Part 10 (2/2)
He turned back for a last look at Kath. Crossing the distance in three strides, he pulled the silver warrior's ring from his long hair. Engraved with Aspen leaves, the symbol of his clan, it was the one token he carried from the Deep Green. Kneeling, he set the ring in Kath's outstretched hand, his voice a hushed whisper. ”Till I return.”
Her hand tightened around the ring yet she did not wake.
Even asleep, she claimed her own. ”My Lioness.” He took a last look, memorizing her face, and then turned and strode into the night.
11.
The Knight Marshal Sir Lothar leaned on the rampart, counting the newcomers. ”Will it be enough?”
A cavalcade of mounted knights thundered into the yard below, a proud flurry of maroon cloaks and battle banners come to man the walls at Raven Pa.s.s. The marshal did not hesitate, ”It has to be.” Morale was as much about words as numbers so he kept his voice confident. ”One knight is worth three of the enemy.”
”Only three? I'd heard it was five.” Lothar flashed a grin, his dark eyes gleaming in a weather beaten face. ”Or perhaps the young ones aren't as good as we were in our prime.”
”They're good enough.” The marshal flexed his shoulders, still unaccustomed to the weight of the great sword. ”They just don't brag as much as some.”
”Bragging is a hero's art. It takes more than a hint of truth to be good at it.” Lothar tugged on his mustache, his right hand fingering the battleaxe strapped to his side.
”You should know, my friend. When you're in your cups I'm never sure where the truth ends and the tale begins.”
Lothar chuckled. ”Just as it should be.”
A cold wind blew out of the north, s.n.a.t.c.hing at his words, as if the wind begrudged them a moment's respite. So cold, the first breath of winter, the marshal turned his back on the north. Wrapped in maroon cloaks lined with fur, the two men walked the battlement, watching the tide of new arrivals. Warhorses churned the muddy yard below, a column of mounted knights newly come from Castlegard, answering the summons of the king. Each day, men and arms arrived from all points of the Domain, swelling the ranks at Raven Pa.s.s, but the marshal feared it would not be enough.
”How many?” Lothar worried the numbers like a man with a bad tooth.
”Should be nigh on three thousand knights and twice as many foot. More than enough to man the walls. And winter will fight beside us, an ally in white. The enemy will freeze on the steppes before he ever breaks our gates.” The marshal cast his gaze along the valley. Steep granite walls reared up on either end of the battlement, snow-capped mountains looming overhead. Raven Pa.s.s cut a swath through the heart of the Dragon Spines, an open invitation to the Mordant were it not for the Octagon. Three walls blocked the pa.s.s, stout and strong with ironbound gates. The first sealed the entrance to the valley, a thirty-foot wall, topped with crenelated battlements. A killing field of three hundred feet separated the first from the second. Beyond the muddy lane, the second wall rose to a height of fifty feet, a pair of drum towers guarding the central gate. The third stood half a league south, a stubby twelve-foot wall serving as the last line of defense. The two men walked the second wall, gazing out over the steppes. ”Not mage-stone but the builders wrought well. The walls will stand against the north.”
”By Valin's sword, they'd better.” Lothar kept pace beside him. ”Have you heard their new names?”
”What?”
”The walls.” Lothar ran a gloved hand along the granite battlement. ”The men dubbed the first wall s.h.i.+eldbreaker. And this one Swordbreaker. Venture a guess on the third?”
From the wry grin on his friend's face, he knew it must be something lewd. ”Ballbreaker?”
”Ha!” Lothar barked a laugh. ”Spoken like a drunken bard!” His face sobered, his voice dropping to a throaty growl. ”No, they've named the third the Wh.o.r.e. 'Cause if we have to retreat that far, we're well and truly raped.”
Both men fell silent, considering the odds.
”It doesn't help that the men are divided.”
The marshal shot a searing glare at his friend. ”You mean the succession?”
Lothar nodded. ”With war looming, the king should name his heir. The men fret at the question like hounds with thorns in their paws.”
The marshal swore, knowing morale was ever a fragile thing. ”What are they saying?”
”Some want Ulrich, they see him as a strong warrior, a champion of the sword, but others fear he'll rush to battle without thinking, spilling blood like water.”
