The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga)

by Karen Azinger

  Power pulsed in the shadows, a promise and a threat. The Mordant breathed deep, reveling in the Darkness.

  Bowing low, he began the ritual of opening. Slowly circling the Dark Lord’s symbol, his body swayed to the arcane dance, his bare feet beating a rhythm of runes into the cold stone floor. Words of power whispered from his lips. Round and round, the tempo increased to an exultant frenzy. Infused with youth and vigor, the chant roared out of him, a herald of Darkness. His black robes rippled behind like a windblown wraith, yet there was no wind. Power crackled along his skin, aching to be unleashed. Dark magic hummed through him, an ecstasy and an agony, too much to contain. Brimming with power, the Mordant threw back his head and screamed, “Alamat anak an!” The braziers flared bright. Flames roared to the ceiling, releasing plumes of red sparks that fell like glowing embers. A thunderclap shook the chamber, a burnt smell hanging in the air.

  Darkness roiled across the ceiling, obscuring the stalactites…the breath of a god.

  Slick with sweat, the Mordant bowed low. “I have returned, Lord, eager to begin the work of this lifetime.”

  But every summons required a sacrifice.

  He shrugged the dark robe from his shoulders, letting the silk puddle to the floor. Naked, he entered the pentacle. Falling to the floor in prostration, he struggled to still his eagerness. Turning, he lay spread-eagle, making the sign of the pentacle with his body, his arms and legs spread wide, his back pressed to the cold stone, his manhood stiff with anticipation. He stared up at the roiling Darkness, a perfect offering.

  Darkness came for him. A dense cloud of inky blackness descended, pressing against his chest, bearing down with all the weight of antiquity.

  The Mordant fought to breathe.

  Cold and relentless, the Darkness smothered his face, seeking entrance.

  Knowing total submission was the price of great power, he opened his mouth, fighting hard not to gag.

  Darkness took him, pain laced with power, pouring down his open mouth.

  His body convulsed, arms and legs twitching, a puppet on a string, and still the Darkness came, slamming into him, filling his mouth, roaring down his throat like a waterfall of sin. He arched his back, an empty vessel filled to the brim. Pain blurred to unbearable rapture. Visions flooded his mind, details of the great Dark design. He saw the map of Erdhe laid out before him, the winds of war sweeping across the land. Advantages became clear, plots within plots, a weft and weave of possibilities, some of the threads added centuries ago. Rivals for the Dark Lord’s affection were revealed, younglings whose ambition outstripped their achievements, tools to be used and then cast aside. Chess pieces dotted a complicated board, a game long in play. A series of feints, traps, and sacrifices, all waiting to be triggered in a colossal conflict. So many pawns…and he was the only true king, the darkest power on the board. He wondered about the opposing forces, the minions of Light, but visions of the enemy were denied him…yet the blind spots spoke volumes, targets for attack. So many opportunities…and all the weapons were his to wield.

  The Dark Lord’s voice boomed in his mind. *This is the lifetime when old enemies will be crushed.*

  Understanding shivered through him, a vision of victories long awaited.

  *The hidden ones have at last been revealed.*

  An image of the amulet stolen from the monastery filled his mind. Waves of ecstasy washed across him. He longed to claim the secrets hidden behind midnight blue doors.

  *But another enemy rises in the new heart of Erdhe. A woman dares to sit a throne.*

  A tidal wave of revulsion poured across him. He felt the Dark Lord’s outrage, that a single woman would dare upset the scales of prejudice. Once more he saw the map of Erdhe, a blind spot stretching over the kingdom of Lanverness, a blight of civilization, a plague of justice. He watched as the Dark Lord’s wrath poured across the map, a belch of acid scorching the parchment black.

  *First we deceive, then we divide, then we annihilate. This woman threatens to undo the hierarchy of hatred sewn into the very fabric of Erdhe. She must be brought low, her very name defiled.*

  Visions flooded his mind, ways to corrupt a single thread, to turn a queen to ruin. The possibilities were delicious, full of deception, his favorite game of his past lives.

