The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga)

by Karen Azinger

  “So how do I counter it?”

  “You keep your wits about you.”

  “That’s it? That’s your advice?” He would have laughed except those demon-red eyes kept haunting him.

  Quintus shrugged. “What I mean is, consider magic like a sword, like a weapon, albeit a very dangerous weapon, but like most swords it can only cut one way.”

  “Explain.”

  Quintus sighed. “If the legends are to be believed, then most surviving magic is dependent on an artifact, a focus, leftover from the War of Wizards. And each artifact has a single purpose, a single magic, like being able to sculpt stone with just your mind, or summoning a fireball. But most magic wielders can only do one thing, one single magic. So once you know what that one thing is, you keep your wits about you and you find a way to block that skill so it doesn’t turn the tide of battle.”

  It made a strange kind of sense, like dealing with the first trebuchet. “And if the magic wielder is killed?”

  “Then the skill will be lost to the enemy.”

  So wizards can be killed, the marshal took comfort from the answer. “So what kind of magic will they have?”

  Quintus barked a laugh. “Only the gods know.”

  “You must have some idea?”

  “Legends are full of stories about magic. Any or all of them could be true.”

  The marshal studied the healer through hooded eyes. “And the monk didn’t say anything about what we might face?”

  Quintus sighed. “There was one thing Aeroth kept harping on, something troubling. He said the Mordant collects power, and the one power he covets above all others is soul magic.”

  “Soul magic?” A shiver raced down the marshal’s back. “What in the nine hells does that mean?”

  “It means the Mordant can twist flesh as well as spirit. It means his army may contain more than just men.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  The healer’s face turned grim. “The Mordant won’t be bound by the Laws of Light. By wielding soul magic he can sculpt abominations. Beasts and humans melded together creating creatures of horror. Legends are rife with them. You’ve heard the tales and you know their names. Ogres, goblins, hellhounds, fearsome creatures twisted by the Dark, abominations loosed against mankind.”

  Something big at the window, gliding like a ghost. The marshal drew his sword, a scrape of steel on leather.

  “Put up your sword.” The healer stood. “It’s just Snowman, my frost owl.”

  Wings spread wide; a white frost-owl soared through the window, landing on a crate. Ruffling its feathers, the owl stared at the marshal, a blink of golden eyes. “Whoooo?”

  “Just an owl?” The marshal stared at the bird.

  “He hunts the mountains late at night or early in the morning. It’s why I leave the window open.”

  Was this the owl he’d seen? It would explain why there were no rumors of shapeshifters…but then what happened to the monk? “I’d forgotten you kept an owl.” He sheathed his sword. “You’ve given me much to think about. I thank you.” He stepped toward the door and lifted the latch.

  “Lord Marshal.”

  He turned back to face the healer.

  “If it’s true the Mordant is coming, expect nightmares.”

  The marshal gave a weary nod, for his dreams already brimmed with nightmares.

  29

  The Mordant

  A line of maroon cloaks fluttered in the stiff winter wind. Thirty knights bearing the Octagon blazon stood at the heart of the Dark Citadel, a maroon slash marring the great circular courtyard. Such a sight would have been a blasphemy were it not of the Mordant’s own making.

  Amused by the irony, he walked among them, studying each man with a critical eye. His brief time at Cragnoth Keep had proved fruitful. By understanding his enemies he found ways to defeat them. Stealing the garb of the knights was a small thing yet it would serve him well.

  Craftsmen of the citadel mimicked his cast-off garments, transforming elite soldiers of the Pentacle into knights of the enemy. Trickery appealed to the Mordant. He’d worn many guises across many lifetimes, but the Deceiver always suited him best, the role that most profited the Dark Lord.

  A swagger of footsteps followed. The Mordant turned to study Sir Raymond, another spoil of treachery. Clad in black chainmail over dark leather, the unmade knight had turned his colors, serving as a captain in the Mordant’s elite guard. Cloak colors were easily changed, but it was the darkness of a man’s soul that truly mattered. In Raymond’s case, the truth lay exposed on his face. Stubborn eyes, a square jaw, and a nose made crooked by too many brawls…but the darkest truth was branded deep into his skin. Each cheek bore the scar of a broken octagon, marking him as an unmade knight of Castlegard. The Mordant kept him close, for the fallen knight had his part to play in the great dark design. “What do you think of my loyal knights?”

