The Prince Deceiver (The Silk & Steel Saga Book 6) (20 page)

35

General Haith

The
Darkflamme
whispered overhead, snaking against a pale gray sky. Twelve feet of black
silk ending in two tails of bright red flecked with gold, General Haith rode to
war under the forked battle banner of the Mordant. Clad in armor worthy of the
fearsome standard, the general wore the helm and breastplate of the Skeleton
King. Treasures hoarded from a distant Age, the helmet was forged like a
menacing skull, the breastplate adorned with a skeleton's steel ribs. Forged
with arcane runes, silver cast over steel, the ancient armor was a work of high
magic. Imbued with raw terror, the armor was fearful to behold. Even his own
men shuddered at the sight, keeping their gazes averted. The general grinned,
knowing fear was a powerful ally. The relics of Darkness rode to war, a
vanguard of nightmares come to reap the souls of Erdhe.

After the
gorelabe's message, General Haith had wasted no time in escaping the lethal
trap of Raven Pass. Keen to evade the Dark Sword, the general quickly assembled
his elite force. He took all the horses, two thousand cavalry followed by a
hundred Taals running to keep pace, their spiked cudgels balanced on their
meaty shoulders. He'd also brought a cadre of fifty duegars, most of them
snargons to ward against the magic of the monks. The stunted dwarves rode
behind mounted warriors, carried like baggage lest they slow the force. Over
two thousand strong, the cavalry formed the fleet spear tip of the Dark army,
an agile strike force shot like an arrow into the heart of Erdhe.

Ironshod hooves
thundered behind him in a storm of war. The general was confident in the
prowess of his force, yet he kept his most potent weapon in his saddlebag, a
gift of magic from the Mordant. His lord spared no weapon to win this war.

General Haith set
a hard pace, knowing the timing was crucial. They rode south till they reached
the Snowmelt River. Swollen with the spring melt, the river raged white and
frothy. Cold and formidable, the Snowmelt denied their way south. Relying on
captured maps, the general avoided the raging river, leading his force east
towards Eye Bridge.

The Domain of
Castlegard held few roads, as if the wild tangle of wilderness was part of the
knights' defense. Thick forest shrouded the northern riverbank, the trees
bursting with springtime leaves. Sunlight dappled the ground, painting an
uneasy mix of light and shadow. General Haith kept his hand on his sword hilt.
The forest made him uneasy. Shuttering his view, closing in on all sides, the
dense green felt unnatural. He barked orders, sending a vanguard of his best
scouts in every direction. He mistrusted the trees, for there were none to
contend with in the north. The flat openness of the steppes was his preferred
fighting field, where a man could see forever and numbers mattered more than strategy
or stealth. Riding through the leafy green, he half expected an ambush hidden
behind every towering cedar, but Darkness favored them. His army met no
opposition till they reached the bridge.

His scouts
brought warning, an armored force guarded Eye Bridge.

Dismounting, the
general followed his scouts to a forested knoll overlooking the stone bridge.
The sight that greeted him was almost laughable. With only two bridges spanning
the raging Snowmelt, the general expected formidable fortifications to protect
the crossing, a gatehouse bristling with weapons, perhaps catapults mounted on
towers, but instead, the bridge was clearly built for peaceful times. Three
graceful arches of stacked stone spanned the mighty Snowmelt, wide enough for
two wagons to pass side- by-side. The stone bridge had no gates, no towers, no
ramparts of any sort, proving the south was a soft land lulled by peace.
Armored soldiers patrolled the bridge but their numbers were not daunting.
Felled logs formed a feeble barrier on the road. Desperate for some defense, the
soldiers had felled two massive trees, dragging them to form a chevron blocking
the northern roadway. The general barked a laugh. "
Logs
, they seek
to stop Darkness with logs!" His voice reeked with disdain, amused by the
pitiful defense. "Come, I've seen more than enough."

Returning to his
army, the general swung into the saddle, barking orders to marshal his forces.
He ordered the Taals to the front, a chevron of muscle pitted against a chevron
of logs. His cavalry formed behind, the lethal follow-through to the Taals'
brutal punch. Snapping his visor closed, he urged his stallion to a fast trot.
Battle banners snapped overhead as they rode in deadly silence, a dark
pestilence sweeping across the sunlit land. Without preamble, they thundered
down out of the foothills and onto the roadway.

Trumpets flared
in warning from the bridge.