  *Centuries of planning culminate in this lifetime. Do not disappoint.*

  Power arced through him, striking like lightning, igniting every nerve in his body. He writhed in the grip of his god, torn between agony and ecstasy. His mouth stretched wide, plumbed by Darkness, too much for mortal flesh to contain. Filled with Dark power, his back arched, his manhood spewing in triumph. Once, twice, thrice, he shuddered with agony, he shuddered with delight, enduring pain and pleasure on an godly scale. Just when he thought he could bear it no longer, the Darkness withdrew.

  Drenched in sweat, aching and sore, the Mordant lay gasping on the cold stone floor, flushed with triumph. The immortal touch was gone, but Darkness was forever branded on his soul, leaving him throbbing with power. Such euphoria, such sweet pain, the Mordant struggled for breath, exalted with power. Lying spread-eagle, he strained to remember every detail, so many seeds of victory, so many triumphs to come. A sound intruded. In the back of his mind, the monk wept…a shattered sob. The Mordant laughed, for none could stand in the face of the Dark Lord.

  22

  Duncan

  Shackles bound his wrists…chains on his legs. Duncan’s head throbbed…his whole body ached. A loud creaking sound split his skull, like a knife stabbing his mind. Lying face down, his cheek pressed to cold iron, he stared through squinted eyes, struggling to understand. A pair of hob-nailed boots stood in front of his face, but beyond, the world…moved.

  The last thing he remembered was standing in a ring of spears. He should be dead instead of captured…a groan escaped his lips.

  A hand gripped his hair, yanking his head up. “So it’s true.” A bearded soldier in black leather armor leered into his face, his breath rank with sour ale. “What the hell are you? The Pit’s spawned many a freak, but never a man with a cat’s eye. Do you have a tail to go with it?”

  Duncan tried to swallow, his words a weak croak. “Water?”

  “Water!” The soldier barked a cruel laugh. “You’ll be lapping puddles of piss before the day’s done.” He released Duncan’s hair, letting his head thump against the iron floor. A swift kick followed, a solid blow to the ribs.

  Grunting in pain, Duncan rolled away but he could not go far. His back hit iron bars.

  His guard laughed, but no more blows followed.

  Curled on the floor, Duncan struggled to understand. Iron bars…they’d put him in a cage. But beyond the bars, the world moved. He shook his head, fighting for clarity. Understanding slowly dawned. The metal cage descended along a sheer cliff, hence the creaking noise. But the passing cliff-face was like none he’d ever seen. Gray stone fused smooth as glass, dark planes reflecting light…almost as if the stone had been melted. He craned his neck for a better view, pressing his face to the bars. A gasp escaped him. Not a cliff, but a great pit. As if an angry god had punched his fist straight down into the earth, boring a hole half a league to hell.

  A nameless fear gripped him. He was trussed in chains, a captive being lowered into a hellish hole. Duncan’s mind shuddered, desperate for a way to escape. His gaze skittered across the pit. Like a hungry maw, it gaped wide, more than three leagues across…all the walls as slick as glass, no sign of any road or stairs…a sheer descent to the underworld. A dark brown cloud obscured the bottom…if there was a bottom. All his senses screamed in warning, abomination. Horror-struck, Duncan struggled against his chains, sensing the pit was an offense against the land, a fathomless evil.

  A horn sounded from below, three short blasts, so perhaps there was a bottom.

  Shackled and caged…his mind shied away from guessing what horrors might lay beneath the dark cloud. Whatever his captors had planned for him, Duncan swore to die rather than reveal the secret.<
br />
  Chains clanked beyond his cage.

  An arm-span away, another cage went up. Crowded with men in dirty rags, they peered through the bars, desperation etched on all their faces.

  His guard chuckled, a mean-spirited sound. “Take a good look, berk. They’re the lucky ones. It’s always better to go up than down.”

  Duncan craned his neck, watching the ascent. Metal structures leered over the pit top like great praying mantises, chains dangling from their pointed heads. More cages jerked up and down the cliff walls, some of them crowded with soldiers, others with ragged prisoners.

  Chains rattled and creaked overhead, marking the endless descent. His cage entered the brown cloud. A harsh tang of burnt manure and smoldering grease assaulted his nostrils. Duncan gagged. He pressed his face to his sleeve, wondering how anyone could breathe such a stench. The cloud thinned and he got his first glimpse of the bottom. A city sprawled below, a vast slum of mud huts and stone hovels, teaming with people, like beetles on a dung heap. Everything was dirt brown or stone gray, dingy and depressing, not a speck of living green. His soul shuddered. A prison modeled on hell, stocked with an army of slaves, the north proved worse than any nightmare. Kath had no idea what she faced. How could the gods let such evil exist?

