Silk And Steel: The Skeleton King Part 49

Blaine and Bear stayed close, their weapons held at the ready. They hid in the alley while the mob thundered pa.s.sed.

Moments later the army followed. Howling like wolves, the painted warriors ran through the street like a pack loosed to the wild hunt.

Kath stepped from the alley, standing within a ring of torchlight. The painted warriors raised a great cheer. "Svala!" Their shout shook the citadel. "Svala!" She drew her sword and led them forward, feeling the weight of destiny at her back.

63.

The Knight Marshal The marshal pushed his horse to a frothing gallop. The wagon proved too easy to follow. Twin ruts carved a path into snow, an easy signpost for friends or foes. Their best defense was confusion. With the maroon in retreat, the marshal hoped they'd leave too many trails for the enemy to follow, a scattering of thousands disappearing into the foothills, like mice scurrying to countless boltholes.

Horns echoed up from the valley, a desperate blare repeating the retreat, but his only care was for the king. He gained the hilltop and skirted a stand of cedar, deep green against a forest of winter branches, a crust of snow covering the ground. The hillside dipped into a hidden valley, a small hollow nestled among the pines. Somewhere in the heights an owl hooted, a lonely sound. He spurred his horse forward, praying he wasn't too late.

The wagon stood at the heart of the hollow, horses lathered and blowing, hobbled within in their traces. A ma.s.sive oak loomed overhead like a marker, bare branches stark against a winter sky. Shadows crowded the hollow, the first touch of twilight. The marshal shivered, pulling his maroon cloak close, too many portents of death.

Three champions guarded the king, their weapons unsheathed. Sir Rannock, Sir Blaze, and Sir Abrax stood sentry around the wagon, grim-faced veterans, alert and wary, but they lowered their weapons when he rode into sight.

The marshal swung down from the saddle before the horse even came to a stop. His gaze sought out Sir Rannock. "Is he still?"

Sir Rannock nodded, his face tense. "Just."

Sir Abrax growled, "Did you see his face? A traitor hiding beneath the Mordant's armor," he hawked and spat, "treachery and treason combined."

Sir Rannock said, "If the arrogant b.a.s.t.a.r.d hadn't lifted his visor we might have honored the terms."

But the marshal had no time for idle banter. "You three stand guard at the top of the rise. The wagon paints too clear a trail. We dare not be surprised."

The men saw through his words but they obeyed, mounting their horses with a swirl of maroon.

"And take Baldwin with you. I must speak with the king."

Dazed with shock, the red-haired squire obeyed. He swung up behind Sir Blaze, gripping the knight's maroon cloak.

Sir Rannock saluted. The horses whirled, a clatter of hooves on stone.

But the marshal was already focused on the king. Drawn like iron to a lodestone, he strode toward the wagon. The king lay sprawled across the flatbed, his face pale, his silver hair matted with sweat, his breastplate skewered by the dark sword. They'd removed most of his armor, but not the breastplate. The hilt of the blade jutted up from the king's chest, dark and obscene, proof of treachery and treason.

The marshal flicked a questioning glance to the healer. "Still alive?" The words were nearly a sob but the healer gave the barest of nods.

The marshal forced out the other question. "Can you?"

Quintus shook his head, his face lined with sadness. "He is beyond my skill." The brown-robed healer knelt by the king, gently easing a poultice under the breastplate.

"Osbourne...is that you?" The king's hand reached out.

The marshal climbed into the wagon. Kneeling, he gripped the outstretched hand, so cold the king seemed already dead, one hand reaching from the grave. "Stay with me, my liege."

"Blue steel...failed."

The marshal rushed to rea.s.sure his lord. "It wasn't the fault of the sword, or the wielder." Pride leached into his voice. "You fought like a legend, sire. But the dark blade is surely cursed, another trick of the Mordant. At least the traitor is dead, I promise you that."

Pain ripped across the king's face. "It burns, Osbourne. It sucks the life from me. Pull it out."

He yearned to rip the cursed blade from his king's body yet his gaze sought the healer.

Quintus whispered a warning. "Remove it and he dies all the quicker."

He gripped the king's hand, willing him to live. "My lord, there is something I need ask."

"The men?"

"I sounded the retreat and ordered the men to scatter. We'll regroup in a fortnight and harry the enemy from the rear." Stubborn pride filled his voice. "Be a.s.sured, my lord, the Octagon fights on."

