The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga)

by Karen Azinger

  “You’re both warriors. You know the enemy.” She stepped close, invading their space. “My companions and I came north to fight the Mordant.” Her words stabbed like a sword. “Don’t send us into battle blind.”

  Boar gasped and retreated a step, but Bear just stared.

  Seeking to keep them off-balance, Kath pivoted and started to walk away…but Boar’s gruff voice raised a stubborn challenge. “Women don’t fight.”

  She’d found a chink in their armor. Slowly turning, she fought to keep her face neutral. “Why not? Every woman in the den carries a weapon, so why don’t they fight?”

  “To defend the den, yes, but not in the open steppes.”

  She drilled Boar with her stare, demanding an answer. “Why not in the steppes?”

  “Because…” he stammered, “men can endure.” Blood rushed to his face. “Far better for a woman to die than to be taken prisoner.”

  “Why?”

  “Because…” Boar’s face flushed red.

  Kath’s stare intensified. “I need to know.”

  His voice dropped to a strangled rasp. “Because captured women are sent to the breeding pens.”

  A chill gripped Kath. “The breeding pens?”

  Boar nodded. “In the Pit.”

  The more she learned about the Mordant’s domain, the more she hated it…but she needed to understand the enemy. “So you’ve been in the Dark Citadel?”

  “A slave of the ninth tier.”

  Bear scowled, his voice like a thunderclap. “Enough!”

  Boar looked away, his face flaming red, his fist gripping his mace.

  But the words were said…explaining much. Kath waited, hoping for more, but the stony silence returned. Pivoting, she strode down the widest passage, setting a fast pace, forcing her guards to rush to catch up. Boar’s words shivered in her mind, breeding pens, such a revolting thought, another reason to defeat the Mordant. She wondered how many of the Painted Warriors had once lived within the Dark Citadel. Their knowledge would be invaluable, if only they’d help, but their frosty silence was proving hard to crack. Whoever ruled the tattooed people did so with an iron fist.

  Kath followed the deer, lost in thought, hoping Blaine was having better luck. They’d split up, trying to cover more of the caves; perhaps the knight would discover the meaning behind the lions.

  The passage widened, spilling into one of the many long galleries. Half a dozen passageways emptied into the chamber, white-tailed deer mingling with aurochs, horses, and wolves across the vaulted ceiling. A crowd filled the gallery, young and old standing in a circle, straining to see, as if watching a juggler or a mummer. Men cheered and women made a strange humming sound. Surprised, Kath drew close. She’d seen large galleries where the tattooed people gathered to card wool, weave cloth, cook meals, or repair chainmail, but she’d yet to see any form of merriment or revelry. Curious, she joined the crowd, threading her way to the front. Gaining a clear view, she gasped in surprise.

  Blaine’s blue steel sword!

  A fox-faced man gave an exhibition of sword work, blue steel slicing through imaginary foes. Pivoting and leaping, he slashed and hacked, fighting a mock battle. The man proved agile and quick but the sword strokes were crude and clumsy, a self-taught brawler wielding a hero’s sword. The coarse display sickened her, a waste of blue steel. The great sword deserved better, yet the painted people did not seem to know it.

  Kath studied the crowd, tattooed faces eagerly following the sapphire sword, cheering with appreciation. If they only knew what an Octagon knight could do with such a blade.

  Blaine! As if conjured from thought, the blond-haired knight stood on the far side of the crowd…but one glimpse of his face warned her of trouble. Like a starving lion, the knight’s hungry stare followed the blue sword. His hands were balled into fists, his mouth curled into an ugly smile, his eyes burning with a devil-may-care attitude, all the telltale signs of a berserker on the brink of battle…yet he had no weapon. Kath feared that he might get hurt, feared that he might ruin any chance for an alliance.

  Desperate to stop him, she pushed through the crowd. A smother of people blocked the way. Dodging the press, she fought her way forward, straining to reach him in time. She lunged, grabbing his sleeve. “Blaine!”

  He whirled, his eyes smoldering with rage, his face on the verge of a berserker’s madness, no recognition in his stare.

