The Knight Marshal (The Silk & Steel Saga) (15 page)

The flames disappeared…and so did
the pain.

Shuddering, Blaine crumpled to the
cold stone floor. For the longest time, he lay twitching next to the bloody
corpse, gasping for breath, tortured by the memory of mind-numbing pain.
Strength slowly returned. He checked his hands and his face, but nothing was
blackened, nothing was burned, only a terrible memory. Relief washed through
him.

Blaine struggled to stand. The
terrible darkness was banished. He could see the two torches sputtering against
the stone floor. The others looked stunned, yet they seemed unharmed, twitching
like fish dumped fresh-caught onto dry land. “Are you hurt?”

Tingold gasped. “I thought I was on
fire!” His hands patted his face as if to be sure it was still there. “What in
the nine-hells was that?”

“Sorcery, foul sorcery.” Blaine kicked the staff, a clatter of silver on stone.

“But how did you know…”

“…the fire wasn’t real?” Blaine shrugged. “I’ve seen its like before, at a monastery deep in the south. I didn’t
know it then, but it was a warning of sorts.” He shivered, remembering the
Guardian in the Mist, silently thanking the old bastard for the painful lesson.
He stared down at the dead priest, no different than any other corpse. “The
priest tortured us with lies, sorcerous lies.”

Ruthgar swore, “By the all the
gods, how do we fight such magic?”

Blaine gripped his blue steel
sword, “With heart and steel and determination…and truth.” He nudged the
corpse, “Their foul sorcery is the very reason we dare not lose this war.”

The others stood, reclaiming their
torches and swords.

Blaine cleaned his sword on the
priest’s robes.

Dermit edged forward, his voice a
hiss. “I’ve seen this one!” His eyes widening, the boy took a sudden step
backwards as if the corpse might bite. “That’s the high priest, Gavis! You’ve
killed the high priest!”

Blaine took a closer look. The dead
priest’s face was sallow, his dark beard unkempt, but his robes were of the
finest make, plush black velvet with golden runes embroidered on the collar and
sleeves. And his staff and sickle were both clad in silver, gleaming wicked in
the torchlight. “The high priest, eh?” Blaine hefted his blue sword, striking
the head from the body. Lifting the grisly trophy by the long dark hair, he
handed it to Dermit. “Go and spike this above the outer doorway. If the people
see the high priest is well and truly dead then maybe they’ll believe the
priesthood is finished.”

The lad took the dripping head,
holding it well away from his body. “Yes, m’lord.”

“And then run to the palace and
find Zith and Fanggold. Tell them to bring more swords so we can clean out this
rat’s nest.”

“Yes, m’lord.”

The boy started to turn away, but Blaine said, “And Dermit.”

“Yes, lord?”

“You did well, showing courage
befitting a squire of the Octagon.”

The lad flashed a blazing smile,
“Yes, m’lord!” and then he sped down the long hall.

Blaine turned to the others. “Shall
we see where this leads?” The two painted warriors growled their assent, keen
for vengeance. Hefting their swords, they prowled down the corridor, their
boots whispering across dark stone. Blaine tightened his grip on his blue steel
sword, remembering the pain of the priest’s fire. Invoking Valin, he silently
swore to slay every dark-damned priest lurking in the citadel…and then he’d
find a way south and kill the Mordant.

20

The Knight Marshal

A lone raven circled the slaughter field. Cawing twice, it
swooped low over the feast of corpses but it did not land. Dark wings beat
skyward, shunning the dead as if they were tainted. The marshal scowled,
telling himself that he did not believe in ill-omens.

Beside him, Lothar muttered,
“Perhaps ogres aren’t to its liking.”

“Perhaps.” 

An orange sun sank in the west,
loosing twilight upon the mountains. Dismounting, the marshal tossed his reins
to a waiting knight. “Lothar, Sir Abrax with me. Perhaps the survivor knows the
riddle of the dead.” His gaze flicked to Sir Dalt and the host of knights
riding at his back. “The rest of you keep a sharp lookout. The enemy has shown
a penchant for tricks this day.” Sir Dalt gave a grim nod, sending riders along
the column with fresh orders.