  Raymond studied the men. “The silver surcoats are well done. And the maroon cloaks are near perfect.”

  “Near perfect?”

  “Near enough. Even at Castlegard the dye is not always consistent. But it takes more than a maroon cloak to pass for a knight. Let me see how they move.”

  The Mordant gestured and the maroon-cloaked captain barked an order. “Search the courtyard for enemies.”

  Thirty knights unsheathed their weapons, a whisper of steel on leather. Moving in pairs, they patrolled the courtyard, swords held at the ready.

  Raymond took the time to study each pair. “They move well enough, like men bred to their weapons, confident in their ability to kill. Elite soldiers carry a certain swagger, like lions on the prowl,” he cocked his head, “but something’s not right.”

  Annoyed, the Mordant studied the knights, knowing the smallest imperfection could foil the ruse.

  “It’s their boots.”

  And then he saw it. Craftsmen of the Octagon used tanned leather, subtle shades of natural brown for belts, scabbards and boots, while the Pentacle used leather dyed to an unrelenting black. Their black boots betrayed them, such a small detail to ruin his dark deceit. “I ordered an exact copy. Have the quartermaster killed, and make it painful.”

  Sir Raymond flashed a feral grin. “I’ll do it myself.”

  “Now call them to attention.”

  Orders echoed through the courtyard.

  A cold wind blew out of the west, a tang of salt in the air.

  The Mordant turned, his black cape billowing in the wind. Darkness rose within him, making his voice more than mortal. “First we deceive, then we divide, then we conquer.” He studied the line of battle-hardened soldiers. More than a few bore scars on their faces, proof of their battle prowess. “A glorious task awaits you, for you are my knights of deception. Cragnoth Keep is held by traitors to the maroon. You’ll cross the Dragon Spines at the keep and then fall on the southern kingdoms, raping and pillaging wherever you ride. Wearing the Octagon blazon, you are ordered to sate your every desire.” His gaze bore into them, “your every desire.” More than few men smirked hungry smiles. “Rape, torture, and murder, your every atrocity will tear at the knights’ precious honor. Betrayal is the weapon that breaks men’s heart and melts their resolve. Your actions will shatter the Octagon before our army ever marches south.” His voice rose to a command. “Now finish your preparations and make all haste, for Darkness yearns to claim the whole of Erdhe.”

  The line of knights saluted, fists thumping their silver surcoats. “Honor and the Octagon!”

  The Mordant laughed, his false knights would serve their purpose well. He turned, a swirl of black, and strode toward the palace. Six guards rushed to open the massive doors. He entered the palace, embraced by heat, a haven from the bitter wind.

  A black-robed bishop and two priests scurried toward him, an ambush of boredom. The sallow-faced bishop waved a thick scroll. “My lord, the citadel has need of your decisions.”

  The Mordant did not break stride. Bishop Siff was a sycophant of the High Prie
st, a mere administrator bloated with self importance. Like a terrier, he dogged the Mordant’s heels, reading details from a lengthy scroll. “The longships of the Sea Lords have been provisioned as per your orders, but the grain of the city’s third silo has been sorely depleted. The Quartermaster begs leave to order new shipments.” The bishop droned like a bee in his ear. “The third ward of the first tier is rioting for more food. Two guards were killed, trampled by the rabble. Captain Lornid seeks permission to retaliate against the mob. And the blacksmiths require more iron ore if they are to meet the increased quota of swords, they…”

  Anger flared through the Mordant, he’d nearly forgotten the mundane drudgery of ruling. He whirled on the bishop, his voice a cold whisper. “Enough.”

  The bishop froze, his mouth sagging open. Scuttling back two steps, he held the scroll aloft like an offering.

