Silk And Steel: The Skeleton King Part 44

Blaine Strung out in a line, they shambled across the steppes, a shrinking column of weary warriors. For five nights they'd fought the h.e.l.l hounds, a grim battle of attrition, and each morning they ran, needing to get clear of the dead lest the feasting ravens betray them.

Blaine forced himself to keep running. Every breath froze to a ragged plume of white, his boots pounding the ground in a jagged rhythm. Speed bled from his stride, dragged down by the weight of his armor. He fell behind the others, sorely tempted to shuck his chainmail...were it not for the h.e.l.l hounds. The burnished links had saved his life more times than he cared to count...but he paid a price for the added weight. Gritting his teeth, he fought to keep running, waging a constant battle against the gnawing ache savaging his side.

Torven raised his hand, signaling a halt.

Gasping, Blaine slowed but he did not stop, needing to know how Kath fared. Bear and Boar carried her litter. Where they found the strength, Blaine did not know.

He found them near the front of the column. "Is she?"

Bear shook his s.h.a.ggy head.

Nodding, Blaine crumpled to the ground, desperate for sleep. He spread his bedroll and crawled inside, chewing on a piece of dried horsemeat. No one spoke. No one had the strength to spare. The battle with the h.e.l.l hounds had its own unique rhythm. Starting at first dark, the men formed a circle, a bristle of weapons surrounding Kath, waiting for the hounds to come calling. Sometimes they stood for hours, a weary vigil. Just when sleep threatened to claim them, the beasts attacked. Screams and howls filled the night, a series of short battles separated by long stretches of quiet. Nerves grew as taut as bowstrings, always listening for the next ambush. Dawn brought the only relief, revealing the cost of the night. Each morning, they tallied their dead and gathered their wounded. Poison made even minor wounds a deathblow. Anyone who couldn't keep up was given a merciful end. They left the dead behind, food for ravens, and started running, needing to escape the battlefield.

Bone-weary, Blaine stared up at the afternoon sun, wondering how much more they could endure. Eighty men whittled down to forty-three. They waged a valiant fight, but the cursed hounds kept coming. At least they hadn't yet attacked in daylight. Pulling his cloak over his head, he fell dead asleep, expecting another fight at nightfall.

Someone shook him.

Blaine startled awake, reaching for his sword.

"It's all right."

Confused, he blinked up at Torven. The sun hadn't yet set, too soon to fight. "What?"

Torven leaned close, his words a low whisper. "We need to change tactics. We can't keep this up."

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Blaine struggled to wake. He'd puzzled the problem on their long runs, but he'd never found a solution. "A ring of fire might hold the beasts at bay but it would also signal the enemy." He scowled, knowing they couldn't afford a fire, trapped by their own need for secrecy. "We should retreat and wait for the army."

Torven glared at him, the tattooed eagle fierce on his face. "The Svala said we should scout the citadel."

"To what end? Kath's not even awake!"

"We obey the Svala."

The painted warriors had become fanatical when it came to Kath, as if their common sense was scattered to the four winds. Frustrated, Blaine growled, "We're losing more men every night."

"True." Torven frowned "I've never seen such a large pack. Unless we defeat them, they'll ruin the Svala's battle plan. Best if we fight them before the others cross the gate."

"Each night they kill more of us than we kill of them. The night is their element and the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds use it to their advantage."

"That's why we need to change tactics."

Something about the other man's voice bothered Blaine. "So what do you have in mind?"

"I've spoken with the other scouts and they all agree, the gore hounds avoid their own dead, as if they can't stand the stench."

"So?"

"So tonight, seven warriors will wait outside the ring of defense, hiding beneath the skins of dead gore hounds. When the beasts come hunting, the seven will rise up and attack from the rear."

"I wondered why you had the mangy beasts skinned."

"A desperate gamble." Torven's gaze went to the hilt of Blaine's blue sword. "You've killed more beasts than any other."

Blaine's mouth went dry. "And if your scouts are wrong?"

"Then each man will fight on his own."

A death sentence, a lone warrior outside the ring would not stand a chance, but Blaine refused to shirk a fight. "I accept."

Torven clasped his arm, warrior to warrior. "I knew you'd take the risk. Despite your unmarked face, you have the heart of a painted warrior. You'd make a good eagle." He raised his voice to the others. "Grenfir, bring the knight a gore-hound skin."

Blaine accepted the bundle without a word, appalled by the stench of the uncured hide.

"Best choose your spot before darkness falls."

Taking only weapons and armor, Blaine moved out into the steppes, choosing an untrammeled stretch of gra.s.s. The raw hide stank of corruption, far worse than rotting flesh, yet he slung it across his shoulders, knotting the forelegs around his neck like a gruesome cape. At least the poisonous claws had been hacked off, too dangerous to handle. Unsheathing his blue sword, he lay in the deep gra.s.s, huddled beneath the skin, waiting for the dark, wondering if this would be his last sunset.

