The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga)

by Karen Azinger

  Bear nodded, a man of little words.

  As a child, Kath had heard tales of the Ghost Hills, how the spirits of slain warriors were forever imprisoned in stone, waiting to be summoned for a final battle. Intrigued, she’d pestered the knights for details but none had ever seen the hills. Most considered them nothing more than a minstrel’s fable, but no minstrel’s ballad had ever captured the wild strangeness spread before her. Staring at the land, she drank in the sights, as if imbibing pure myth.

  Smooth and sculptured, the wind hewed hills took fantastic shapes. Giant beehives of yellowish-orange rock dominated the land, like the dream of a drunken god obsessed with honey mead. Amongst the beehives sat massive cones and twisted towers, each more astonishing than the next. Majestic curves and towering beehives carved in sun burnt colors, a stunning display of ocher, oranges, and reds. Jumbled together the sculpted hills formed an ancient and mystical landscape. Strangely spiritual, the hills evoked a sense of wonder…and peril, as if the gods drew near. Kath shivered, feeling a sense of awe.

  Bear broke the spell. “This way.”

  Halfway up the side of a massive beehive, they followed a narrow track, little more than a goat path. Bear led the way, his hand on his sword, with Boar following close behind Kath. The two men had gained great status by her victory, becoming sworn bodyguards of the new War Lord. Vigilant and stubborn, they took their oaths seriously, staying close by her side, a pair of brooding shadows bristling with weapons.

  The track spiraled upward, around the steep sided beehive. Hungry for fresh air, Kath breathed deep, savoring the clean scent of sage. After winning the War Helm she’d met with the council of leaders. For three days and three nights she’d listened to arguments and petitions, mired in the politics of competing factions. The lions wanted war while the boars counseled caution and the eagles acted like vultures, waiting to pick apart any plan. In the end, they’d all turned to her, expecting a decision, but Kath sensed it was another test, another trap. Too many faces were filled with hostility, waiting for her to fail. So she’d delayed, saying she needed a chance to plan, she needed fresh air to think and the council demurred to her wishes. Having gained a short reprieve, she escaped to the outdoors. She took Bear and Boar with her because they seemed loyal and quietly competent and she liked them. Solid soldiers, dependable as steel, they served as guides and bodyguards, but more importantly, they gave her answers that weren’t mired in politics. “Tell me again about the warriors of the painted people.”

  Bear answered as he picked his way up the narrow path, his voice deep and gruff. “The men number thirty-six hundred at last count. About half are armed with good quality swords and axes, taken from our enemies’ hands. Steel is revered, handed down from one generation to the next, but there is never enough. Swords become brittle with age or are ruined in battle, so we must always seek more.” He shrugged. “The rest of the men carry slings and daggers, fighting with whatever they can.”

  “What about the women? I’ve seen armed women in the caves.”

  “The last defense. Women protect the hills and the caves, rarely venturing into the steppes.” He shrugged. “But for you, they might fight. Women warriors would add another six hundred to the total, mostly armed with long knives and slings.”

  Too few and too poorly armed, she’d gained a ragtag army, yet somehow the gods expected her to defeat the Mordant. It seemed a hopeless task. “What about archers?” Her mind skittered to Duncan but she forced that worry away.

  Bear gestured to the barren hills. “Wood is dearer than steel. Without trees we can’t make bows or even arrows.” He shook his head, a tangled mass of shaggy blond hair. “Slings are much better, plenty of stones around. Every child grows up wielding one. Good enough for killing scrag cats and deterring hungry wolves. Good enough to keep the sheep safe.”

  She’d never considered the sling as a serious weapon. Stones against steel, the gods must be laughing, but she couldn’t afford to scoff at any weapon. “Do you carry a sling?”

  “Always.”

  “Show me.”

  He came to an abrupt halt. Kath almost ran into him. She watched as he removed a four-foot length of braided rope from his belt-pouch. The rope had a loop at one end and a large knot at the other, with a leather cradle in the center.

  “Pick a target.”

