Silk And Steel: The Skeleton King Part 10

"No." She closed her eyes, remembering the gore of the battlefield. "Not after today."

"Tea then." He crushed leaves into two mugs, lifted a kettle from the fire and poured, releasing a billow of steam.

She struggled to sit up, wrapping her hands around the mug, grateful for the warmth and the soothing taste. They sipped in silence, sitting inches apart, heavy with thought. The truth of the day hit hard. "We should have died today."

"Yes."

In her mind's eye, she saw warhorses running amok, trampling bodies beneath ironshod hooves. "Their horses became demons, death on four legs."

He nodded, his voice a whisper. "The power of a Beastmaster revealed."

A shiver raced down her spine. She glanced over at Danya but the wolf-girl lay still as death. Kath shook her head, her words a whisper. "They fought like something possessed." Images of the battlefield clashed in her mind. "They didn't just kill, they destroyed." Shuddering, she made the hand sign against evil. "Little wonder Beastmasters are so feared."

"She saved us all."

Kath stared across the fire at Danya's pale face. "Just so"

"And now we have to protect her."

Something in his voice caught at her heart, a warning she did not want to hear. "What do you mean?"

"There were survivors. Some of the soldiers ran."

She nodded, afraid to follow his logic.

"They must be hunted down and killed." He raised a hand forestalling her argument. "Tales of this battle can never reach the Mordant." He lowered his voice. "Five stood against a hundred. It is the stuff of legends."

She shivered, feeling the touch of the G.o.ds.

"The Mordant is sure to see the magic behind the defeat." Duncan leaned toward her, his voice a whisper. "What will the Mordant do to claim such a power?"

Her mind balked at the question.

"If word reaches the Mordant, all the might of the north will be arrayed against a small band of five."

Her heart thundered. "I'll go with you. We'll hunt them together."

"My Lioness." He gave her a slow smile. "Your courage is without measure but with a wounded leg you will never keep up. And besides, the others will need you." Firelight danced on his face, his golden cat-eye glowing in the dark, his difference and his strength. "This task is mine." He leaned toward her, his voice soft. "You know I am the one to do this."

The fire snapped, a spray of sparks. "I don't want to lose you."

"You will never lose me." His hand cupped her face. "My wife."

She leaned into his touch. "Promise?"

Fingers brushed her lips as if to seal the words. "Promise."

His hand withdrew and she felt bereft.

Duncan stared at her. "What will you do tomorrow? Will you go north or south?"

Kath rocked back, ambushed by the question. She hadn't thought beyond surviving the day. "I don't know."

"You have to decide. I need to know how to find you."

She tried to concentrate, pushing past the weariness of battle. "It seems hopeless to go north." She shook her head. "Yet to go south is to give up, to admit to defeat, when the whole of Erdhe is at stake." She stared at his mismatched eyes, looking for answers. "We've come too far to give up." It was as much a statement as a question.

He nodded. "Then you'll go north."

The surety of his words convinced her. "Into the north." She nodded. "And the G.o.ds will just have to help."

He smiled. "My Lioness."

She swayed, suddenly dizzy, as if the decision had robbed the last of her strength.

"But now you should sleep." He helped her into her bedroll, tucking the blanket around her shoulders, his hands gentle. And then he surprised her, lying next to her, pulling her close. She nestled against him, her head on his shoulder, surrounded by warmth and the smell of leather. "I don't want you to go."

"I know." He brushed a wisp of hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ear.

She pressed her face against his chest, wanting the night to last forever, but she had to ask. "When will you leave?"

"Before the dawn. The night is my ally."

The truth was cruel, a sword at her heart. She sighed and held him close, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, wanting the moon to stop its trek across the sky. But her own body betrayed her. Weariness claimed her, stealing the night. Exhausted, she fell into a dreamless sleep.

10.

Duncan An eerie stillness filled the night, as if the spirits of the slain hovered close. Plagued by worries, Duncan eased from the bedroll, careful not to wake Kath. He tucked the blanket around her shoulders, relieved that she slept. The other companions lay still as death, felled by exhaustion. Stretching, Duncan shrugged off his own weariness, knowing the battle could still be lost. He reached for his longbow, hung a full quiver on his belt and strode towards the killing field.