  Pounding his chest, she tried to get through to him. “Stop it, Blaine.”

  Snarling, he batted her away, turning back toward the sword.

  She grabbed his arm, but he shook her off.

  Thwarted by his strength, she reached for her father’s voice, a battle leader using the voice of command. “Sir Blaine, attend me!”

  He staggered back a step, his gaze snapping toward her.

  She seized the chance. Laying a hand against the stubble of his cheek, she held his gaze, appealing to the man instead of the battle-crazed warrior. “I can’t lose you.”

  He swayed on his feet, his gaze uncertain.

  Kath persisted, her voice a hushed command. “By the Octagon, do not risk our victory.”

  He came back to her then, the anger in his eyes dampened to a sullen bitterness. “I need my sword.” The battle madness left him in a rush, his shoulders slumping forward, a defeated, hangdog look souring his face.

  A hard stare drilled into her back. Whirling, she locked eyes with the raven-faced healer. So, they were being watched, judged by standards she didn’t understand, all the more reason to get Blaine away.

  Kath gripped his arm, drawing him away from the tattooed stares. “Come.” Blaine kept pace, his face sullen, but at least he did not argue. Four guards followed, Bear and Boar and the two that shadowed Blaine. Irritated by the nagging shadows, Kath tried to ignore them. Retracing her steps, she followed the chalk horses, leading Blaine back to the privacy of their sleeping chamber.

  Ducking low, she entered the small side cave; thankful the guards remained outside, stationed at the only entrance. Their sleeping chamber was L-shaped, more horses cantering across the low vaulted ceiling. A large glow crystal sat on a central boulder, casting a soft white light. Bedrolls lay spread across the floor, the rear of the chamber reserved for the chamber pot. Danya sat on her bedroll, hugging the wolf, her face buried in his thick black ruff, but at least the wolf-girl had stopped her muffled crying. Bryx chuffed a greeting but the girl did not stir.

  Blaine sprawled on his bedroll, his voice sullen. “Prisoners returned to their cage.”

  Kath did not like his tone, especially after the incident in the gallery. “They’ve given us the freedom to explore the caves, a chance to change our fate.”

  He shook his head. “We’re still prisoners.”

  Kath’s anger snapped. “That’s the trick,” she glared down at him, “turning captors into allies.”

  He glowered, looking away.

  “You were supposed to befriend them, explore the caves and try to win their trust, not start a fight and get yourself killed.” She stubbed her boot hard against the sole of his foot. “What were you going to do? Fight him with your bare hands?”

  He sprang to his feet, a coil of anger. “Allies shouldn’t demand payment for help.”

  “Exactly.”

  “What?” He stared at her, confusion muting his anger.

  “We need these people for allies.” She drilled him with her stare. “They live in the very shadow of the Mordant. They know his ways. They know the Dark Citadel.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “And they have the crystal dagger.”

  Blaine glowered. “I tried to keep it from them…but they took it with the rest of our weapons.”

  She willed him to understand. “Win their trust and we’ll regain our weapons.”

  “I want my sword back.”

  “To get it, you must first understand them.”

  His gaze burned into her.

  “Trade stories with their warriors. Find out how they fight the en
emy, discover how they make decisions, how they divide the spoils of war. Learn about them and find a way to regain your sword without raising their ire.”

  Blaine scowled. “Just that simple.”

  “There’s nothing simple about it.” She had to make him understand. “It’s up to us to find the common ground, to forge an alliance. We’re being watched. Every move we make is being judged. Don’t you see that?”

  “What I see is my sword in another’s hands.” His voice dropped to a growl. “A knight is nothing without his sword.”

  Her anger boiled over. “No! A knight is honor.” She jabbed the maroon octagon emblazoned on his surcoat. “You are honor, never forget that.” She glared up at him. “And you are sworn to me. I’ll not have you risk your life needlessly.”

  He stared at her, wide-eyed, caught in an ambush of words.

  “But you still want your sword.”

  “Yes.” His mouth hardened to a stubborn slash.

  “Then go and talk to them. Time is running out.” She waved him toward the exit. “See what you can learn…but don’t pick a fight.”

