The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga)

by Karen Azinger

  The baying of the hounds grew louder, a relentless growl followed by an implacable gallop.

  Duncan ran to the hut and put his shoulder to the oak door. The door flew inward without resistance, banging hard against the stone wall. Cold ashes and the stink of fear filled the doorway. Nocking an arrow, he stepped into the darkness.

  A muffled cry came from the far wall. A man sat huddled in rags, a swaddled babe clutched tight in his arms. “Don’t hurt me!”

  Duncan eased the tension on his bow. “Who are you? What is this place?”

  “No one.” The man shook his head, his words laced with defeat. “Nothing.”

  Anger boiled into Duncan, he had no time for despair. “Answer me. Who are you?”

  “A runner.” He hugged the babe close. “My wife died in childbirth. I promised her the babe would know a better life. So I ran, stopping here for the night.”

  “Running to where?”

  “Anywhere…away…south” The man kept his back against the wall.

  Duncan pressed the question. “Are there any villages nearby?”

  “A what?” His voice wavered. “Nothing here but the Citadel and the Pit.”

  The words struck like a death knell. No place to hide, no place to tangle his scent, no way to outrun the hellhounds…just a final battle.

  The man stepped forward. “Are you from beyond the wall?” A glimmer of hope crept into his voice.

  “Yes.”

  A wild howl ripped through the night.

  “The Mordant’s hounds!” Fear shivered through the man’s words. “No one escapes those beasts.”

  Duncan stared at the man, knowing he’d led soldiers to his hiding place…but perhaps his bow could save two lives. “You’d best run.” Duncan ushered him toward the door. “Run hard. I’ll hold them off with my bow.” They stepped from the hut and found the night filled with a wild clamor. The hunt drew near. The man trembled, holding the child so tight it whimpered. Duncan gripped his shoulder. “Run hard and find a better life.”

  “Luck be with you, stranger.” The man bowed low and then sped south.

  “And with you.” Duncan turned and surveyed the hut. Inside was nothing but a trap…but the roof might provide a vantage point. He climbed the wall to the top, testing the sod before he stepped on it, grateful when it held his weight. He moved to the center, impaling his arrows upright in the grassy mound. Twenty-six arrows, their iridescent eyes defying the dark. He wondered if he’d ever see the Deep Green again.

  He nocked an arrow and stared toward the south. The grassy rooftop provided his best view of the hunters. Six hellhounds carved furrows in the deep grass. Running straight as arrows, they howled for the kill. A troop of thirty soldiers galloped further behind, spears bristling toward the sky. Too many, but he’d make them pay dearly for his life. He raised his bow to the heavens, screaming his defiance. “I am Duncan Treloch, a ranger of the Deep Green, and I will not yield.”

  As if in answer, a bolt of lightning seared the sky.

  The hounds loosed a twisted howl, a deep-throated baying.

  Thinking of Kath, he whispered her words. “Make every arrow count.” Focusing on the nearest hound, he drew the great bow to a deadly curve. Leading the beast by three lengths, he unleashed the longbow’s power. An arrow sang into the night. Without waiting, he chose a new target. Draw and release, he sent three more arrows toward the hellhounds.

  The first arrow struck true. A peel of pain erupted from the hunters. The leading hellhound yelped, rolling into a keening ball of mottled fur. Two more hellhounds dropped in their tracks…but the reaction of the rest chilled Duncan to the bone. Falling silent, the hounds scattered, abandoning their straight-arrow rush. Slinking to the ground, they disappeared into the deep grass, hard to see and harder to anticipate…as if the damn beasts knew how to thwart an archer.

  Trumpets blared. Galloping horsemen drew near. The trap was nearly closed. Time was running out.

  Duncan raised his bow, sending three arrows arching toward the horsemen, hoping to slow their advance.

  A low snarl came from his left.

  Duncan whirled, an arrow nocked.

  A hellhound broke from the grass, a tan and black fury streaking across the fallow field.

  The arrow thwacked, catching the beast in the mouth. Howling in pain, it clawed at its own throat, disgorging a rush of blood.

