The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga)

by Karen Azinger

  A tall man with iron gray hair climbed the steps of the dais, his eagle face set in a defiant scowl. “The test of the depths earns her a seat at the leader’s council…but she has no right to wear the War Helm. The eagles have that honor.”

  Thera answered, “Will you defy the voice of the gods?”

  The eagle faced man flinched but he did not retreat. “Valdur is two years dead. His words are lost to the wind.”

  “The gods found a way to bring his words back to us.”

  “There’s no proof!”

  “The proof is in the manner of his death.” Thera shook with outrage. “A true son of the mountain lions, Valdur proved himself worthy of the gods. He kept his oath, running instead of fighting, forswearing violence while on a vision quest. And despite his wounds, he found a way to preserve the words of the gods.” She raised her voice to the crowd. “The Taishan succeeded, sacrificing his life for his vision. His words come to us from beyond the grave. It is our duty to heed their wisdom.”

  The eagle faced man scowled. “I’ll not listen to lies.”

  Royce shook his head, his words a low growl, “Shagrith, you speak blasphemy.”

  “No, I demand proof. The War Helm will not be won by the lies of a barefaced girl.” He pointed an accusing finger at Kath. “As leader of the eagle den, I demand proof.” His face curled into a sneer. “I demand a trial by combat!”

  The cavern erupted in argument.

  Kath stared at the Old One, ambushed by the turn of events. “What does this mean?” But her words were lost in the uproar.

  Brass bells jangled against the noise of the crowd. Royce paced the length of the dais, calling for quiet. The chaos subsided to a dull murmur. He confronted the eagle, his voice full of anger. “You dispute the words of a Taishan?”

  “I do.”

  “Such a challenge has not been issued in many lifetimes.”

  Shagrith grinned. “Then perhaps it’s past time. I demand trial by combat, a fight to the death, here and now, in front of this assembly.” He threw a look of disdain at Kath. “The liar has the choice of weapons.” His smile turned into a sneer. “And the choice of champions. Let the gods decide the truth of her words.”

  Thera protested, appealing to the lion faced man. “Royce, this is not right. The council…”

  He raised his hand. “As the leader of the eagles, Shagrith has the right to challenge.” He turned to Kath, his face solemn. “Will you fight, or will you rescind your words?”

  Kath stared at Royce, trying to read the message behind his eyes. “I spoke the truth.”

  He nodded, and it seemed a weight was lifted from his shoulders. “Then you must fight.”

  “But I…”

  Shagrith interrupted. “Choose your weapon!”

  Blaine vaulted onto the dais, his voice bellowing through the cavern. “I will be her champion!” Tall and proud, shimmering in his silver surcoat, he looked like an avenging hero. “And the weapon will be swords!”

  Shagrith flashed a scathing grin. “So the girl hides behind the knight.”

  “Hold!” It was Thera, her dark eyes glittering. She flew across the dais to stand at Kath’s side. “It’s not the knight’s decision...it’s Kath’s. And she does not understand our ways.” She leaned close to Kath, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Think before you choose.”

  Kath felt as if she’d stepped into a quagmire, trapped by politics, egos, and fate. Her gaze roamed the dais, searching for allies, for a way out of the trap. Her stare settled on the Old One. “I would speak with the Ancestor.”

  Shagrith protested but Royce cut him off. “It is allowed.”

  The Old One nodded, bird-bright eyes huddled beneath sheepskin robes.

  Kath crossed to the Old One. Kneeling on the cold stone floor, she leaned close to the old woman, keeping her voice to a whisper. “You know I spoke the truth, about his death, about the war helm.”

  The Old One nodded. “Valdur was true to his oath and you were true to his memory. Even death cannot keep the words of the gods from finding their way back to the people.”

  The old woman’s words brimmed with certainty, setting a spark in Kath’s mind. “You knew this would happen! Yet you did not warn me?”

  “It is all part of the test, to see if you would choose the hard truth…or a convenient lie. Integrity is easy to claim but hard to live by.”

  Anger boiled inside Kath. “And this is another test?”

  “A choice.”

  “But since you know the truth, why should I fight?”