"Good." The king sighed, as if a great weight eased from his shoulders, but then his face twisted in pain. "The sword, Osbourne! It burns!"

The marshal dreaded asking the question yet it needed to be done. "My lord, the Octagon needs a king."

The king stared up at him, a bubble of blood at the side of his mouth. "Five sons...dead."

"Yes, my lord." The marshal could not imagine another man wearing the octagon crown yet he persisted. "Who will you name as your successor? One of the champions or a younger captain, someone who can take the Anvril name and wear the crown? Perhaps Sir Abrax or Sir Blaze or Sir Ademar?"

The healer intervened. "My lord, you still have an heir of your body."

The marshal rebuked the healer with a sharp stare but Quintus persisted, his voice low and urgent. "Princess Katherine is the rightful heir to the Octagon."

The marshal reared back in shock. "A mere girl?"

"She proved herself at Cragnoth Keep, defeating Trask and the other traitors. And she lit the signal fires calling the Octagon to war. And she dared go north when others would not listen."

The marshal felt the weight of the great sword strapped to his back, another man's sword, taken from the ashes of the signal tower. "True knights fought at Cragnoth, Sir Tyrone and Sir Blaine, how dare you ascribe their deeds to a mere girl."

Anger rode the healer's words. "You're as blind as the others. The G.o.ds choose Katherine. She is the true bane of the Mordant."

"A mere girl cannot wear the octagon crown."

"Does...Katherine...still live?"

The king's question stilled both men.

The healer answered. "Sire, she must, else our best hope is lost." Quintus bent toward the king, conviction in his voice. "She is your true heir, a warrior and a leader."

Blood frothed at the king's mouth. "Only...a girl."

Frustration rode the healer's words. "Trust to your blood if nothing else. She is the last of your line. An Anvril, born and bred to the sword!"

"My sons...were born to...lead."

"And all of them are dead!"

The king gasped for breath, making a painful gurgle.

The marshal heard death lurking beneath the sound. "My lord, speak but a name and they will wear the crown." He leaned toward the king, desperate for an answer. "Will you have Katherine as your heir? Or will you name another? One of your champions or a younger captain?" He held his breath, willing the king to speak.

The king's stare moved from the marshal to the healer and then toward the distant heavens. "My...sons!" Blood frothed at his mouth...and then his face went slack as death.

"My lord, no!" The marshal gripped the king's hand, but there was no life left. Sorrow warred with rage. A scream ripped out of him. "My king!" He stood and yanked the cursed sword from the king's body...and the hilt burned his hands! Like cold fire eating through mail and leather, it stung him. He hurled the cursed blade into the woods. "It burns!"

The others heard his shout and came riding at a gallop.

He stood in the wagon, consumed by grief. "The king is dead."

They milled on their horses, staring up at him, shock writ large across their faces, yet they waited for a single name to be proclaimed. But he had nothing to give them. Instead he said, "Time to honor our king. He earned a hero's cairn."

The others bowed their heads in acceptance.

The marshal shot the healer a silencing glare.

They washed the king and bound his wounds. One last time, the marshal armored his lord, greaves and gorget, bracers and helm. They laid him on the crest of the hill, where he could keep watch over Raven Pa.s.s. The marshal arranged the king's maroon cloak so it covered the hideous rent in his breastplate. King Ursus looked as if he slept, his skin as pale as alabaster, yet he would never again wield a sword or lead the maroon into battle. Grief choked the marshal's throat.

They raised a cairn of stones over him, working late into the night. The healer offered to help but the marshal sent him away, keeping the honor for the maroon.

Working in silence, they scavenged stones from the hillside. The marshal set the last stone on the shoulder-high cairn. A great sadness descended upon him. There should have been trumpets and drums and a long recitation of honors, but there were only four knights and a squire attending the grave. The marshal drew his sword in a final salute. A ring of steel came from the others. He raised his sword to the heavens. "For Honor and the Octagon!"

The others echoed his cry. "Honor and the Octagon!"

The marshal stood at the head of the cairn, remembering his king. "Here lies Ursus Anvril, a valiant king, a staunch warrior, a man of honor, he gave his life defending the southern kingdoms, the last great king of the Octagon."

He felt the other's stares but he had no more words to give. One at a time, they sheathed their weapons and bowed toward the cairn and then they drifted away, but the marshal kept vigil with his lord. Twining his gloved hands around his sword hilt, he stood guard over the cairn, watching the stars span the winter sky. The world seemed a lonely place, impossibly empty without his king.

