The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga)

by Karen Azinger

  Blaine said, “He doesn’t like the ravens.”

  “He’s not the only one.” She shivered, feeling the need to be away.

  “We still need supplies.”

  “And I can’t leave without my axes.” She found her leather harness lying next to her shirt of chainmail, a puddle of steel links gleaming in the sunlight. The chainmail had saved her life more than once. She was reluctant to leave it but she couldn’t afford the weight. Her octagonal shield would have to be left behind as well, another loss.

  Shrugging the leather harness over her shoulders, Kath hurried in search of her axes. Retracing the battle, she eventually found the soldier felled by her throw. He’d seemed a towering brute, but now he was only a crumpled corpse, diminished by death, food for ravens. She whispered a prayer to Valin, knowing how close they’d come to death. Wiping her blades on the dead man’s cloak, she returned to the campfire.

  Blaine had loaded the monk’s travois with supplies, but Danya’s remained unburdened. He gave her a wary look, as if he expecting a rebuke, but Kath did not complain. Stepping between the shafts, she settled the leather harness across her shoulders and lifted. The weight seemed bearable, but the day was young.

  She scanned the horizon for a gleam of black armor, but there was none…yet. She prayed to Valin for time to escape.

  Blaine lifted the monk’s travois. “Which way?”

  The question surprised her. “Into the north.”

  He stared at her, as if considering her reply. For a moment, she thought he would argue, but then he shrugged. “You don’t give up, do you?”

  “We won a battle, not the war.”

  “Did we win? This doesn’t feel like victory.”

  “We’re alive. They’re not.”

  He gave her a half-smile. “Live to fight another day.”

  “Just so.”

  The wolf chuffed, disappearing into the grass.

  “The wolf has the truth of it. We best be away.”

  Blaine took the lead, breaking a trail into the north. Kath leaned into the harness, taking up her friend’s weight. She lurched forward, the wound in her thigh screaming with agony. Ignoring the pain, she focused on taking one step at a time, trying to keep pace with the blond-haired knight.

  Ravens circled overhead, like an omen of doom. Cursing the birds, she struggled against the traces, desperate to be away. Ten steps became twenty, a test of strength, a test of endurance. Lowering her head, she trudged forward, full of sympathy for beasts of burden. Fifty steps became sixty, a monotony of pain. She glanced back, dismayed to find the pillar of ravens alarmingly close, a beacon for the Mordant’s soldiers. Staring up at the sky, she dared the gods to help, but there was no reply.

  Kath chose a spot on the horizon, determined to reach it without stopping. She leaned into the traces, taking one step at a time, straining to gain some distance on the ravens.

  Morning bled into late afternoon, a long haze of torment. Drenched in sweat, Kath struggled against the weight, pain ripping across her back and down her arms. Every step was a victory…or a testament to torture. Right foot and then the left, an endless shuffle forward. Pain lanced through her thigh and across her shoulders. Her left hand was rubbed raw, a mass of welts, yet she refused to loosen her grip. Sweat trickled down her face despite the chill wind. She licked her lips, a crust of salt, and kept moving.

  Caught in a fog of hurt, she lost count of the number of steps. Too tired to think, she looked past Blaine, her stare fixed on the north, a golden line of grass that never seemed end, another trick of the steppes.

  The blond knight forged ahead, breaking a trail through the grass, the poles of his travois marking a path. He turned now and then to offer encouragement, waiting for her to catch up. “Let’s rest for a bit.”

  “No, keep going.” Shame flooded through her. “If I stop, I may not start again.”

  “You need to rest.”

  She shook her head. “We’re not far enough.”

  He shot her a stubborn glare full of protest but then turned back to his own burden.

  She struggled to keep pace, shamed by her weakness, knowing she put them all at risk. The travois pulled like an anchor, the harness biting into her shoulders, a dead weight tethering her to the ground. She took another step, cursing the vastness of the steppes, cursing the north, but at least the ravens had long since fallen silent.

  Darkness began to claim the sky, a bloody glow in the west. Kath yearned for the night, knowing she could lay down her burden and rest. She wondered if she’d ever get up again.