  Movement in the center, Duncan turned and released. The beast leaped to the left, showing an uncanny prescience, but the arrow found its flank. Gnashing its teeth, the hellhound lunged forward, dragging its rear leg, jaws slathering for revenge. If an animal could hate, this one did. Duncan spent another arrow, putting a shot in its right eye.

  One hellhound left.

  Sweat rolled down Duncan’s back.

  The horsemen stopped at the edge of the fallow field, watching in silence, letting the hellhound finish its task.

  Duncan’s muscles started to strain, keeping the great bow taut.

  Lightning cracked the night.

  A warning pricked at his back. Duncan whirled, his bow at the ready.

  Saber-toothed jaws lunged toward his face; the beast had gained the roof.

  He got the shot off and stumbled backwards.

  The arrow flew straight down the beast’s maw. Teeth snapped shut in a fierce snarl. The beast plowed into Duncan, pounding against his chest. Knocked backwards, he shielded his face from the jaws. Beast and archer tumbled from the roof. The ground hit hard, stealing his breath. Something snapped and a rush of hot blood soaked his leathers. The beast pinned him to the ground, a smothering weight. Holding the saber-sharp teeth at bay, Duncan lay still, staring at the beast’s lifeless eyes.

  Gasping for breath, he rolled the heavy body away. Smeared with hellhound blood, he struggled to stand, amazed to be alive.

  A snarl of rage came from the soldiers, as if the men became their beasts.

  Wakened to the danger, Duncan scrambled for his bow. The yew lay buried beneath the dead hellhound. He tugged it free and stifled a cry. The bow was snapped in half!

  The solders advanced, their lances leveled, circling the hut.

  His heart hammering, Duncan reached for the sword, his last defense.

  A thicket of spear surrounded him, the final teeth of the trap.

  At least he’d die a warrior’s death, with his enemies slain at his feet. He beat his sword against their spears, metal clanging against metal. “Fight me, damn you. Fight me.”

  An officer with a plumed helmet growled, “Take him alive.”

  It was only then that Duncan realized the secret was not yet safe. He turned the sword to his own breast, both hands grasping the hilt. For half a heartbeat he hesitated, thinking of Kath, longing to see her one more time. Something struck the back of his head, a thunderous crack. Duncan staggered and fell. Desperate to end it, he reached for the dropped sword. A boot stepped on his hand. Had all the gods forsaken him? Another blow to the head…and darkness claimed him.

  19

  The Knight Marshal

  Rumors spread like a plague through the maroon, slaughtering morale. The marshal prowled the walls, listening to the men, watching their faces, collecting their words. Dark tales grew with the telling, a grapevine of whispers on the ramparts, a gale of grim tidings in the great hall. Everywhere he turned, he heard tales of demons, dead princes, and treachery, proof the Octagon was cursed, fated to fall before the Mordant. Problem was, most of it was true. The god-cursed demon had done its work well. Defeat hung across the maroon like a pall yet the enemy was nowhere in sight.

  The marshal balled his gauntleted hands into fists, anger in his stride. Morale was his responsibility. He had to find a way to kill the doubt or the battle would be lost ere the first sword was drawn.

  A cold wind blew out of the north, bitter and harsh, suiting his mood. Reaching the central drum tower, he yanked the door open. Down the spiral steps and into the hallway, he strode towards the king’s council chamber.


  So much had changed in a single fortnight. Normally abuzz with dispatches and commands, the council chamber stood deserted, the hearth cold, the candles extinguished, the shutters latched shut. The stewards had done their work well. Bloodstains were long since washed from the floor, the bodies given honorable burial. But a deep cut remained on the door, a scar marking the fatal thrust of a blue steel blade. He flexed his sword hand, remembering. Two princes impaled on one sword, yet it seemed as if the demon still lived. Doubt stalked the Octagon like a hungry ghoul. Mired in worry, he paced the chamber, waging a battle of words in his mind.

  The door creaked open.

  He looked up, hoping to see the king, but it was just Lothar.

  “Thought I’d find you here, a ghost haunting his gravestone.” He eased the door shut and leaned against the wall, a grim look on his weathered face. “You’ve heard the talk.”

  “A belly full.”

