The Knight Marshal (The Silk & Steel Saga) (16 page)

In the South

21

Bryce

The great ship sped south under a cloud of fear. Rows of
oars struck the water with a relentless beat, but the slate-gray sea stretched
to forever. Locked within the Mordant, Bryce watched through his spy hole,
noting the terror etched on the crew’s faces as they fingered their sea charms.
Even the captain averted his gaze, avoiding the stare of the dark-robed
passenger. Sailors were a superstitious lot, but in this case they did right to
fear.

Five times the Mordant took
possession of the trireme’s rear deck. In the dead of night the oldest
harlequin stood upon the open deck and called on the power of Darkness. And
every time, Darkness answered. Red lightning speared down, striking the
Mordant’s upraised hands, surrounding him with a nimbus of power. Cowering
within his prison, Bryce watched and hid and watched again, awed and frightened
by the fearsome display. Steeped in the powers of Hell, the Mordant performed
ghastly rituals, twisting souls and flesh into monstrous forms, creating foul
abominations. Captured albatrosses and a hapless sea eagle were melded with
sacrificed men. Part man, part bird, the twisted abominations arose from the
ship’s deck, taking wing toward Erdhe to work their master’s will. But for each
unholy melding, the Mordant paid a steep price. Collapsing in a magical stupor,
his stunted attendants, assassins cloaked as servants, carried the Mordant to
the captain’s cabin and saw to his needs.

While the Mordant languished abed,
swathed in misery imposed by spent magic and the sea’s rocking motion, Bryce
took his chance. After each summoning, the bonds of his prison seemed to
weaken, as if the workings bled away the Mordant’s power. Careful to avoid
detection, Bryce pushed at his prison walls, seeking to reclaim his body. He
battered at the void, desperate to escape, all to no avail. Locked in his
prison, he railed at the gods, till failure made him seek a subtler way.
Yearning for movement, craving a single touch, he strained to remember that one
time in the Mordant’s treasury crypt when he’d slipped his bonds and felt his
body. Stilling his mind, Bryce imagined his hand lying upon the blanket, the
feel of rough wool beneath his fingertips, the caress of a breeze across the
hairs on his hand. He imagined his fingers moving…and then he
felt
the
coarse wool. He
felt
it!
Elation thrummed through him…till a
devastating suspicion struck like a cold sword. Fearing a trap, a trick of the
Mordant, Bryce retreated into his prison, curling into a ball, waiting for
retribution…but none came. Emboldened, he dared to plan his escape.

Grown attuned to his captor’s
misery, Bryce waited for the perfect moment. The Mordant’s twisted rituals took
the heaviest toll. Sundered by magic and wracked by seasickness, the Mordant
fell into a death-like torpor. While his jailor lay insensate, Bryce took his
chance. Like a thief in the night, he reached beyond his prison, nothing more
than a thin wisp of thought. Small and unobtrusive, he avoided anything
significant, merely seeking control of the left hand. Memories strengthened the
link. Like donning a living glove, he took possession of skin, and blood, and
sinew.
Wood beneath his hand
, he nearly swooned from the touch. A sea
breeze caressed the hairs on the back of his hand, as gentle as a lover. Bryce
shivered with longing, swamped by the sensation of touch. So many senses so
long denied, a flood of emotion swept through him, but Bryce fought for
control, refusing to be distracted. Straining with effort, he willed the hand
to move.

Nothing happened.

Stiff as rusted armor, the hand
refused to obey. Bryce raged in his prison, refusing to let the opportunity be
nothing more than a god-cursed tease. Focusing all his effort, he willed the
smallest finger to move. Still nothing. He strained like a man trying to shift
a mountain…and then it happened. The smallest finger twitched.

And then the Mordant groaned.

Bryce pulled back, retreating to
his prison. He made himself small, a lost soul hiding from his jailor’s wrath,
but no punishment came. Elation flooded through him, he’d taken the first step
toward defeating the Mordant.

But one victory did not win the
war. Bryce bided his time, practicing control. He started with the smallest
finger, and then two, and then the entire fist. When the hand clenched tight,
triumph flowed through him like a bonfire.