  Something caught at her foot. She tripped and almost fell. A half-buried skull stared up her. Picked clean by predators and weathered by age, it gave her a mocking grin. Her vision blurred, and the skull laughed, a cruel, mocking sound, an omen of death. Tightening her hold on the travois, she used the pain to cling to reality. Death was everywhere in the steppes. The golden grassland looked benign, but it was really a clever snare, an endless, relentless trap, a kind of hell. Shivering, she bent to the traces, taking up her burden, refusing to give up.

  The weight seemed to have multiplied. Kath cursed the skull, deciding it must have been one of the Mordant’s men, a ghost from an ancient battle sent to plague her. Refusing to be beaten, she put one foot in front of another, trudging into the north.

  A low whine brought her to a staggering stop. The wolf emerged from the grass, weaving like a rum-soaked drunk. Tongue lolling, he flopped at her feet, a dull whine of pain.

  “Keep moving, Bryx.” Her words were a dry croak.

  The wolf whined, sprawling on the grass, blocking her way.

  Sighing in frustration, she sank to her knees, every muscle aching. “What’s wrong?”

  The wolf rolled on his side, panting for breath.

  “We’re all tired.” She stroked the wolf, surprised to find his dark fur wet…yet it hadn’t rained. Groggy with exhaustion, she struggled to think.

  Bryx whined and licked his flank. It was only then that she noticed the claw marks raking his side. Five deep cuts oozed dark pus, the festering marks of a hellhound’s claws. Shame flooded through her; the wolf had fought like a warrior yet no one had thought to tend his wounds. “You need help.”

  The wolf chuffed and licked her hand.

  All the supplies were with Blaine. Kath struggled to stand, shocked to find that the knight had lengthened his lead. Too weary to chase him, she called his name, “Blaine!” but her voice was a weak croak.

  He kept walking, the fading sunlight glinting on his silver surcoat.

  She had to get help for the wolf. Shrugging out of the harness, she left the travois and followed. Freed from the weight, she walked light as air, a strange floating sensation. Kath tired to run, but her legs buckled. Drenched in sweat, she sank to her knees, her voice a harsh cry. “Blaine!”

  He turned.

  “Help!” Exhaustion pulled her down. She slumped to the grass, longing to rest.

  Someone called her name. Hands gripped her shoulders, shaking her back to wakefulness. She stared up at Blaine, surprised by the lines of worry on his face. He brushed the hair out of her eyes, a cool hand against her forehead. “You’re on fire!”

  She shook her head, trying to think. “The wolf is hurt.”

  “He’s not the only one.” Blaine held a water skin to her lips, a cool trickle soothing her throat. She grabbed the skin, greedy for more, drinking till her thirst slaked. Gasping for breath, she tried to explain. “Bryx is hurt, raked by a hellhound’s claws.”

  “A wound from a hellhound?” He drew his dagger, worry scrawled across his face.

  She nodded, confused.

  He cut the blanket strips binding her thigh, releasing a sudden flair of pain.

  She sat up, trying to see.

  He pulled the strips away and she screamed. Clenching her jaw against the pain, she stared at her thigh. Five claw marks oozed black pus.

  Her vision swam. “No!” She shook her head in denial. “Duncan
cleaned the wound!” Kath struggled to understand, darkness nipping at her mind. She gripped Blaine’s arm, a shudder of fear. “Poison!”

  A cold shiver raced through her. She struggled to think, like swimming through molasses. And all the while the skull from the steppes kept laughing at her. “We need help.” It couldn’t end like this, not without meaning, lost in the god-cursed steppes, poisoned by a hellhound. Her fingers dug into Blaine’s arm, desperate for an anchor. “Duncan!” Darkness pulled her under, a fog of poison, a dreamless haze of pain.

  14

  Duncan

  Running by night, snatching sleep by day, Duncan followed the trail north, closing the distance on his prey. He paused to check the tracks, his haste tempered by the need to be sure the deserters did not divide. If even one escaped, then the hunt failed. The truth of the battlefield must never reach the Mordant.

  A spray of stars stretched across the midnight sky. He took comfort in the familiar patterns, the Knight pointing the way north, the Great Dragon spanning the sky with his wings. But in the east, the red comet cut a bloody gash through the Big Ladle, an ugly reminder of why they’d come north.