”And Prince Griffin?”
”Too shrewd for most. They see him as a plotter, a schemer, not one to lead from the front, not a monarch they can trust.” Lothar shook his head. ”King Ursus casts a long shadow. He rules too well. His sons suffer by comparison. Yet the king grows old,” he snorted in disgust, ”as do we all.”
”You could have stayed at Salt Tower. The captains were not expected to answer the king's summons.”
Lothar snorted. ”And leave all the glory to you? I think not.” He tugged on his mustache, stopping to stare across the steppes. ”Will the Mordant come? And how many will he bring?”
”The king says they'll come. War is certain as winter. But only the G.o.ds know how many ride under the Darkflamme.” The marshal shrugged, adjusting the harness of his great sword. ”The king has an uncanny sense for battle, so we have a chance to prepare. Better to meet them here on the walls than out on the gra.s.slands. Walls have a way of leveling the numbers.” He quickened his pace. ”Come, we still have the trebuchets to inspect.”
”Filthy contraptions.” Lothar spat. ”Knights should fight steel to steel, so we can stare into each others eyes. Battle is as much a test of will as strength. There's no honor in these infernal engines.”
”You'll thank Valin for these engines once the Mordant comes.”
They reached the first trebuchet; a monstrous wooden beast crouched on the edge of the battlement. Routinely used to destroy walls rather than protect them, the king had ordered it disa.s.sembled and carried to the topmost battlement. It looked like a long-necked dragon, a thick beam of wood rearing up into the sky, a ma.s.sive counterweight squatting on the short end. A leather sling dangled from the top like a noose awaiting a murderer. The marshal scowled, the trebuchet was an ugly thing, a cold cruel killing contrivance, but the Octagon needed every advantage.
A gray-cloaked sergeant spied the marshal and snapped to attention. ”Everything's in working order, sir.”
The marshal nodded. ”Then let's see how far it throws.”
”Yes, sir!” The sergeant yelled a stream of orders. A team of twenty men rushed to service the beast. Soldiers worked the windla.s.s, cranking the counterweight into the air. As the weight rose, the great arm slowly sank, bringing the sling to the rampart floor. Timbers groaned, protesting against the strain. Men swore, struggling with the final turn of the windla.s.s. A soldier rushed to set the slip-hook, securing the counterweight. Four men wrestled a boulder into the leather sling. The sergeant barked an order, and the men leaped away.
Timbers flexed and groaned. The counterweight crashed down as the ma.s.sive arm jerked upright. Snapping like a whip, the sling unfurled, hurling the boulder into the air. As if lobbed by a giant hand, the boulder tumbled upward, rising over the first wall and sailing out over the steppes. The men roared a cheer, urging it higher. The boulder seemed to tumble forever, finally landing with a bone-crus.h.i.+ng thud. A cloud of dirt marked the new-formed crater. The marshal figured the distance at more than two thousand feet. ”Impressive. But the engine is only worth the number of boulders ready to throw.” He glanced at the stack of stones littering the rampart. ”I want the number doubled in the next two days.”
The men groaned but the sergeant saluted. ”As you command.”
A gust of wind beat against his face, a hint of snow in the air. The marshal pulled his wool cloak close and resumed walking.
Lothar kept pace beside him. ”The wooden beast is impressive. What other surprises have you got?”
The marshal gestured to the steep sides of the valley. ”Sharpened stakes run along the ridge line, to keep the enemy from scaling the cliffs. We dare not let them get above us. And we've brought wagonloads of lamp oil from Castlegard. I've ordered the oil set atop the first wall, to keep their siege engines at bay. And if the fighting breaches the first wall, I've got barrels of caltrops ready to fling into the killing field. A nasty weapon, but the spikes will wreck havoc with the enemy's horses.”
Lothar shook his head. ”Tricks and traps.”
”Whatever it takes to win.” He gave his friend a piercing stare. ”If the king is right, this is one battle we dare not lose.”
”My lord, a moment!”
The marshal turned to find the king's squire chasing him down. A tall skinny lad with a shock of red hair, Baldwin skidded to a stop. ”The king asks for you.”
”In the main tower?”
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