The Prince Deceiver (The Silk & Steel Saga Book 6) (22 page)

40

The Knight Marshal

The knight
marshal roamed the ridge top...waiting. The enemy no longer sent patrols into
the mountains, content to cower in the valley below. The marshal scowled in
disdain. With nothing to slay he grew impatient...and the Dark Sword grew
hungry. Restless, he turned his horse toward the burnt beacon, the site of his
last triumph.

He smelled it
before he saw it. The stench struck like a hammer blow to his gut, making him
gag. Bloated corpses lay heaped in mounds around the charred pyre. Hacked by
sword cuts, their faces bitten and chewed by carrion feeders, the rotting
bodies gave off a horrible stench. Grisly body parts lay strewn between the
mounds, the ground crisscrossed by animal tracks. Crows cawed, flapping their
dark wings in annoyance at his intrusion, but they did not take flight. Leaping
out of his way, they hopped from one corpse to the next, pecking at the feast.
So many roving crows, the dark-winged birds endowed the dead with the illusion
of movement.

Dismounting, the
marshal rummaged through the corpses. His armor had grown tight across the
chest, his breastplate pinching him beneath his arms. Shedding his breastplate,
he searched for another with a better fit. Twice he discarded salvaged
breastplates as too small and a third bore a terrible rent straight to the
heart. Spying a large soldier lying face down in the mud, the marshal turned
him with his boot. Tinged green, the ghoulish head canted at an unnatural
angle, nearly severed from the neck, but the breastplate was intact, the armor
embellished with gold scrollwork around the pentacle. "Must have been an
officer." The marshal knelt, loosening the bindings. The dead officer gave
up the armor with a wet sucking sound. A horrid stench clung to it, but the fit
was good. Satisfied, the marshal picked his way back to his horse when he spied
a massive shield half hidden by an ogre's body. For a heartbeat he stared at
it, puzzled. He didn't recall facing such a massive shield, but his memories of
battles were often an exquisite blur. Since taking up the Dark Sword, he'd
fought without a shield's protection, but a stout shield could be handy against
the horde. 

The ogre lay like
a felled log. Putting his shoulder to the corpse, he shoved the deadweight
aside. The shield proved whole and intact, emblazoned with a gold pentacle
painted on black. A massive wall shield, it stood five feet tall and nearly
four feet wide. Wall shields were aptly named. Made of laminated wood and
leather, the rectangular shield had a convex bow to deflect arrows and to keep
it sitting upright on the ground, creating a stout barrier. A round metal boss
added to the center of the pentacle averted sword blows. Unwieldy and
inordinately heavy, such shields were usually used by archers or crossbowmen as
bulwarks or screens, but the ogre had converted it to a melee shield, affixing
sturdy arm straps to the back. The marshal tested the straps and found them
sound. It would take a giant to heft such a shield in battle. Intrigued by the
challenge, he slipped his left arm through the straps. Grasping the shield, he
lifted, bearing it on his arm like a melee shield. Much heavier than a normal
kite shield, yet he found it surprisingly manageable. Unsheathing the Dark
Sword, he practiced with the shield. Fighting imaginary foes, he dodged and
whirled, striking with the sword, blocking with the shield. He soon found a
deadly rhythm and a new balance. Shadows lengthened across the ridge before he
spun to a stop.

He wasn't even
breathing hard.

He liked the
shield. He liked the legendary size of it. The marshal grinned, imagining the
terror it would inspire when his foes saw him wield such a massive shield in
battle.
A shield befitting the Dark Sword.

Walking back to
his horse, he came across his discarded breastplate, the maroon octagon nearly
obscured by blood and mud. For half a heartbeat he hesitated, a memory clawing
at his mind, a regret trying to shame him...but then he kicked it aside and
walked on. Colors and sigils no longer matter, for he sought only battle,
caring for nothing save glorious victory.

Reclaiming his
stallion, he swung into the saddle, keeping the shield on his left arm. Already
accustomed to the weight and size of it, the massive shield protected his entire
left side from boot tip to helm, a formidable barrier. The marshal grinned. War
was sweet, providing him everything he needed.

He drummed his
horse to a gallop, riding the ridge, eager for the battle to come.

