Silk And Steel: The Skeleton King Part 38

The marshal nodded. "Their numbers are daunting but there's no sign of siege engines or cavalry."

The king scowled. "Another trick. What's the devil up to?"

But the marshal had no answer.

As if in reply, the drumbeat changed to a faster tempo. The enemy swarmed forward, marching toward the walls. Details became clear. Officers in plumed helms strode the front lines, pentacles inscribed on their breastplates. Bearded faces howled a war cry. Rows of spears bristled in a deadly thicket. Swords pounded against black s.h.i.+elds, keeping time to the drums. The thin strip of open gra.s.sland shrank to fifty yards, a narrow killing field.

"Sound the alert." The trumpets obeyed, a trill of notes.

From the height of the second wall, the marshal watched as knights on the first wall readied for battle. Dubbed s.h.i.+eldbreaker by the men, the thirty-foot outer wall suddenly seemed a meager barrier against the surging horde.

A shout rose from the enemy. Spears launched into the morning sky. So many, they rose in a thick arc, a wave of darkness blocking the sun. Uttering an unearthly wail, ten thousand spears screamed a shrill whistle as they fell. "Raise s.h.i.+elds!" s.h.i.+elds snapped skyward all along the first wall, a maroon bulwark raised in defense. The timing was perfect. Spearheads thudded into thick oak. A few men screamed but most roared their defiance.

"Give them our answer." The king spoke and the trumpets sounded.

Archers on the first wall raised their bows, releasing a rain of arrows.

Trebuchets on the second wall creaked and groaned, hurling ma.s.sive boulders into the sky. As if lobbed by giant hands, the boulders tumbled upward, rising over the first wall and sailing out over the horde. An impossible weight of stone, the marshal watched them fall, clouds of blood and gore marking each strike.

Beside him, a squire yelled. "Twenty men with one stone!"

It seemed a mighty feat, yet it was like dropping a pebble in the ocean. The enemy ranks closed and the b.l.o.o.d.y holes disappeared.

Archers loosed another volley. A wave of spears answered. The sun climbed the sky and still the rain of missiles fell. Raised s.h.i.+elds caught most of the spears but there were always a few shrieks of pain. Healers raced along the wall, removing the dead and the dying, a slow winnowing of the maroon.

Once more the drums changed their beat.

The marshal tensed, knowing what was to come.

Archers appeared in the enemy's front lines. Black fletched arrows soared skyward. A wave of darkness sailed over the first wall, reaching for the second.

The marshal stood his ground, watching the deadly arc. "Wait for it!" The first wave was always the hardest. He summoned his courage, refusing to flinch. The faint whistle grew louder, the sound of death's herald.

"s.h.i.+elds!" He screamed the command. Braced for impact, he lifted his oaken s.h.i.+eld. Beside him, the king leaped forward, raising his own s.h.i.+eld over a fear-frozen squire. "Sire!" He yelled a warning but death was upon them. A hail of steel tipped arrows plummeted down. Feathered shafts thudded around him, biting deep. Two struck the marshal's s.h.i.+eld, a third just missing his foot. Someone screamed a howl of pain. A few frantic heartbeats later, the rain of arrows stopped.

Lowering his s.h.i.+eld, the marshal sprang towards the king. Miraculously, the king and squire stood unscathed, but others were not so lucky. All along the wall, men screamed while others lay dead, felled where they stood. "Sire, you dare not take such risks."

The king replied with a frosty glare. "Young Emmett here has learned a lesson." The king gave the squire a conspirator's smile. "Next time, you'll keep your s.h.i.+eld raised."

Hero-wors.h.i.+p shown from the lad's face. "Yes, Sire."

"Now get to the armory and tell Steward Malt we'll be needing more arrows."

The lad sped away, the north wind tugging at his gray cloak.

A faint whistle warned of another a.s.sault.

"s.h.i.+elds!" The marshal screamed the order, but this time he stayed close to his king. Arrows thumped into oaken s.h.i.+elds while others clattered harmless against stonewalls. But some found their mark. Beside him, a squire screamed in pain, an arrow piercing his shoulder. The marshal bellowed, "Get him to the healers!" Two soldiers leaped to obey. Further down the wall, someone shrieked in pain.

"Ware the arrows!"

The marshal raised his s.h.i.+eld. Between each wave, the Octagon replied in kind. Trebuchets groaned with effort. Boulders and arrows hurled upward, answered by arrows and spears. The deadly war of attrition lasted for the better part of the day. The marshal figured they killed more than they lost, but the size of the horde remained staggering.

Late in the afternoon, the enemy changed tactics.

Their drums beat a wild rhythm as their front lines parted with a roar. Twenty men emerged, carrying a ma.s.sive battering ram.