  The cage rattled and shook, slowly shuddering to a stop.

  The guard prodded him with the toe of his boot. “On your feet, berk.”

  Duncan struggled to stand, clinging to the bars as the world spun, willing his vision to clear.

  The door of the cage swung open. More guards waited outside, all of them wearing black leather armor.

  “Out.” The guard shoved Duncan, sending him staggering from the cage. His chains clanked as he struggled to keep his balance. The ground proved soft, clay trampled to mud, his boots sinking deep in the muck. He glanced up but the brown cloud hid the sky, as if he’d passed into a netherworld, beyond the sun’s warming touch.

  “Keep moving, berk.” His guard herded him along the cliff wall, past half a dozen cages. A troop of ten soldiers piled out of one cage, smiles on their faces, trading bawdy jokes, while a line of shackled slaves waited to load. A whip cracked and the slaves shuffled forward, heads bowed. Duncan risked a glance at the taskmaster and staggered to a stop. An ogre! Like a nightmare sprung to life, the ogre towered over mere men. Tall and barrel-chested, it had a sloping forehead, a chinless jaw, and protruding ridges for eyebrows, a monster clad in leather armor. Duncan traced the hand sign against evil, wondering what other horrors served the Mordant.

  “Hurry up, berk!”

  Something hard prodded him in the back. Duncan struggled to keep pace, stepping to the limit of his shackles. He shuffled past the line of cages, eventually reaching a raised stone platform, a crude dais set high above the sea of mud. Soldiers in black armor flanked the platform while a scribe sat halfway up the stairs, scribbling on a roll of parchment. A massive stone chair carved of gray rock dominated the dais. A fleshy man in dark blue robes reclined in the chair like a king on a throne. Bald-headed and smooth shaven, he caressed a cat-o-nine tails while passing judgment on a kneeling slave.

  Duncan joined the line of captives, standing behind a skinny man stripped naked except for a soiled loincloth, iron shackles on his wrists and feet. The man reeked of sweat and fear, the perfume of the Mordant’s subjects.

  A guard at the top of the stairs pounded his iron-shod spear against the stone platform. “Next!”

  The line shuffled forward. A burly guard forced an auburn-haired woman to kneel. “My Lord, a woman of the fifth tier found guilty of trying to sell her newborn child to a third tier family. The priests have condemned her to the pit brothel as penance for her sins.”

  “Lift her face.”

  The guard forced the woman’s head back.

  “Hmmm.” Leaning forward, the bald-headed lord smiled like a cat about to eat a bird. “Too pretty a flower for the brothels. Clean her up and send her to my residence. I’ll see to it she atones for her sins.”

  The guard saluted fist to chest, “Yes, m’Lord,” and ushered the sobbing woman back down the stairs.

  One at a time, the prisoners climbed the stairs to learn their fate. Duncan stood with his head bowed, stealing glances at his surroundings. The litany of crimes made little sense. He’d expected to be questioned and tortured, but it seems they’d put him with common criminals. Perhaps there was a chance he could live to escape while keeping the secret safe.

  The line of prisoners shuffled forward till only two were left.

  Guards dragged the skinny dark haired man to kneel before the throne. Trembling, he bowed low, sweat glistening on his pale white skin. “A priest, m’Lord, condemned to the iron mines.”

  “A bloody priest!” The lord scowled. “What did this one do?”

  The guard shook his head. “The bishop did not say, only that the man was to serve the remainder of his life in the iron mines.”

  “Priests and their dark damned secrets,” the lord’s voice dropped to a growl, “the bloody priesthood never lets anyone peek up their robes.” He gestured toward the kneeling man. “Probably sent to spy on me.”

  The guard answered, “No, m’Lord, they took his tongue.”

  “His tongue, eh?” The lord leaned forward, a flicker of interest on his face. “That’s one way of keeping secrets safe. I wonder what he knows.” He stared at the prisoner as if considering other possibilities, but then he shook his head, resignation in his voice. “Priests are dangerous, even with their tongues cut out. Send him to the mine’s deepest level. From the looks of him, he won’t last long.”