The enemy
scrambled into position, raising shields and spears. A ragged flight of arrows
bit the sky. Peering through his visor, the general grinned, defying death.
Ironshod hooves pounded the roadway, hurtling towards the bridge. Sharp-tipped
arrows plummeted down, scouring shields and armor, but the volley was too thin
to slow the dark tide.

The Taals surged
ahead, massive brutes wielding spiked war clubs. Bellowing a war chant, they
barreled into the roadblock. Putting their muscled shoulders to the logs, the
malformed giants pushed, their huge thighs churning forward.

For ten
heartbeats, a brutal stalemate prevailed, the massive logs pitted against the
monstrous strength of the Taals...and then the logs
moved.

Pushed by the
Taals, the massive logs became weapons.

Men screamed,
crushed to death beneath the felled trees.

The Taals pushed
harder, shoulders rammed against the barrier, rolling the logs. Screams turned
to tortured howls. Rolled backwards, the logs crushed the defenders, opening a
gore-strewn pathway to the bridge.

The general
unsheathed his sword, spurring his warhorse to a gallop. "
For the Mordant!"

His vanguard
closed around him, shields set and swords lowered. General Haith led a
thunderous charge, galloping toward the breach in the log barrier. A few
desperate arrows launched from the enemy. Too little, too late, the arrows
skittered harmlessly off shields and armor. Trumpets blared a warning and the
Taals opened a path to the enemy. The general and his cohort surged past the
strewn logs, barreling into the enemy's lines. His force hit like a battering
ram. The enemy crumpled backwards, falling beneath ironshod hooves. Bellowing
his war cry, General Haith pressed the attack. "
For the Mordant!"
Leaning
forward in the saddle, he slew the enemy with sweeping sword strokes. His foes
shrank back, cowering at the sight of his ensorcelled armor. Even the most
stalwart soldiers hesitated, assaulted by terror. A skilled swordsman, the
general reaped every advantage. His sword grew bloody with gore.

His force pushed
onto the bridge, but a knot of resistance formed on the left side, stubbornly
resisting the Dark tide. At the heart of the resistance, a gleam of silver
snagged the general's gaze. Bright armor often marked a senior officer. A hero
rallied the enemy, thwarting his forces. The general's gaze narrowed,
cut
the head from the snake and it will quickly die.
General Haith angled his
warhorse towards the erstwhile hero, cutting his way into the heart of the
resistance.
"Fight me!"
He bellowed his challenge towards the
silver-clad hero. The enemy turned, his face going slack-jawed. Having gained a
good look at the general's armor, the silver-clad hero faltered. Terror widened
his eyes. The shiny knight hesitated. Hesitation in battle was death's prelude.
Grinning, the general slew him, taking his head with a single swipe of his
sword.

All around him,
men screamed and died. The enemy retreated, giving way in the wake of his
onslaught. "
Fight on!"
General Haith stood in the stirrups,
rallying his own men, but the enemy was not yet cowed.

A frantic flare
of trumpets summoned more foes to the bridge.

Swords and
spears struggled to bar the way, more grist for his reapers.

The press on the
bridge thickened, a lethal clash of swords. The dead and the dying multiplied,
their bodies trampled beneath ironshod hooves. The Taals pushed forward,
fighting alongside the cavalry, wielding their spiked war clubs and heaving
enemies into the river. The general's vanguard showed no mercy, forging a
relentless path across the bridge. Blood soaked the cobbled bridge, weeping red
into the Snowmelt.

Horns blared and
the fighting slowed to a grind. The enemy surged, desperate to hold the bridge,
but the dark tide could not be contained. Standing in the stirrups, the general
gave the enemy a good look at his armor. Soldiers flinched away while others
dropped their weapons, stricken by a mind-numbing terror. Grinning like death,
the general roared his battle cry, cutting a bloody swath with his sword. "
For
the Mordant!"

Echoing his cry,
his vanguard spurred forward, taking advantage of the armor's effect. Hacking
left and right, they cleared a path across the bridge. And then they were
through. Open road loomed ahead. They'd gained the south side of the river.

"Sound the
charge!" The general shouted the order and a trumpeter blew a strident
blast, summoning his host to a gallop. General Haith put spurs to his mount,
leading his army south. Trumpets repeated their blare, calling his men away
from the fighting. The general cared not how many of the enemy survived, or if
they reclaimed the bridge, what mattered was that his army had crossed the
Snowmelt, and now the tender south lay open to him like a whore with her legs
spread wide.

