The Mordant hid his smile. Fear was useful; it led to obedience. He searched the faces of the elite, making note of those he’d known in his last lifetime. Old and gray, the few who survived were ravaged by time. So many more were missing, conquered by death or the ambitions of younger men; the politics of the Dark Citadel were not for the faint of heart.
He breathed deep, taking their measure. Of all the flavors of Darkness, treachery spiked the Mordant’s attention like no other. He smelled it now, staining the steps of the palace. More than a few souls carried the taint…but it swirled the strongest around one man, the High Priest, the keeper of rituals, the administrator of the citadel, the one man who ruled in the Mordant’s absence. Dressed in rich robes of the blackest velvet, High Priest Gavis wore a tall conical hat, a golden chain of linked pentacles around his neck, a staff encrusted with black diamonds held in his right hand. A robust man in his mid-fifties, he had long auburn hair, a hawksbill nose, and a majestic beard. Gavis had done well for himself. At the time of the Mordant’s last death, he’d been nothing more than a freshly sworn acolyte, newly dedicated to the priesthood. Wielding a sin dark soul full of boundless ambition, Gavis had climbed far and fast, but now he teetered on the knife-edge of treason.
The Mordant studied the elite, sensing the swirling undercurrents of threats and possibilities. Clearly the young needed a lesson in fear, a demonstration of his power, another reason for the Trials of Return. The Mordant turned a cold stare to the High Priest, his voice ringing with challenge. “I am the Mordant re-born. I come before you to complete the Trials of Return and claim the Ebony Throne.”
“We hold your life in our hands.” The High Priest made the sign of the pentacle with his staff. “Let the Trials begin. May the Dark Lord judge the truth of your claim, for no imposter shall ever rule the Ebony Throne.”
Trumpets blared and drums thundered, announcing the start of the Trials. Thousands streamed through the golden gate into the courtyard, soldiers from his entourage mingling with citizens of the upper tiers, come to witness the spectacle. An honor guard formed a crescent at his back, the Darkflamme snapped overhead. He flicked a glance at their faces, knowing they’d take his head if he failed, or be among the first to swear their loyalty if he succeeded.
Turning his back on the crowd, the Mordant stared up at the palace steps.
The High Priest gestured and a second trumpet sounded a volley of notes.
The elite of the citadel parted, opening a path to the palace doors. Six black-robed priests emerged, each pair bearing a coffin-shaped box. Made of silver embossed with runes, the three coffins were placed in front of the Mordant. The priests made a ceremony of unlocking the boxes, slowly opening the lids.
Lined with purple velvet, each box contained three staffs, all of them made of the blackest iron. At first glance, they seemed much the same. Six-foot in height, each topped with a five-fingered iron claw clutching a red crystal. The crystals’ color and facets varied slightly, as did the rune markings inscribed on the long shafts, but the true difference lay in their hidden power.
The High Priest gestured toward the boxes. “Choose correctly or die.”
The Mordant stepped toward the boxes. Nine staffs to choose from. Three resonated with power…but only one called to him, the most treasured focus in his hoard of magic. The Staff of Pain sang to the Darkness in his soul. The Mordant made his choice, the red crystal glinting as he lifted it into the fading sunlight. His hands caressed the rune-carved shaft, his blood thrumming with Darkness, forging an instant bond.
Footsteps whispered from behind.
The Mordant whirled, summoning the staff’s power.
A guard lunged, his sword raised for a killing strike.
The Mordant unleashed the staff, loosing a burst of pain.
The soldier froze in mid-stride, his face contorting in agony. His sword clattered to the pavement. Crumpling to his knees, his hands scrabbled at his groin as if seeking a dagger that did not exist.
The Mordant twisted the power, deepening the torment.
Screaming, the attacker writhed at the Mordant’s feet. “Please, lord!” His back arched, his head nearly touching his buttocks, and then he fell still, a trickle of blood dribbling from his open mouth.