  Duncan loped along the trail, alert for details in the dark. The second group proved smarter than the first, keeping within the grasses trampled by a hundred horses. Hoof prints galloped south, footprints ran north, a mad confusion of tracks taxing his skills. But among the crisscrossing prints, his golden eye found subtle signs. Seven sets of boot prints ran north, carrying a deadly secret. The steady distance between footprints told him they kept to a ground-eating jog. One man bled, scattering fresh blood, yet he managed to keep pace with the others, proving he’d still be a threat in a fight. A discarded water flask and wrappings that smelled of salted pork littered the trail, but never any armor or weapons. Every detail added to his knowledge, but the most telling signs were the depressions in the grass where they’d slept. Five depressions for seven men, two of them always standing guard. The details told a grim tale. Disciplined in their retreat, the deserters set a fast pace into the north, keeping their armor and their weapons ready. He’d have a tough fight on his hands.

  A cold wind blew across the steppes, bitter against his face. He flexed his fingers as he ran, needing to keep them nimble. Tall grasses rustled in the wind. Silvered by moonlight, they stretched in all directions, a soul-numbing sameness. He missed the shelter of the forest, the hum of the great trees, but the choice of battlefield was not his. Cursing the openness, he could do nothing but follow.

  Clouds reclaimed the sky, shrouding the stars as the moon set in the west, and still he ran. He covered the leagues with a loping stride, his boots proving a boon to the long run. Fashioned from a rare swamp lizard, the boots were a Midwinter gift from Jordan. Recalling her ghost pale face in the healery, Duncan wondered how she fared, another debt he owed the Mordant.

  A blast of wind carried the faint scent of fresh urine, men waking to the dawn. Duncan scanned the trail, his golden eye catching the first glimpse of his prey. Seven soldiers clustered in a group, just out of bowshot. But beyond the soldiers, the dawn revealed a chilling sight. A great gray wall snaked across the north, only a day’s run away. His stomach clenched into a knot, knowing he needed to catch them before they reached the wall…or the hunter would become the hunted. Overhead, darkness faded to dawn, stealing his best advantage. Time was against him, he could not wait for the dark. Tightening his grip on his longbow, he vowed to succeed.

  Leaving the trail, he plunged into the waist-high grass, keeping the last of the darkness at his back. Racing through the grass, he threw darting glances toward the soldiers, knowing a hard stare might ruin his chance for an ambush.

  The soldiers lingered, probably sharing a meal. Sunlight glinted on armor, tempting targets against the red light of dawn. Pressing for speed, he closed the distance, stopping within reach of his longbow. Setting the string to his bow, he took a steadying breath, gauging the distance to his targets. Standing at the extreme edge of his range, the accuracy of his shots would depend on luck as much as skill, but he dared not move closer till he culled their numbers, swordsmen were ever the bane of archers. He chose six of his best arrows and impaled them upright in the ground. Selecting a seventh, he nocked his bow. Taking a deep breath, he called on the full power of the great yew. Drawing the bow to its maximum curve, his muscles burned with strain. He held the draw for half a heartbeat, adjusting for the wind, and then released, a thrum of death. As the first arrow leaped skyward, he reached for the second. Moving with blistering speed, he sent six more arrows arching into the pale morning sky. As soon as the seventh left his bow, he ran ten paces to the north and dove headfirst into the long grass.

  Lying still, he waited, his heartbeat counting time.

  A scream split the morning. A flurry of curses followed.

  Duncan hugged the ground, hiding, letting the enemy wonder how many archers lay in ambush. Straining his senses, he listened but no sounds of attack came his way. Nocking an arrow, he knelt, peering over the tall grass.

  The steppes seemed empty, golden grasses waving in the morning light.

  Alerted to the threat, the hunt had become a game of cat and mouse.

  Duncan stayed on his knee, studying the grassland. Sunlight gleamed on metal. At least one soldier fled north, hunched over, staying below the waist-high grass. He wondered how many survived.

  Needing to be certain, he crept forward, an arrow nocked to his bow. It took forever to traverse the distance, his senses alert to ambush. The mingled scents of blood and urine grew stronger. He paused to listen but heard only the wind and the rustle of the dry grass. Drawing his bow, he stepped to the edge of the trail.

  Two bodies lay sprawled in the trail. One man lay on his side, shot through the neck, his face frozen in a grimace of surprise. The other lay on his stomach, a feathered-shaft impaled in his armored back.