41

Quintus

The flood of
wounded slowed from a deluge to a steady rain. Quintus dared to hope for an end
to the war. The healery tower began to clear more beds than it filled, but
there were still too many wounds to mend, too many terrible injuries to sew
shut, too many lives that needed saving. Desperate for help, he drafted three
stable lads, a pot boy, and a scullery maid to serve as his assistants. The
stable lads proved apt at making and applying poultices, something they'd
learned from the master of horse. Quintus taught them how to change bandages
and smell for rot and then charged them to work their way through the wounded,
starting with the rooms at the tower top. The pot boy proved dumb as a post,
but with so many wounded, the healery tower had an endless supply of chamber
pots in danger of overflowing, so he kept the lad busy. The real find was
Elise, the scullery maid. Graced with nimble fingers, a quick mind, and a
compassionate heart, the flaxen-haired lass had the makings of a first rate
healer. When the war finally ended, he intended to speak to her about seeking a
place in the monastery. Erdhe needed more healers and the girl showed great
promise. Perhaps she'd even earn her master's knot, something he hadn't the
patience for.

Cloistered
hallways filled with illuminated text,
some days he sorely missed the
serenity of the monastery, but in his heart, Quintus knew he was meant to be a
healer not a scholar. His skills were needed in Castlegard.

Washing his
hands in the basin, he moved to the next bed, praying the war ended before the
bloody tide swept to the very gates of the great castle.
War at the gates,
he
shuddered at the thought. With so many wounded, he seldom had time to dwell on
the riddle of mage-stone, yet the danger nagged at his mind.
Magic drained
from mage-stone,
something he'd always thought impossible. The strength of
mage-stone was said to be as certain as sunrise, impervious to war and weather,
yet he'd seen for himself what a smith's hammer could to. Shuddering at the
grim thought, he made the hand sign against evil, feeling as if the great
castle were under a dark curse.

"Master
Quintus, we need you here!" Elise's urgent call drew him across the room.
The bearers moved a scout onto an open bed. Elise cut away the man's jerkin,
revealing a nasty sword gash in his side. "Hold him." While the
bearers pinned him to the bed, Quintus flushed the scout's wound with wine.
Screaming, the scout writhed in pain, trying to twist away from the wine's
sharp sting, but the bearers held him firm. Working quickly, Quintus cleaned
the wound and then smeared it with a dollop of honey, but only a
small
dollop, the healery was running short of honey. Quintus scowled, the healery
was running short of everything save wounded. "You can release him
now."

Nodding in
deference, the bearers moved away.

"One
defeating a hundred,"
the scout raved, tossing back and forth,
babbling in the grip of delirium.
"He killed them, killed them
all!"

The scout felt
hot. Quintus feared the onset of wound fever. "Elise, dose him with
tincture of yarrow." He held a cool cloth to the scout's forehead while
the girl ran to fetch a potion bottle.

"
Steel
shattered like ice, he slew every one!"

The girl
returned with the potion. Holding it to the scout's lips, he cajoled him into
taking half the bottle. "That should help."

A horn sounded,
beating against the healery windows.

Elise muttered,
"More wounded."

The horn came
again, but this time it was a volley of trumpets.

"No,"
Quintus stilled, listening, "that's not the call for wounded, that's
something else." A sixth sense spurred him to answer the summons. He
pressed the potion bottle into Elise's hands. "Try to get more of this in
him. We need to quell the fever or we'll lose him."

Elise took his
place by the bed. "Where are you going?"

"To learn
the meaning behind the horns." Shucking his gore-spattered apron, Quintus
splashed water on his hands and then made his way down the tight spiral stairs.
He stumbled out of the tower and into the great yard, dazzled by the sunlight.
Others were spilling into the yard, bellows boys from the forge, scullery maids
from the kitchen, lads in training gear from the practice yard, all pulled by
the horns.

Trumpets blared
from every tower of Castlegard, ringing against mage-stone battlements. For
half a heartbeat, Quintus feared they might be under attack, but the horns did
not sound strident, more like a welcome than a warning. He followed the
gathering crowd, everyone moving like a tide towards the inner gates.

A deep voice
rumbled from behind. "Can you read the horns, healer?"

Quintus turned
to find Otto, the master swordsmith, looming over his right shoulder. "No,
can you?"

"They blare
a welcome for knights returning."

A shiver raced
down the healer's spine, an inexplicable feeling of foreboding.

"You feel
it too." The smith's voice dropped to a harsh whisper. "Naught's been
right since you shared your secret."

Quintus gave the
smith a warning glare, but in truth, he felt it too.

"Come,
let's meet them at the inner gate." They followed the tidal flow of the
crowd.

The portcullis
was raised, the great ironshod gates thrown open wide.

The big smith
stood beside him, the smell of forge-heated iron surrounding him like a haze.
Quintus sniffed his own robes, wondering if he smelled like blood and potions,
but he just smelled like himself.