  “Because a people divided are a blunted weapon. It takes fire to forge a strong sword.” The old woman’s gaze burned into her. “Remember your visions of the future. You will need a strong sword to face the Mordant.”

  Kath shivered, knowing one wrong step would shatter the future.

  The old woman grinned, a gap-toothed smile…and Kath realized she was missing something, another piece to the puzzle, another layer to the challenge. She leaned back, replaying the last few moments in her mind, considering the words of Royce, and Shagrith…and Thera. She glanced at Blaine, certain the knight could defeat any champion, yet it seemed too easy. She stared at the Old One. “I have the right to choose a champion?”

  “The right is yours but the fight is for the fate of the War Helm. Whoever wears the War Helm leads the people into battle. And to lead, you must eliminate doubt.” She laid a gnarled hand on Kath’s cheek. “The Womb of the World opened the doors to your past. Those doors have not yet closed.” Her voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “The old ways are strong in you, like undercurrents of destiny they flow through your mind, lending strength to your convictions. Remember the past and find the strength to change the future.”

  Kath knew what she must do. She bowed to the Old One and then stood, weariness settling on her shoulders like a cloak. Gripping the crystal dagger, she turned to face the others, her words ringing with certainty. “I spoke the truth of his death, and I spoke the truth of the war helm. The challenge is accepted.”

  A roar ripped through the people.

  Royce raised his fist, demanding silence.

  Shagrith shouted over the din. “And the weapon?”

  “I choose the sword.”

  Blaine stepped forward. “And I will be her champion.”

  The pride in his voice almost choked Kath to silence…almost. Nothing was ever simple…and every choice had its price. Why did the gods make it so hard? She met his stare, willing him to understand. “For the fate of the War Helm…I must fight my own battles.”

  Blaine gaped, floundering in disbelief.

  But Shagrith grinned, more like a wolf than an eagle. “And for the sake of truth, I name Anton of the fox den as the gods’ champion.”

  Shocked murmurs rippled through the cavern.

  A tall red-haired man strode toward the dais. A grin split his face, the wily leer of a fox…and in his hands he bore Blaine’s blue steel sword.

  41

  Duncan

  Duncan lingered on the edge of sleep, a pillow beneath his head. A pillow! The thought pierced him like an arrow yet he remained still as a possum. Alert to danger, he took slow and shallow breathes, his eyes closed, his face relaxed, while his senses probed his surroundings. Naked, he lay on a soft pallet, a wool blanket providing a comfortable warmth. Beneath the blanket he flexed his right hand, testing his body. Gone were the weights, and the chains, and the endless pull. The fierce agony of the hanging stones was banished, replaced by a dull ache. His raging thirst was slaked as well, a mere memory. Puzzled, he breathed deep, tasting the air. A hint of rosewater and the smell of soap but the stench of the Pit was absent. Perhaps he’d been rescued. Against all odds, perhaps Kath had found a way.

  He dared a glance through hooded eyes.

  Tapestries adorned the stone wall; the glimpse of luxury deepened his puzzlement. Beeswax candles littered the bedside table, a copper basin filled with water, but he detected no sign of movement or sound, per
haps he was alone. He lay in a four-posted bed in a small round chamber, sunlight striping the coverlet. Stripes in the sunlight, a nasty suspicion spiked him. Discarding caution, he turned and stared at the window. Bars on the window, hope sank like a stone in his stomach. So he was still a prisoner, but why the opulence? He racked his mind for answers but all his memories were mired in pain.

  Throwing the covers aside, he rose from the bed and tested his body. Muscles ached with disuse but the raging pain was gone. His lice-ridden beard was shaved clean, smooth as a courtier’s cheek. A healing salve coated his wrists and his back, the raw marks of shackles and lashes fading to a dull sore. Someone bothered to heal him, but why?

  He strode to the window set high in the wall. Grabbing the bars, he pulled himself up. The view took his breath away. High in a tower, he looked down on a tiered citadel of black stone. A dizzying height, he counted nine tiers of walls, a stone beehive rising from the steppes. So this was the Dark Citadel, the stronghold of the Mordant. He could have wept. The god-cursed monks had sent the six of them against this? The monks were barking mad, naïve beyond belief. He vented his anger against the bars but the iron was sunk deep, impossible to bend.