  Duncan scanned the trail, wary of an ambush, but nothing moved.

  The first man was clearly dead…but a sixth sense screamed of danger.

  Keeping his bow taut, Duncan moved forward. He kicked the man’s foot. No reaction. He nudged his boot under the body and rolled it over. The face was slack with death, the arrowhead protruding from the chest.

  A rush of movement from the side.

  Duncan whirled.

  A soldier charged from the tall grass, a round shield held to the front, a short sword raised in attack.

  Duncan lowered his aim, loosed the arrow, and then dodged to the right.

  The soldier staggered backward, grunting in pain, an arrow protruding from his thigh. “Damn you to the seven hells!” He lowered his shield and charged.

  Duncan danced away. Releasing the bowstring, he wielded the yew like a staff, poking blows at the soldier’s face, trying to keep the swordsman at bay.

  A gray-haired veteran, the soldier circled the archer, his shield up, his sword flashing in the morning light. His voice was a low growl. “Stand and fight.”

  Duncan jabbed at the soldier’s eyes and backed away, desperate for some advantage.

  Steel cut the air, a vicious chop at the yew wood. Duncan yanked the bow away, narrowly avoiding the blade. Sweat beaded his brow, he needed to defeat the swordsman without harming his bow.

  The swordsman launched a furious attack, slashing toward the archer’s face.

  Duncan stayed a hair’s breath away, a shifting shadow in black leathers.

  “Fight, damn you.” The swordsman hawked and spat, “Bloody archers are nothing but cowards.” Lowering his shield, he charged. Duncan leaped aside, thrusting his bow into the soldier’s feet. Entangled, the swordsman tripped and fell, sprawling face first. Duncan pounced, grappling for the sword. The two rolled across the bloody trail, knees gouging for groins, muscles straining. Slick with sweat, both men fought for the sword. An elbow slammed into Duncan’s jaw, snapping his head back, but he never let go. Tasting blood, he rolled on top, wrestling for control. The soldier waged a mighty struggle, but t
he longbow had made Duncan strong. The sword’s edge slowly turned toward the soldier’s throat. Wide-eyed, he bucked and kicked, struggling to slow the blade’s descent but his fate was sealed. Duncan finished the fight, burying the blade in the soldier’s throat.

  Rolling clear of the spurting blood, Duncan lay sprawled on the trampled grass. Every muscle ached. His head throbbed and his jaw hurt. His right arm bled, a deep gash from the sword. The fight had been close, too close. Only luck had kept a second swordsman from the ambush. He shook his head, knowing luck was a fickle mistress, but he’d trust to his bow.

  His bow!

  Bolting to his feet, he searched for the yew wood, finding it flung to the far side of the trail. He snatched it up, running anxious fingers along the length, checking for nicks and cracks. A single fault would ruin the bow, snapping under the strain of the draw. He sighed, relieved to find it whole and undamaged. His hands caressed the yew, giving thanks to the gods. The bowstring was lost but he had another. Bending the bow, he set the second string, once more an archer.

  He swayed on his feet, hammered with weariness. Blood dripped from his right arm, and his side ached from a nasty punch, yet he had to keep going. A strip of cloth torn from a dead man’s cloak served as a bandage. He bound his arm, using his teeth to tie the knot. Searching the dead, he found a flask half full of water and a single biscuit of hard bread. The biscuit went in his pouch, but he drained the flask, slaking a viscous thirst. Discarding the flask, he knew he needed rest, just an hour of sleep.

  His gaze was drawn toward the north, to the long gray wall. It slashed across the horizon, dividing north from south, a chilling reminder of the Mordant’s power. But it was still a day’s run away. He needed to catch the remaining deserters…but he also needed the strength to prevail. Taking the dead man’s sword, he moved off the trail and into the tall grass. Weary and sore, he pulled his black wool cloak close and laid down to rest.

  Duncan woke with a start, dreams of ambush in his mind. Reaching for his bow, he nocked an arrow and knelt. Golden grasses stretched in every direction, no sign of the enemy…but the sky was full of threats. Dark clouds churned overhead, obscuring the midday sun. “Darkness be damned.” He’d slept too long, giving his prey too much of a lead…but the storm clouds posed a bigger threat. Rain would negate his bow. Even the best archer could not shoot with a wet bowstring. Lady luck had turned against him.