“And Prince Lionel?”
“Not among them. But it seems they used the signal fire as a funeral pyre. There’s armor and bones among the ashes.” Sir Winton gave the king a hesitant look. “I found a scroll pinned to the door of the signal tower with a dagger. It bears the seal of a hawk in flight.” He handed the scroll to the king.
The king gave the marshal a piercing stare. “It must be from Lionel, but none of this makes sense.” The king broke the seal, reading in silence. His face remained stoic, but his eyes flashed with anger…and something deeper, something the marshal refused to see.
Crumpling the parchment in his mailed fist, the king sheathed his sword. “I’ll see this funeral pyre for myself.” He glared at Sir Winton. “Lead the way.”
The knight saluted, leading the king and the marshal into the tower. A narrow staircase spiraled up through the keep’s stone heart. The steps were worn deep, carved by centuries of honor. The Crag was old and never defeated, and now this. The marshal scowled, his hand gripping his sword hilt. Halfway up, smears of blood marked the walls, more signs of battle, but the bodies had already been removed. They rounding five spirals before the staircase opened to the great hall. An appalling stench hit them in the face, a foul mix of stale ale and rotten bodies. A bloated corpse swayed on a rope hung from the rafters. An overturned bench beneath the dangling feet told the tale.
The king growled, “Cut that body down and take it outside with the others.”
Two knights leaped to obey.
Sir Vardine approached, a length of charred rope in his hands. “Sire, we found this tied to the catapult on the lower parapet. They left the burnt length dangling over the battlement.”
The marshal took the rope and sniffed the burnt end. “Soaked in oil.” A piece of the puzzle fell into place. “After the battle, they barred the gates and climbed down the rope, escaping into the north.” He handed the charred rope back to the knight. “But why the battle? And why leave the keep secure?”
A thunderstorm raced across the king’s face. “Osbourne, with me.” The king strode toward the spiral staircase, climbing the stairs two at a time. The marshal followed, past the sixth floor and up to the windswept parapet. He stepped from the doorway, into the biting cold.
A signal platform dominated the tower top.
The king stood next to the platform, studying the charred remains.
The fire must have been fierce. Most of the bones were consumed, but the armor remained, forming an outline of a knight. A melted half-helm, blackened chainmail, the hilt of a great sword, the steel edging of an oak shield, all burnt and blackened, lying ruined amidst the ashes. The marshal stared at the burnt mystery, waiting for the king’s explanation, hoping it wasn’t Lionel. The silence stretched.
“It was Katherine.”
“What?” The marshal turned to gape at his king. “Your daughter?”
“If the note is to be believed.”
“But the battle? All the dead knights?”
“Blaine and his blue sword, and Sir Tyrone, and perhaps a handful of archers.” The king shook his head. “And now they’ve gone into the north, corrupted by the monks.”
The marshal struggled to understand. “But why?”
“They found Trask in charge and bloodstains on their beds. Suspecting murder, they tried to flee but were discovered and had to fight their way out.” He gestured toward the funeral pyre. “The dead knight is Sir Tyrone. The note claims he died a hero, trying to hold the passageway while the others escaped.”
“Murder!” The marshal found it hard to believe. “No knight would draw steel on the king’s own daughter!”
King Ursus gaze was glacier-cold. “Katherine spins a foolish tale of the Mordant.”
The marshal could only stare.
“I know. Hard to believe the rantings of a misguided girl.” The king crumpled the note in his mailed fist. “I should have taken Katherine to hand long ago.”
The marshal considered the evidence. All the pieces fit save one. “And Lionel?”
“Murdered.” Grief burned in the king’s steel-green eyes. “Send men to look for the slain below the tower.” His voice betrayed the faintest quaver. The king turned his back on the marshal, staring into the bitter north.
The marshal waited. King Ursus was a stern man but he loved his sons well, especially Lionel. “My lord, I am sorry.”
“First Tristan and now Lionel, both slain, both stolen from me. The gods take the best of my sons. How can they be so cruel?” The king shook his head, his silver hair shimmering like the mane of an aging lion. “Lionel would have worn the crown well. And now he lies murdered, killed by traitors in maroon cloaks. Dark times are upon us.” His mailed fist slammed against the battlement, once, twice, and then a third…but when he turned, his face was a mask of steel. “My son’s body will be found and the Octagon will be purged of any taint.”