Twilight lingered, the red sun fading to purple. Thick clouds scudded across the sky, promising another dark night, another advantage for the beasts. Lying p.r.o.ne under the gore-hound skin, Blaine scanned the steppes for movement. Night fell like a hammer, the moon a faint smudge hidden by thick clouds.

Darkness prevailed, the time when the beasts held sway.

Blaine gripped his sword, lying in the tall gra.s.s, a knight turned hunter, or was he merely bait? Hairs p.r.i.c.kled at the back of his neck, nothing to protect him but the stink of a dead gore-hound. Cold seeped up from the frozen ground, a threat of another sort. Despite his weariness, despite the freezing cold, Blaine thrummed with tension, straining his senses. Kill or be killed, it seemed the only law of the G.o.d-cursed steppes.

Movement in front of him, but it was only the others. The soft c.h.i.n.k of arms and armor, proved the painted warriors moved into position, preparing for battle. Hidden by the dark, yet he knew they stood in a circle, weapons held at the ready, waiting for the first sign of ambush.

The night proved still as death, not a whisper of wind.

A searing cold seeped up from the ground. Blaine fought not to shiver. Darkness pressed close, making it hard to wait, and harder to lie still. His own breathing sounded loud in his ears, every rustle of gra.s.s a threat. Time held no meaning, an eternity of darkness.

The wind picked up, whispering across the steppes. Blaine cursed the change, knowing the subtle sound would aid the beasts.

And then he heard it, a soft chuffing.

So close, just a few paces to his left.

Blaine froze, not daring to breathe.

A low growl to his right, the beasts were all around him! He lay exposed, the back of his neck unprotected, yet he dared not move. Sweat trickled down his spine. Lying statue still beneath the gore-hound hide, Blaine gripped his sword, praying the beasts would pa.s.s him by.

He felt them circling, snuffing the air. One padded close...close enough to hear its harsh breath. Blaine gripped his sword, frozen beneath the hide. The beast chuffed, a low snorting sound, and was gone, a soft rustle of frozen gra.s.s.

Blaine breathed again, a brief reprieve.

A scream broke the night. The battle was begun.

Blaine stood, his sword held at the ready. He padded forward, searching the dark. Sensing movement, he leaped forward, slashing with his blade. Steel connected with flesh, a howl of pain. Even wounded, the beast whirled, lashing at Blaine's chest. Claws raked across his surcoat but his chainmail held. He parried the beast, slicing through sinew and bone, severing the paw. The h.e.l.lhound howled, an unearthly sound, but still it came, fangs snarling in hate. Blaine staggered backward and then whirled to the left, trying to flank the creature. Sensing an opening, he put all his strength into an overhand blow. His sword bit deep, crunching into bone, a lethal stroke.

Something struck him from behind. Powerful as a battering ram, it knocked him to the ground. He lost his grip on his sword. Turning, he got his left arm up. Saber-fangs lunged for his face, a snarl of hate. He forced his arm deep into the beast's mouth, holding the fangs at bay. Teeth clamped down in a painful grip but his chainmail held. The beast snarled, a rage of hot drool dripping into Blaine's face. Desperate for a weapon, he struggled to reach the dagger at his belt. The beast shook him like a rag doll. Groping blind, Blaine found the dagger, plunging it deep into the beast's belly.

The hound snarled but the jaws refused to release. Once, twice, three times he stabbed the beast before he found the heart. Blood spurted over him, a gush of warm gore. The creature shuddered and then lay still, pinning Blaine to the ground.

Gasping for breath, he pushed the beast away, trying to avoid the fearsome claws. He checked his arm. His fingers still worked but his arm ached horribly, too dark to see if the chainmail was broken.

Screams split the night, proof the battle still raged.

Someone wailed in pain, "It's eating me! Get it off!"

Nightmares lurked in the dark. Blaine knelt in the gra.s.s, frantic for his sword.

Something moved to his right, but he only had a dagger. Drenched in sweat he searched the gra.s.s. And then his hand touched steel. He gripped his sword and rose to a crouch. Guided by sounds, he eased to the right, hoping to take a h.e.l.lhound from behind. Sensing movement, he swung his blade to the left, but his sword found only air. The beasts were too clever by half.

A low growl came from his right...and another to his left. They had him surrounded, taunting him with snarls, playing with their food. Drenched in sweat, Blaine pivoted left and then right, but the darkness favored the beasts. He cursed the night. Staying in a crouch, he waited for the first attack, vowing to take at least one with him.

But then the G.o.ds lent a hand. The wind picked up. A cold blast from the north, opened a swath in the cloud-shrouded sky. Moonlight bathed the steppes in a silvery light. And then he saw them. Black and brown, the beasts stood out against the silvery gra.s.s. A shout of triumph rose from the other men. Slings whirled, a whisper of death hurled into the night.

Blaine leaped forward, charging the nearest gore-hound.

The beast whirled, a snarl of fangs as sharp as sabers, but Blaine had the advantage of reach. The great blue sword swept forward like vengeance unleashed. Steel struck the beast's head, sundering the skull in two. He wrenched the blade loose and turned to find another. But the battle was already won.

Dead gore hounds littered the trampled gra.s.s.