The crowd
jostled elbows, anxiously waiting. At first there was nothing to see, just the
empty corridor between the inner and outer ramparts, but then Quintus heard the
clop of hooves on stone. Anticipation rippled through the watchers. The first
riders came into view, but instead of maroon knights in burnished armor, they
saw a patchwork of farmers riding mules and nags, tugging milk cows on leads. A
bedraggled lot poured through the great gate, villagers, farmers, and peasants,
the small folk of the domain. Women carried swaddled babes while small children
clutched at their skirts. Youths led goats and herded chickens. Men burdened
with stuffed sacks walked like hunchbacks. Pots and pans rattled as they
shuffled past, their dust-stained faces bearing a mixture of relief, exhaustion
and fear.

Beside him, the
smith said, "They've come seeking sanctuary."

Sanctuary,
the
word had a hollow sound, for the great castle was no longer invincible.

And then Quintus
saw the knights riding escort at the rear of the column, maroon cloaks stirring
in the breeze. Many of their faces were familiar, but he saw no captains riding
among them. Beneath their helms, many were fresh-faced youths hastily raised to
knights...or wounded veterans that he'd patched up multiple times and sent back
to battle.
Farmers seeking sanctuary guarded by the young and the infirm,
the
truth sent a chill down his back. Quintus made the hand sign against evil
,
a
dark dread rising in him.
The Octagon Knights were losing the war.

42

The Knight Marshal

The sun rose
bloody in the east, not a cloud in the sky, the perfect day for war. The knight
marshal girded for battle, tightening straps and buckles, donning breastplate,
gorget, and greaves. He set a visored helm of black enamel embossed with gold
upon his head, a showy piece yet he liked the fit. Most of his armor was
fresh-scavenged from the newly-dead.
Colors,
the thought annoyed him,
the word buzzing in his mind like an angry hornet...and then he remembered the
phrase.
What color their cloaks?
He remembered the phrase but he could
not remember why it mattered. He shook his head against the pesky thought.

Like a snake
becoming more, he'd outgrown much of his old armor. Too dented, too tight, too
worn, he shed the old, scavenging for something better. The dead gave him
everything he needed. Clad from head to toe in armor, he unsheathed the Dark
Sword and danced the classical forms, checking the armor's fit. For this
battle, he'd suffer no hindrance of any form. Satisfied, he took up the ogre's
shield. A golden pentacle shone from its curved front, but sigils mattered not
anymore. A spoil of war, the massive wall shield stood five feet tall and
nearly four feet wide. Such a shield was not meant to be wielded in battle, yet
a dead ogre had converted it to a melee shield, affixing stout arm straps to
the back. Cumbersome and heavy, a mere man could never wield it, yet the marshal
found it suited him.

Sheathing his
sword, he swung into the saddle. The black stallion pranced as if anticipating
the glory to come. "Soon." He settled his warhorse and steered his
mount along the ridge till he came to a trailhead, one of the few that reached
all the way to the valley floor.

He reached the
trailhead just as the bloody sun cleared the Dragon Spines, throwing spears of
light into the valley below.
Raven Pass,
the narrow valley was infested
by the horde. Tents and battle banners and men in black armor cluttered the
valley. Their numbers were staggering. The marshal smiled, a fitting test of
his prowess.
To defeat an entire army,
he hungered for the glory. This
day would be a day of days. Bards would forever sing of this battle, for this
fight would be the stuff of legends, when one man dared to defeat an army. A
hunger for bloodshed and glory raged through him with the strength of ecstasy.

"Soon,"
his whispered voice caressed the Dark Sword.

Turning his
stallion down the trail, he held his mount to a careful walk. His warhorse
fought the bit, tossing his head, but the marshal kept a tight rein. Too steep
and treacherous for speed, he forced his stallion to walk lest his horse take
them both to a deadly fall. Narrow and winding, the trail snaked its way past
boulders and windswept pines, providing a good view of the valley. Down in the
throat of the pass, the enemy awoke, lighting campfires and changing patrols.
The marshal listened, but he heard no blare of horns, no warning shouts. His
foe seemed unaware of the threat riding towards them. The marshal flashed a
predator's grin. He'd meet them without fanfare, no trumpeters, no heralds, no
battle banners, just an implacable thirst for battle. Soon enough, they'd learn
the grim fate they faced.

By midmorning,
he reached the valley floor. He lingered in the forested fringe, watching from
between the pines. Seeing no signs of ambush, he readied for battle. One last
time he checked his armor, tightening straps and buckles.