The Mordant swayed, his vision suddenly blurred. Leaning on the staff, he struggled to hide his weakness, his new body not yet accustomed to so much magic. Taking a deep breath, he turned to face the High Priest, his voice a low growl. “Treason can be a lesson. Does your ambition outweigh your sense of survival?”
The High Priest did not even blanch.
The Mordant smiled, this one had steel nerves. Gavis would make a fine High Priest…or a fresh corpse.
“The Ebony Throne is not yet yours.” The High Priest gestured and five men were brought forward. All five wore the black and gold armor of citadel guards, but their faces were worn by age, their hair faded to varying shades of gray. They dropped to their knees, their heads bowed.
“It is said that the Mordant can weigh a man’s soul with a single glance.” The High Priest gestured to the five. “One of these carries scars from the past, name him and his deed or fail the fifth Trial.”
The Mordant stepped towards the five. A single breath told the tale. The fourth kneeler reeked of fear, a special fear that few mortals lived to bear. He pointed toward his choice. “This man served as a guard for the Door.”
Soldiers rushed forward to grab the Mordant’s choice. They stripped him of armor and clothes, till he stood bare-chested in the waning light. The proof was writ across his chest for all to see. Tattooed above his heart, was the rune of the Dark Lord. But unlike all other tattoos, this one was inked by dark magic, inscribed beneath the guard’s skin.
Darkness called to Darkness.
The Mordant stretched out his hand, holding his palm a foot above the man’s chest. “You witnessed my death in the Dark Chamber…and now I’ve come to witness yours.”
The old soldier stared wide-eyed, but the others held him captive.
“Salra cathra abendt.” The Mordant called the rune.
Shuddering, the soldier’s face convulsed with fear. Sweat erupted across his skin…and then his chest began to bulge outward, as if something sought to escape his flesh. He screamed in agony, but the others held him rigid.
The Mordant flexed his power, calling the dark rune. “Salra cathra abendt.”
Blood erupted from the man’s chest, like a spear thrust from within. The dark rune burst from beneath the guard’s skin, flying to the Mordant’s hand…and with it came the beating heart.
Screams ripped through the crowd. Women swooned, soldiers quailed, and the elite drew back. Fear and terror claimed the courtyard.
The Mordant breathed deep, such intoxicating scents, such an important lesson. He raised the blood soaked heart aloft. Revealed by the power of Darkness, his voice thundered, “I am the Mordant Reborn!”
Behind him, soldiers and the low born clattered to the ground in homage…but the elite were made of sterner stuff. They shrank back, their faces pale, but they did not cower. One man pushed to the front, a hatched-faced general in gilded armor. Tall and imposing, the general made his way down the steps, daring to approach. Despite the assault of age, the Mordant recognized his face. His body was still warrior-lean but his hair had gone silver and his face bore a ragged scar running from his right eye to his chin. Thumping his fist to his breastplate, he bowed low. “I always knew you’d return, Lord.”
Pleased by the show of faith, the Mordant said, “General Haith, it has been a long time.”
“A lifetime, lord, yet I never doubted.”
“Come and stand with your sword at my back. Your faith has earned you that privilege.” The Mordant turned his stare to the High Priest. “Where will you stand, Gavis?”
“The Trials are not yet complete.”
“How many Dark miracles will you need before you believe?”
“Only as many as prescribed by the Tria
ls.”
Such a careful answer, the Mordant nodded. “So be it.”
Black-robed priests scurried forward to claim the heart and clean the blood from the Mordant’s hand. Other attendants removed the ruined body, blood sopping onto the granite pavement. One attendant knelt, using his robe to wipe at the blood.
“Leave the blood. The stones will drink it.”
Blanching, the attendant scuttled away.
The Mordant faced his high priest. “Finish it.”
Gavis thumped his staff against the stone courtyard, his voice ringing with command. “Bring forth the final Trial.”
Once more, the doors of the palace opened, disgorging a gray-haired bishop, wearing a flowing black robe and a black miter. He bore a small golden casket aloft. Descending the stairs, he opened the casket, offering its contents to the High Priest.