A lone survivor stood amongst the
carnage. He wore an odd mishmash of armor, silver mixed with black and gold,
but a knight’s maroon cloak hung from his shoulders.  The clash of colors
suggested a mercenary, or a scavenger…or worse, a turncloak. Too weary to sort
through the riddle, the marshal strode towards the stranger. “Come, let’s hear
his tale.”

Sir Abrax took his blindside, while
Lothar stayed on his right. Snow crunched beneath their boots as they crossed
the blood-soaked field. Bodies lay hacked to pieces, entrails and heads strewn
in a gross display of butchery, as if killing alone was not enough. A terrible
stench clogged the air, the awful stink of severed bowels, bad enough to make a
veteran gag. The marshal had trod many a battlefields but this one reeked of
evil.

The stranger waited at the heart of
the field. Tall with broad shoulders, he stood with boots spread wide, his
gauntleted hands hooked in his belt, a sheathed great sword rearing over his
left shoulder like a threat. If the stranger bore any wounds, he showed no
signs of it. A knight’s maroon cloak hung from his shoulders, but the marshal
did not recognize his face, wondering if the thick, ruddy beard obscured a
traitor’s brand.

Stopping two sword lengths away,
the marshal spoke first, thrusting straight for the heart of the matter. “Who
are you, stranger, and how did you survive this slaughter?”

The stranger remained mute as
stone, his dark gaze glowering beneath his helm.

Sir Abrax growled, “Answer the Lord
Marshal.”

The stranger cocked his head as if
considering. “
Survive
this?” He spread his arms wide, encompassing the
dead. “You stand upon a field of glory.
I
ambushed these ogres.
I
slew
the enemy. I’ve come to save the Octagon.”

Sir Abrax gaped, “
One man? 
You’ve
taken too many blows to the head!”

The stranger’s voice turned cold.
“I don’t lie, Sir Abrax.”

Shock riddled the knight’s voice.
“You know my name?”

The stranger merely nodded.

The marshal had a bad feeling about
this.

Sir Abrax scoffed, his voice
dripping with scorn, “One man, fighting alone, and you claim to have slayed a
whole troop of ogres? You lie!”

“I speak the truth!”
With
liquid grace the stranger unsheathed the sword strapped to his back and held
the blade aloft. Black as sin, the sword seemed to drink the light,
metal-forged dragons curled around the hilt. “Behold Boric’s blade, the sword
of legend returned to the Octagon!”

The marshal staggered backwards, “
The
cursed sword!”
His gaze was drawn to the dark blade, feeling its power,
feeling its pull. Tearing his gaze from the sword, he studied the wielder’s
face. The survivor had Baldwin’s voice, and the squire’s ruddy coloring, but
somehow he’d gained a man’s growth in merely a moonturn. No longer a lad, he
sported a thick beard and broad shoulders and stood a head taller than the
marshal.
“By all the gods, this cannot be!”
Something was very wrong
here, as if the Dark God himself came stalking the Octagon. “Baldwin.”

It was a statement, not a question.

Baldwin smirked as if pleased to be
recognized.

“I gave you orders.”

Baldwin sneered. “Discard this
weapon? I think not.”

“That sword slew the king!” Anger
rode the marshal’s voice, hiding his fear. “That blade is cursed! I ordered you
to throw it in Eye Lake.”

“Cursed!”
Outrage rode Baldwin’s voice. “I say it is
blessed!
Look around you! With this sword a single
knight slew an entire troop of ogres! Who among you can match such a feat?” He
lowered the dark sword, holding the tip level with Sir Abrax’s heart, a
challenge and a threat. “You wield a hero’s blue steel sword, yet how many
ogres have you killed? One? Two?” Baldwin spread his arms wide, “Or
sixty?
”

Lothar hissed, “He’s right! This
sword could decide the war!”

Sir Abrax growled, “It’s a trick, a
trap set by the enemy. I don’t believe it.”

“
Believe it!”
Baldwin’s roar echoed against the mountains. “Use your eyes…and then use your knees.”

A cold fist gripped the marshal’s
heart. “What?”