The marshal
lowered his visor, shuttering the world to a narrow slit. He settled the great wall
shield on his arm, protecting his left side from heel to helm. Unsheathing the
Dark Sword, he brandished the blade aloft and loosed his battle cry. "
For
Death and Glory!"

The Dark Sword
answered, hungry for souls. Power roared through the blade, surging into him
with the strength of an unchained dragon.

He felt
invincible.

He felt the raw
thirst of his sword, a siren's song urging him to kill.

He felt as if
the coming battle was a stone-carved destiny.

A smile slid
across his face, hungry for a feast of souls.

It was time.

Let my
destiny begin!
The marshal urged his warhorse to a gallop. Racing out of
the forest fringe, he rode towards the horde, one warrior daring many. His
armor jangled to the chime of war, his steed's hoof beats drummed the ground
with a hungry beat. His sword throbbed in his hands, keening for battle.
Leaning forward, the marshal pressed his horse for speed.

A blare of horns
called a desperate warning.

The enemy awoke
to the danger.

Through the
narrow slit of his visor, he saw a confusion of soldiers forming battle lines.
So
the enemy is not as lax as they appeared,
it was a welcome thought, for he
wanted no easy victory. Glory needed to be earned, and he intended to earn it
this day.

He galloped
closer, yet the enemy proved their discipline. Holding their line, their shields
turned outward, they formed a stout wall of steel and burnished leather.

The marshal
grinned,
your wall will not avail you!
 

And then he
heard the lethal whistle of arrows.

The marshal
raised the mighty wall shield, holding it above his head and the head of his
steed, a feat no ordinary man could accomplish. Crouched beneath the massive shield,
he urged his stallion to a hard gallop. A storm of arrows dropped from the sky,
all of them seeking one target. Feathered shafts fell like hail, a rain of
death surrounding him. Iron warheads punched into his raised shield, hard blows
seeking flesh. The archers found their target, but the massive shield held. He
rode through the rain of death...and came out the other side, unscathed.

The marshal
lowered the shield to his side. Half a hundred arrows protruded from it.
Laughter bubbled out of him, teetering on the edge of a berserker's rage. With
a single swipe of the Dark Sword, he severed the arrows. Urging his horse to a
lathered gallop, he charged across the open ground, closing the distance. Too
close for arrows, he saw the details of his foes. Black shields, black armor,
they waited with spears, swords, and battle axes, yet he noted how their line
bowed slightly backwards, as if they cringed away, fearing his charge.
One
against an army,
he must look like a madman...or the God of War incarnate.
He roared his battle cry against their armored line. "
For Death and
Glory!"
 

And then he
struck, hitting at a full gallop. His warhorse barreled into their line,
knocking men backwards, churning soldiers beneath ironshod hooves. The marshal
took advantage of the breach. Wielding both sword and shield, he loosed a
fearsome attack. Stroke and parry, he slew every foe around him. The Dark Sword
cut like a scythe, lopping heads and severing limbs. The massive shield struck
like a battering ram, knocking soldiers senseless. His warhorse kicked, bit,
and stomped, adding to the carnage. Soldiers fell like wheat around him. Screams
of the dying rose around him like a dirge from hell. A huge ogre lumbered
toward him, loosing a head-high swing of an axe. The marshal evaded the axe and
then took the ogre's head, a spray of blood spewing from the headless corpse.
Sensing a spear thrust aimed at his back, he swiveled in the saddle and knocked
it aside, disemboweling the spearman. Cut and parry, he moved with lightning
speed, guiding his horse through the fray while the enemy fought as if they
were encrusted in ice. The battle became a lethal dance. The marshal
anticipated every threat, parried every blow, always finding the sweet spot for
a lethal strike. He slew countless foes and the Dark Sword drank their souls.
Strength and vigor roared into him. Instead of growing weary, he grew stronger.

He was Death
unchained.

He was the God
of War.

The battle field
was his.

None could stand
in his path. Shields splintered and swords shattered, unable to withstand the
Dark Sword. The dead and dying fell like cordwood around him, creating a
rampart of corpses. Seeking fresh prey, he urged his horse to a jump, clearing
the grisly barrier.

Horns blared
across the field, trying to bring order to chaos. Officers screamed commands, desperate
to rally their troops. The enemy pulled back, forming a new battle line. Spears
bristled towards him, but their iron tips wavered, presenting a hesitant
hedgehog. Black-clad soldiers cowered behind a trembling shield wall, their
courage shaken.

The marshal
leaped from his horse.

