone when the wall sundered. But the truth is…he
was shattered by Ulrich’s death…his last son slain by the horde.”

Lothar swore. “By Valin’s sword!”
He fingered his battleaxe, his gaze grim. “Will he fight?” His voice dropped to
a hush. “Will he lead?”

The marshal just stared. “I have to
see to the men. I need to know what’s left.” He gave Lothar a pointed stare and
then made the rounds, taking stock of the men, their morale, their supplies,
and their horses. He found more heart than he expected. Huddled under maroon
cloaks, the men sat around campfires, sharpening their weapons and mending
their armor. Weariness hung across them like a pall, but most refused to give
up. Stubborn courage was ever the strength of the Octagon, and it hadn’t failed
them this day. Magic had betrayed them; else they’d still be on the walls. But
he couldn’t dwell on what was lost.

Toward the rear of the lines, he
found the master healer working among the wounded. Somehow the pudgy healer had
loaded the worst of the wounded onto a half dozen wagons, along with a
smattering of supplies, cured hams and casks of ale. Because of the healer, the
men ate this night.

“You did well, Quintus.”

The healer looked exhausted, dark
smudges under his eyes, smears of blood on his brown robe, yet he kept working.
“We do what we can.”

“How did you know the Mordant would
come with monsters and magic?”

The healer shrugged. “All the tales
say so.”

“Yet, they’re nothing but tales.”

“Most tales carry a kernel of
truth, else they’re soon forgotten. All the tales of the Mordant say the same
things.” The healer looked up, firelight flashing golden in his eyes. “The
Mordant is evil and his favorite weapons are cruelty, deceit, and magic.” He
shrugged. “I expect you know that.” He finished wrapping a bandage on the arm
of a wounded knight and then rose, wiping his hands on his robe. “But you
didn’t come to ask about the songs of bards.”

“No. The Mordant will come on the
morrow.”

“Will you fight or flee?”

They all asked the same question.
“What would you do?”

Quintus shrugged. “I’m a healer not
a fighter.”

“But I’m asking anyway.”

The healer stared at him, as if
weighing the question. “You won’t defeat him without magic. And if you believe
the Kiralynn monks, then you shouldn’t even try to kill him without the crystal
dagger.”

“Yeah, well the gods didn’t gift us
with any weapons of magic, just steel and blood and courage.”

“Then you’ll lose.”

Anger flared within him. The
marshal turned away. But the healer reached for his arm, holding him back. “Fly
to the hills and wait for other allies. Live to fight another day. You have
more friends than you know.”

“Allies? What allies?” The
marshal’s anger boiled to a rage. “When we stood atop the walls and faced the
dark horde no other banners came to our aid.”

The healer blanched and the marshal
felt ashamed, the man deserved better. He softened his words. “You’ve served
the Octagon well. At first light take the wagons east to Castlegard. You’ll
find sanctuary there.”

“Are you saying they’ll be no more
wounded?”

The marshal did not answer.

“I’ll send the wagons with the
worst of the wounded, but I’m staying. We all have our work to do.”

The marshal nodded, the pudgy
healer had his own brand of courage. “As you wish.” He turned away and made his
way back toward the king’s campfire, but his footsteps were slow and his
thoughts troubled. He didn’t like the healer’s talk of defeat…yet the man had
been right more times than naught. Still, the Octagon had fared better than he
had a right to hope. It was hard to tell in the dark, but he figured two thirds
of his forces had survived. Tattered and weary, driven from the walls with few
supplies, yet most of the men had found their way to the third wall. It seemed
a miracle that so many still lived but he knew the walls were the true reason
for their numbers. Without the stout walls of Raven Pass,
he doubted the maroon would last a day against the Mordant’s hordes. The third
wall, the Whore, offered little protection, but little was better than none.

He reached the king’s fire and took
a seat amongst the other captains. Sir Abrax handed him a mug of tea. He sipped
the bitter brew, grateful for the warmth.

Baldwin
sat cross-legged beside him, polishing the king’s armor. The great war helm
gleamed in the firelight, silver surmounted by a golden crown, untarnished by
the ragged retreat. The marshal watched the lad work, knowing the value of
symbols. Courage and pride were bound deep into the men of the Octagon, but he
wondered if it would be enough.
  

“So what do you think?” Sir Rannock
asked the question, but the marshal wasn’t ready to answer. Instead, he stared
across at the king.

Clad in scarred fighting leathers,
King Ursus cradled his blue sword in his arms, staring into the blazing fire.
His silver hair was disheveled to a wild mane, his face graven with lines of
grief, but his green eyes gleamed cold and keen. Perhaps the ragged retreat had
shocked the king back to his senses…but the naked hatred blazing in the king’s
gaze left the marshal cold. He was relieved the king was back in command but he
feared the blazing hatred would lead to reckless decisions.

“So what do you think, fight or
flee?” Sir Rannock worried the question like a hound with a bone. The marshal
might have shrugged it off but he felt the king’s gaze.

Taking a deep breath, he plunged
into a roundabout answer. “I figure two-thirds of our men survived the retreat,
more than we have any right to hope for, but a thin defense against the
Mordant. And most of them have few supplies. With careful rationing, we might
have two meals before we start to go hungry. And while we have most of the
horses, only half have saddles and tack. And the archers have no arrows, so
we’ll get no support from them.” He paused to take a deep breath. “I’ve half a
mind to send the archers, the squires, and the wounded back to Castlegard. No
sense risking those who can’t fight.”

“I’m not going.” It was Baldwin,
the king’s squire.

“You’ll do as your ordered.”

The red-haired lad shook his head,
a stubborn look on his face. “I swore to serve the king and I’ll keep my oath.”

Before the marshal could utter a
reprimand, the king raised his hand. “Enough. Such
  
courage will never be turned away for it is
the very bedrock of the Octagon.” The king stood, his sapphire sword gleaming
in the firelight. “Send the wounded and the archers back to Castlegard, but the
rest will stay.” He stared at each of his captains, lingering the longest on
the marshal. “You’d best get some rest, for tomorrow we meet the Mordant in
battle.”

For the sake of the men, the marshal
dared gainsay his lord. “Sire, we might do better to harry the enemy from the
mountains, biting them in the flanks, chewing them down to size. We haven’t the
numbers for a direct assault.”

The king’s control cracked like
fine marble…and anger bled out. “We have enough for vengeance. And by the gods,
that’s
what I’ll have.”

No one dared say a word. The king
turned from the fire, disappearing into the dark. The moon rose in the sky and
still the marshal sat unmoving. No one spoke. Someone honed a sword with a
whetstone, the rhythmic scrape of stone across steel sounding loud in the night,
holding dread at bay. So there would be a battle tomorrow. The inevitability
settled across the marshal’s shoulders like a heavy yoke. He knew the other
captains would not protest. The men would follow the king to hell and
beyond…but he feared the morrow. True they’d have a wall to fight behind, but
the Whore would provide little protection, especially against the Mordant’s
endless hordes. The marshal pulled a whetstone from his belt pouch and began to
sharpen his sword, the sword of a dead knight, another fallen hero. There’d be
plenty of blood on the morrow, but the outcome seemed assured, for the odds did
not favor the Octagon. If the maroon knights fell beneath the Dark tide, then what
hope did Erdhe have?