  He grabbed his maroon cloak, twirled it around his shoulders and then left, ducking through the exit without looking back.

  Weary from arguing, she threw herself on her bedroll. Her frustration gradually subsided and she found herself running her hand through the bedroll’s thick fleece. Sheep seemed to be the main staple of the painted people. The evidence was everywhere, from sheepskin bedrolls, jerkins, and cloaks, to haunches of lamb for supper, and chunks of mutton in the midday stew. The painted people depended on sheep. It was the one obvious truth about their captors…while so much else remained a riddle.

  Closing her eyes, Kath sank back into the fleece, weary of so many problems. Reaching beneath her jerkin, she gripped the silver warrior’s ring and thought about Duncan, praying for Valin to keep him safe. She missed him so much, she ached.

  A wet rasp licked her face.

  Startled, Kath sat up.

  Green eyes stared at back her, a soft whine.

  “What do you want, Bryx?” Sometimes the wolf seemed half human.

  He chuffed and whined and slunk back to Danya, his tail between his legs. Settling next to the brown-haired girl, he stared back at Kath, reproach in his gaze.

  Kath sighed, another problem. She’d tried talking with Danya, tried pulling the wolf-girl out of her grief, but words seemed to have little effect. The brown-haired girl remained listless, eating little and saying less, clutching the wolf as she rocked back and forth, locked within her own remorse. Still, the wolf was right, Kath could not give up.

  Her bedroll was too far away. She moved it closer, sitting across from Danya with the wolf lying between them. Reaching out, she stroked the thick, dark fur. The wolf rumbled in pleasure, rolling onto his side.

  “Danya, talk with me.” Kath kept her voice soft, cajoling, inviting a response. “You grieve too much.” She shook her head, recalling the horrors of the battlefield. “You saved us all. If not for you, we’d all be dead, or worse, prisoners of the Mordant.”

  But the brown-haired girl made no reply. She sat hugging the wolf, her face buried in the black fur.

  Kath leaned forward, trying to shatter the wall of silence. “Battle is simple, kill or be killed. The Mordant’s soldiers would have taken our heads. You waste your grief on them.”

  “No.” The word was little more than a moan.

  Kath held her breath, hoping for more.

  “You don’t understand.” Danya raised her head, her face streaked with tears. “It’s not the soldiers…but the horses.”

  Kath rocked backwards, struck with understanding.

  Danya sat up, her gaze haunted, her voice a harsh whisper. “I tortured those horses.”

  Kath scrambled for a reply. “You commanded them to attack. You saved our lives.”

  “I did far worse than that.” Tears spilled down her face. “I know wolves.” Her voice dropped to a guilty whisper. “I put wolves in their minds.”

  The terrible carnage finally made sense, horses screaming, stomping their riders into puddles of gore. Kath shook her head, dispelling the horror. Somehow she had to save Danya from an abyss of guilt. She gripped the wolf-girls hands, conviction in her voice. “We need you, Danya.” The girl tried to pull away but Kath held tight. “Some larger destiny is at work here. We all have a role to play. Can’t you feel it?”

  “What I did was unforgivable! And you want me to do more? Use my god-cursed magic to torture more animals?” Her voice flooded with scorn. “Animals feel too. They love life. They know pain and death.” Danya pulled away, her face full of outrage. Ripping her shirtsleeve, she revealed the silver cuff. “This thing is a curse…yet I cannot bring myself to be rid of it!”

  “Not a curse.” Kath shook her head, there had to be a way to use the magic and still walk in the Light. “Perhaps there is another way.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Kath stared at Bryx, struggling to put her thoughts into words. “The wolf helps…he’s a true companion, one of us.”

  “So?”

  “So…instead of commanding, ask.”

  Danya shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

  “You’ve seen what the Mordant does to horses, riding them till they drop, leaving them for dead without even removing the saddle.”

  Danya nodded, her face pale.

  “And the gore hounds, a twisted abomination of man and animal.”

  The wolf bared his teeth, a menacing growl.

  “The Mordant has no compassion for men or animals, an ancient evil that must be stopped.

  “Yes.”

  “Then show the animals what we fight against and ask them for help. Ask them to fight on our side.”