  Dropping down from the window, he prowled the chamber, searching for a weapon…or a way out. A stout oak door barred the only exit, locked from the other side. Twitching the tapestry aside, he found bare stone beneath. Candles, a copper basin, a chamber pot, nothing he could use as a weapon, not even a stitch of clothing. Trapped in a silken prison, but why the royal treatment? They’d cleaned him up and fed him…like a nobleman held for ransom…or a lamb fattened before the slaughter. A premonition of fear shivered down his back.

  A key rattled in the door.

  Fight or spy? He leaped for the bed and pulled the covers close, spying through hooded eyes.

  The door eased open and a dark haired beauty slipped inside. She carried a tray, the rich scent of lamb stew swamping his senses. Lamb stewed with vegetables, the mouth-watering smells nearly drove him mad with hunger yet he feigned sleep, his gaze fixed on the woman.

  Balancing the tray on one hand, she moved toward the bed, a gown of diaphanous silk revealing every detail. And every detail proved enticing. After the depths of the Pit, she seemed an illusion. The grace of a dancer and the curves of a courtesan; not what he expected in a jailor.

  She set the tray on the table and perched on the edge of the bed. Leaning forward, she tugged the covers away from his chest.

  His hand snaked out, catching her wrist. “Why am I here?”

  Brown eyes flared wide, startled as a deer.

  “Why am I healed?” He pulled her close, his grip like steel. “I mean you no harm but I need answers.”

  She shook her head, her eyes wide in panic, but she did not speak.

  “Answer me!”

  She made an odd gurgling sound and then opened her mouth wide.

  No tongue! She had no tongue! “Who did this to you?” Horrified, he let her go.

  Suddenly free, she lurched backwards, knocking the tray from the table, a clatter of dishes across the floor.

  He rose from the bed, never mind his nakedness. “Who did this to you?”

  The door crashed open and guards rushed in. Six spears thrust toward him, poised at his throat. Naked and without a weapon, Duncan was forced to yield. Hard-faced guards pushed him against the wall. Sobbing, the girl fled the chamber. A leather-clad man appeared at the door. Small and slight, dressed all in black, he lounged against the doorframe, his arms crossed, a baldric of nine throwing knives strung across his chest like a banner. “So you’re finally wake.”

  Duncan kept still, his back pressed to the wall, his throat a hair’s breadth from the spear points. “Six against one is hardly fair.”

  The small man grinned. “Nathan, go tell the priests he’s finally ready.”

  One of the guards snapped a salute and then rushed from the chamber.

  So the small man held sway despite his slight stature. “Why the priests?”

  “All in due time.”

  Duncan studied his captors. Five guards with spears but the one that worried him the most was slight man leaning against the doorframe. Short and wiry, he had the stunted body of a fifteen year-old boy, yet years of struggle were writ across his face. Cloaked in black, he carried an intensity about him that reeked of coiled danger. “Who are you?”

  “They say you killed three gore hounds. Not an easy feat.”

  So they knew he wasn’t from the Pit. Duncan hardened his resolve, knowing he still had a secret to protect.

  “What do you see with your golden cat eye?”

  Perhaps the luxury was all about his eye, a better topic than the gore hounds. “I see a silken prison with too many guards.”

  “I’m betting your golden eye gives you an advantage, and aid in hunting the gore hounds.”

  Interest laced the man’s words, or perhaps it was jealousy. “Why? Do you need an advantage to kill one?”

  The man flashed a mocking smile. “Deformities of the Pit often carry a purpose.” He eased away from the door, moving with a feral grace. “The Taals have obscene strength, the stunted Duegars can sniff magic, and rumors say some of the Pit-born have the gift of prophecy. So I’ll ask you again, what do you see with that golden eye?”

  “Not the future.”

  The dark man paused, as if weighing the answer, and then he flashed a devilish grin. “No, you don’t see the future,” the grin turned nasty, “else you’d reek of fear.”

  “Who are you?”

  His grin widened. “The Mordant’s assassin.”