"On the ram!" The king shouted the order and the trumpets gave a complicated trill.

A flight of arrows launched towards the ram like a swarm of angry hornets.

A few of the enemy staggered and fell, but the others ran on, bearing the ram toward the outer gate.

Prince Ulrich had the honor of holding the outer wall. His men swarmed the barbican above the ironshod gate, a gleam of silver surcoats and maroon s.h.i.+elds.

Another flight of arrows and still the ram came.

"Get them." The marshal's gaze followed each flight, willing the arrows to strike true. The G.o.ds must have heard. Feathered shafts p.r.i.c.ked the men like quills of a porcupine. Skewered, they dropped their burden, falling twenty yards short of the gate.

A cheer rang from the walls, but the victory was short lived.

Another twenty men emerged from the horde. Holding s.h.i.+elds overhead, they raced for the ram. Taking up the fallen burden, they lumbered toward the gate. A thicket of arrows flew from both sides, yet the ram drew near.

Boom! Like a ma.s.sive fist, the ram came calling. But the maroon cloaked defenders knew their craft. Men scurried across the barbican dousing the attackers with oil. Fire arrows followed. Flames roared to life just beyond the gate. Men screamed and flailed, black smoke belching into the sky. Capering like fire demons, they fled from the gate, abandoning the ram.

Cheers erupted from both walls, but the king and the marshal remained silent.

Three times the enemy rammed the gate and three times they failed.

The king watched from the second wall, the marshal by his side. "Ulrich and his men fought well this day." He spoke loud enough for those around him to hear. The marshal knew the king's praise would be repeated till it reached the prince's ear.

The sun sank toward the horizon, calling an end to the b.l.o.o.d.y day. The drums pounded and the enemy withdrew, leaving their dead littered across the trampled gra.s.s like flotsam on the sh.o.r.es of h.e.l.l. The horde retreated beyond reach of the trebuchets. Ma.s.sive boulders studded the trampled gra.s.sland, blood spatters giving proof to their kills. A grim silence drenched the steppes, a sodden lull before the next storm.

Struck by weariness, the marshal leaned against the rampart plucking arrows from his s.h.i.+eld. "The fighting seems done for the day. Shall we retire, my lord?"

"Not yet."

Beyond the killing ground, tents mushroomed across the steppes, too many to count. Twilight faded and the sky deepened to purple. The marshal kept vigil with the king. "Do you see, Osbourne?"

And then the marshal understood. Tents sprawled below but there were few campfires. "Just as you foretold, they have no wood for campfires."

The king nodded. "The Mordant uses winter as a goad."

"Yet we won the day." The words sounded hollow to his own ears. The first day in any war was always a test, two armies trading blows, gauging the strength of the other.

The king seemed to hear his thoughts. "They held back."

Truth rode the king's words, truth and a hint of doom. The marshal put steel in his voice. "Arrows and spears will never win the wall."

The king gave him a piercing stare. "The Mordant does not ride to war with numbers alone." The king gazed down upon the steppes. "We have not yet seen their worst."

A cold wind gusted out of the north like a evil portent, tugging on their maroon cloaks.

"Come," the king turned away from the rampart, "I've seen enough for one day."

He followed his king to the stairs. "And what do you expect on the morrow."

"I cannot say." The king flashed him a grim look. "But if the G.o.ds owe you any favors, pray for snow. Winter's likely to be our only ally."

46.

Katherine They did not believe her. It was written upon their faces. Kath balled her hands into fists, wondering what it would take to win their trust. Thirty-six council leaders sat cross-legged on the floor of the small oval cavern, glow crystals casting shadows against the rough rock walls. Tattooed faces stared back at her. Eagle, bear, boar, fox, owl, mountain lion, a pantheon of predators listened to her plan for war. The Ancestor sat on the far side of the cavern, a ma.s.s of wrinkles peering from a mound of sheepskins. The Old One's face proved hard to read but it was the others Kath needed to convince. Her stare circled the chamber, willing the council to believe. "It's a rare chance to strike a dire blow at the Mordant. But the opportunity is fleeting. Are you with me?"

Her words collided with dead silence.

The quiet proved unsettling. Half the council stared at her with faces grim as stone, while the other half sneered in open disbelief.

Hands on hips, she met their stares, a brazen show of confidence. She wore the War Helm, a not-so-subtle reminder of her status, but even that did not seem to help.

An eagle faced warrior broke the silence. "You call that a plan?" He snorted, his face full of loathing. "Sounds more like the ravings of a drunken bard."

A storm of protests followed. "You'll get us all killed."

"It will never work."

"This is what comes from letting a woman wear the War Helm."

"Never trust a barefaced stranger."