  Lothar grunted, fingering the hilt of his battleaxe. “It grows worse by the day. Some are starting to see demons behind every face. Soon there won’t be a lick of trust left among the maroon.”

  And then we’ll have desertions. Neither man said it, but the thought hung in the room like a curse.

  Lothar moved to the window, easing the wooden shutters open, letting a sliver of daylight pierce the gloom. “It doesn’t help that the king stays locked in his chambers, lost in his cups.”

  “The king mourns his sons.”

  “And neglects his duty.”

  The truth stung, but the marshal could not disagree. “The question is, how to undo the damage? You saw his face. How do we mend a cracked blade?”

  “A cracked blade is discarded, melted down for scrap. But we only have one king.”

  The marshal nodded. “Just so.”

  “And the number of heirs grows perilously short. At least the men won’t be arguing about succession anymore.”

  But will Ulrich make a good king? Another thought left unsaid, hanging between them.

  Lothar turned away. Leaning on the windowsill, he stared into a gray sky. “What did you see that day, after the monk jumped?”

  He hadn’t spoken of it to anyone.

  Lothar sent him a piercing stare. “Your face was ghost-pale when you turned from the window…and the monk’s body was never found.”

  His friend saw too much. “An owl. I saw a giant frost owl.”

  “A changeling!” Lothar swore, his face grim. “Bloody magic.”

  “Seems there are more powers at work here than we know.” The marshal’s voice dropped to a harsh whisper. “Sometimes I wonder if we aren’t being used, just pawns in a greater game.”

  Lothar grunted. “Shapeshifters and magic, it’s too deep for me.” He sketched the hand sign against evil. “Always thought changelings were a myth.” He stared at the open window. “If a simple monk wields such powers what will the Mordant hurl against us?”

  “Now you know why I walk the walls so late at night.”

  Lothar scowled. “We need the king. Now more than ever.”

  The marshal nodded. “Just so.”

  A cold wind howled outside, banging the shutters wide open. Sunlight streamed into the chamber, a shaft of light striping the floor. The marshal pulled his maroon cloak close, a buffer against the bitter chill.

  “What’s this?” Lothar followed the sunlight to the fireplace grate. Something gleamed among the ashes. He knelt to work it free. Gasping, he pulled back as if snake-bit, but then he bent to pick it up. “The monk’s crystal.” He stood, holding the milk-white crystal aloft. “I never took the monk’s test.” His gaze turned to the marshal. “I guess I passed, not a demon in disguise.” He set the crystal on the table.

  Both men stared at it, as if it might spring to life.

  Lothar broke the silence. “The bloody demon almost got away with it, wearing gloves on his hands.”

  The marshal shuddered at the thought, a demon-prince hiding among them, so close to the throne. In the thick of battle, the demon’s orders would have been obeyed, betraying the Octagon. “The monk did us a great service…but the price was high, perhaps too high.”

  Lothar tugged on his mustache. “The king should not have turned on the monk.”

  “That was ill-done.” The marshal reached for the crystal. “But this might prove a boon.”

  “How so?”

  “Fight magic with magic. Prove to the men there are no demons among us.” He fingered the crystalline shard, smooth as glass. “A wonder it didn’t shatter against the hearth floor.”

  “A crystal tough as steel. It’s not natural.” Lothar’s voice dropped to a low growl. “The king won’t like it.”

  “Sometimes duty is a hard road.” The marshal slipped the crystal into his pocket. “Time to rouse the king from mourning. Will you join me?”

  “Me?” Lothar shrugged a bushy eyebrow. “I’ll walk you to the bear’s den but no farther.”

  “And you call yourself a knight?”

  “Only a lowly captain, not the Lord Marshal.”

  The marshal grinned, grateful for his friend. “If you won’t face the king, then go and spread some rumors, something positive to counter all the doubt.”

  “A tale or two told over a cup of ale? Now that’s a task worthy of a true knight.” Lothar flashed a rogue’s grin. “What will it be? A story recounting the king’s heroism, or do you fancy something new? Something about a crystalline shard?”

  “Both. But don’t stray too far from the truth.”

  “Never.”

  “And no talk of the owl.”