Making the sign of the pentacle, Gavis addressed the waiting crowd. “The Dark Lord is the final Trial, for no imposter will ever sit on the Ebony Throne.” He reached into the casket and withdrew a single shard of crystal, eight inches in length and straight as a dagger. “By the light of this sacred crystal, the truth will be known.” Gripping the shard in his fist, he raised it so all could see. “In the hands of a mortal, the crystal remains dormant. But in the hands of the true Mordant, it will glow bright red, revealing the Dark Lord’s favor.” He turned so all could witness the quiescent crystal, a pale shard of milk white, unsullied by red. “Let the Dark Lord’s will be known.” He extended the crystal toward the Mordant, offering it on his open palm.
The Mordant stifled a secret smile, enjoying the irony. A tool of his oldest enemies now served to protect his throne. Steeped in magic, the Dahlmar crystal was used by the Kiralynn Order to detect the re-born. Taken from a captured monk, the Mordant had long ago subverted the crystal to his own use, making it part the Trials of Return.
He reached for the shard and raised it high. “Let the truth be known.”
The crystal blazed to life, glowing with the red light of Hell.
Compelled by the crystal’s magic, the Mordant’s eyes revealed his true nature. Like twin lanterns, his gaze filled with a fiery red glow, revealing the oldest of the harlequins. “I am the Mordant re-born.” He turned toward the crowd, his voice booming across the courtyard. “The power of the Dark Lord flows in me. Kneel before me and obey!”
Thousands fell to their knees. Lying prostrate on the cold stones, they groveled before him.
The Mordant turned his fiery gaze back to the citadel’s elite. All sank to their knees…except for the High Priest. Unlike the others, Gavis had tasted the rulership of the citadel. Sometimes stewards needed to die before they were deposed. “Which will it be, Gavis, service or death?”
The stiff-backed priest slowly sank to his knees. “Yours to command.”
“A wise choice.” The Mordant returned the crystal to his High Priest, extinguishing the red light. “This will be a glorious lifetime.” Climbing the palace stairs, he turned to accept the adoration of the crowd, the ruler of all he surveyed.
9
Katherine
Death galloped towards them. Still leagues away, the soldiers rode in disciplined ranks, bristling with spears. Hunters following the hellhounds, the threat of steel chased the savage bite of fangs. Kath guessed they numbered a hundred or more, too many to doubt the outcome.
Duncan stood beside her, his voice calm. “Fight or flee?”
Kath shook her head. “With only two horses, we won’t get far. And there’s nowhere to hide in the grasslands.” She shuddered, recalling tales of torture from the north. “I’d rather die fighting.” She stared at each of her companions, seeing her own grim resolve etched on their faces. Even Danya, the girl who never carried a weapon, gave a solemn nod. Kath gripped her sword hilt. “Then we fight. Let’s use what time we have.”
She studied the steppes, cursing the flat openness, realizing the slain horses offered their only cover. Two of them lay close together, forming a rough vee. “We’ll make our stand here, using the dead horses as a bulwark. Get your weapons. We have little enough time to prepare.”
Ignoring the pain in her left thigh, she hurried to recover her throwing axes, not bothering to wipe the blood from the blades. Next, she approached the sorrel stallion, searching her saddlebag for the chainmail shirt at the bottom, carried all the way from Queen Liandra’s kingdom. Burnished bright, the chainmail gleamed in the sun, but what good would it do against a hundred spears? Banishing the grim thought, she pulled on the quilted jerkin and then shrugged into the chainmail. Her harness with her throwing axes went over the chainmail, her shoulders tightening beneath the added weight. From the rear of the saddle, she unbuckled a small octagonal shield she’d found in Cragnoth’s armory. Lastly, she unwrapped Sir Cardemir’s princely gift, setting the gleaming garnet helm on her head. Girt for battle, she stripped the saddle from the stallion and beat his rump with the flat of her sword. “Run!” Snorting, the warhorse sprinted south. She prayed he’d make it home to the Octagon; the valiant steed deserved a better end than death in the god-cursed steppes.