Beneath the
Skeleton Helm, he grinned, flushed with power...and triumph. Everything his
lord had predicted had come to pass. The
Darkflamme
fluttered overhead,
snapping like a serpent's tongue scenting the vanguard's next victim. Terror
clad in steel, General Haith rode south, keen to claim his prize.

36

The Knight Marshal

Slaying patrols
was not enough. Not enough challenge to test his skills, not enough blood to
slake his battle lust, not enough souls to satisfy the Dark Sword. He needed
more, much more. Consumed by an insatiable need for victory, the marshal rode
west. Like a hound loosed to the hunt, he galloped towards the horde.
Souls
that wield swords,
somehow he sensed the multitude massed within Raven
Pass, a challenge worthy of the God of War.

Twilight dimmed
the sky to darkness as he reached the ridgeline overlooking Raven Pass.
Campfires lit the pass, tens of thousands of glowing fires strewn the length of
the valley. Competing with the very stars, the fires beat back the night with a
warm buttery glow, proof he'd found the horde...but he'd expected more. Their
numbers seemed dwindled, diminished since the last time he'd spied them from
the ridge. Perhaps they'd been decimated by the winter war, or perhaps the army
was split, dispersed to other battlefields, either way the marshal found
himself...disappointed, as if fate sought to diminish his glory. He consoled
himself with the thought that their numbers still qualified as a horde. A smile
split his bearded face. He'd come to wage an epic battle worthy of legends.
He'd come to prove his prowess against a vast horde. His destiny was finally at
hand.

W
...
a
...
i
...
t.

He shuddered as
the command whispered through him.

Wait
...
wait
...
wait.

Something bade
him wait. Something insidious, something more than the Dark Sword.

The marshal
snarled like a mastiff straining against a chain. He yearned to wade into the
enemy, to test his sword against their numbers. Thirsting for battle, he fought
the voice, railing against the prohibition, yet he found himself obeying.
Unable to attack, unwilling to leave, he made camp on the ridge top. Wrapped in
his bedroll, he spent a fitful night beneath the stars. At dawn's first light,
he saddled his warhorse and readied for battle, but once again the voice spoke.

Wait.

The command
drove him to a rage yet he could not disobey. Needing to kill something, he
ranged the length of the ridge, seeking prey. For nearly a fortnight, he
prowled the ridge, hungering for the horde, yet the prohibition held. And then
it came to him, a way to outwit the voice.

Deciding to make
it easy for his prey, he rode till he reached one of the few trailheads that
connected the ridge top to the valley floor. It took him three days of hard
toil to scavenge enough wood, but when he finished, the pyre towered over the
trailhead like a sentinel. Stuffed with dry tinder, and stacked with enough
wood to rise beyond his head by a full arm's length, the pyre was built to burn
for days, a great beacon overlooking Raven Pass.

The marshal
paced the ridge like a caged lion.

Dark finally
came, night blanketing the mountains.

Even the moon
obeyed, shuttered by clouds, cloaking the land in deepest darkness.

Using a flint,
the marshal lit the pyre. Flames leaped to the tinder and then licked up the
dry wood. The blaze became a roaring bonfire, a beacon summoning his enemies to
battle. The marshal pried a loose fagot from the fire. Holding the burning
branch aloft, he stood at the top of the trail. Backlit by the bonfire, he
roared his challenge.
"Fight me! Come and meet the God of War!"

37

Quintus

Quintus made the
rounds, changing bandages, apply poultices, dispensing potions for fevers and pain,
but still too many died. The captains had given an entire tower of the great
castle over to the wounded, yet the chambers were crowded with the crippled and
the ruined. The dead were taken away, wrapped in their maroon cloaks for an
honorable burial in the Shield Forest, but all too soon their beds were filled.
War was a ravenous beast, consuming bodies at a frightful pace, yet few of the
knights ever complained at their fate. Inspired by their stalwart bravery,
Quintus worked endless hours, pitting his skills from the monastery against
fever, rot, and gaping wounds, striving to save as many as he could. Every loss
chipped at his heart, yet he had no time to mourn.

Daylight dimmed
to twilight, yet he remained by the bedside of a young knight barely old enough
to shave. "
Not my sword arm, not my sword arm
," Sir Jared
muttered the words like a chant, delirious with pain. The delirium hid the
truth, for his sword arm was already gone. A mace had shattered the bones to
sharp fragments, leaving Quintus no choice but to saw at the elbow. Now he
struggled to save the knight from wound fever. A pity the snow was melted,
leaving him nothing but damp compresses and tincture of yarrow to fight the
fever's heat. He worked through the night, striving to save the young knight. The
fever finally broke. Quintus sagged in relief, another knight saved.

