Part 49 (1/2)

Blaine and Bear stayed close, their weapons held at the ready. They hid in the alley while the mob thundered pa.s.sed.

Moments later the army followed. Howling like wolves, the painted warriors ran through the street like a pack loosed to the wild hunt.

Kath stepped from the alley, standing within a ring of torchlight. The painted warriors raised a great cheer. ”Svala!” Their shout shook the citadel. ”Svala!” She drew her sword and led them forward, feeling the weight of destiny at her back.

63.

The Knight Marshal The marshal pushed his horse to a frothing gallop. The wagon proved too easy to follow. Twin ruts carved a path into snow, an easy signpost for friends or foes. Their best defense was confusion. With the maroon in retreat, the marshal hoped they'd leave too many trails for the enemy to follow, a scattering of thousands disappearing into the foothills, like mice scurrying to countless boltholes.

Horns echoed up from the valley, a desperate blare repeating the retreat, but his only care was for the king. He gained the hilltop and skirted a stand of cedar, deep green against a forest of winter branches, a crust of snow covering the ground. The hillside dipped into a hidden valley, a small hollow nestled among the pines. Somewhere in the heights an owl hooted, a lonely sound. He spurred his horse forward, praying he wasn't too late.

The wagon stood at the heart of the hollow, horses lathered and blowing, hobbled within in their traces. A ma.s.sive oak loomed overhead like a marker, bare branches stark against a winter sky. Shadows crowded the hollow, the first touch of twilight. The marshal s.h.i.+vered, pulling his maroon cloak close, too many portents of death.

Three champions guarded the king, their weapons unsheathed. Sir Rannock, Sir Blaze, and Sir Abrax stood sentry around the wagon, grim-faced veterans, alert and wary, but they lowered their weapons when he rode into sight.

The marshal swung down from the saddle before the horse even came to a stop. His gaze sought out Sir Rannock. ”Is he still?”

Sir Rannock nodded, his face tense. ”Just.”

Sir Abrax growled, ”Did you see his face? A traitor hiding beneath the Mordant's armor,” he hawked and spat, ”treachery and treason combined.”

Sir Rannock said, ”If the arrogant b.a.s.t.a.r.d hadn't lifted his visor we might have honored the terms.”

But the marshal had no time for idle banter. ”You three stand guard at the top of the rise. The wagon paints too clear a trail. We dare not be surprised.”

The men saw through his words but they obeyed, mounting their horses with a swirl of maroon.

”And take Baldwin with you. I must speak with the king.”

Dazed with shock, the red-haired squire obeyed. He swung up behind Sir Blaze, gripping the knight's maroon cloak.

Sir Rannock saluted. The horses whirled, a clatter of hooves on stone.

But the marshal was already focused on the king. Drawn like iron to a lodestone, he strode toward the wagon. The king lay sprawled across the flatbed, his face pale, his silver hair matted with sweat, his breastplate skewered by the dark sword. They'd removed most of his armor, but not the breastplate. The hilt of the blade jutted up from the king's chest, dark and obscene, proof of treachery and treason.

The marshal flicked a questioning glance to the healer. ”Still alive?” The words were nearly a sob but the healer gave the barest of nods.

The marshal forced out the other question. ”Can you?”

Quintus shook his head, his face lined with sadness. ”He is beyond my skill.” The brown-robed healer knelt by the king, gently easing a poultice under the breastplate.

”Osbourne...is that you?” The king's hand reached out.

The marshal climbed into the wagon. Kneeling, he gripped the outstretched hand, so cold the king seemed already dead, one hand reaching from the grave. ”Stay with me, my liege.”

”Blue steel...failed.”

The marshal rushed to rea.s.sure his lord. ”It wasn't the fault of the sword, or the wielder.” Pride leached into his voice. ”You fought like a legend, sire. But the dark blade is surely cursed, another trick of the Mordant. At least the traitor is dead, I promise you that.”

Pain ripped across the king's face. ”It burns, Osbourne. It sucks the life from me. Pull it out.”

He yearned to rip the cursed blade from his king's body yet his gaze sought the healer.

Quintus whispered a warning. ”Remove it and he dies all the quicker.”

He gripped the king's hand, willing him to live. ”My lord, there is something I need ask.”

”The men?”

”I sounded the retreat and ordered the men to scatter. We'll regroup in a fortnight and harry the enemy from the rear.” Stubborn pride filled his voice. ”Be a.s.sured, my lord, the Octagon fights on.”

”Good.” The king sighed, as if a great weight eased from his shoulders, but then his face twisted in pain. ”The sword, Osbourne! It burns!”

The marshal dreaded asking the question yet it needed to be done. ”My lord, the Octagon needs a king.”

The king stared up at him, a bubble of blood at the side of his mouth. ”Five sons...dead.”

”Yes, my lord.” The marshal could not imagine another man wearing the octagon crown yet he persisted. ”Who will you name as your successor? One of the champions or a younger captain, someone who can take the Anvril name and wear the crown? Perhaps Sir Abrax or Sir Blaze or Sir Ademar?”

The healer intervened. ”My lord, you still have an heir of your body.”

The marshal rebuked the healer with a sharp stare but Quintus persisted, his voice low and urgent. ”Princess Katherine is the rightful heir to the Octagon.”

The marshal reared back in shock. ”A mere girl?”

”She proved herself at Cragnoth Keep, defeating Trask and the other traitors. And she lit the signal fires calling the Octagon to war. And she dared go north when others would not listen.”

The marshal felt the weight of the great sword strapped to his back, another man's sword, taken from the ashes of the signal tower. ”True knights fought at Cragnoth, Sir Tyrone and Sir Blaine, how dare you ascribe their deeds to a mere girl.”

Anger rode the healer's words. ”You're as blind as the others. The G.o.ds choose Katherine. She is the true bane of the Mordant.”

”A mere girl cannot wear the octagon crown.”

”Does...Katherine...still live?”

The king's question stilled both men.

The healer answered. ”Sire, she must, else our best hope is lost.” Quintus bent toward the king, conviction in his voice. ”She is your true heir, a warrior and a leader.”

Blood frothed at the king's mouth. ”Only...a girl.”

Frustration rode the healer's words. ”Trust to your blood if nothing else. She is the last of your line. An Anvril, born and bred to the sword!”

”My sons...were born to...lead.”