Part 30 (2/2)
”Peace has blunted the swords of the south. They've forgotten what lurks on their northern borders. We'll have no help from the south,” the king scowled, ”and we have not done enough to prepare.”
”What more can we do?”
”Catapults. We need catapults or trebuchets mounted on every tower of Raven Pa.s.s.”
”A long haul from Castlegard.”
”Then build them. There's plenty of trees further down the pa.s.s. I believe Sir Hunter has the plans. And get the healer involved, he's a scrollish man.”
”The healer building catapults?”
The king glared. ”We need to find advantages, Osbourne, for we shall not have the numbers.”
The words fell like a sword stroke. The marshal stared at his king.
”Come, let us hear what Ulrich has to report.” The king swept out of the solar, the marshal a half step behind. A pair of guards snapped a salute as they entered the council chamber. A dozen captains sat waiting at the round table. They stood at the king's entrance, big men in leather and chainmail, the smells of sweat and horse clinging to their maroon cloaks. The king greeted them by name, making his way to the high-backed chair. The king took his chair and the council began. Captains made their reports on men, weapons, and stores, the steady preparation for war.
The marshal listened to their tone as much as their words. Circling the table, he stood with his back to the roaring fire. Confidence ran high among the captains, perhaps bolstered by the king's presence, yet it was in this very room that two princes had died, impaled on a single sword. The others seemed to have forgotten, or perhaps they hid it better. Red eyes of the demon still haunted the marshal, a threat and a warning. He wondered if swords alone would be enough to win the coming battle.
Lothar sent him a questioning glance.
The marshal stilled his face and gave his friend the smallest of nods.
The door opened and Ulrich and two of his captains clattered into the room, mud and sweat staining their riding cloaks. A big bear of a man, with his father's broad shoulders and deep voice, the prince seemed to crowd the chamber. ”I've come as you commanded, father. Cragnoth Keep remains safe in the hands of the Octagon.”
A cheer filled the chamber.
The king rose and greeted his heir, clasping him close.
The marshal watched from the warmth of the fireplace. Ulrich seemed a younger version of the king, a big-boned man, a fierce warrior, yet there was something unfinished about the prince, something lacking, a pale imitation of the king. Perhaps the prince would grow into his role, given time.
The prince took a seat opposite the king, accepting a goblet of mead.
”Yours is the first true battle of this war.” The king gestured to his son. ”I would hear your report.”
Ulrich nodded. ”I bring word of victory...and treachery.”
His words sobered the room.
”More treachery!” The outburst came from Sir Dalt. ”The Crag is truly cursed.”
”Enough!” The king made a cutting gesture with his sword hand. ”I'll have no more rumors started at this table. Let the prince make his report.”
Ulrich fingered his beard, his face troubled. ”They came at sunset, thirty knights returning from a northern patrol. Sentries spotted them long before they reached the keep, a long maroon line riding up the switchbacks. Their horses were hard ridden, streaked with sweat. Their captain's name was Sir Lavor. He claimed they'd spied the vanguard of a vast army marching south across the steppes.”
Surprised by the mistake, the marshal flicked a glance to the king.
The king's face hardened to stone, yet the prince did not seem to notice.
The marshal asked the question. ”How did you learn his name?”
”I questioned him myself. He claimed Lionel sent them on patrol.”
The twitch in the king's eye quickened. ”So how did you spot their treachery?”
The prince paled but he did not balk at the question. ”A small thing, really. They did not stable their own horses.”
”Betrayed by arrogance,” the marshal nodded. ”And then?”
”I pressed them with questions and they answered with steel. The battle was bitter but we outnumbered them.” Ulrich nodded to the king. ”Treachery came to Cragnoth, just as you foretold.”
”Yet you let them in.” Anger rode the king's words.
The prince glared at his father. ”They spoke of Lionel and other knights of the Crag.” He reached behind to one of his captains. ”And their cloaks and surcoats were without fault.” From a saddlebag he pulled a maroon cloak and a silver surcoat, tossing both onto the table. Blood stained, the surcoat was pierced by many sword strokes.
Sir Dalt hissed, fingering the wool cloak. ”So now the enemy wears our own colors.”
Lothar scowled. ”Another way to divide us.”
Ulrich leaned forward, his fist on the table. ”Yes, but now we're forewarned.”
The king's gaze narrowed. ”What of the survivors?”
Rebuffed, the prince scowled. ”They fought like demons, refusing to surrender. But two of the wounded talked before they died.” His gaze circled the table. ”It seems they expected traitors to man the gates. Barring that, they planned to slit our throats in the dead of the night.”
”And after that?”
”They did not say.”
The king's face was rife with displeasure. ”Then you bring but half a warning.”
Anger stormed across Ulrich's face but the marshal intervened. ”Did you check their left arms?”
”Yes. Later. After the fighting.”
”And?”
Ulrich blanched. ”They all bore the marks, black runes tattooed on their left forearms.”
A ripple of nods circled the table.
Sir Rannock broke the silence. ”The Mordant marks his own, like brands on cattle.”
Sir Dalt nodded. ”Making the enemy easily identified, no matter the color of their cloaks.”
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