The Prince Deceiver (The Silk & Steel Saga Book 6) (14 page)

25

General Haith

General Haith
chose to remain behind the walls of Raven Pass. Surrounded by stone battlements
and strong guards, the general fashioned the illusion of safety. Spending less
and less time in the field, he ordered the maps brought up from the command
pavilion and spread across the king's table. Couriers and scouts delivered a
steady stream of reports while his aides plotted the positions on the brightly
painted vellum. The map told a grim tale. He'd ordered the strength of the
patrols tripled, trying to hold the Dark Sword at bay, yet the slaughters never
ceased. Markers on the map showed the location of every butchery. Scouts brought
fresh reports of patrols slaughtered and hacked to pieces, the ground drenched
in blood, yet the scouts swore the enemy left but a single set of footprints.
Rumors ran rampant, whispers of a spectral knight mounted on a winged warhorse,
an invincible hero summoned from a distant Age. Not a single witness survived
to describe this paragon of war, yet the general knew the truth. The
rumormongers got it half right. The foe was real enough, a knight of flesh and
bone...but the sword he wielded was haunted, a dark nightmare, a drinker of
souls, a tool of the Mordant.

Beside him, his
aide swore, "By the Darkness, how can this be? What magic do the knights
have that enables one man to defeat so many?"

The others did
not know and the general chose not to enlighten them. Advantage was needed to
thrive in the service of the Mordant, and this was a secret he chose to hoard.

A bedraggled
scout appeared at the doorway, bringing word of a fresh slaughter.

Major Ruggar
added another marker to the map.

The markers
formed a deadly pattern, an arrowhead aimed for the heart of Raven Pass. The
general feared his lord had left the timing too late.

“General
Haith!”
The demonic voice battered against the casement window. “
General
Haith!”
Sharp and insistent, it screeched his name like a herald from hell.

Pain spiked his
chest, proof a gorelabe was near. General Haith rubbed at the rune scribed above
his heart, the ever present mark of his master. His commanders stared at him,
fear shadowing their faces, for none wanted to face a gorelabe. "Stay
here." The general left the chamber alone. Following the summons, he
climbed the stairs, emerging onto the windswept battlement.

“General
Haith!”
The gorelabe hovered above the crenellated battlements, screeching
his name.

Soldiers along
the wall fell prostrate, their hands covering their heads as if to avert the
horror of the gorelabe's gaze.

The winged
monstrosity was different from the last one. Instead of a white-winged
albatross, this one wore the fleet form of a red-tailed hawk. A tortured
nightmare born of darkest magic, the gorelabe retained the hawk’s swift grace
while bearing the contorted mouth and eyes of a man. The general studied the
fiend, looking for signs of decay. Unlike the vicious gorehounds, who had
unnaturally long lives, the gorelabes did not suffer life for long. The soul-corrupted
magic that stitched them together could not last for more than a handful of
moon turns. He'd seen one putrefy while still alive, the melded flesh fraying
at the seams, a fester of sores and rot, but this one looked fresh-made, its
red feathers still bright. His lord had been busy. Suppressing a shudder, the
general strode towards the malformed creature. “I am here and I serve the
Mordant.”

The hawk gorelabe
flew towards him. Hovering overhead, the creature stared down with its
unnatural eyes. “
Prove yourself!”

He often
wondered if the Mordant peered through the unholy eyes of his heralds. Unlacing
his surcoat, the general revealed the dark rune etched above his heart.

Wings folding to
the attack, the gorelabe swooped low. The general braced himself, half
expecting the wicked-keen talons to rake his upturned face, but the demonic
bird showed restraint, hovering just in front of his face.

The general
quailed inside, but he kept his face stone-cold, knowing any sliver of weakness
could be his demise.

The gorelabe
spoke in a baleful voice.
"General Haith, it is time!"

The general's
heartbeat quickened. The long anticipated command pierced him to the core,
releasing him from the ugly stalemate of Raven Pass.

“
It is time!
It is time!”
the gorelabe screeched the words,
“Time for old enemies to
die! Time for the conquest to begin! Time for my Dark Kingdom to be claimed!
Divide the army and wreak havoc upon Erdhe! You know our will, you know our
plans. Take the cavalry and make all haste for the south. Kill the monks,
secure their magic, and defile their cloistered halls. The cursed monks shall
meddle no more. Their very name shall be erased from the annals of history and
all of their magic shall be mine, mine, mine. Ride hard and let the Mordant's
will be done!”