A wave of
weariness crashed across him. He needed sleep, he needed his own bed, else he'd
be of no use to all the others. Too weary to think, he washed his hands in a
basin and then made his way from the tower. Stepping into the night air, he
breathed deep, the chilly crispness clearing his mind. Night cloaked the great
castle, a dazzling spray of stars strewn across the sky. Pausing to admire the
celestial beauty, he was struck by the peace of the moment. The great castle
slept, hushed by stillness, no sounds of swords clanging, orders shouted, or
boots marching. Quintus knew guards kept watch on the towers and walls, yet for
a handful of heartbeats, he let himself be deluded by the dream of peace.

The sound of a
hammer intruded...a hammer striking iron.

The forge
,
the thought pierced him. He'd promised the master swordsmith an answer, yet the
reply from the monastery made little sense. Since Snowman's return, he'd kept
the message to himself, a riddle locked in his heart, yet he needed someone to
talk to, someone to confide in. Quintus wasn't sure he could truly trust the
smith with his secrets, yet he found his footsteps drawn toward the forge.

Light laden with
heat blazed from the open windows. The hammer strokes fell in a measured rhythm
like the beating of a steadfast heart. The master swordsmith worked alone, his
massive hammer pounding iron.

"Are you
coming in? Or have you just come to watch?"

The healer
jumped like a thief with his hand on a purse. "You're working late."

"So are
you."

Quintus
shrugged. "Too many wounded."

"Never
enough swords."

They both served
Castlegard, though in very different ways. The healer ventured deeper into the
forge, watching the smith work the raw bar of iron.

Otto cast a
daggered glance his way. "I wondered if you'd come." His deep voice
rumbled like clashing boulders. "Your owl's been back for nearly a
fortnight."

The truth struck
like a punch below the belt, leaving the healer gasping for a reply. "The
owl returned...but the message makes no sense."

"Are you a
man of your word?"

Quintus replied
with quiet dignity. "Yes."

"Then let's
hear it."

The hammer
pounded against iron, marking a steady cadence.

Quintus
considered the message, a riddle scribed in his mind. Deciding to cast caution
to the wind, he blurted the words, "
The mage-stone magic is tied to
intent. Darkness has corrupted the Octagon. Restore honor to the maroon. Aid
comes in the form of a sword."

The hammer
missed a beat. The swordsmith glared at him, his eyebrows raised like two sooty
smudges marked against his bald forehead. "
That's
the
message?"

"All of it,
I swear."

The hammer
resumed its beat, but the rhythm held an angry edge. "How can you restore
something that's not lost?"

Quintus sagged
in relief. "Exactly! The knights fight a valiant war despite their losses,
never wavering against the Pentacle. The Octagon bleeds heavily for the
Light." Quintus shook his head. "The message makes no sense."

The smith issued
a low growl, his muscles bulging, his gaze fixed on his work. The massive
hammer beat a hypnotic rhythm. Stroke after stroke pounded the iron into the
anvil, the rod slowly becoming a blade, bending to the will of the smith. Quintus
watched, lulled by the sound. Heat beat against him laden with the metallic
scents of charcoal and iron. The forge was a primal force, the birthplace of
swords. The rod changed shape, flattening to a deadly blade. Quintus swayed on
his feet. He began to think the smith would not reply.

"Valiant is
not the same as honor."

The words struck
a chilling chord with the healer. "I suppose so."

Like a god of
the forge, Otto thrust the sword-shaped blade deep into the furnace fire,
releasing a breath of red sparks. "Come." Hefting his hammer, the
smith stoked the furnace and then strode toward the rear of the forge.

Quintus shook
himself awake and then followed the smith to a backroom. Bins filled with iron
ore lined one wall, sacks of charcoal and other minerals stacked along another.
Footprints crisscrossed the floor, tracking through a thick coating of red
dust. The storeroom smelled heavy with the earthy scents of the underworld.

Otto grabbed a
torch from the wall and thrust it toward the healer. "Come."

"Why?"
Quintus held the torch aloft, following the smith to the rear of the storeroom.

"I need to
see for myself." Setting his hammer aside, the big smith put his shoulder
to a bin of iron ore...and shoved.

Quintus gasped,
for it seemed an impossible load for any lone man to budge.

The swordsmith strained,
massive muscles bulging...and then the bin began to move, pushed along the
floor like a sledge. The scrape of metal across stone clawed at his ears, and
then came to a sudden stop. "This will do." The smith straightened
and retrieved his hammer.

