Part 47 (1/2)
The Knight Marshal Three hours to prepare for mortal combat, yet the king seemed at ease, pa.s.sing the time with his captains. The marshal sat at the king's right hand, sharing meat and mead by the fire's warmth. They supped on a light meal of roast ham, hard biscuits, and bread pudding, the best their meager stores could provide. Baldwin fussed over the king's armor, making sure every belt and buckle was secure, but there was no need to sharpen the king's sword, for blue steel never dulled.
King Ursus was in high spirits, regaling the men with tales of heroes from the Octagon's past. All the heroes triumphed, vanquis.h.i.+ng their foes with keen swords and dauntless courage. The marshal listened but he could not share the revelry. A feeling of doom pressed down upon him, obsessed with the riddle of the Mordant's challenge. He stared into the fire but found no answers.
The healer came begging a word, but the king dismissed him and the marshal ignored him. Neither man could stomach more words of warning.
All too soon, the time was gone. The marshal claimed the honor of armoring the king. Greaves and gauntlets, breastplate and bracers, he made sure each piece was tightened and secure, everything polished to a silvery glow. On the king's head he placed a crowned helm, and for his left arm, a ma.s.sive octagonal s.h.i.+eld made of stout oak and beaten metal. Few men could wield a great sword and a s.h.i.+eld, but the king did it with ease, a boon of blue steel.
Last of all, the marshal reached for the king's great sword, Honor's Edge. Five feet of peerless blue steel, the monk's crystal freshly set in the pommel; it was a mighty blade, a king's sword, forever honed to a silk-cutting edge.
”Not that sword.” The king's voice was a low growl. ”I'll take my revenge with Ulrich's sword, Mordbane.” His voice softened. ”The name always seemed a son's conceit but now it proves prophetic.” His voice hardened. ”I'll wield Mordbane, the perfect sword to claim a blood debt from the Mordant.”
A s.h.i.+ver of foreboding raced down the marshal's back. ”But Sire, for such a fight, you should use your own blade, the sword that best knows your hands.”
”Give me Mordbane, for I'll use no other.”
The king's voice was implacable. Bowing, the marshal unsheathed Honor's Edge, handing the great sword to Baldwin for safe keeping. Retrieving Ulrich's blue blade, he sheathed the sword and settled the harness across the king's shoulders.
Finished, the marshal bowed to his lord. ”May Valin guide your blade.”
The king smiled and gripped the marshal's arm, brothers-in-war once more. ”Osbourne, guard my back.”
It was the highest praise one warrior could give another. The marshal's voice caught. ”Always, Sire.”
A troop of knights brought the king's warhorse, Snowmantle, freshly curried and caparisoned in maroon and silver. Such splendid finery was unexpected. The men had clearly scavenged among the other mounts to outfit the stallion in the best the maroon had to offer, a gift for their king.
King Ursus openly admired the stallion and then he swung into the saddle like a man half his age. Unsheathing Mordbane, he raised the sapphire sword to the heavens. ”For Honor and the Octagon!”
The men answered with a thunderous roar. ”Honor and the Octagon!” They drew their weapons and beat their s.h.i.+elds, giving the king a warrior's acclaim.
As if in reply, a rumble of drums announced the enemy. A dark line appeared on the horizon. A thicket of spears and s.h.i.+elds clogged the snow-cloaked valley, yet the horde kept their distance. As before, only six riders approached the Wh.o.r.e, but one was the Mordant. Distinctive in his skeleton armor, he rode a ma.s.sive black stallion caparisoned in gold. Overhead, the Darkflamme fluttered and snapped like a serpent slithering in the wind, announcing his presence.
The marshal s.h.i.+vered with foreboding, but it was too late for words.
The king rode out to meet them. The marshal and four champions rode at his back, a keen set of weapons protecting their liege, the one precaution the king had agreed to. They stopped fifty yards beyond the wall, waiting for the enemy.
Six men rode toward them...led by the Skeleton King.
His armor glistened with a baleful light. Helm and breastplate, greaves and gauntlets, the silvery armor was patterned to resemble a lich king. The breastplate showed a skeleton's ribs, the helmet fas.h.i.+oned into a fearsome skull. A whisper of terror spiked the marshal, his gaze shying from the Mordant's armor. It reeked of wrongness, as if evil were somehow annealed into steel. A sudden queasiness gripped his stomach. A part of him wanted to rip the helm away and judge the enemy by his eyes, but another part expected a red-eyed ghoul to stare from the helm, a living dead encased in armor, a nightmare sprung from the pits of h.e.l.l. Doubt gnawed at the marshal, as if the king faced an invincible foe. He shuddered and looked away. ”Sire, you cannot fight that.”
