Part 2 (1/2)
Sir Winton strode from the tower door and saluted the king. ”The tower is secure. We found more dead inside, eight in total, seven knights and one steward. The steward was hanged, looks like he did it himself. The others died fighting. But there's no dead except our own, no sign of the enemy.”
”And Prince Lionel?”
”Not among them. But it seems they used the signal fire as a funeral pyre. There's armor and bones among the ashes.” Sir Winton gave the king a hesitant look. ”I found a scroll pinned to the door of the signal tower with a dagger. It bears the seal of a hawk in flight.” He handed the scroll to the king.
The king gave the marshal a piercing stare. ”It must be from Lionel, but none of this makes sense.” The king broke the seal, reading in silence. His face remained stoic, but his eyes flashed with anger...and something deeper, something the marshal refused to see.
Crumpling the parchment in his mailed fist, the king sheathed his sword. ”I'll see this funeral pyre for myself.” He glared at Sir Winton. ”Lead the way.”
The knight saluted, leading the king and the marshal into the tower. A narrow staircase spiraled up through the keep's stone heart. The steps were worn deep, carved by centuries of honor. The Crag was old and never defeated, and now this. The marshal scowled, his hand gripping his sword hilt. Halfway up, smears of blood marked the walls, more signs of battle, but the bodies had already been removed. They rounding five spirals before the staircase opened to the great hall. An appalling stench hit them in the face, a foul mix of stale ale and rotten bodies. A bloated corpse swayed on a rope hung from the rafters. An overturned bench beneath the dangling feet told the tale.
The king growled, ”Cut that body down and take it outside with the others.”
Two knights leaped to obey.
Sir Vardine approached, a length of charred rope in his hands. ”Sire, we found this tied to the catapult on the lower parapet. They left the burnt length dangling over the battlement.”
The marshal took the rope and sniffed the burnt end. ”Soaked in oil.” A piece of the puzzle fell into place. ”After the battle, they barred the gates and climbed down the rope, escaping into the north.” He handed the charred rope back to the knight. ”But why the battle? And why leave the keep secure?”
A thunderstorm raced across the king's face. ”Osbourne, with me.” The king strode toward the spiral staircase, climbing the stairs two at a time. The marshal followed, past the sixth floor and up to the windswept parapet. He stepped from the doorway, into the biting cold.
A signal platform dominated the tower top.
The king stood next to the platform, studying the charred remains.
The fire must have been fierce. Most of the bones were consumed, but the armor remained, forming an outline of a knight. A melted half-helm, blackened chainmail, the hilt of a great sword, the steel edging of an oak s.h.i.+eld, all burnt and blackened, lying ruined amidst the ashes. The marshal stared at the burnt mystery, waiting for the king's explanation, hoping it wasn't Lionel. The silence stretched.
”It was Katherine.”
”What?” The marshal turned to gape at his king. ”Your daughter?”
”If the note is to be believed.”
”But the battle? All the dead knights?”
”Blaine and his blue sword, and Sir Tyrone, and perhaps a handful of archers.” The king shook his head. ”And now they've gone into the north, corrupted by the monks.”
The marshal struggled to understand. ”But why?”
”They found Trask in charge and bloodstains on their beds. Suspecting murder, they tried to flee but were discovered and had to fight their way out.” He gestured toward the funeral pyre. ”The dead knight is Sir Tyrone. The note claims he died a hero, trying to hold the pa.s.sageway while the others escaped.”
”Murder!” The marshal found it hard to believe. ”No knight would draw steel on the king's own daughter!”
King Ursus gaze was glacier-cold. ”Katherine spins a foolish tale of the Mordant.”
The marshal could only stare.
”I know. Hard to believe the rantings of a misguided girl.” The king crumpled the note in his mailed fist. ”I should have taken Katherine to hand long ago.”
The marshal considered the evidence. All the pieces fit save one. ”And Lionel?”
”Murdered.” Grief burned in the king's steel-green eyes. ”Send men to look for the slain below the tower.” His voice betrayed the faintest quaver. The king turned his back on the marshal, staring into the bitter north.
The marshal waited. King Ursus was a stern man but he loved his sons well, especially Lionel. ”My lord, I am sorry.”
”First Tristan and now Lionel, both slain, both stolen from me. The G.o.ds take the best of my sons. How can they be so cruel?” The king shook his head, his silver hair s.h.i.+mmering like the mane of an aging lion. ”Lionel would have worn the crown well. And now he lies murdered, killed by traitors in maroon cloaks. Dark times are upon us.” His mailed fist slammed against the battlement, once, twice, and then a third...but when he turned, his face was a mask of steel. ”My son's body will be found and the Octagon will be purged of any taint.”
The marshal nodded. ”I'll see to it myself. And then?”
A grim smile graced the king's face. ”War.”
”And what of Katherine? Should I send a patrol after her?”
”Daughters are naught but a disappointment.” The king shook his head. ”Thank the G.o.ds that crowns depend on the strength of our sons, not the weakness of our daughters.”
”But should I send a patrol?”