Moonlight brought their first triumph.

Raising their fists and howling to the moon, the painted warriors celebrated a primal victory. Blaine joined them, sharing a flagon of mead. Bathed in moonlight, they danced and clapped and sang, raising their weapons to the heavens. And in the midst of the revelry, Kath woke.

Perhaps the G.o.ds had not abandoned them after all.

55.

The Knight Marshal The sun rose in a blaze of golds, too glorious a morning for such a grim day. The marshal watched it rise, wondering if it would be his last.

All along the Wh.o.r.e, the men took their positions, waiting for the horde to come calling. A lone battle banner flew overhead, the king's blazon, maroon silk embroidered with a golden crown. Saved by Baldwin in the mad dash from the second wall, the banner was tied to a broken lance. The lone standard snapped proud in the cold morning wind, like a mailed fist defying the terrible odds.

The king stood beside his banner, his crowned helm and silver breastplate polished bright, his great blue sword looming over his right shoulder. A single sunbeam broke from the clouds, anointing the king. Gleaming like a star set in a long line of maroon, he stood tall and indomitable, a fabled hero clad in sun-kissed armor. The sunbeam seemed a sign, like a blessing of the G.o.ds. A cheer roared from the wall, a burst of pride from the men.

Clouds blew in from the north, shrouding the sun.

And then it began to snow. A flurry of snowflakes pelted down, turning the land sepulcher white. Winter had come, the ally the king had hoped for...but too late to save the maroon.

The marshal pulled his cloak close. Turning his back on the winter wind, he walked the wall, trading words with the men. A few muttered prayers, others bantered jokes, but most were stoic, minding to their armor and weapons. The grim truth shown from their eyes, yet he knew they would not waiver. Without archers, the battle would be a b.l.o.o.d.y. The ancient wall offered little protection. Short and stubby, the Wh.o.r.e would blunt the enemy's charge, but at a height of only twelve feet he expected the ogres to scale it in a single bound. And only the G.o.ds knew what other foul magic the Mordant hid in his a.r.s.enal. But one thing was certain; the courage of the knights would not falter. Pride swelled through him. He wondered if a bard would ever sing the tale, so few standing against so many. But bard's songs went to the victors. The marshal scowled, all his thoughts full of ashes. He drew his great sword, Sir Tyrone's sword, comforted by the feel of cold steel.

The waiting proved hard; always the worst part of any battle. The sun climbed the sky and still they did not come. Not until midday did they hear the drums, the steady beat of doom.

Men tensed along the wall, readying their weapons. They strained to see the horde.

When the enemy finally came, it was only six riders. Bedecked in plumed helms and dark armor emblazoned with gold pentacles, they sat on their horses and waited fifty yards from the wall.

The marshal joined the king. "Perhaps they offer terms."

The king scowled. "The Octagon never surrenders."

"True, but perhaps we should hear them out."

The king agreed, so they called for their horses.

Six men waited so six rode out from the wall. The king led, resplendent on his white war stallion. The marshal rode on the king's right. Baldwin rode on his left, bearing the king's banner. Two champions and a captain came close behind: Sir Abrax, Sir Rannock, and Sir Lothar.

They stopped two spear lengths from the enemy. The king's white stallion snorted and pawed the frozen ground, as if eager for a fight. The maroon battle banner snapped overhead, a subtle reply.

The marshal studied the enemy. Four were mere soldiers, muscles bulging beneath armor, but the other two were older, their armor more elaborate, embellished with gold. He judged them to be generals, come with the Mordant's terms.

The center general, the one with the most gold on his armor, spoke first. "My name is General Haith, and I speak for my lord, the Mordant." His horse shied left and he quelled it with a tug of the reins. "Your men fought bravely but they were outmatched. Against our numbers, against our magic, none in the south can stand. Yet the Mordant does not wish to spend his men needlessly. He offers terms."

The king's voice was a low growl. "The Octagon does not surrender."

"But will you fight?" The general lifted a mailed hand, forestalling the king's reply. "The Mordant offers to settle this contest by single combat."

"Single combat?" Flummoxed, the king shook his head, sunlight glinting on his armor.

Sir Abrax muscled forward. "I will fight for the Octagon! Give me the honor, Sire!"

Sensing a trick, the marshal interposed. "What are the terms?"

General Haith nodded, his gaze fixed on the marshal. "Single combat to determine the outcome of this battle. The loser retreats with his army, ceding Raven Pa.s.s to the victor."

Sir Abrax gasped, but the marshal stilled him with a glance. It was a fantastical offer, especially given the enemy's numbers, yet it reeked of lies. The marshal pressed for details. "If the Octagon wins, you'll take your army back to the north and leave the southern kingdoms in peace?"

"Hardly," the general's voice dripped with disdain. "If the Octagon wins, our army will retreat and find another way south. Raven Pa.s.s is not the only gap in the Dragon Spine Mountains."

"And how do we know you'll hold to the terms?"

"You have the word of the Mordant."

It was a measure of discipline that none of them scoffed.

"I need your answer."

The king seemed to consider. "Single combat?"

"To the death."