”I gave my word.” The king swung down from his warhorse, a blaze of silver and maroon.
The marshal's horse stamped and s.h.i.+ed, fighting the bit as the enemy drew near.
Six riders stopped a bowshot away, the Darkflamme snapping overhead. The Mordant dismounted and walked forward alone.
The marshal swung down from his horse and gripped the reins, studying the enemy with veteran eyes. The skeleton helm hid the Mordant's face but he was most likely the younger man. Quickness and perhaps stamina would be to the Mordant's advantage, but the king had a lifetime of experience, a seasoned warrior, a master at the sword. And the king stood slightly taller and heftier than the Mordant, giving him the advantage of reach and strength. The Mordant carried no s.h.i.+eld, but that was to be expected. Only blue steel allowed a great sword to be wielded in one hand, another advantage to the king. But the skeleton armor proved hard to look at, as if some dark magic ensorcelled it with an aura of dread. Steel against magic, he liked it not. The marshal made the hand sign against evil, sending a desperate prayer to Valin.
The king met the Mordant halfway. Whatever words were exchanged, the marshal could not hear. The combatants moved apart, putting two spear lengths of snowy ground between them.
King Ursus drew his blue sword, a gleam of sapphire in the afternoon light. ”For Honor and the Octagon!”
The Mordant remained silent, slowly drawing his sword. The great sword had the same length as the king's, but the blade was black! Dark as sin, it seemed to swallow the light.
”What sorcery is this?” The marshal's words were a hiss.
Beside him, Sir Rannock growled, ”We swore not to interfere.”
The marshal ground his teeth, ”Sorcery was not part of the bargain!” but the battle was already joined. The king sprang forward, attacking with an overhand cut. The sapphire sword sliced down with a deadly whistle, a mighty overhand cleave, but the Mordant glided sideways, evading the blue sword. Pivoting, the king chased his opponent with a powerful diagonal cut, but once again the Mordant slipped away, almost as if he antic.i.p.ated the king's moves. Attack and evade, the battle fell into a maddening rhythm.
”He's toying with him, trying to wear the king down.”
”But look at his footwork, the b.a.s.t.a.r.d glides like a veteran.”
And it was true, the Mordant fought like a seasoned knight. The marshal's mind screamed a warning, yet he could only watch.
Stroke and evade, they circled like a pair of scorpions wary of each other's sting. The king's footwork began to slow, and the Mordant leaped to the attack. The black blade slashed down in an overhand cut. The king was quick to parry. For the first time, the two blades met in a fearsome clash...but the sound was wrong. Instead of a metallic clang, the swords loosed an ear-shattering screech.
Blue steel screamed in pain! The sound sc.r.a.pped across the marshal's soul.
The king staggered backwards, but then he recovered, aiming a fury of blows at the Mordant's head. The black blade parried each blow...and each time the steel screamed.
The combatants broke apart, slowly circling, testing with a series of feints. Fatigue slowed their footsteps, but both kept their swords raised. It seemed as if both men waited for an opening, but then the king did something unexpected. He hurled his s.h.i.+eld at the Mordant, making him stumble. Leaping forward, the king attacked with a mighty two-handed blow, a great overhand cleave. Keening a deadly whistle, the sapphire sword descended like righteous vengeance. The blow should have cut the Mordant in two, but somehow the Skeleton King raised his dark sword. Black steel parried the blue blade, releasing a deafening screech.
And then the king's blade broke.
Blue steel sheared in half! Ulrich's sword failed!
The marshal gaped in horror. ”Impossible!”
The king staggered to a stop, staring at his broken sword, little more than a hilt in his hands.
The Mordant attacked, sending a vicious cut to the king's head.
Weaponless, the king jerked backward, trying to avoid the blow...and then he tripped and fell. The Mordant leaped forward. Placing his boot on the king's chest, he held him at sword point. The Mordant removed his helm. ”Behold the man who claims the life of a king! Vengeance is mine this day!”
The marshal gasped for he knew the face. Not a ghoul, not a lich, but a man with broken octagons branded deep into his cheeks, Raymond, the traitor-knight of Castlegard. The marshal's great sword leaped to his hand as if it belonged there. Rage drove him forward, a scream of defiance on his lips. ”No!”
The traitor lifted the black sword in a two-handed grip, the tip held poised above the king's chest.
The marshal redoubled his speed, desperate to save the king.
The black blade plunged down. An unstoppable force, it sliced through steel and leather, flesh and bone. The king screamed as if burnt.