Armed for war, she had one more thing to attend to. Reaching into her deepest pocket, she removed the amber pyramid. To the victors went the spoils, but she dared not let the Mordant claim the Quickner. Kath scanned the trampled grass for a hiding place. Knowing pockets and saddlebags would be searched, she knelt by one of the dead horses. Taking a last look at the small amber focus, she pried open the horse’s mouth.
A shadow fell across her. She looked up, meeting the monk’s stare. “You said the amber pyramid should never fall to the Mordant.”
Zith nodded, his face solemn.
“Then I’ll give it to death.” She shoved the pyramid into the horse’s mouth. “Let the gods and the ravens fight over it.”
A muffled thunder came from the north, a warning that the enemy drew near.
Wiping her hands on the grass, she joined her companions.
Duncan gave her a lingering look. “Armor becomes you.”
Kath felt her face flush…but the pounding hooves intruded, drawing her back to the threat at hand. “We’ll make our stand behind the dead horses.”
They stood behind the vee formed by two dead horses, a pitiful bulwark but it was all they had.
Blaine unsheathed his great blue sword.
Duncan nocked a black-fletched arrow, three full quivers tied to his belt. He stared at Kath, his voice steady. “They’re almost within range.” He quirked a half smile. “Shall I let them know we intend to fight?”
She looked at her companions, giving each of them a last chance to retreat. “There’s one horse left.”
Blaine hefted his sapphire blue sword, sunlight glinting on his silver surcoat, looking like a hero of old. “What else are blue swords for?”
She gripped his arm, grateful for his lighthearted bravado. Releasing the knight, she turned to the others, a question in her stare.
Zith leaned on his quarterstaff, his voice grim. “The gods’ willing; I’ll see this to the end.”
Danya stood further apart, a dagger awkwardly clutched in her right hand, her left hand on the wolf. She gave Kath the smallest of nods, her face pale but determined. The wolf pressed close to the girl, issuing a throaty growl.
Pride rushed through Kath. “So be it.” She turned to Duncan, memorizing the lines of his face, wishing they had more time. “Make every arrow count.”
He smiled, his voice full of meaning. “And every sword stroke.” He pulled the bowstring to a kiss, a fluid motion, and then released.
A black-fletched arrow arced into the steel-gray sky. It soared for a small eternity…and then plummeted into the spears, a declaration of war.
A cry erupted from the enemy.
“Now they know we have teeth.” Kath’s hand tightened on her sword hilt, determined to make a difference.
Beside her, Duncan pulled and released, a thrum of arrows arcing skyward, a steady rain of death.
A horn sounded and the dark riders spread out. A long line of spears swept south across the grasslands, a scythe of death.
Kath watched them come, their lances leveled. “If anyone has a brilliant idea, now would be a good time.” She looked at Zith, half-hoping the monk had some secret magic, but he shook his head, his face grim, his hands white-knuckled on his quarterstaff.
Danya moaned and sank to her knees, her face ghost pale, her eyes glazed, the dagger discarded on the ground.
Kath felt sorry for the wolf-girl, but there was nothing she could do. She raised her sword to the heavens, shouting loud enough for the gods to hear. “For Honor and the Octagon!”
The wolf loosed a howl, as if echoing her cry.
Blaine lifted his blue sword, “Honor and the Octagon!”
Hoof beats thundered from the north, a long line of death. Details became clear, gold pentacles on black armor, stern faces beneath dark helms, black battle banners snapping in the wind. She watched them come, a dark wave racing across the golden grassland, a destiny of spears.
Duncan’s arrows thrummed a constant rhythm, poking holes in the long line, like bees stinging a raging lion…but the beast kept coming.
Kath counted their numbers, still too many. The ground shook with the threat of hooves. A cold hand seized Kath’s stomach, the grim certainty of impending death. She gripped her sword hilt, sending a prayer to Valin, hoping her courage would not fail.
Thunder pulsed beneath her feet, a looming wall of spears. The enemy drew close, a tidal wave of death.
The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga) Page 9