The days passed. Sometimes the
Mordant slept in his cabin, while other days the assassins carried him aloft,
creating a padded bed on the rear deck. As the assassins kept vigil, the
Mordant slept curled on his side, like a cat warmed by the sun. Peering from
his spy hole, Bryce watched the restless sea change from slate gray to
turquoise blue. As the days passed his control grew and so did his plan. The
Mordant hated the sea. Plagued by seasickness, it was as if the sea rejected
him, rejected his Darkness. Perhaps the sea would be his downfall.

Storms claimed the ship for nigh on
a week. The Mordant’s seasickness worsened, a prime opportunity, yet he
remained in his cabin, confined by illness and foul weather. Bryce thought he
might go mad with waiting, but then the storms cleared and the assassins
carried the Mordant aloft.

Swathed in a nest of blankets, they
settled the Mordant near the ship’s railing, a clear view of the sea between
the carved railings. Bryce waited, timing the swell of the waves and the
attention of the assassins. When the sailors brought the mid-day meal, Bryce
took his chance. Focusing his will on the left hand, he reached toward the
railing. The hand moved, flopping on the deck, but not far enough. Bryce
struggled for control, like pushing thoughts through molasses. He focused his
will and the hand crept across the deck. Fingers grasped the railing, the feel
of salt-stained wood beneath his touch. Like a drowned man, Bryce clung to the
railing, struggling to regain his strength. So close but yet so far. One strong
pull and he’d roll the Mordant between the railings, dumping the enemy into the
foam-crowned waves. Bryce stared at the sea, at the rolling waves, like a
promise of freedom, a promise of release. He wondered what it would be like to
drown. He wondered if he’d even feel it. Death held the promise of release, to
kill a monstrous evil while ending a hellish imprisonment, yet his conscience
plagued him. In his heart of hearts, Bryce knew he should wait for the crystal
dagger, but he yearned for release. The sea offered him a chance that would not
come again. Desperate for release, he tugged the Mordant towards the railing.
The waves helped, rocking the deck, adding speed to the roll.

The Mordant groaned.

Bryce panicked, feeling the Mordant
rise from his torpor. He tugged on the railing with all of his strength.

“My Lord, are you well?” The
assassin was there, rolling the Mordant well away from the edge.

Inside his prison, Bryce howled in
frustration.

“
Land ho!”
The cry rang from
the mast tops. The crew cheered, swarming the deck.  Sails snapped in the wind
as the ship hove towards shore.

Bryce watched as the ship sped
towards land, towards a great crescent-shaped harbor surmounted by a gray
castle.
The end of the voyage, the end of hope.
Despair crashed down
like a castle portcullis sealing his doom. He’d lost his secret alliance with
the sea, his best chance to slay the fiend…and the cursed Mordant reached the
southern kingdoms unopposed. Already he could feel his jailor regaining his
power, regaining control. Consumed by misery, Bryce curled in a ball, a
prisoner once more.

22

The Priestess

Another sleepless night. Restless with the need to know, the
Priestess climbed the stairs to Silverspire’s tallest tower. Moonlight glowed
through the open window, silvery and bright, but it was Darkness she sought.
Lighting a single candle, she shuttered the windows, snuffing the moon’s pale
glow. The single candle guttered, a frail circle of light surrounded by a rich
velvety Darkness. She’d made the tower chamber her private haven, tapestries
lining the walls, silken pillows strewn across the floor, her chapel to the
Dark. The silver scrying bowl waited in the center, already filled with spring
water. The Priestess knelt among the cushions. Reaching within her
tight-fitting bodice, she removed the great moonstone. Cradling the oval gem in
her hands, she breathed upon the milk-white stone. It wakened with her breath,
glowing with an otherworldly light. A legend of darker times, the Eye of the
Oracle throbbed like a heartbeat within her hands. Power thrummed through her,
a luxurious delight. As the Oracle Priestess, it was her right to wield the
moonstone, her right to use the Eye to spy on the servants of the Dark. The
Priestess reveled in the power.

She lowered the moonstone into the
scrying bowl. The water hissed and spat like a boiling cauldron. It was always
this way, a clash of competing powers. The Priestess held her breath, but
Darkness held sway. The waters calmed, turning midnight-black, a perfect mirror
for Dark deeds. The Priestess knelt, her raven-dark hair forming a silky
curtain surrounding the scrying bowl. Gathering her power, she breathed upon
the water. “Show me the servants of the Dark Lord.”