  A clatter of footsteps approached the doorway. A dozen guards crowded into the chamber. A tall man in a long black robe followed. He carried himself with an air of authority, studying Duncan like a bug stuck on a pin. “So the rumors are true.” Nodding, he made an imperious gesture. “Take him. The Mordant awaits.”

  Spear points dropped. A dozen hands reached for him.

  Duncan seized his chance. His right fist snaked out, connecting with a jaw. Bone crunched and a guard fell screaming. Instinct took over, a cornered animal desperate to escape. He whirled, throwing elbows at faces, knees to groins, dealing a whirlwind of pain. Twisting and turning, he fought like a rabid animal, nothing to lose. A gap opened between two guards. Duncan lunged for the doorway, but the small man was suddenly there, a blur of shadows. Something solid struck the side of Duncan’s head. He staggered to his knees. A dozen hands grabbed his arms and legs. A strangler’s noose was slipped around this throat. It pulled tight and Duncan gasped for air. Ignoring the pain, he fought to win free, but the guards were too many. Ropes lashed his arms, and still he fought, trying to bite his captors.

  “Follow me.” The priest turned, a whirl of dark robes and strode from the chamber.

  The soldiers hoisted him onto their shoulders, borne like a felled deer fresh from the slaughter.

  Naked, Duncan writhed against his bonds, but he could not win free. They carried through a maze of marble corridors, a palace of some sort. A pair of massive doors opened, admitting a rush of cold air. They bore him out into the bitter wind. A flock of sea gulls wheeled overhead, their mournful cries filling the air. Across a rune covered courtyard, they carried him toward a massive boulder. “Where are you taking me?” But there was no answer.

  A dark crack creased the boulder, like a doorway to hell. Spiral stairs cut into solid rock, a steep descent. Duncan breathed deep, tasting the air. Stale smells filled the stairway, scents of stone and blood and pain laced together, a lingering nightmare. Duncan struggled, but the guards kept their hold.

  Torches lit the stairwell, so many steps, like descending into hell. Rough rock walls carried a feeling of age and menace, a place that time forgot. The stairs leveled out and he caught a glimpse of a great copper door.

  Cold brushed against his skin like dead fingers. Naked, he writhed against his bonds, but the soldiers did not stop. They carried him through the doorway and into
a massive chamber. Red stalactites hung from the ceiling as if the stone wept blood. Raw scents of blood and fear intensified, a tortured reek suffocating him. Every aspect of the cavern was carved from nightmares. Duncan’s stare skittered around the chamber, desperate to win free.

  “Put him here.”

  They carried him to the heart of the chamber, five braziers glowing with flames. Someone yanked the strangler’s noose taut and he gasped for breath. Soldiers lowered him to the ground, his naked back pressed against cold, hard stone. His arms and legs were pulled tight, put in a spread-eagle position. Iron clamped around his wrists and ankles, binding him to the floor like a sacrifice.

  One of the soldiers removed the noose.

  Duncan gasped for air, desperate to keep the panic from his voice. “What is this place? What do you want from me?”

  The priest smirked. “Only your soul.” He made a sharp gesture and the soldiers followed him toward the round doorway.

  “You’re leaving me?” Duncan bucked against his chains, but he was held tight, only able to lift his head. “Don’t leave me!” His cry echoed against the stalactites, a pitiful wail. Straining against his chains, he watched his captors leave, till their footsteps died to echoes. He fought the chains, desperate to win free, but the cruel iron could not be defeated. Exhausted, he slumped against the cold stone, chained in a god-forsaken place.

  Movement at the edge of his vision, a dark figure stepped from the shadows. Gliding like a shade, the assassin moved to stare down at him, a hint of regret on his face. “You would have made a worthy opponent.”

  “Then fight me, here and now, man against man!”

  The assassin shook his head. “Orders.” He cocked his head as if listening to a hidden voice. “But I’ll give you a piece of advice. If ever you have the chance, fall on the spears. A much better death than this.” And then he was gone, striding toward the doorway.

  The great copper door shuddered close and Duncan was alone. Chained to the floor, splayed like a sacrifice, he watched the shadows cavort among the stalactites, struggling to keep his sanity.