Silk And Steel: The Skeleton King Part 42

"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. "h.e.l.l." 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 Pa.s.s. 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 b.i.t.c.h to defend. Little wonder the men dubbed it the Wh.o.r.e.

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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 G.o.ds 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 Pa.s.s, he doubted the maroon would last a day against the Mordant's hordes. The third wall, the Wh.o.r.e, 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 a.s.sault."

The king's control cracked like fine marble...and anger bled out. "We have enough for vengeance. And by the G.o.ds, 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 sc.r.a.pe 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 h.e.l.l and beyond...but he feared the morrow. True they'd have a wall to fight behind, but the Wh.o.r.e 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 a.s.sured, for the odds did not favor the Octagon. If the maroon knights fell beneath the Dark tide, then what hope did Erdhe have?

52.

Blaine Kath took two steps and crumpled to the ground. Blaine leaped forward but he wasn't quick enough. Still as death, she lay sprawled amongst the shattered gargoyles, dwarfed by the broken monsters. He crouched beside her, calling her name. "Kath!" Ghost pale, her eyes were sunken and her skin cool to the touch. His breath caught with sudden fear. He grabbed her wrist, frantic for a heartbeat. "Don't leave me." A faint beat quelled his fears.

The others pounded across the roadway, a horde of blue faced warriors bristling with swords and spears. Bear and Boar led the pack, surprisingly fleet for such big men. Bear arrived first, scooping Kath into his ma.s.sive arms. "The Svala is hurt!"

Blaine was quick to put him right. "She lives but the gargoyles took their toll."

Bear pressed his hand to her neck and nodded. "She pays a price for her victory but the Svala will prevail."

Blaine sneered in disdain. Such blind devotion was just what he expected from a barbarian.

A raven faced healer pushed his way through the pack. "Let me see." He knelt, examining Kath, holding a sprig of crushed leaves beneath her nose, but she did not stir.

"Just like Danya."

The healer turned to stare at him. "What do you know of this?"

Blaine shrugged. "I've seen it before, only not with Kath. It seems magic is a two-edged sword. Such power exacts a price. She'll sleep like the dead but when she wakes she'll be fine."

"Sleep for how long?"

Blaine shrugged. "Hard to say."

Torven, the eagle-faced warrior took charge. "We dare not linger. Feldon and Brent, we need a litter. Tingold pick ten men and do a sweep on this side of the gate. We must be away."

Tattooed men leaped to their orders, quiet and efficient. A pair of badger faced warriors used spears and blankets to build a litter.

Blaine sidled close to Torven. "Kath said to send the signal, to call the army."

Torven flashed a fierce grin, looking more like an eagle than a man. "The Svala has gained a great triumph. None will doubt her now." He turned to the others, barking a brisk command. "Grenfir, send the signal. Let the council know of the Svala's victory."

An owl faced warrior sped toward the nearest pedestal. Climbing to the top, he stood perched among the fractured legs of a ruined gargoyle. A small square of polished silver flashed in his hands, sending a coded signal back toward the Ghost Hills.

Torven clapped Blaine on the back. "There'll be much rejoicing in the caves tonight. It was a good day when you brought the Svala north."

That strange name again, bandied about like a t.i.tle. Blaine cast a sideways glance at the eagle faced warrior. "What does that mean, Svala?"

"It is an old word, an ancient hope, a legend from another time. One of our first Taishans foresaw the coming of a woman warrior, a champion to end the slavery of our people." He stared at Blaine, his face thoughtful. "In your words, a queen of swords."

A queen of swords! He'd heard those words before, from Sir Tyrone when he spoke of the fortuneteller on the Isle of Souls. Blaine shook his head; it was all just superst.i.tion, they needed to survive the steppes. "How long before a patrol comes?"

"Hard to say. This gate is the farthest north and the least used. We might have more than a fortnight or merely hours." Torven studied the sky. "The clouds are low. We best hope for snow to cover our tracks."

"How many in a patrol?"

"At least a hundred spears on horseback."

A hundred was way too many, especially mounted. "Then we best be away."

"Aye, we must move fast and be twice as vigilant. The lands of the Mordant are fraught with danger." Torven moved among the men, urging them to their tasks.

It did not take long before Kath was tucked into the litter, wrapped snug in sheepskins. Bear and Boar claimed the right to carry her, snarling at anyone who offered to share the burden.

And then they were away, running faster than before. Blaine caught the urgency of the others, feeling the need to get far from the ruined gate. West and then south, they ran at a blistering pace, changing directions for no reason Blaine could see. He settled into a rhythm, the cold searing his lungs with every breath. Hard to believe they ran on land claimed by the Mordant. A spark of pride warmed him; Blaine doubted there was another knight alive who could make such a claim. Yet the land looked the same as the rest of the steppes, frozen gra.s.slands stretching in all directions, a frigid h.e.l.l.

The sun set in a blaze of reds and still they ran. Blaine struggled for breath, falling behind, running at the back of the pack. Sweat ran in rivulets down his back, his chainmail adding a crushing weight. He wondered how long the others could keep pace.

A painted warrior veered toward him. "Keep up or die." The gruff voice held no rancor, only a warning not a threat.

Blaine redoubled his efforts, ignoring the savage ache clawing his side.

Twilight vanished in the blink of an eye. Darkness descended like a war hammer and still they ran. Blaine sucked air through his mouth, fighting both the cold and the pain, nearly numb to both. It wasn't until he ran into another man that he realized they'd stopped. He bent double, desperate to catch his wind.

A hand gripped his shoulder. "You did well for a plain face."

Blaine didn't have the breath to respond.

"We'll make camp here." He recognized Torven's voice. "Bringold, Seigen and Tarly take the first watch. The rest of you eat and then into your bedrolls. Tomorrow will be a long day."