  The Mordant struck the scroll, sending it skittering across the marble floor. “A flood of petty details.” He snarled at the bishop. “I know what it is you do, for I have ruled longer than your petty mind can imagine.” The bishop gaped like a fish out of water. The sight of the simpering fool only stoked the Mordant’s anger. “Your face displeases me. In the future, Lord Gavis will make the reports himself. Let the priesthood drowned in the details of the mundane,” his voice dripped with menace, “for that is your true purpose.” He turned, a whirl of black, his boot heels ringing on the marble hallways.

  A slow anger burned in the Mordant; perhaps he’d been too lenient with the priesthood. Perhaps more examples needed to be made.

  “My lord, a word.” A man’s voice echoed from a side hallway. General Haith approached, a glitter of gold on black.

  The Mordant slowed his steps, annoyance buried beneath a mask of calm.

  The general matched his stride, a parchment clutched in his left fist. “I’ve just received a dispatch from the fourth border squad. There’s been a battle in the steppes.”

  The Mordant came to a sudden stop. “A battle?”

  “Our scouts detected an immense flock of ravens, a sure sign of a battle. When they reached the site, they found more than a hundred dead. All the dead bore the tattoos of the citadel.”

  “Where?”

  “Deep in the steppes. Three days ride beyond the third gargoyle gate.”

  He’d entered the north through the third gate, perhaps there was more to this than met the eye. “And the enemy?”

  “Most of the bodies were trampled to gore, leaving little to identify. But scouts report the battlefield was stripped of steel and leather, every dead horse butchered for meat. Only one enemy scavenges the steppes like that. The painted slaves have grown bold in your absence.”

  The Mordant resumed walking. “Bold indeed. Any signs of movement from the Octagon?”

  “None reported.” The general matched his stride, a shadow at his left shoulder. “My lord, it is well known that the painted men hide within the Ghost Hills. Riddled with caves, the hills are a haven for runaway slaves and other vermin.” He clasped the hilt of his sword. “Lord, give the order. Let me eliminate this thorn from your side.”

  “How much threat is a thorn?”

  “But the slaughter of a hundred soldiers cannot be ignored?”

  “Butcher them in the steppes, but leave the Ghost Hills alone.”

  The general persisted. “But why? A troop of soldiers could easily rout the hills, putting an end to…”

  The Mordant turned on his general, his words like a lash. “You exist to serve, not to question.” General Haith retreated a step, his face pale. The Mordant bridled his anger; knowing the general had his uses. “For the sake of past loyalties, I will explain just this once. The Octagon knights cower behind their walls, rarely seeking battle, but the painted men dare the steppes, offering a skirmish to our soldiers. The escaped slaves keep our soldiers sharp between wars.” He leaned toward the general. “Every army needs a whetstone.”

  Understanding dawned on the general’s face. “A whetstone, not a true threat, and so you allow them to survive for as long as they serve.”

  “Serve to live, the eternal lesson of the citadel.” The Mordant resumed walking, his black cape flaring at his back. “The painted people are nothing more than a thorn, easily trod beneath our boot heel. Our true foes lie in the south. In this lifetime, old scores will be settled.” The Mordant smiled. “Summon my battle commanders. It is time the Pentacle prepared for war.”

  30

  Duncan

  A loud clang came from the trapdoor above. Duncan watched the others wake, trying to gauge their resolve. A few gave him confident nods as they shuffled into place, but too many looked away, their heads bowed, their hands shaking. Duncan tried to meet their stares, to bolster their courage, but it was too late for words.

  The trapdoor clanged open and Grack descended the ladder. “On your feet, maggots!” Awkward with just one hand, the big Taal lurched down the rungs, but once he reached the bottom his awkwardness vanished, replaced by a cruel menace. Prowling the chamber, he twirled his spiked mace. “Time to earn your gruel, maggots. Serve to live!”

  The bucket boys doled out the morning slop, a sour mash of oats and barley mixed with something foul that Duncan did not have a name for. Starving like the others, he gulped his portion down despite the taste.

  An odd choking sound filled the chamber. Gren bent double, spewing his meal onto the floor.

  Grack was on him in a heartbeat. “Not good enough for you, maggot?” His massive fist lashed out, smashing the dwarf to his knees. Grasping the small man by his hair, Grack pressed Gren’s face into the stinking vomit. “Lap it up, maggot. For you’ll get no more.”