  “Ask?” Danya hugged the wolf. “And if they say no?”

  Kath hesitated, but no matter the risks, there could be only one reply. “Then the answer is no.” She saw the hesitation in the other girl’s eyes. “I swear by my sword.”

  Danya hugged the wolf, her face thoughtful. “It might work.” She wiped her eyes, a look of reason replacing her grief. “I could ask.”

  Relief washed through Kath. She gripped Danya’s arm. “We truly need you.”

  The wolf-girl blushed and looked away.

  “Come, you must be hungry.” She pulled the other girl to her feet, refusing to let her pine alone in the cave. “Let’s see if there’s any supper left in the cook pots.”

  The wolf chuffed.

  “I’ll wager a gold, it’s lamb again.”

  Danya ruffled the wolf’s fur. “Bryx likes lamb.”

  Kath turned, shocked to find a woman standing in the shadows of the entranceway.

  “May I enter?”

  Kath nodded, wondering how much she’d overheard.

  Thera stepped from the shadows, the tattooed raven staring from her face like a dark omen. The healer smiled, dispelling the grim illusion. “I bring word of your companion. The fever has broken, the old man will live.”

  Kath sighed in relief. “Thank Valin.”

  “I bring other news as well. The Ancestor will meet with you in three days time. She’s called for a conclave in the Great Hall.” A raven peered from the healer’s face, keen eyes surrounded by dark feathers. “At conclave we will learn the fate of the man who walked among the lions, the man who died in Castlegard.” Her dark gaze drilled into Kath. “You’ll tell his tale and then much will be decided.” She turned, her back stiff with silence. “Come, I will take you to your companion.”

  A conclave…the words had the ring of a trial, or a judgment. Kath followed the healer, needing to speak to Zith. Perhaps the monk knew the key to the painted people…or perhaps the answer lay in Castlegard, with a tattooed man two years dead. Either way, she still had a riddle to solve…the sands of time were running out.

  27

  Duncan

  Duncan waited with the others for a turn at the ladder. Bruce went first, scrambling
up the rungs as if death tugged at his heels. One at a time, they scaled the mineshaft, white-knuckles grasping the rungs, refusing to look down. Duncan waited till last. He was accustomed to heights, having climbed the great trees as a child, but this was different. The climb seemed to stretch to forever, testing muscles already weary with strain. Relief washed through him when he finally reached the top.

  Grack waited at the door to the sleeping chamber, thumbing a string of knots as each prisoner passed. Duncan wondered if the big Taal even knew how to count, but he kept his thoughts to himself. A boy accepted his torch, snuffing it in a bucket of sand. Duncan followed the others into the cell. The men shuffled forward, keeping their backs to the rough-hewn walls. Hungry and parched, their stares fixed on the two buckets waiting beneath the trapdoor. One held a slop of brown-colored stew, while the other brimmed with murky water, their second meal of a long hard day. Duncan breathed deep, hoping to catch the stew’s scent, but the combined reek of sweat and piss overpowered the stale air. Anger thrummed through him, how he hated the mine.

  The iron door clanged shut.

  The men kept their heads lowered.

  Grack strode into the torchlight, his sheer bulk enforcing a brooding menace. “One’s missing.” His voice was a low growl, his stare full of suspicion. He poked a thick finger at Brock. “You, explain.”

  “A cave-in.” Brock kept his head bowed. “Trell died in a cave-in.”

  “One less maggot to tend.” Grack prowled the chamber. “One less maggot to feed,” his spiked mace whistled though the air, “one less maggot to work.” The mace swung close to Martin’s head, but the skinny man knew to keep still. Grack scowled, “One less man to work but the quota stays the same.” The big Taal came to a stop next to the bucket of stew, his booted foot poised to kick.

  The men gasped, a strangled sound.

  Grack laughed. “Meet the quota or go hungry.” He kicked the bucket, just a light tap, but the stew slopped over the side, forming a small puddle.

  A few men, the skinniest ones, whined and trembled, leaning toward the spill…but discipline held.

  Grack scowled, disappointment in his voice. “All right, feed the maggots.”