Mirror-dark waters rippled with
images, giving the Priestess a bird’s eye. Her gaze sought Navarre, waves crashing against Castle Seamount, the dark castle thrust up from the ocean like a
defiant fist. Jealousy and rage spiked through her. By right of blood and
conquest, the crown of Navarre should have been hers if not for her meddling
niece. A snarl curled her lips, wishing vengeance upon her kin. But all was not
lost. She’d left death in her wake, the royal family decimated by poison. While
her kin mourned their loss, her revenge lingered, a coiled serpent hidden
within the royal household, a dagger poised at the kingdom heart. Laughter
rippled out of her, plots within plots, she’d always known that schemes were
better than swords, the true reason women were meant to rule, but she kept that
secret to herself.

Her thoughts roved elsewhere.
Images flowed across the water, following her thoughts. She found him sprawled
in a large bed, two raven-haired beauties naked by his side, more proof he
yearned for her. “Oh Steffan, how your pride blinds you, yet the truth is writ
upon your face.” A throaty laugh escaped her, “Desire is the greatest poison.”
No matter how many women he took to his bed, Steffan would never find her
equal. She’d watched from her scrying bowl as he squandered his army in
Pellanor, letting a crown slip through his fingers, yet the Dark Lord spared
him for the great Dark Dance. Handsome and arrogant even in sleep, she studied
his face, the white streak in his hair dyed black, proof of his shame and his
failure. Plots within plots, if the Dark Lord had a use for Steffan then
perhaps she did too, something to consider for when he came calling.

Turning from pleasures to threats,
the Priestess leaned low, breathing upon the waters. The scene changed, this
time moving north to Raven Pass. A vast horde threatened the southern kingdoms,
but it was their master, the Mordant, that worried her far more than all their
ravening swords. For the thousandth time, she searched among them for the
darkest soul, for the oldest harlequin, but she found no trace of him. Fear
spiked through her. She liked it not that he remained hidden. She scoured
Erdhe, searching everywhere, yet she’d found no trace of his dark powers. His
absence felt like a doom waiting to descend. It gnawed at her mind, preying on
her imagination, scaring her more than she cared to admit.

Suddenly weary, the Priestess
pulled back from the scrying bowl. The Eye dimmed to a dull white gem, its
power drained, nothing more than a large moonstone lying fallow beneath clear
waters. So many images, so much Darkness afoot in Erdhe, the Priestess had much
to consider. The kingdoms of Erdhe were changing, like a battlefield trampled
by the gods yet few mortals understood the rules. Dire change brought great
opportunity but only to those bold enough to risk everything. Schemes and plots
tumbled through her mind. Erdhe was sundered by war, yet the greatest hammer
stroke had yet to fall. The Mordant remained hidden, yet she sensed his
handiwork beneath the Dark weave. With the oldest harlequin embedded in the
game, chaos and strife were sure to follow. The Priestess shivered at the
threat…beguiled by the risk…enthralled by the reward. She dared to play the
Dark Dance, but first she needed to fortify her strength.

Sheathing the great moonstone in a
black velvet bag, she unlocked her rosewood chest, careful to turn the skeleton
key to the left instead of the right. Avoiding the poisoned needle, she opened
the chest, releasing familiar scents of dried herbs and dark ingredients, her
hoard of deathly delights. She hid the Eye in a secret compartment beneath the
poisons, a single treasure among a thousand deaths. Locking the chest, she
raised her voice to be heard beyond the thick oak door. “Come.”

The door creaked open. General
Tarmin stood guard, his hand on his sword hilt. His gaze sought hers, his eyes
glazed like a man enthralled.

“Come and worship my Darkness.”

The door closed behind him. His
sword belt thumped to the thick carpet. He shed his armor to stand naked and
rampant before her. “My  priestess…my queen!”

A large hairy bear-of-a-man, she
took him among the scented pillows. He plowed her hard and deep, a primal
coupling full of earthy lustiness. With every stroke, she drew on his vitality,
stealing moonturns from his natural lifespan. Power flowed through her,
renewing her prowess. Her scent, her touch, her magic enthralled him,
multiplying his stamina. Clutching him tight, she rode him hard, giving him
waves of pleasure. Surfeit with power, she released him. Bellowing his triumph,
he arched his back, his face a snarl of ecstasy. Sated with sex and oblivious
to his loss, he collapsed beside her, succumbing to sleep. Soft snores echoed
through the chamber. Rolling free from his embrace, she wrote her true name in
the sweat of his chest, deepening her hold on him, another conquest on her path
to power.