The marshal nodded. “I’ll see to it myself. And then?”
A grim smile graced the king’s face. “War.”
“And what of Katherine? Should I send a patrol after her?”
“Daughters are naught but a disappointment.” The king shook his head. “Thank the gods that crowns depend on the strength of our sons, not the weakness of our daughters.”
“But should I send a patrol?”
“No!” The reply struck like a sword stroke. “My daughter is lost to me. She does nothing but disobey. Perhaps Lionel would still be alive if she hadn’t meddled in the affairs of men.” He shook his head like a wounded bear. “Katherine is a fool and I’ll not risk good men chasing after her.” Turning, he strode towards the door, his back as straight and stubborn as a sword. “Trouble me not with daughters. I have a slain son to find.”
The door slammed shut and the marshal was left alone on the tower top. He stood at the foot of the charred platform, the king’s words etched in his mind. Pieces of the puzzle fit together but he felt like something was missing, some deeper understanding lurking just beyond reach. Images of the carnage in the tunneled passageway flooded his mind, a fierce battle, a few fighting against many. He studied the charred remains, wondering what answers Sir Tyrone might have held. “Did you die a hero…or a fool?”
His whispered words were snatched by the wind.
He stared at the melted chainmail and the empty half-helm, but he found no answers, nothing but blackened ruin and the silence of the grave.
A sudden gust howled out of the north, sweeping away the ashes, leaving only ruined armor and charred bones.
And then he saw it, revealed by the wind, a long gleam of bright steel. Untouched by fire, Sir Tyrone’s sword remained straight and true. Everything else was blackened, melted and twisted, charred to ash, but not the sword…as if the gods gave answer to his question.
“So, you died a hero.” Bowing low, he honored the dead knight…and then he turned his gaze toward the north, wondering if his king might be wrong. Surely the gods worked in strange ways. Katherine was only a daughter, yet she carried the blood of kings, the blood of Castlegard. Perhaps Ursus discarded his daughter too easily. Shaking his head at the mad thought, he quelled the strange notion. Having faced the northern hordes in battle he knew the girl rode to certain death, yet he whispered a prayer anyway. “May Valin guard you though you trod the path of death.” The marshal turned from the parapet, seeking his king.
2
Katherine
Dark wings flashed into a steel-gray sky, a murder of ravens taking flight, an ill omen for a god-cursed land. The plume of wings rose from a point farther down the trail, harsh caws echoing against the mountains. Kath assumed it was another horse, still saddled, ridden to death, cast aside, broken. If the ravens held true, this would be the second carcass since Cragnoth Keep, more proof of the Mordant’s passing. The grisly remains marked a trail down the Dragon Spine Mountains, taking the five companions beyond the reach of the southern kingdoms…beyond the protection of the Octagon. They rode into the unknown, death as th
eir only guide.
A cold wind blew out of the Spines, a breath of winter pushing at their backs. Huddled beneath wool cloaks, they kept their weapons close, riding single file down the steep mountain trail. Kath led the way, holding her sorrel warhorse to a trot, a pair of throwing axes strapped to her back, a short sword belted to her side. Duncan rode close behind, his longbow strung, a quiver of arrows ready. Zith carried a quarterstaff, the preferred weapon of the monks, while Blaine rode at the rear, his great blue sword looming over his right shoulder. Danya rode in the middle, the only companion who didn’t carry a weapon. Bryx, the great mountain wolf, stayed close to the girl’s side, a vigilant threat of claws and fangs.
Twisted conifers crowded close to the trail, a sweep of dark forest cloaking the foothills. An owl hooted somewhere in the shadowy depths, a mournful sound that echoed Kath’s mood. Swiveling in the saddle, she stared back at the jagged peaks, searching for a glimpse of the signal fire, but Cragnoth Keep was lost to the clouds. A part of Kath could not believe they’d crossed into the north. So much had happened, so much had changed. She’d fled her home, escaping Castlegard only to find traitors holding the frozen keep. Knights of the Octagon turned to the Dark, Kath shivered at the memory. They’d fought their way out, with Sir Tyrone paying a hero’s price, another bitter loss. Using the signal tower as his funeral pyre, they sent warning to the Octagon. Kath prayed her father understood but she feared her actions made her an exile. The loss weighed heavy on her soul. And now they rode north, into the land that birthed all her childhood nightmares. Five companions dared the wrong side of the mountains, chasing an ancient evil into the north. It sounded like a bard’s ballad, but Kath knew the dangers were all too real, the odds deathly grim. She gripped the crystal dagger, praying the gods lent their hand to the trials ahead.