Yanking the helm
from his head, he tossed it aside, gaining a better view. Helmless, he strode
towards them, coming close enough to smell the pungent ripeness of their fear,
and then he unleashed the Dark Sword. Slashing left and right, he decapitated
their spear tips with each stoke, turning their weapons into blunt sticks. His
foes backed away. Fear bled from their eyes...as well it should.

Battering their
impotent spears aside, he weighed into them, attacking with sword and shield.
The Dark Sword thrummed in his hands, keening an unquenchable thirst. Heads
toppled across the ground. Entrails spilled from grasping fingers. Bones
crunched beneath his shield. Severed limbs littered the mud. Screaming soldiers
became still as corpses, their blood congealing in empty footprints. The
coppery stench of death prevailed. The line broke and crumbled, yet the marshal
pursued. With each stroke, he fed the sword, becoming a whirlwind of death.

Horns blared,
calling a desperate retreat. Three times the enemy gave ground, retreating to
reform their wavering line. Three times he broke their shield wall, dealing
death. The marshal never slowed, he never tired, reveling in the glory of war.
The Dark Sword was insatiable. Drinking souls, it fed him strength.

The battle began
to slow.

The enemy
retreated, pulling away from him, opening a wide swath of space, a killing zone
filled with nothing but corpses.

No fodder for
his sword.

The marshal
slowed to a stop, taking stock of his surroundings. Crows circled overhead,
soaring on silent wings. The sun was nearly set, throwing long shadows across
the dead. He'd fought for the better part of a day, yet he wasn't even winded.
Looking behind, he saw a river of corpses stretching towards the eastern ridge,
a feast for crows.
Thousands of dead
...yet it wasn't enough.

He turned to
face the living.

The Dark Sword
still hungered.

The enemy stood
in a ragged crescent. Weapons dangling from tired arms, their shields slumped
to the ground, they trembled before him. Bloody and battered, they looked
exhausted, they looked defeated.

"Fight
me!" The marshal tightened his grip on his shield and raised his sword,
for he could not abide cowardice. He advanced towards them, but for every step
he took, the enemy retreated the same distance, shrinking away.
"Fight
me!"
The words roared out of him.

And then they
began to kneel. Dropping to the trampled mud, they offered their weapons,
prostrating themselves before him.

"Kneelers!"
He spat the word, his face twisting to a snarl. He hated kneelers, for they
deprived him of his rightful glory. He stalked towards them, fury in his stride.

A few cringed
away, but most remained prostrate. Some prayed while others whimpered, but most
stayed silent, their faces pressed to the blood-soaked mud.

"
Stand
and fight!"
He roared his challenge, yet they remained stubbornly
prostrate, hugging the muddy ground like craven worms. Anger burned through
him, igniting a killing rage. The marshal attacked. Hewing heads from bodies,
he turned cowards into corpses. He strode among them, wielding the sword like
an executioner. The Dark Sword feasted on an endless sea of souls.

The strident
sound of a battle horn pierced his mind.

The marshal
staggered to a stop.

The dead and
dying littered the ground around him. Beyond the corpses, the rest of the army
remained prostrate in the mud like penitents awaiting their fate. Contempt
snarled his face, but then he saw a lone rider coming towards him. Bedecked in
dark armor, his breastplate embossed with gleaming gold, he wore a plumed helm
and carried a saber in his gauntleted fist.

A commander,
perhaps a champion, come to do battle,
finally a worthy foe for his sword.
The knight marshal raised the Dark Sword in salute. "Fight me!"

The enemy rode
within five sword lengths and then he reined his warhorse to a stop. For the
longest time he sat unmoving, as if waiting for something, but then he slowly removed
his helm, tossing it aside. A man of middling years, he had swarthy skin the
color of warm bronze offset by dark hair, dark eyes and a dark mustache. A scar
rode his left cheek, proof he was no stranger to battle.

The marshal
assumed a fighting stance. "Have you come to do battle?"

"I've come
to serve."

A snarl rose in
the marshal's throat, yet something bid him wait.

"Do you
know why they kneel prostrate, accepting death without a fight?"

The marshal
waited, statue-still, poised to fight.

"In the
north, we serve a god, a god who walks among us. We northerners know what gods
do. We well know what havoc they wreck among mere mortals." He raised his
saber, gesturing to the field of corpses. "Look around you. Look behind
you. How can one man reap so much death lest he be a god? You are the God of
Death."

The marshal
shook his head. "No, the God of War."

The swarthy man
flashed a feral grin. "Even better." Dismounting, he strode towards
the marshal. "But true gods need servants. The God of War deserves an
army."

*Yes,*
the
voice that he thought of as the sword's whispered in his head,
*let them
serve!*