Something white glided through the trees. Silent as a ghost, it came to rest just beyond the cairn. "Whoooo?" A giant frost owl stared up at him, golden eyes glowing in the faint starlight. The owl seemed to ripple and stretch and then a blue-robed monk stood in its place.

The marshal staggered back a step. "So it's true!" The monk looked older, dark rings beneath his eyes, more than a touch of gray feathering his long hair.

"My sorrow for your loss." The monk gestured to the cairn. "It seems I've come too late. But perhaps all is not lost." Aeroth raised his right hand, palm held outward, revealing the blue tattoo of a Seeing Eye. "For the third time, I come bearing warnings to the Octagon. The king has fallen and shadows threaten all of Erdhe. Time grows short. Will you listen?"

The marshal gripped his sword, suddenly realizing all the decisions were now his to bear. "Speak your words."

"A great king dies without naming an heir."

The marshal gasped, the meddling monks knew too much.

But Aeroth gave him no time to respond. "It is best if the Octagon remains headless."

"Why?"

"So that the Mordant's gaze is kept elsewhere, away from the rightful heir."

His mind seemed to be stuffed with wool. "The rightful heir?"

The monk gave him a piercing stare. "Katherine of Castlegard."

He gaped to hear the name. "Just a girl." But sometimes he wondered, ever since the battle at Cragnoth Keep, but it could not be, it went against everything he believed. "Just a girl."

"The king's trueborn daughter, born and bred to the sword, yet she is far more than just a warrior."

A girl wielding a sword, the image was unsettling. "Why does the octagon crown matter to you?"

"It matters to Erdhe."

Anger boiled within him. "So now the truth is revealed. Your Order is nothing but a bunch of b.l.o.o.d.y kingmakers."

The monk shrugged, but the intensity of his gaze never lessened. "We've been called worse." He gestured to the cairn. "One age is ended but another begins. Born of blood and deceit, the new age threatens to be full of Darkness unless a few dare to make a difference." The monk stared at him, as if peering into his very soul. "Will you dare to be among the few?"

"I'll hear your words but I'll make no promises"

"My Order takes the long view. Unlike the king, you know our warnings are worth heeding."

The marshal waited, unwilling to answer.

"Name no heir, at least for now."

He could have laughed, or cried, for he had no heir to name. For the thousandth time this night, he wished the king had spoken a name, just one name, any name, taking the awful weight from his shoulders. "I'll wait...for now."

The monk nodded, his face solemn. "And be wary of the dark sword, for it is not meant for the hands of men." And then the monk was shifting, blurring, changing, till a giant frost owl took wing into the night.

"Wait! I have questions." But the owl was already gone, soaring over the treetops.

The marshal swayed on his feet, suddenly struck with a profound weariness. Too much had happened this day, too much loss, too much pain. The night tightened around him, dark and cold and quiet...and full of loneliness.

Torchlight glimmered in the valley below. A river of torches moved south, too many to count. The enemy rallied, claiming Raven Pa.s.s. The way was open to the south, nothing to stop the Mordant's hordes. The Octagon had failed.

Defeat, the word tasted sour in his mind. Weary and disheartened, the marshal leaned on his sword, standing guard over the cairn. His king was gone and the world had changed. His soul rang with sadness. Perhaps the monk had the truth of it. Perhaps it was a new age, full of magic and darkness, full of tricks and deceit, but for the sake of his king, he would not give up. He raised his sword to the night sky and made his pledge before the king's cairn. "For Honor and the Octagon!" And it seemed the mountains echoed his cry, as if the G.o.ds accepted his word. Perhaps honor and valor still mattered in a world turned dark. The marshal clung to the hope, for it was all he had left.

64.

Katherine The fighting was fierce, a brutal plod through the cobblestone streets. The Dark Citadel proved a stone beehive full of stinging traps. Each level was guarded by a gate and each gate marked a different battle, a logjam of death, yet the fighting never seemed to end.

Corpses littered the street, the dead mingled with the dying. They left a b.l.o.o.d.y trail behind them, racing the ever-tightening death spiral toward the clouds. Resistance stiffened as they neared the top. Kath supposed the wealthy had more to lose but she refused to be bogged down in a siege. Urging her men forward, she used her magic to take most of the gates, but each level grew harder, weariness sapping her strength.