The horses trotted around a bend cast deep in shadows. A rotting stench slapped Kath in the face, the stink of carrion. Jerked from her reverie, she stared at the dead horse.
“Caw!” A lingering raven squawked a warning and then launched into the gray sky.
Kath steadied her stallion, holding her breath against the stench. Still saddled with the Octagon’s maroon livery, a confusion of tracks surrounded the rotting feast. Mountain lion, wolf, bear, and a few she didn’t recognize, come to claim the prize of easy meat.
Duncan swung down from his gelding. “Not much meat left, just skin and bones.” Slapping away the shroud of flies, he knelt to examine the saddlebags. “Judging from the smell, I figure the Mordant has more than a fortnight lead on us.”
Bryx trotted close, nosing the carcass, issuing a low growl.
Danya patted her mare and looked pale, her voice flushed with anguish. “He doesn’t even unsaddle the poor beasts.”
Blaine nudged his warhorse close, concern on his face. “He runs them into the ground and then discards them. Horses and people make no difference to the Mordant, just tools to be used.”
“No, you’re wrong.” Kath shook her head, remembering the bitter fight at the Crag. “To the Mordant, people are bears in a pit, goaded to fight. He incites kingdoms to war and then sits back to enjoy the bloodshed. When the fighting’s done, he claims the spoils from both sides.” She looked back at the ruined carcass. “In the Mordant’s world, the horses get off light.”
The monk murmured, “She has the truth of it.”
Duncan finished his search, wiping his hands on a patch of ferns. “Saddlebags are empty, no clue to the Mordant’s intent, just like the other horse.” He vaulted into the saddle, fluid grace beneath black leather. “The dead horse is message enough.” His mismatched gaze found Kath, one cat-eye golden and the other sapphire-blue. “The Mordant races to reclaim his power. His lead is too great for us to stop him.”
The truth could not be denied, yet it did not change her need to put an end to the ancient evil. “Then we’ll just have to follow and find another way.”
Duncan nodded, “Just so,” but his smile did not reach his eyes.
Kath turned her stallion downhill and asked for a trot. A clop of hooves followed. The rotting stench fell away, replaced by the crisp scents of cedar and pine. Trees twisted by the wind crowded close. Kath peered beneath their boughs, wary of ambush. Everything seemed sinister north of the Spines, the steel-gray sky, the gloomy forest, the winter-cold wind, and the ever present ravens, as if the land held its breath, waiting for evil to strike. Chiding herself for such dark premonitions, she gripped her sword hilt, reassured by the feel of good Castlegard steel.
Strung out in a line, they rode down through the foothills, the shadows stretching toward twilight. Kath yearned for the sunlight. Her warhorse must have sensed her unease, pulling ahead of the others. Only Duncan kept pace, his dark gelding matching strides with the sorrel stallion.
The trail curved out onto a rocky promontory, offering the first unfettered view of the north. Kath pulled the stallion to a halt. A sea of grass stretched to the horizon, golden grains rippling in the wind. Untamed by trails or roads, the vast steppes of the north almost seemed benign.
Duncan joined her on the overlook, the wind tugging at his dark hair. “Don’t let the grasslands fool you.”
Kath gave him a questioning look.
“It looks peaceful enough, but it’s really a trap.”
Kath studied the north, judging the vast grassland with military eyes. “No trees, no high ground, no chance for stealth or strategy.” She nodded, seeing the trap beneath the stark beauty. “It’s like a great greensward, a moat of grass. Naked and exposed, numbers and speed are the only advantages. And the Mordant always has the numbers.”
“So they say.” Duncan leaned forward, patting the neck of his gelding. “The forest looks threatening but we’re safer here, hidden by leaf and bark.” He stretched in the saddle, muscles taut beneath black leather. “We’ll be out of the foothills by tomorrow afternoon. Then we’ll be thankful for the dead horses. The ravens will be our only guides, bellwethers for the Mordant.”
“A trail of death and evil.”
“We’ve been following it all along, ever since the monastery.”