"Why are we
here?"

"I need to
see for myself."

"See
what?"

"If
mage-stone is truly failing."

Quintus stared,
wide-eyed. "You don't believe me?"

"What if
the scrape you saw has been there all along?"

"No, I saw
it happen. The wagon's axle chipped the stone." Quintus uttered the words,
but in truth, he did not want to believe it.

"Let's see
for ourselves." The smith hefted the hammer. He struck the wall, iron
ringing against mage-stone.

Nothing
happened.

Casting a glance
toward the healer, the smith gripped the hammer with both fists. He struck the
wall again, a resounding hit.

Nothing
happened.

A smile burst
across the healer's face. "Nothing!" Relief poured through him.
"Mage-stone is sound!"

Otto gave him a
warning glare. "That last blow was but half my strength. This one will
tell the tale."

Quintus sobered,
gripping the torch.

The smith
broadened his stance, his feet spread wide. Roped with muscles, his arms were
as thick as most men's thighs. He held the hammer high, his gaze fixed on the
mage-stone wall. Quintus muttered a fervent prayer. Grunting, the smith loosed
the hammer, striking a mighty blow. The hammerhead struck a discordant note, an
ugly tone. The mage-stone wall chipped.
It chipped!
A palm-sized chunk
fell to the floor.

Both men stared,
slack-jawed.

Quintus felt
dizzy, as if the world were coming undone. "How can this be?"

The smith
reached for the sundered piece. "It's as if the magic has fled...leaving
ordinary stone."

Both men locked
stares. "The castle is not invincible."

Quintus crumpled
to the floor, all the strength fled from his legs. "This can't be
happening."

Otto growled,
"We must warn the captains."

"No."
Conviction rode his voice. Quintus was ambushed by the vehemence of his own
reply. "We dare not tell them."

Otto gave him a
flinty glare. "No? Why not?"

"I've told
you before, because of morale."

The smith waited
as if needing more.

"I've
tended the wounded. I know what this war costs. The knights fight against
perilous odds. Take morale away from them...and the war is lost."

"But if
they don't know..."

"What can
they do about it?"

"But..."

Quintus cut him
short. "What does it matter unless the enemy brings siege engines against
Castlegard?"

The smith's eyes
narrowed, his voice begrudging. "True."

"In the
meantime, we dare not dash the hope of victory."

The smith gave
him a flinty look. "Victory?"

"To believe
anything else is to invite defeat."

Otto gave him a
thoughtful look. "Just so."

"So the
mage-stone will be our secret unless an enemy army comes calling?"

The smith gave a
cautious nod. "For now." Setting his hammer aside, he shoved the iron
ore bin back into place, hiding the terrible scar. Wiping his shovel-sized
hands on his leather apron, the smith growled, "None save me will move
that bin."

Quintus believed
him.

The smith
offered his hand, pulling the healer to his feet. "Now we know it's true,
what'll we do?"

"We solve
the riddle."

The smith stared
at him.

"We restore
honor to the Octagon."

"But that
makes no sense!"

"Yet we
must find a way."

The smith
flashed a bitter scowl. "What? A smith and a healer? Are you daft? Sounds
like something a hero would do."

Quintus stared,
for the smith's words held the ring of truth. "Then we best find a
hero."

"Castlegard
is full of them."

"Yet mage-stone
fails."

The smith made
the warding sign, his voice a low growl. "The castle has fallen under an
evil star."

The healer
pursed his lips, surprised by the smith's superstition. "There must be a
way to solve this. Your bellows boys love gossip. Keep your ear to the ground.
Perhaps some scrap of rumor will shed light on the riddle."

Otto gave him a
doubtful look. "As you say."

Beleaguered by
grim thoughts, Quintus left the forge, trudging back across the great yard.
Clouds cloaked the stars, the heavy darkness adding to the weight on his
shoulders.
Mage-stone is failing,
the words thundered through his mind
like a doom. He shared a terrible secret with the master swordsmith, a terrible
burden.
Restore honor to the Octagon,
it seemed like an impossible geas.
Quintus knew how to heal bodies, but not how to heal honor...or stone, yet this
burden had fallen to him. Somehow the Octagon must triumph against the Pentacle,
of that he was certain. They dared not lose this war. Staring up at the
cloud-shrouded sky, he prayed to all the gods to spare Castlegard and the
valiant knights that served the great castle, for without the gods' help, he
foresaw nothing but doom.