Part 47 (2/2)

”NO!” Two strides and the marshal swung. His great sword took the traitor at his throat, cleaving the head from the body. Blood gushed from the severed throat. Headless, the skeleton staggered for two steps and then crumpled to a b.l.o.o.d.y heap.

The marshal glared at the Mordant's guards and they chose to flee rather than fight, running for the enemy's lines.

A great shout rose from both armies, but the marshal did not care. He knelt by his king, grief struck. ”My lord!”

The king still lived, clutching the dark blade embedded in his chest, but it was a mortal blow, and they both knew it.

A sob broke from the marshal. ”My lord, they lied, it was not the Mordant.”

The king's eyes locked on his. ”Sound...retreat.”

Chaos erupted around him. The other champions surrounded the king with a ring of steel. And then a wagon rumbled near. The healer held the horses to a tight turn. Baldwin crouched in the wagon bed, his face chalk white. Quintus pulled the wagon to a stop. ”Put him here!” They bent to lift the king.

The healer shouted a warning. ”Remove the sword and he'll die!”

They lay the king in the wagon bed, the dark sword still protruding from his chest. Baldwin cradled the king's head, crying a river of tears. The healer cracked the reins. The wagon jerked forward, the horses lashed to a gallop.

The marshal grabbed the reins of his stallion and vaulted into the saddle. He threw a glance toward the far end of the valley. The enemy roiled in a froth of confusion. Putting spurs to his stallion, the marshal galloped back toward the Wh.o.r.e. ”Sound the retreat!” Standing in his stirrups, he yelled above the din. ”Sound the retreat!”

A single trumpeter obeyed, but it was enough. The call stirred the maroon to action. Like angry hornets flung from the nest they scrambled beyond the third wall, seeking mounts and supplies.

The marshal spied Lothar in the confusion. ”Get the men away. Tell them to split up and ride for the hills. If we leave a thousand trails, the enemy will never bother to follow. We'll regroup at the Stonehand in a fortnight.”

Lothar nodded. ”And you?”

”I'm with the king.” Heedless of anything else, the marshal put spurs to his horse and followed the wagon tracks toward the hillside, desperate to reach his king.

60.

Duncan Pain pierced every part of his body, a hundred stabs of agony. Chained to the stone floor, lying spread-eagled beneath the gibbering shadows, madness reached for Duncan yet he fought to keep his sanity. He needed to remember, he needed to live, holding onto the hope that Kath would come...yet he feared for her to dare the Mordant's stronghold.

Kath! Her name alone was like a balm, yet he tried not to think of her, afraid the shadows would invade his mind, tricking him into a betrayal. Yet sometimes he could not resist. Succ.u.mbing to daydreams, he clung to her easy smile or a flash of her leaf-green eyes, imagining all that could have been. Such dreams were sweet but fraught with danger. So he locked them tight in his heart, longing to know that she was safe.

On worse days, when nightmares plagued his mind, he lived in dread of the Mordant's return. Three times the Mordant had reached through his pain, using him as a scrying vessel to speak with the Dark Lord. Always it started with a foul, oily taste in his mouth, a prelude to agony. Even from afar, the Mordant inflicted torment, flaying his body with Darkness, using him like a wh.o.r.e, a sacrifice to the Dark Lord. Each ordeal seemed worse than the last, leaving him shuddering on the cold stone floor, gagging on the foul taste of Darkness. Duncan wondered how much more he could endure.

Naked and chained to the cavern floor, he struggled to survive the slow drip of time, nothing to do but suffer and wait. But then one day, he perceived a change. High among the stalact.i.tes, the shadows broiled like angry wasps; perhaps something spoiled the plans of the Dark Lord. Duncan took it as a sign of hope, watching the shadows through hooded eyes.

Later, much later, he learned the truth.

A small voice came to him in the back of his mind. *Are you there?*

*Yes!* He grabbed for the voice like a drowning man lunging for a piece of driftwood.

*Listen to me!* The voice of the monk whispered through his mind. *A great battle has been fought*”

His heartbeat quickened, thinking of Kath and her sword, but then he forced the image away, striving to listen.