The general
bowed toward the malformed hawk. “The Mordant’s will be done!”

As if released,
the gorelabe began flying in a tight spiral. Its horrid screech changed to an
incessant wail, “
Feed me! Feed me!”

General Haith
strode towards the nearest soldier. “Your death will serve the Mordant.”

The soldier
cringed, his face glazed with fear, but General Haith did not hesitate. Drawing
his sword, he aimed for the neck, offering a swift death, but the soldier
flinched away. The sword took him across the face. Keening a terrible wail, the
half-faced soldier struggled to escape, crawling across the rampart. The
general followed. It took two more sword strokes to hack the head from the body,
an ugly death, an ill omen.

The gorelabe
flew to the corpse. Alighting on the chest, it bent its head, lapping at the
fresh-spilt blood.

A terrible
silence shrouded the battlement. The cowering soldiers remained so still that
the gorelabe's bloody lapping sounded obscenely loud.

The general
sheathed his sword, regretting the ugly death.

The gorelabe
drank its fill and then launched for the sky. Circling twice, its demonic voice
echoed through the pass, “
It is time! It is time! Serve or die!”
With a final
screech, it took wing and flew south.

The general
kicked the corpse. “Dispose of this.” He wiped his sword on the dead man’s
cloak, disgusted by the show of cowardice. “Feed it to the gorehounds.”

Turning on his heel,
he strode from the battlement. With renewed vigor, he descended the stairs,
returning to the command chamber. His officers snapped to attention, poised
like hounds for the hunt. The general raked them with his gaze. “You heard the
Mordant’s messenger. It is time for the conquest to begin.” He turned his gaze to
a bronze-skinned commander, a barrel-chested man with dark eyes and a
reputation for being ruthlessly competent. The general smothered a sneer, for
sometimes competent meant the most expendable. “Commander Crull, you will hold
the pass with half the infantry. If the maroon knights come calling, crush
them. Otherwise, keep your force in reserve till the Mordant sends further
orders."

The commander
snapped a brisk salute, fist to chest. "Let the Mordant's will be
done."

General Haith's
gaze snapped to General Marris. "You’ll take the remainder of the infantry
and march south through the heart of Erdhe. Cross the Serpentines, sack Navarre
and then strike for Lanverness. But be warned, for your timing must be perfect.
You dare not enter Lanverness without the Mordant's command. A gorelabe will
bring more orders long before you reach the queen’s border.”

General Marris
raised an eyebrow. “And what are your orders?”

General Haith
smiled, his hand on his sword hilt. “I will lead our cavalry south, against our
lord’s oldest enemy.” His gaze roved across his commanders, seeing his own keen
hunger reflected in their eyes. “The time of rape and plunder is finally at
hand! Take your battle banners south and strike a heart-blow at Erdhe. The Mordant
has loosed our swords for war!”

“
To war!”
His officers thundered their reply, keen for rape, pillage, and power. The
conquest of Erdhe had finally begun.

26

Lothar

Rain wept from dingy
clouds, adding misery to the damp chill. His maroon cloak was sodden, his armor
flecked with rust, yet Lothar dared not stop. He needed distance. And he needed
to hide his tracks. Enemies prowled the mountains, and not all of them wore
black. Lothar nudged his warhorse forward, keeping to the stream's fast-flowing
heart. Ice licked the brook's stony banks, the last raiment of winter. His
horse nickered in protest, but the icy water was their best ally, smothering
their scent and masking their prints.

Lothar kept his
battleaxe unsheathed. Green cluttered the trees, multiplying the places for
enemies to hide, but all else was washed to gray by the downpour. Rain dripped
from his helm, a steady annoyance. He scanned the hillside for any telltale
glint of arms or armor. His nerves set on a knife-edge, he kept a firm grip on
his battleaxe. Sir Tyrone's great sword rode the harness at his back, a gift
from the marshal, but that weapon remained an untried riddle. Perhaps it would
foil the Dark Sword...or perhaps it would shatter in his hands like any
ordinary blade, betraying him to his death. Under the assault of the Dark Sword,
Sir Abrax's great blue sword had shattered like kindling, a champion of the
maroon slain by a deranged squire. And now the knight marshal wielded that same
dread sword. Too many dead, too many riddles, Lothar shook his head, cursing
his own memories. He'd fallen into a nightmare and did not know how to waken.