Kath shouted over their insults, desperate to make them believe. "Don't you see? You dare not fight a conventional war. You're out-numbered, and out-trained, and under armed. In a straight attack, you'll lose every time." Hostile faces glared at her, insulted by the truth, yet it needed to be said. Taking a deep breath, Kath plunged on. "Deception, guile, and daring, these are your best weapons! This plan gives you, gives us, the best chance to strike at the Mordant."

A fox faced man leaned forward, a sneer riding his face. "Perhaps you seek your missing archer. Risking us all in a bid to get him back?"

Duncan. For half a heartbeat, Kath swayed on her feet. Where was he? Did he still live? Her nightmares were getting worse. Desperate to see him again, she longed to prove he still lived, but this was about more than one man. She took a steadying breath, her voice as hard as stone. "We fight to defeat the Mordant, to strike a blow at the Dark."

The fox leader scowled. "So you say, but words are cheap."

The Old One intervened. "A Taishan of the painted people foresaw her coming. She bears the crystal dagger and sees the world differently. Her words are worth considering."

A few of the leaders nodded, the Old One's words held sway.

Kath seized the advantage, pressing her argument. "Your scouts report a great war host marched south. The Mordant empties the north in a bid to conquer Erdhe. This is our chance to strike at the citadel, to cripple the Dark. The odds will never be better."

"But the steppes are cruel in winter."

Kath nodded. "The Mordant chooses the time for battle. Now is the time to strike no matter the weather."

Royce, the lion-faced leader with a mane of auburn hair, nodded encouragement. "Tell us more."

She gave him a grateful smile. "Timing is critical. We attack the citadel at the dark of the moon. Danya's deception will draw their forces to the south gate, while we attack the north gate. We strike hard and fast under the cloak of confusion."

The fox faced leader barked a rude laugh. "You'll never take the gates. And when morning comes, the truth of your deception will be revealed, fading away with the dawn light." His stare circled the chamber. "We'll all die, paying for her folly."

Kath stood her ground, drilling him with her stare. "It's not a folly. I'll open the gates myself."

"You!" His voice roared with ridicule. "By yourself? Now that makes all the difference. This slip of a girl will open the gates of the citadel? Might as well claim she can open the gates of h.e.l.l!"

More than a few smirked in agreement.

So they didn't believe her. Words were never enough. They needed proof, they needed a miracle. "Watch and I'll prove it." Reaching beneath her leather jerkin, she gripped her gargoyle. Nodding to the Ancestor, she strode to the wall and put her back to the rough rock. For half a heartbeat, she hesitated. Walls were easy but a mountain of stone was something else, something to fear. "Watch and believe." Taking a deep breath, she called the magic, and stepped back into the rock wall.

Stone embraced her. Strong and permanent, the mountain called to her. Whispering promises of forever, the stone invited her to become one with the ancient rock, locked in an eternal embrace. Kath resisted the call, thinking of sunlight and green leaves and Duncan. Duncan! Her concentration faltered. Gripping her gargoyle, she stilled her mind and stepped forward, praying she hadn't lost her bearings.

Sound and light returned in a rush. Kath stepped back into the cavern.

A chorus of gasps echoed the chamber.

A few made the hand sign against evil.

She gave the council a small smile. "Stone walls will not stop me."

Nods of agreement met her words. Kath did a quick count. She'd gained half their number. But half was not enough. Kath met the stares of the doubters and filled her voice with confidence. "The plan is bold and daring, and decidedly different, I'll grant you that, but it will work." She gripped the hilt of the crystal dagger. "My friends and I make better allies than you know."

The Old One chuckled, dark eyes twinkling in a map of wrinkles. Few besides Kath seemed to notice.

Brant, the leader of the boars, shook his head, his face stubborn. "But even if we gain the citadel, we're still out numbered. We'll never hold it."

She'd thought of that. "The citadel teems with slaves and servants. Given a chance, won't they rise against their captors?"

The boar leader looked troubled. "They might, and then again they might not. Slavery is bred into their bones. Few ever escape to gain the tattoos of free people."

Royce intervened. "They might rise, if they knew we were coming."

The fox faced man barked a laugh. "What? Now we're sending heralds. So much for surprise."

Kath paced the chamber, her mind chewing the problem. Frustrated, she pushed her hands deep into her pockets, and found the answer lurking at the bottom. "There might be a way." She held the small pebble aloft, the sling stone given to her by Bear. "We could send them a message carried by ravens." She tossed the stone to the fox faced man.

He glared at the markings carved on the pebble. "Ouch! That's your message?"

A few council leaders chuckled, while others looked annoyed.

"No. We'll send a simple message writ in the symbols of slaves. Something cryptic like fight at the dark moon."