Kath thought about their journey across the kingdoms of Erdhe and knew it was only a taste of things to come. “Just so.” Struck by a sense of foreboding, she pointed toward the steppes with her chin. “My brother, Tristan, died in the steppes.” Her voice dropped to a hush. “My father’s favorite.”
“Why was he favored?”
Kath smiled, her voice wistful. “Tristan had a way about him. Good with a sword, good with his command, gallant and honorable, the perfect knight…till he was caught in the steppes, out-numbered, slaughtered with all his men.” She stared out at the unforgiving grasslands. “I wanted to be him.”
“You’re better than that.”
“What?”
“You’ll not die outnumbered in the steppes. You’re better than that.” His gaze held hers, strong and unwavering. “You’ll find a way to out-wit your enemies…and you’ll out-heart them as well.”
His voice was certain as steel. He believes in me, a rare gift she’d longed for but never really found…till him. Wrapping his words around her like a wool cloak before winter, she thanked the gods for Duncan.
“We should find a campsite for the night.”
His words snapped her back to the practicalities of the north. Noting the hint of twilight in the sky, she said, “Here?”
“No, the cliff is too exposed. A campfire would serve as a beacon to whatever lurks ahead.”
She heard the worry beneath his words. “Then you feel it too?”
He shrugged. “We’re only five against the north. We’ll need to keep our wits sharp and our weapons close.” He rubbed the dark stubble on his chin, his face thoughtful. “And we’ll need to keep our advantage.”
Hearing the irony in his voice, she studied his face, a hawk’s piercing gaze over a suggestive smile, the shadow of a beard only making him more attractive. “What advantage?”
“What
ever the Mordant expects,” he flashed her a wry grin, “it won’t be the five of us.”
“Ah, the element of surprise.” She met his gaze and shared his laughter, loving the glint of daring in his mismatched eyes.
He gave her a quicksilver smile and wheeled his gelding back toward the trail. “Come on!” Drumming his heels against the horse’s flanks, he yelled a challenge, “Or I’ll leave no enemies for your sword!” The gelding exploded into a gallop, hooves flying down the trail, sending up a spray of stones.
Kath glanced up the trail and waved to Danya, then wheeled the stallion to follow. The big warhorse surged to a gallop, a charge of hooves racing after the gelding. Kath leaned low in the saddle, her long blond hair streaming behind, glorying in the thrill of the chase. Ahead, the black gelding pulled around a curve. The gelding was quick but the sorrel stallion was powerful, she settled into the race, certain the stallion would close the distance. The trail snaked down through the forest, a series of twists and turns, a clatter of hooves on stone. She lost sight of Duncan but held to the trail. Her warhorse thundered around a curve, charging into a long straight away…but the trail was empty, no sign of the leather-clad archer. Kath hauled on the reins, bringing the stallion to a stop. The warhorse stamped and snorted but stood his ground. Unsheathing her sword, she studied the forest, searching for a threat. She nudged the stallion forward, holding him to a walk. “Duncan?” Her voice echoed against the mountains.
“Down here.”
Relief washed through her.
“Take the side trail.”
She followed his voice to a narrow side-spur, branches of cedar and pine obscuring the turnoff. Deliberately breaking a branch, she left a marker for the others before descending the tree-cloaked trail.
Her stallion’s hooves skittered on loose stones, a steep descent into the depths of the forest. Branches beat against her, releasing a breath of pine. A hushed stillness cloaked the forest, fallen needles muffling the drum of hooves. Her eyes adjusted to the gloom, her hand still gripping her sword. Trees crowded close, curtains of moss hanging from low branches. But something else hung from the lower limbs. She got a better look and gasped with understanding. Shields hung from the lower branches, old and weathered, cracked and dented. Most were so blackened by time that the heraldry was hidden…yet she knew with certainty what device they all bore. She’d heard legends of such places. Between the trees, impaled in the ground, she saw the swords, their hilts rusted dark red, marking the graves of fallen heroes. A forest of shields, so many men lost to the north, their lives traded for the peace of the southern kingdoms, their bodies laid to rest in hallowed ground. She rode beneath the octagon shields, thinking of Sir Tyrone and his valiant stand at Cragnoth Keep. “For Honor and the Octagon.” The words whispered out of her, a token of reverence for the honored dead. She sheathed her sword, feeling safe among the fallen heroes. Awed by the number of shields, she sent a prayer to the Lords of Light, giving thanks for the maroon knights.
The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga) Page 3