  The condemned man wailed in protest, a guttural sound. The guard cuffed him across the side of the face, dragging him down the steps.

  Duncan’s guard gave him a prod. “Your turn, berk.” He climbed the steps and knelt, keeping his head and his gaze lowered.

  The lord spoke first. “What’ve you got this time, Cribb?”

  “A runner. A gate patrol found him in the farmland.” The guard poked Duncan in the ribs. “They say he killed a half dozen gore hounds before they captured him.”

  “Ha!” The lord barked a cruel laugh. “A bald-faced lie. More likely the lazy buggers are spreading rumors, trying to gain a posting to the citadel.” He gestured with the cat-o-nine tails. “Let’s see his markings.”

  Another guard grabbed Duncan’s shackles, pulling his left arm straight. It was only then that he noticed his left sleeve had been slashed open, a cut running from elbow to wrist but there was no wound to match the slice. The guard peeled back the black leather, revealing his forearm. “No markings. A rune-less bastard.”

  One of the guards gasped in surprise.

  “That ain’t all.” The guard from the cage gripped Duncan’s hair, yanking his head back. “Take a good look at his eye.”

  “Spawn of the Pit!” The lord leaned forward. “Bring him closer.”

  Duncan began to rise, but the guard held a dagger to his throat. “On your knees, berk.”

  Goaded by a sword at his back, Duncan was compelled to shuffle forward, the stone dais hard beneath his knees. He reached the base of the throne and stopped, struggling to smother his rage.

  The lord leaned close, his breath like bad cheese. “An eye like a cat, that’s a new one for the Pit. The breeders might be interested in him. Might even be a reward for such a big healthy berk.” Avarice gleamed in his dark gaze. “I’ll alert the priests but in the meantime he’ll serve the mine. A turn in the iron mine will take the fight out of him.” He sat back, caressing the handle of the cat-o-nine tails. “See that he’s branded and fitted for a collar.”

  His guard nodded, a grin on his face. “I’ll see to it.” He gave Duncan a shove. “On your feet, berk, let’s go.”

  “Cribb, aren’t you forgetting something?” The lord’s voice was smooth as velvet.

  His guard turned. “What?”

  “His boots, Cribb. To the Master of the Pit go the spoils.”

  “As you
say, Lord Sleghorn.” He snarled at Duncan, his voice laced with frustration. “Take’em off, berk.”

  They treated him like cattle…but humiliation was better than torture. Duncan worked around his chains, struggling to remove his boots, struggling to control his anger. One at a time, the boots came off, a Midwinter gift from Jordan…at least he’d left his silver warrior’s ring with Kath. Another guard grabbed the boots and threw them in a basket overflowing with plundered trinkets…the spoils of the damned.

  His guard pricked him with a sword. “On your feet, berk.”

  They never even asked his name. Perhaps names did not matter in hell. He got to his feet and started down the stairs.

  “And Cribb,” the lord’s voice cut like a knife, “don’t even think of trying to collect the deformity bounty on him. This one’s mine.”

  His guard gave a curt bow. “As you wish, Lord.” He gave Duncan an angry shove, nearly toppling him down the steps.

  Duncan’s bare feet sank deep into the mud. Cold and clammy, it felt loathsome. Everything about the pit was loathsome and disgusting. He strained against his chains, struggling to keep pace with his guard, trying not to fall. He’d expected torture…but instead he found himself chained and shackled to the living damned, one among a multitude of slaves, condemned to work a prison pit. Duncan stifled a laugh, wondering if it was the onset of madness. His captors had brought him to the heart of the Mordant’s domain yet he was essentially invisible, lost among so much misery. Perhaps hell was as good a place as any to keep a secret safe.

  23

  Katherine

  Horses running, manes caught by the wind, a whole herd racing across the ceiling. Across the ceiling, the thought jarred her awake. Groggy with sleep, Kath struggled to make sense of her surroundings. Chalk drawings covered the cavern walls, but instead of being flat and lifeless, the horses flowed with vibrancy across the walls. Contours in the rock gave the horses an added dimension, a wild gallop of ocher, umber, and charcoal. Cunningly drawn, she half expected to hear hoofbeats. But why was she in a cave and who made the drawings?