Clouds hid the moon, a pale smudge in the midnight sky, but there was more than enough light for his golden eye. He walked among the dead, reading the signs. Faces stared up at him, frozen in masks of horror. Horses lay twisted and broken, impaled on spears. Mangled bodies littered the gra.s.sland, torn apart and trampled to a sea of gore. He shook his head at the carnage. So many dead, a hundred defeated by five, a slaughter written in blood, yet all the dead wore the same armor, bore the same foul symbol. The truth was easy to read, too easy. The battlefield screamed of magic, a truth that could d.a.m.n them all. Urgency gnawed at his mind; the survivors needed to be hunted down and killed, stopping the tale before it spread. He shivered feeling the hand of fate, knowing this was his task.

A shadow in dark leathers, he prowled the killing field, reading the fall of trampled gra.s.ses. Sorting a confusion of footprints, and telltale signs of blood, Duncan searched for his prey. The first trail was easy to spot, three men cutting a fresh swath through the gra.s.ses, fleeing northwest, at least one of them wounded. They ran in a wild panic, flailing through the waist-high gra.s.s, leaving a trail a blind man could follow. But the second trail was more subtle, obscured by hoof prints, a hint of blood giving it away. Crouching low, Duncan studied the signs. The second group was smart, retracing the trampled path of the charging horses. An occasional boot mark imprinted the hoof prints, proving men on foot traveled north instead of south. The cavalcade of iron-shod hooves made the trail hard to detect and harder still to read but Duncan persisted.

Needing to know their numbers, he loped along the trampled gra.s.s, crouching now and then to check for signs, looking for differences in the boot prints. He backtracked twice to make sure, cursing the answer written in the ground. Six perhaps seven men traveled north at a jog. Two groups fled the battlefield...heading in two different directions. The task would be harder than he thought, but there was no one else to do it.

Needing supplies, he returned to the others. The campfire still blazed, a beacon in the night. The wolf chuffed a greeting, green eyes glowing in the firelight, and then settled next to Danya. Duncan nodded, grateful for the wolf's vigilance.

The others slept, exhausted from the fight. He crossed to the far side of the campfire, drawn to Kath like iron to a lodestone. Standing over her, he stared down. Exhaustion etched her face. Even asleep she looked determined. She'd fought like a lioness despite her wounded thigh, doing her best to save them all...and now it was his turn to do the saving.

She sighed and turned, caught in a dream, a lock of blond hair falling across her face, her right hand reaching beyond the blanket.

He fought the temptation to tuck the wayward hair behind her ear and take her in his arms, knowing she needed every moment of sleep. A sense of urgency pulled him away.

Knowing time was against him, he quickly gathered a few supplies, a water skin, a flint, and a small pouch of dried meat. He checked the water skin to make sure it was full, with two groups to track down; the task would take longer than he'd like. Determined to travel light, he left his bedroll and his saddlebags, keeping stealth and speed as two of his greatest weapons. A second knife slid into his belt and then he checked to make sure he had a spare string for his longbow. Slinging the water skin over his shoulder, he strode to the edge of the firelight and then paused.

He turned back for a last look at Kath. Crossing the distance in three strides, he pulled the silver warrior's ring from his long hair. Engraved with Aspen leaves, the symbol of his clan, it was the one token he carried from the Deep Green. Kneeling, he set the ring in Kath's outstretched hand, his voice a hushed whisper. "Till I return."

Her hand tightened around the ring yet she did not wake.

Even asleep, she claimed her own. "My Lioness." He took a last look, memorizing her face, and then turned and strode into the night.

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 Pa.s.s. 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, s.n.a.t.c.hing 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 Pa.s.s, 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 Pa.s.s 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 pa.s.s, 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. "Ballbreaker?"

"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 Wh.o.r.e. '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 G.o.ds 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 gra.s.slands. 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 disa.s.sembled and carried to the topmost battlement. It looked like a long-necked dragon, a thick beam of wood rearing up into the sky, a ma.s.sive 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 windla.s.s, 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 windla.s.s. 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 ma.s.sive 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?"