The stream wound
upwards, flowing around a jumble of rocks and boulders, slowing his horse to a
crawl. The downpour lessened to a drizzle, but Lothar was so wet and cold it
mattered not. And then he saw the axe marks on the pine tree, the subtle sign
of the maroon. Steering his warhorse from the stream, he dismounted. He tugged
off his gauntlet, surprised by how badly his hands shook.
Must be the cold.
He
fingered the axe cut for sap, relieved to find the mark still sticky, proof the
marks were fresh-cut. "We've found our way home." His warhorse
stamped and snorted, sending a spray of droplets in all directions. "I
know. We both need shelter and food." He gave his horse a reassuring pat
and then clambered into the saddle. Taking up the reins, he nudged his weary
mount up the hill. The axe marks led to a trail, and the trail led to a
mountain meadow.

Light broke
through the clouds, banishing the drizzle, but the pale sun offered little
warmth, making a mockery of spring.

A pair of scouts
with nocked bows stepped from behind a stand of green-skirted saplings.

Lothar raised
his battleaxe in salute. "For King Ursus!" The password would surely
have changed by now, yet he prayed Rannock had told the scouts to keep an eye
open for him.

The scouts
stared down their arrows for a tense heartbeat, but then they relaxed their
bowstrings and waved him past.

He found the
main trail. A river of hoof prints marred the muddy ground. He followed them
upward to a second meadow. The smell of wood smoke permeated the forest,
teasing him forward with the hope of warmth and food. Riding through a stand of
birch trees dripping with rain, he emerged to find the camp sprawled before
him. Tents and lean-tos, a patchwork of canvas, branches and shields, crowded
the mud-swamped meadow. They looked like an army defeated and dispossessed,
until one noticed the bright glitter of steel. Their tents were mere hovels,
but the knights kept their armor polished and their weapons sharp. Harried and
outnumbered...yet the maroon was not broken...not yet. Flushed with a
relentless pride, Lothar straightened in the saddle.

He threaded his
mount through the hovels and stone-ringed fires, making his way to the lone
pavilion at the camp's heart. Friends and comrades shouted greetings as he
passed, but their voices and their stares were laden with too many questions.
Lothar answered with a nod and nothing more, saving his answers for the other captains.

As he neared the
pavilion, his squire, James, came rushing to his side. The shock in the lad's
eyes told Lothar how bedraggled he looked. "My lord, you need warm
clothing and food."

"After I
see the captains." He swung down from the saddle, every part of him rusted
and aching. "See that Stalwart gets a full feedbag after you rub him
dry." Handing the reins to the lad, he gave the stallion an affectionate
pat. "He's more than earned his oats."

"Yes,
m'lord."

Lothar turned to
find Rannock waiting for him. A younger man with auburn hair and a muscular
build, Rannock was the champion of the morning star and a captain of the
maroon...and one of the few who had helped to bury the king. 

"I feared
you would not come."

Lothar gave him
a weary smile. "I nearly didn't."

Rannock's stare
widened, but he held his questions. "Come, we've meat and mead and
decisions that need to be made."

Lothar ducked
beneath the canvas flap, nearly swooning from the welcome warmth. A squire
knelt to tug off his muddy boots, while another took his sodden cloak. A thick
carpet covered the ground, a rare luxury brought from Castlegard, but the
pavilion bore not a stick of furniture. The captains sat cross-legged around a
brazier, leaning on bedrolls. He took a seat among them, his gaze roving the
circle of faces: Sir Rannock, Sir Blaze, Sir Adelmar, Sir Varlin, Sir Krismir, with
a fresh scar marring his handsome face, and Sir Gravis, the old sad-eyed
veteran. Their numbers had dwindled, too many of their best left to rot as
corpses on unnamed battlefields. This winter war had cost too damn much, yet he
feared the reaper's grim toll was not fully paid.

Sir Blaze set a
mug of heated mead in front of him and then handed him a bowl filled with
savory stew. Chunks of venison and dried carrots swam in the thick broth.
Meat,
Lothar lunged for the bowl. He plied his spoon, wolfing half the bowl
before he realized how badly his hands shook. A few of the captains stared,
while others looked away.

Rannock nudged
him. "Eat. You're half starved."

"Tell me of
the maroon."

The others gave
their reports, speaking of smaller battles, scarce supplies, and too many
wounded.

Lothar finished
the bowl and ate another, and in between he sipped the warm mead, sweet as
mulled honey soothing his throat. Warmth pervaded him, and he began to feel
almost human. Finally replete, Lothar leaned back on a bedroll and met their
stares. "I feel your questions."