“You heard me.” A sneer claimed Baldwin’s face. “With this sword I have the power to save the Octagon. Against Boric’s
blade no foe can stand. By right of conquest, I claim the king’s crown. Kneel
to me!”

The marshal voice turned deadly
cold. “Surrender that blade.”

“
Surrender!”
Baldwin’s face contorted in rage. “I bring you victory and you sneer at it!” Quick as a
snake, he swung the black sword toward the marshal. “Kneel to your king.”

The marshal’s voice seethed. “You
are
not
my king.
”

Sir Abrax attacked. Sapphire-blue
steel descended in a mighty killing arc…but the black blade met the stroke. The
two swords clashed with a tortured shriek. Sparks flew between the blades, the
combatants locked in a fearsome blur. As champion of the sword, Sir Abrax had
few peers, yet Baldwin parried every blow, the black sword moving with uncanny
speed. Stroke and parry, the two swords fairly flew at each other, sparks
dancing along the edge. With every clash, the blue sword screamed as if in
agony. Sir Abrax attacked with lightning speed but Baldwin countered like a
demon possessed. They fought like champions; they fought like mortal enemies,
trading mighty blows. Baldwin attacked with an overhead swing. Blue steel
blocked the black, the two swords meeting in a ferocious clash. And then the
impossible happened. Screaming in mortal pain, the blue blade
shattered!

The marshal gasped, “
No!”

Unhindered, the black blade sped
downwards, sundering the knight’s armor, cleaving deep into his chest, his
heart’s blood fountaining across the snow.

Shocked, the marshal gaped as Sir
Abrax fell.

Baldwin wrenched the black sword
loose with a scream. “
You should have knelt!”
His face contorting in
hate, he attacked the knight’s body, hacking at limbs and head, making a bloody
mockery of the dead.

“
No!”
Without thought, the
marshal unsheathed his great sword. Leaping forward, he braced to parry the
black, protecting his friend’s body. The dark sword never slowed, descending in
a mighty blow. The two swords met with a hideous clang. Ordinary steel parried
the black with a deafening screech. Pain shuddered down the marshal’s arms,
nearly hammering him to his knees. His sword bucked in his hands, but it did
not shatter. Across the blades, he locked stares with Baldwin. “Drop your
sword!”

Baldwin’s face twisted in hate, so
contorted he seemed more fiend than man.
“Kneel!”

“Never!”

Baldwin attacked, raining blows
with frightening speed. The marshal retreated under the onslaught, desperate to
keep his sword raised. Instead of a squire, he fought a demon. Other knights
joined the battle, rushing to his aid, but somehow the demon held them at bay,
parrying every blow while focusing his rage on the marshal. Baldwin fought like
a whirlwind, the black sword relentless in his hands. Outmatched, the marshal
could only dodge and parry, struggling to stay alive. Heavy blows hammered his
arms, pain shuddering through his whole body. His chest ached from the beating,
his sword vibrating in his hands. He feared his blade would shatter but all he
could do was fight. Sweat poured out of him. His breath grew ragged and his
legs turned to lead. Parry and retreat, he struggled to keep his footing, his
strength bleeding away with every blow. Death stalked him, chased by a cursed
sword, but then an otherworldly voice whispered through the marshal’s mind, *
For
honor and the Octagon!*
A second strength flowed from the sword into his
arms. Shocked, the marshal nearly dropped the blade but a warrior’s instinct
kept his hands locked on the hilt. Death whistled close. Parrying the blow, the
marshal scrambled backwards, tightening his grip on the sword. Flushed with
renewed vigor, the marshal attacked. Beating back the dark sword, he looked for
an opening. Baldwin sneered, loosing a fearful blow at his head. The marshal
ducked low and saw his chance. Lunging upwards, he aimed for a chink in the
armor. His blade struck true, driving into Baldwin’s armpit. With all his
might, he rammed the great sword heart-deep.

Baldwin stared wide-eyed, a gurgle
of blood at his mouth. “
How?”
 He crumpled to the ground, the black
blade falling from his hands. The marshal kicked the cursed sword aside and
then yanked his own free. Holding the tip to the squire’s throat, he said,
“Yield.”

