Part 15 (2/2)

A snarl of rage came from the soldiers, as if the men became their beasts.

Wakened to the danger, Duncan scrambled for his bow. The yew lay buried beneath the dead h.e.l.lhound. He tugged it free and stifled a cry. The bow was snapped in half!

The solders advanced, their lances leveled, circling the hut.

His heart hammering, Duncan reached for the sword, his last defense.

A thicket of spear surrounded him, the final teeth of the trap.

At least he'd die a warrior's death, with his enemies slain at his feet. He beat his sword against their spears, metal clanging against metal. ”Fight me, d.a.m.n you. Fight me.”

An officer with a plumed helmet growled, ”Take him alive.”

It was only then that Duncan realized the secret was not yet safe. He turned the sword to his own breast, both hands grasping the hilt. For half a heartbeat he hesitated, thinking of Kath, longing to see her one more time. Something struck the back of his head, a thunderous crack. Duncan staggered and fell. Desperate to end it, he reached for the dropped sword. A boot stepped on his hand. Had all the G.o.ds forsaken him? Another blow to the head...and darkness claimed him.

19.

The Knight Marshal Rumors spread like a plague through the maroon, slaughtering morale. The marshal prowled the walls, listening to the men, watching their faces, collecting their words. Dark tales grew with the telling, a grapevine of whispers on the ramparts, a gale of grim tidings in the great hall. Everywhere he turned, he heard tales of demons, dead princes, and treachery, proof the Octagon was cursed, fated to fall before the Mordant. Problem was, most of it was true. The G.o.d-cursed demon had done its work well. Defeat hung across the maroon like a pall yet the enemy was nowhere in sight.

The marshal balled his gauntleted hands into fists, anger in his stride. Morale was his responsibility. He had to find a way to kill the doubt or the battle would be lost ere the first sword was drawn.

A cold wind blew out of the north, bitter and harsh, suiting his mood. Reaching the central drum tower, he yanked the door open. Down the spiral steps and into the hallway, he strode towards the king's council chamber.

So much had changed in a single fortnight. Normally abuzz with dispatches and commands, the council chamber stood deserted, the hearth cold, the candles extinguished, the shutters latched shut. The stewards had done their work well. Bloodstains were long since washed from the floor, the bodies given honorable burial. But a deep cut remained on the door, a scar marking the fatal thrust of a blue steel blade. He flexed his sword hand, remembering. Two princes impaled on one sword, yet it seemed as if the demon still lived. Doubt stalked the Octagon like a hungry ghoul. Mired in worry, he paced the chamber, waging a battle of words in his mind.

The door creaked open.

He looked up, hoping to see the king, but it was just Lothar.

”Thought I'd find you here, a ghost haunting his gravestone.” He eased the door shut and leaned against the wall, a grim look on his weathered face. ”You've heard the talk.”

”A belly full.”

Lothar grunted, fingering the hilt of his battleaxe. ”It grows worse by the day. Some are starting to see demons behind every face. Soon there won't be a lick of trust left among the maroon.”

And then we'll have desertions. Neither man said it, but the thought hung in the room like a curse.

Lothar moved to the window, easing the wooden shutters open, letting a sliver of daylight pierce the gloom. ”It doesn't help that the king stays locked in his chambers, lost in his cups.”

”The king mourns his sons.”

”And neglects his duty.”

The truth stung, but the marshal could not disagree. ”The question is, how to undo the damage? You saw his face. How do we mend a cracked blade?”

”A cracked blade is discarded, melted down for sc.r.a.p. But we only have one king.”

The marshal nodded. ”Just so.”

”And the number of heirs grows perilously short. At least the men won't be arguing about succession anymore.”

But will Ulrich make a good king? Another thought left unsaid, hanging between them.

Lothar turned away. Leaning on the windowsill, he stared into a gray sky. ”What did you see that day, after the monk jumped?”

He hadn't spoken of it to anyone.

Lothar sent him a piercing stare. ”Your face was ghost-pale when you turned from the window...and the monk's body was never found.”

His friend saw too much. ”An owl. I saw a giant frost owl.”

”A changeling!” Lothar swore, his face grim. ”b.l.o.o.d.y magic.”

”Seems there are more powers at work here than we know.” The marshal's voice dropped to a harsh whisper. ”Sometimes I wonder if we aren't being used, just p.a.w.ns in a greater game.”

Lothar grunted. ”Shapes.h.i.+fters and magic, it's too deep for me.” He sketched the hand sign against evil. ”Always thought changelings were a myth.” He stared at the open window. ”If a simple monk wields such powers what will the Mordant hurl against us?”

”Now you know why I walk the walls so late at night.”

Lothar scowled. ”We need the king. Now more than ever.”

The marshal nodded. ”Just so.”

A cold wind howled outside, banging the shutters wide open. Sunlight streamed into the chamber, a shaft of light striping the floor. The marshal pulled his maroon cloak close, a buffer against the bitter chill.

”What's this?” Lothar followed the sunlight to the fireplace grate. Something gleamed among the ashes. He knelt to work it free. Gasping, he pulled back as if snake-bit, but then he bent to pick it up. ”The monk's crystal.” He stood, holding the milk-white crystal aloft. ”I never took the monk's test.” His gaze turned to the marshal. ”I guess I pa.s.sed, not a demon in disguise.” He set the crystal on the table.

Both men stared at it, as if it might spring to life.

Lothar broke the silence. ”The b.l.o.o.d.y demon almost got away with it, wearing gloves on his hands.”

The marshal shuddered at the thought, a demon-prince hiding among them, so close to the throne. In the thick of battle, the demon's orders would have been obeyed, betraying the Octagon. ”The monk did us a great service...but the price was high, perhaps too high.”

Lothar tugged on his mustache. ”The king should not have turned on the monk.”

”That was ill-done.” The marshal reached for the crystal. ”But this might prove a boon.”

”How so?”

”Fight magic with magic. Prove to the men there are no demons among us.” He fingered the crystalline shard, smooth as gla.s.s. ”A wonder it didn't shatter against the hearth floor.”

”A crystal tough as steel. It's not natural.” Lothar's voice dropped to a low growl. ”The king won't like it.”

”Sometimes duty is a hard road.” The marshal slipped the crystal into his pocket. ”Time to rouse the king from mourning. Will you join me?”

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