Rannock began,
his face grim. "The scouts you traveled with returned with tales of
slaughter. They claim the marshal fights like a whirlwind. They say he defeats hundreds,
all of them dying beneath the Dark Sword." Rannock leaned forward his face
intent. "
Hundreds defeated by one!
" He made the hand sign
against evil, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Is it true?"

"True."
He felt their stares. "All true."

"They say
no foe can stand against him."

Lothar
hesitated. "Also true...so far."

A ripple of
murmurs circled the captains.

"When the
scouts returned alone." Rannock speared him with his stare, "we
feared you dead." 

Lothar cupped
his hands around the mug of mead. "The marshal refused our aid. So I sent
the others away. But I kept watch...from a distance."

"And?"

Lothar
considered the question, knowing the canvas walls were thin. "The marshal
needs our help no longer. Somehow...," he shook his head as if he still
did not believe it, "somehow the Dark Sword leads him to nearby patrols,
as if the cursed blade can sense a foe." He stared at the others.
"He's making his way west. He'll engage the enemy at Raven Pass."

Rannock and
Gravis both gaped, but Krismir, the youngest captain, blazed with intent.
"Then we must ride for Raven Pass! We can't let the marshal fight
alone!" He stared at the others, seeking support, but none would meet his
gaze. Krismir rounded on Lothar. "Give the order! We must ride for Raven
Pass!"

So full of
courage and glory, yet how little you understand.
Lothar shook his head.
"We have other orders."

Krismir's gaze
narrowed as if sensing a trap. "What orders?"

"I met with
the knight marshal. I spoke to him. He orders the maroon to retreat to the
east." It was a half-truth. He hoped his friend would forgive him for it.
"We're to ride east and make our stands at the bridges and at Castlegard.
With the Snowmelt in full spate, the enemy will need the bridges to reach the
south."

Krismir refused
to be silenced. "We can't let the marshal fight alone."

Lothar's patience
snapped. "We have orders!"

Krismir glared,
their stares crossing, but the younger man gave way.

Lothar bridled
his anger. "No one doubts your courage, but would you deny the marshal
this glory?"

Krismir's jaw
fell open but no sound escaped.

"He does
this for the maroon." Lothar glared at the others. "The marshal risks
his life, his very soul, to give us fighting odds."

Gravis understood.
He raised his mug, his voice solemn. "To the marshal."

The others
raised their mugs and tankards in salute. Flasks of mead were passed and the
mugs were refilled many times. The talk turned to small things. Lothar dozed,
feeling the tug of sleep combined with safety, but he woke with a fierce need
to piss. Too weary to rise, yet the need could not be ignored. Pulling on his
boots, he stumbled out into the chill night air. The cold hit like a bracing
slap, breaking the groggy grip of the mead. A horse nickered from his left,
setting his bearings. He walked in the other direction, knowing the piss
trenches were always on the opposite side of the horse lines. A crescent moon
gave him just enough light to see by. He found the trench and arched a golden
stream to the bottom, groaning with relief. Binding his trousers, Lothar heard
footsteps from behind.

He turned to
find Rannock waiting for him, a grave look on his face. "You and I, we've
shared much. We buried our king at Raven Pass...but we won't be burying the
marshal, will we?"

Lothar's voice
was raw with the truth. "No."

"The Dark
Sword?"

"Aye, it
will take him, one way or another." His voice dropped to a harsh rasp.
"If it hasn't already."

Rannock gave him
a sharp look. "What do you mean?"

The truth hurt.
"He barely knew me. He barely remembered."

Rannock looked
away, considering. When his stare swung back to Lothar, his face looked
haunted. "There's one other thing the scouts said, but I swore them to
silence lest it ruin morale."

Lothar waited,
knowing what was coming yet dreading the words.

"They said
the enemy surrendered, laid down their weapons and fell to their knees...yet
the marshal slew them."

Rannock's gaze
begged for a lie, but Lothar could not stomach it. "It's true, all true."
His voice sounded as if it came from the grave. "I fear we've lost him to
the Dark Sword."

Rannock
shuttered his gaze, but Lothar had to say the rest. "We dare not meet him
on the field of battle."

Rannock stared
in disbelief.

Lothar endured
the captain's searching gaze.

"How can
you be sure?"

Lothar's voice
dropped to a hoarse whisper. "Because he damn near killed me."
Turning, he walked back through the camp, seeking a way out of the nightmare.