Other swords surrounded Baldwin, forming a thicket of death.

“
Yield!
”

The battle-madness bled from Baldwin’s gaze and his features seemed to soften, revealing the lad hidden beneath a man’s
tangled beard. “My Lord Marshal…how?” Bewilderment filled his gaze, followed by
pain.

The marshal knelt. “Why did you do
it?”

“To…save…the Octagon.”

Relenting, the marshal removed the
lad’s helm and cradled his head. “You served the king well.”

A tear trickled down Baldwin’s face. “Failed…you.”

“No.” The marshal held him close.
“The fault was mine. Your service to the maroon will be remembered.”

“Remembered…”
Baldwin gasped in pain and then his life fled, soaking into the blood-trampled ground.

A bitter wind whistled through the
naked trees, a lament to the dead.

The marshal closed the lad’s eyes,
whispering a fervent prayer to Valin

A jangle of arms and armor
surrounded him. The marshal looked up to find a circle of maroon knights
standing guard, their weapons bared, their faces grim with questions. More than
a few bore fresh wounds.

Lothar was the first to lower his
weapon. “Corbin and Tancil are both dead, slain by this fiend.”

Two more knights dead
, yet
the battle had taken only mere moments, as if Baldwin had possessed the
strength of ten demons. The marshal knew he was lucky to be alive. Standing, he
surveyed the field.
Sixty dead ogres
, they were
all
lucky to be
alive.

Sir Dalt gestured to the slain
squire. “What happened? He fought like a demon.”

The marshal stood, swaying from
exhaustion. “The black sword is cursed. We dare not wield it.” He glanced down
at Baldwin. “This was my mistake. All those who died here today will be
accorded full honors.” He cleaned the blood from his sword. “Check the dead,
for we dare not tarry.”

Sir Dalt gave him a questioning
look but the marshal stopped him with a glare. Saluting, the knights moved to
obey.

Leaving the dead to the others, the
marshal stepped towards the black sword. It gleamed dark and deadly, lying in a
bloody patch of snow. Lothar crouched beside it, peering at the blade. “Baldwin spoke true. The blade bears the mark of Orin Surehammer and the coiled dragons fit
the legends.”

The marshal shivered, fearing the
awe in his friend’s voice. “The blade is cursed, Lothar. It cannot be wielded.”

“Yet a mere squire single-handedly
slayed sixty ogres. It begs to be wielded.”

The marshal nodded. “Yet we dare
not.”

“But we cannot leave it for the
enemy.”

“No.” And there-in lay the trap,
for the cursed blade truly was a two-edged sword. “Go and get two cloaks from
the dead. Two
black
cloaks, I’ll not soil the maroon with this curse.”

Nodding, Lothar moved among the
dead while the marshal stood guard over the sword. Even without touching it, he
could feel its allure, like a siren singing his blood to a battle lust.
Shuddering, he gripped his borrowed sword of plain Castlegard steel, resisting
the pull.

Lothar returned with two bloodstained
cloaks and a wolf pelt.

“Spread them on the snow.”

Lothar spread the wolf pelt fur
down, and then the two black cloaks, one on top of the other. The marshal
kicked the black sword with his boot, levering the blade onto the cloaks.
Kneeling, he rolled the sword into a bundle. Even through the wad of cloth and
fur, he could feel its power.

Lothar stared at the bundle. “What
now?”

“We guard it. We resist it. And we
keep fighting.”

Lothar gave him a measured look but
he did not argue.

A knight brought their horses.
Strapping the bundle to his cantle, the marshal pulled himself into the saddle.
“Mount up! We still have a long way to ride.” The knights formed a column
behind him, maroon cloaks fluttering in the wind. The marshal nudged his stallion
to a walk, picking a path through the carnage, but his gaze kept returning to
the black sword bundled in fur and tied to his saddle. Such a weapon could
truly turn the tide of war, but at what cost? A shiver raced down his spine.
The marshal sent a silent prayer to Valin, begging the Warrior God for the
strength to prevail.