  Both men sobered. Shapeshifters were an unfathomable evil and magic was an enemy swords couldn’t fight. Both would cause doubts…doubts the Octagon could not afford.

  The marshal stepped to the door. “I’ll see myself to the king.” He threw a pointed glare at his friend. “Keep your ear to the ramparts.”

  “Aye, I’ll do that.”

  He left the council chambers, striding down the hallway and around the corner. A pair of maroon-cloaked guards snapped a half-hearted salute. Both cast wary glances at the marshal, like men uncertain of their orders. Even at the king’s door he found doubt. Anger pulsed through him. “Stand straight and show some pride, for you guard our king.”

  Their eyes widened in surprise, but the men snapped to rigid attention, spear-butts pounding the stone floor.

  “Better.” The marshal made his voice a command. “Let no one pass, for any reason.” Taking a deep breath, he reached for the door and stepped into winter.

  Every window was flung wide and the hearth was choked with dead ashes. A cold chill claimed the chamber, cold and bitter as a tomb. The king sat at the table, oblivious to the chill, a cup in his hand, empty wine flagons strewn across the tabletop. Statue still, the king stared at his empty cup, as if someone else had put it there, perhaps Baldwin. Where was the lad anyway?

  The marshal approached but the king did not stir. “My Lord, you’ll catch your death of cold.” He waited, but there was no reply. Frustrated, the marshal decided to play the squire. Latching the shutters, he knelt to strike a flint to the fireplace, seeking to return warmth to the king’s chambers. The spark took and he added pine logs to the grate, a glow of warmth beating back the cold.

  As he moved about the chamber, lighting candles to dispel the gloom, he talked as he worked, giving the king a running account of the Octagon. He spoke of morale and supplies, of catapults and horses, all in a soothing voice, like a man calming a skittish horse. Finished with the chores, he turned to study his liege. His silver hair was straggled and unkempt, his beard matted, fresh lines of grief graven deep in his face, but it was the eyes that worried him most, flat and dull, staring at nothing, lacking the spark of fire that so marked his king.

  “My Lord, the men need you.” He tossed the words out like a fisherman with a baited hook, desperate to lure a strike. But there was no response.

  Anger mixed with desperation, the marshal’s voice turned hard. Glaring
at the king, he recounted the stories whispered on the ramparts. He spared no detail, repeating grim tales of demons and defeat. And all the while, he watched the king’s face, hoping to rouse a reply, but there was never a flicker in those cold dead eyes. “So you see, my Lord, the men are rife with doubt. They need their king.” He stared at his lord, willing a response.

  The king’s eyes remained dull, as if focused on some other world, but then he began to speak, his voice hoarse from disuse. “Red eyes, demon eyes, glowing in the face of my son. My son taken by a demon, cursed by the Dark, my second-born son.” He shook his head, a mane of straggly silver. “Two sons pinned on one sword. Four sons dead, lost to treachery.” He stared into his empty goblet. “Five true-born sons, always a surfeit of heirs, and now I have but one. One.” He shook his head in denial. “Red eyes, demon eyes, glowing in the face of my son.”

  The marshal shuddered. He’d heard it all before. A litany of repetition, the same words said over and over again. As if the king’s mind was locked in a terrible loop, reliving the death of his sons, unable to move forward. It hurt him to see the king brought so low. “My Lord, you must break out of this nightmare. Don’t you see? You do the demon’s work for him! There are more powers at work here than we know. We dare not let the demons win.”

  “Red eyes, demon eyes, glowing in the face of my son…”

  “Sire, this grief ill becomes you. Your son stayed true, offering his life to kill the demon. He died a knight of the Octagon. Don’t dishonor his memory this way.”

  “Two sons pinned on one sword…” The mad mumbling continued like a chant.

  Desperation pushed the marshal to anger. “We are the sword and shield of the southern kingdoms. We stand against the Dark tides.” But his words made no difference. Without thought, he reached for his sword, the sword of the black knight, five feet of honest steel. Blade in hand, he stared at the king. “Enough!” He swept the sword across the tabletop, hurling flagons and metal goblets across the chamber. “No more!”