Part 49 (2/2)

”And all of them are dead!”

The king gasped for breath, making a painful gurgle.

The marshal heard death lurking beneath the sound. ”My lord, speak but a name and they will wear the crown.” He leaned toward the king, desperate for an answer. ”Will you have Katherine as your heir? Or will you name another? One of your champions or a younger captain?” He held his breath, willing the king to speak.

The king's stare moved from the marshal to the healer and then toward the distant heavens. ”My...sons!” Blood frothed at his mouth...and then his face went slack as death.

”My lord, no!” The marshal gripped the king's hand, but there was no life left. Sorrow warred with rage. A scream ripped out of him. ”My king!” He stood and yanked the cursed sword from the king's body...and the hilt burned his hands! Like cold fire eating through mail and leather, it stung him. He hurled the cursed blade into the woods. ”It burns!”

The others heard his shout and came riding at a gallop.

He stood in the wagon, consumed by grief. ”The king is dead.”

They milled on their horses, staring up at him, shock writ large across their faces, yet they waited for a single name to be proclaimed. But he had nothing to give them. Instead he said, ”Time to honor our king. He earned a hero's cairn.”

The others bowed their heads in acceptance.

The marshal shot the healer a silencing glare.

They washed the king and bound his wounds. One last time, the marshal armored his lord, greaves and gorget, bracers and helm. They laid him on the crest of the hill, where he could keep watch over Raven Pa.s.s. The marshal arranged the king's maroon cloak so it covered the hideous rent in his breastplate. King Ursus looked as if he slept, his skin as pale as alabaster, yet he would never again wield a sword or lead the maroon into battle. Grief choked the marshal's throat.

They raised a cairn of stones over him, working late into the night. The healer offered to help but the marshal sent him away, keeping the honor for the maroon.

Working in silence, they scavenged stones from the hillside. The marshal set the last stone on the shoulder-high cairn. A great sadness descended upon him. There should have been trumpets and drums and a long recitation of honors, but there were only four knights and a squire attending the grave. The marshal drew his sword in a final salute. A ring of steel came from the others. He raised his sword to the heavens. ”For Honor and the Octagon!”

The others echoed his cry. ”Honor and the Octagon!”

The marshal stood at the head of the cairn, remembering his king. ”Here lies Ursus Anvril, a valiant king, a staunch warrior, a man of honor, he gave his life defending the southern kingdoms, the last great king of the Octagon.”

He felt the other's stares but he had no more words to give. One at a time, they sheathed their weapons and bowed toward the cairn and then they drifted away, but the marshal kept vigil with his lord. Twining his gloved hands around his sword hilt, he stood guard over the cairn, watching the stars span the winter sky. The world seemed a lonely place, impossibly empty without his king.

Something white glided through the trees. Silent as a ghost, it came to rest just beyond the cairn. ”Whoooo?” A giant frost owl stared up at him, golden eyes glowing in the faint starlight. The owl seemed to ripple and stretch and then a blue-robed monk stood in its place.

The marshal staggered back a step. ”So it's true!” The monk looked older, dark rings beneath his eyes, more than a touch of gray feathering his long hair.

”My sorrow for your loss.” The monk gestured to the cairn. ”It seems I've come too late. But perhaps all is not lost.” Aeroth raised his right hand, palm held outward, revealing the blue tattoo of a Seeing Eye. ”For the third time, I come bearing warnings to the Octagon. The king has fallen and shadows threaten all of Erdhe. Time grows short. Will you listen?”

The marshal gripped his sword, suddenly realizing all the decisions were now his to bear. ”Speak your words.”

”A great king dies without naming an heir.”

The marshal gasped, the meddling monks knew too much.

But Aeroth gave him no time to respond. ”It is best if the Octagon remains headless.”

”Why?”

”So that the Mordant's gaze is kept elsewhere, away from the rightful heir.”

His mind seemed to be stuffed with wool. ”The rightful heir?”

The monk gave him a piercing stare. ”Katherine of Castlegard.”

He gaped to hear the name. ”Just a girl.” But sometimes he wondered, ever since the battle at Cragnoth Keep, but it could not be, it went against everything he believed. ”Just a girl.”

”The king's trueborn daughter, born and bred to the sword, yet she is far more than just a warrior.”

A girl wielding a sword, the image was unsettling. ”Why does the octagon crown matter to you?”

”It matters to Erdhe.”

Anger boiled within him. ”So now the truth is revealed. Your Order is nothing but a bunch of b.l.o.o.d.y kingmakers.”

The monk shrugged, but the intensity of his gaze never lessened. ”We've been called worse.” He gestured to the cairn. ”One age is ended but another begins. Born of blood and deceit, the new age threatens to be full of Darkness unless a few dare to make a difference.” The monk stared at him, as if peering into his very soul. ”Will you dare to be among the few?”

”I'll hear your words but I'll make no promises”

”My Order takes the long view. Unlike the king, you know our warnings are worth heeding.”

The marshal waited, unwilling to answer.

”Name no heir, at least for now.”

He could have laughed, or cried, for he had no heir to name. For the thousandth time this night, he wished the king had spoken a name, just one name, any name, taking the awful weight from his shoulders. ”I'll wait...for now.”

The monk nodded, his face solemn. ”And be wary of the dark sword, for it is not meant for the hands of men.” And then the monk was s.h.i.+fting, blurring, changing, till a giant frost owl took wing into the night.

”Wait! I have questions.” But the owl was already gone, soaring over the treetops.

The marshal swayed on his feet, suddenly struck with a profound weariness. Too much had happened this day, too much loss, too much pain. The night tightened around him, dark and cold and quiet...and full of loneliness.

Torchlight glimmered in the valley below. A river of torches moved south, too many to count. The enemy rallied, claiming Raven Pa.s.s. The way was open to the south, nothing to stop the Mordant's hordes. The Octagon had failed.

Defeat, the word tasted sour in his mind. Weary and disheartened, the marshal leaned on his sword, standing guard over the cairn. His king was gone and the world had changed. His soul rang with sadness. Perhaps the monk had the truth of it. Perhaps it was a new age, full of magic and darkness, full of tricks and deceit, but for the sake of his king, he would not give up. He raised his sword to the night sky and made his pledge before the king's cairn. ”For Honor and the Octagon!” And it seemed the mountains echoed his cry, as if the G.o.ds accepted his word. Perhaps honor and valor still mattered in a world turned dark. The marshal clung to the hope, for it was all he had left.

64.

Katherine The fighting was fierce, a brutal plod through the cobblestone streets. The Dark Citadel proved a stone beehive full of stinging traps. Each level was guarded by a gate and each gate marked a different battle, a logjam of death, yet the fighting never seemed to end.

Corpses littered the street, the dead mingled with the dying. They left a b.l.o.o.d.y trail behind them, racing the ever-tightening death spiral toward the clouds. Resistance stiffened as they neared the top. Kath supposed the wealthy had more to lose but she refused to be bogged down in a siege. Urging her men forward, she used her magic to take most of the gates, but each level grew harder, weariness sapping her strength.

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