*Raven Pa.s.s has fallen; the Mordant's hordes sweep south. The Octagon is defeated but not broken, not humiliated. A traitor was revealed, spoiling the Mordant's plans. Ever the Deceiver, the Mordant laid a trap for the knights, hoping to defeat the Octagon with their own honor. But the knights escaped the trap, scattering into the mountains. Even in defeat, there is still hope!*

*What about the north?* He longed for some word of Kath yet he dare not reveal too much. He still did not trust Bryce, not with his most precious secret.

*The Mordant's gaze is fixed on the south.* Urgency spiked the monk's words. *You must tell the others. The crystal dagger must come south!*

*Where are you? Tell me more*

Fear flashed through the whispered words, *The Mordant wakes. I dare not linger.*

And then the monk was gone, like a door closing in the back of his mind. Duncan was once more alone, trapped within his own nightmare. He rattled his chains and glared at the shadows, but within his mind he savored the words of the monk. Even in defeat, there is still hope. The words gave him strength, a way to fight back, making him a warrior once more. Laughter bubbled out of him, a wild berserker's laugh. Duncan stared at the shadows and roared his defiance. ”You shall not win!” From the depths of the cavern, his words echoed back to him, as if a thousand ghosts took up his war cry. ”You shall not win!” But the grim chorus could not shake his conviction. Even in this desolate h.e.l.l, Duncan knew there was more to the world than just darkness.

61.

Katherine Poised for battle, Kath and her band of warriors hid within the shadow of the citadel, waiting for the dark of the moon. The dark of the moon, that fallow time of the month when all life held its breath and the dead drew near. A time of superst.i.tion and fear, when honest folk sought shelter and nightmares held sway. Even the sea birds sensed the coming dark, stilling to a hush as twilight fled.

Kath made the moonless night her ally. Dark and forbidding and laden with omens, it was the perfect setting for a deceit of swords.

Twilight deepened. The dark was nearly upon them. Hiding beneath a sheepskin cloak, a smudge of cream against the snow, Kath led her small band toward the dark walls. Silent as death, they crept within the very shadow of the Dark Citadel. Needing the a.s.surance of cold steel, Kath drew her sword and stared up at the monstrous fist of stone, the lair of the Mordant.

Nightmares lurked within. She felt it in the marrow of her bones, yet she refused to turn back. More than a fortress, the citadel was a bastion of evil, a source of power for the Mordant. She swore to deny him that power. But oh, the risks. The painted people had come to believe in her, naming her their Svala, the wearer of their War Helm. Without reservation, they lent her all their strength, every warrior, young and old, male and female, committed to a single battle. If they failed...if she failed, a proud people would be left defenseless before the Mordant's soldiers. She could not fail. Yet despite the risks, she would not turn back. In the depths of her soul, she believed this was their one great chance to strike a blow against Darkness. And she believed her plan would work. Kath prayed to Valin like she'd never prayed before.

A soft rustle at her back. Beside her, Bear whispered, ”They come.”

Pride rushed through her; she'd never doubted it.

More than three thousand painted warriors crept across the frozen fields. Hiding beneath sheepskin cloaks, they seemed a part of the landscape, a wild force of nature. Approaching from the north, they lay in ambush behind her, waiting for her signal.

Kath planned to attack from the north, from the direction least expected. While the bulk of her army moved into position, another smaller force of eight hundred, led by Fanggold, was making its way up from the south with Danya. The citadel was an imposing fortress but it had two weaknesses, two gates, a main one on the south side, and a smaller sea gate in the north. Like swordplay, battle was all about feints and misdirection. If her plan worked, the forces of the citadel would rush to protect the southern gate while she attacked from the north. But much would depend on Danya and the dark moon.

She leaned towards Bear, keeping her words to a whisper. ”Call a runner.”

The big man cupped his hands to his mouth and made a soft whirring sound, imitating a bird of the steppes.

A few moments later, a youth clad in white sheepskin crept near. In the fading twilight, Kath could just make out the fierce fox tattooed on his face. ”Your name?”

”Tannin, Svala.”

”Tannin, I need you to get a message to Fanggold. Tell him to attack the barracks at the Pit, release the horses from the stables, and then set them aflame. And tell him to raise a loud noise, for I want the enemy to hear the battle. The citadel needs to be convinced that a great army lies beyond its southern gates.” She stared at him. ”Can you do that, Tannin?”

”Aye, Svala, I will.” And then he was gone, scurrying across the frozen fields like a mouse evading a hawk, his sheepskins blending into the snow.

Kath prayed he wasn't seen.

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