”No!” The reply struck like a sword stroke. ”My daughter is lost to me. She does nothing but disobey. Perhaps Lionel would still be alive if she hadn't meddled in the affairs of men.” He shook his head like a wounded bear. ”Katherine is a fool and I'll not risk good men chasing after her.” Turning, he strode towards the door, his back as straight and stubborn as a sword. ”Trouble me not with daughters. I have a slain son to find.”
The door slammed shut and the marshal was left alone on the tower top. He stood at the foot of the charred platform, the king's words etched in his mind. Pieces of the puzzle fit together but he felt like something was missing, some deeper understanding lurking just beyond reach. Images of the carnage in the tunneled pa.s.sageway flooded his mind, a fierce battle, a few fighting against many. He studied the charred remains, wondering what answers Sir Tyrone might have held. ”Did you die a hero...or a fool?”
His whispered words were s.n.a.t.c.hed by the wind.
He stared at the melted chainmail and the empty half-helm, but he found no answers, nothing but blackened ruin and the silence of the grave.
A sudden gust howled out of the north, sweeping away the ashes, leaving only ruined armor and charred bones.
And then he saw it, revealed by the wind, a long gleam of bright steel. Untouched by fire, Sir Tyrone's sword remained straight and true. Everything else was blackened, melted and twisted, charred to ash, but not the sword...as if the G.o.ds gave answer to his question.
”So, you died a hero.” Bowing low, he honored the dead knight...and then he turned his gaze toward the north, wondering if his king might be wrong. Surely the G.o.ds worked in strange ways. Katherine was only a daughter, yet she carried the blood of kings, the blood of Castlegard. Perhaps Ursus discarded his daughter too easily. Shaking his head at the mad thought, he quelled the strange notion. Having faced the northern hordes in battle he knew the girl rode to certain death, yet he whispered a prayer anyway. ”May Valin guard you though you trod the path of death.” The marshal turned from the parapet, seeking his king.
2.
Katherine Dark wings flashed into a steel-gray sky, a murder of ravens taking flight, an ill omen for a G.o.d-cursed land. The plume of wings rose from a point farther down the trail, harsh caws echoing against the mountains. Kath a.s.sumed it was another horse, still saddled, ridden to death, cast aside, broken. If the ravens held true, this would be the second carca.s.s since Cragnoth Keep, more proof of the Mordant's pa.s.sing. The grisly remains marked a trail down the Dragon Spine Mountains, taking the five companions beyond the reach of the southern kingdoms...beyond the protection of the Octagon. They rode into the unknown, death as their only guide.
A cold wind blew out of the Spines, a breath of winter pus.h.i.+ng at their backs. Huddled beneath wool cloaks, they kept their weapons close, riding single file down the steep mountain trail. Kath led the way, holding her sorrel warhorse to a trot, a pair of throwing axes strapped to her back, a short sword belted to her side. Duncan rode close behind, his longbow strung, a quiver of arrows ready. Zith carried a quarterstaff, the preferred weapon of the monks, while Blaine rode at the rear, his great blue sword looming over his right shoulder. Danya rode in the middle, the only companion who didn't carry a weapon. Bryx, the great mountain wolf, stayed close to the girl's side, a vigilant threat of claws and fangs.
Twisted conifers crowded close to the trail, a sweep of dark forest cloaking the foothills. An owl hooted somewhere in the shadowy depths, a mournful sound that echoed Kath's mood. Swiveling in the saddle, she stared back at the jagged peaks, searching for a glimpse of the signal fire, but Cragnoth Keep was lost to the clouds. A part of Kath could not believe they'd crossed into the north. So much had happened, so much had changed. She'd fled her home, escaping Castlegard only to find traitors holding the frozen keep. Knights of the Octagon turned to the Dark, Kath s.h.i.+vered at the memory. They'd fought their way out, with Sir Tyrone paying a hero's price, another bitter loss. Using the signal tower as his funeral pyre, they sent warning to the Octagon. Kath prayed her father understood but she feared her actions made her an exile. The loss weighed heavy on her soul. And now they rode north, into the land that birthed all her childhood nightmares. Five companions dared the wrong side of the mountains, chasing an ancient evil into the north. It sounded like a bard's ballad, but Kath knew the dangers were all too real, the odds deathly grim. She gripped the crystal dagger, praying the G.o.ds lent their hand to the trials ahead.
The horses trotted around a bend cast deep in shadows. A rotting stench slapped Kath in the face, the stink of carrion. Jerked from her reverie, she stared at the dead horse.
”Caw!” A lingering raven squawked a warning and then launched into the gray sky.
Kath steadied her stallion, holding her breath against the stench. Still saddled with the Octagon's maroon livery, a confusion of tracks surrounded the rotting feast. Mountain lion, wolf, bear, and a few she didn't recognize, come to claim the prize of easy meat.
Duncan swung down from his gelding. ”Not much meat left, just skin and bones.” Slapping away the shroud of flies, he knelt to examine the saddlebags. ”Judging from the smell, I figure the Mordant has more than a fortnight lead on us.”