  Gren squirmed, desperate to breathe.

  Across the chamber, Brock’s stare drilled into Duncan. His fists flexed, poised to fight, a burning question in his gaze.

  Duncan shook his head no, willing Brock to stand down. They had to wait, or they’d all die for nothing.

  Grack kicked Gren, a vicious blow to the ribs, but the small man just moaned, curling into a ball. Grack soon lost interest, his voice a snarl. “Get him on his feet!”

  Seth and Clovis rushed to help. Gren tottered on shaking legs, bruises blooming on his face.

  A sour smell hung in the chamber…the rancid reek of fear.

  Grack scowled, “Into the hole, maggots. The Mordant needs his iron ore.”

  They lined up and shuffled towards the door. Duncan’s stare circled the chamber, willing the others to remain calm. A handful met his gaze, Brock, Clovis, Thomas and Seth, but too many of the others looked skittish. Pale and shaken, fear etched their face, yet none of them talked. Perhaps Grack’s cruelty had pushed them to silence. Either way, Duncan was relieved when he finally reached the ladder. He swung out and followed the others down, careful to avoid the missing rungs.

  Strung out in a line, they descended into the mine.

  And then the screaming started.

  A piteous wail came from above.

  Twisted by distance, the wail held no words…only fear.

  Duncan clung to the ladder, trying to protect his head, expecting a body to come tumbling from above…but the corpse never fell. Silence followed the screams, leaving a mystery hanging in the stale air.

  From below, Brock bellowed, “What’s happening?” but no one answered.

  Duncan yelled, “Keep moving!”

  Someone whimpered, but they started moving again, shuffling down the ladder. No one spoke, but the pace increased, as if they all yearned to stand on solid ground. Duncan finally reached the bottom and found the others milling in the central shaft, a mixture of confusion and fear on their faces. Duncan took a risk and singled out Gren. “Do you still want to fight?”

  The others stilled, their stares spearing the dwarf.

  Bruised and battered, Gren met Duncan’s stare, a glint of anger riding his eyes. “I want to kill the bloody Taal.”

  Duncan nodded. “And so you shall.” He looked at the others. “It’s e
asy to die in the mines. That’s why we need to fight, but not until the appointed hour. First we work to meet the quota, then we eat…then we fight.”

  A few flashed wolfish grins.

  Duncan said, “Now get to work. We need to make the quota so Grack doesn’t suspect.”

  Stragglers descended the ladder.

  Duncan longed to question them, but instead he turned for the gallery, needing to set an example. Passing close to Clovis, he whispered, “Find out what happened.” Without pause, he strode down the gallery to an empty tunnel. Kneeling, he crawled to the ore face, taking up the hammer and spike.

  Iron pounded against stone in a relentless heartbeat. Duncan drove the wedge deep, wondering if they’d been betrayed. Shackles on his wrists clanged with each stroke, echoing his rage. Swing and strike, he attacked the ore-face, releasing a shower of blood-red rock. Coughing on the dust, he studied the rock-face, desperate for a trickle of water, for a chance to slake his thrust, but the rock did not oblige. Unwilling to weep, the dark-cursed rock proved as cruel as the gods.

  Behind him, wood scraped against rock. Clovis pulled the empty sledge toward the ore-face. Duncan leaned on the hammer, taking the weight off his knees. “Who was it?”

  Despite the dim darkness, Duncan saw a flicker of fear in the older man’s eyes. “Bruce.”

  Bruce, the name ambushed Duncan with a spike of fear.

  “Seth was the last man down. He claimed Bruce balked at the ladder, refusing the climb.”

  “Did Seth see what happened?”

  Clovis shook his head. “Seth scrambled down the ladder, keen to get beyond Grack’s reach.” A racking cough shook the older man. When it finally subsided, he wiped his sleeve across his mouth. “Bruce was unmanned by the cave-in. I’ve seen it before. A cave-in preys on a man’s mind till he can’t take another day in the depths. Choked on madness, such men seek other deaths.”