  The hills were truly barren; nothing but sculptured rock, thorny brush, clumps of sage…and sheep. Now that she looked, there were sheep everywhere, white and shaggy with small curved horns, scrambling up sheer cliffs, hunting for morsels of scrub. “How many sheep are there?”

  Bear shrugged. “Too many to count. It’s the children’s task to keep the predators away so the sheep flourish. Without sheep we could not survive.”

  Kath nodded, pulling her borrowed sheepskin close against the bitter cold, grateful for the added warmth.

  Bear stared at her, the sling hanging from his right hand. “A target?”

  “But I don’t know its range.”

  He pointed up the path. “See that small head-sized stone perched on the edge?”

  Kath judged it to be about a hundred yards away, half the range of a longbow. “It will do.”

  Bear stepped a few paces away. Grasping both ends of the sling, he fitted the pouch with a small stone. Standing at an angle to the target, he whirled the sling overhead, putting his entire body into the motion. It happened faster than Kath expected. A single lightning-fast revolution and he released one end of the sling. A loud crack echoed through the hills. The head-sized stone toppled backwards, clattering down the side of the beehive. It took forever to fall.

  Bear turned and stared at her, his face impassive.

  “Impressive, but it won’t stop a man in armor.”

  “It might. One stone in the head will kill a sheep, a scrag cat…or a soldier. It’s one of the reasons the Mordant’s men never follow us into the hills. From the cliffs, a rain of sling-stones is deadly.”

  “Will any stone work?”

  “Smooth pebbles fly the farthest.” He gave her one from his pouch.

  She weighed it in her hand. “There’s something carved on this one.”

  Bear cracked a smile. “A message for the enemy.”

  She stared at the symbol but it meant nothing to her. “What does it say?”

  Laughter tugged at the side of his mouth. “In polite words, ouch.”

  She laughed, suspecting it meant something else entirely. Tucking the stone in her belt-pouch for luck, she gestured for Bear to keep walking, glad she’d asked for the demonstration. The sling had its advantages, a simple but effective weapon…very much like the painted people. But it still didn’t solve the problem of numbers.

  The trail steepened to a climb. Single file, they spiraled up the great stone beehive, scrambling over rugged terrain. Two thirds of the way up, Bear stopped and turned, his eyes glittering. “Listen.”

  At first she heard nothing, but then the wind picked up. A frigid blast from the north howled through the sculpted rock. An eerie wailing keened through the hills, like the spirits of slain warriors roused to a wordless fury. Kath shivered, making the hand sign against evil. The Ghost Hills were aptly named, worthy of a bard’s ballad.

  They climbed to the beehive’s leeward side, protected from the worst of the wind. Bear led them to a smooth flat perch overlooking a deep gorge. The view was amazing. Every direction revealed a jumble of wind-sculpted rock, each formation more beautiful than the next.

  “Will this serve?”

  She’d asked for a high place with a good view, a place where she could sit and think. “Better than I could have imagined.”

  Bear gave her a rare smile while Boar swept his sheepskin cloak from his shoulders, spreading it across the rocky ledge with a gallant flourish. The unexpected chivalry ambushed Kath, her face flaming bright red. Flustered, she stole a glance at the two men but they turned away, their faces stony and their fists clenched…as if they feared she might refuse. Such big, r
ough men, their faces etched with fierce tattoos, yet they’d shown her more courtesy than most knights in her father’s service. Their gallantry could not be ignored. She settled on the sheepskin, her words heartfelt. “Thank you.”

  Bear grinned and Boar flushed beet-red. They set a water skin and a small packet of dried meat on the ledge. “In case you get hungry.”

  Kath hadn’t thought about bringing food. She hadn’t considered how long it might take.

  Bear gestured back down the path. “We’ll keep watch. No one will disturb you.”

  Boar nodded. “May the gods grant you a true vision.” And then they were gone, retreating down the path, far enough away to be unobtrusive but close enough to keep watch.

  May the gods grant you a true vision. The words rang in her mind like a bell. Perhaps Boar had the truth of it. She needed a vision, a solution to an impossible problem. If the gods cared about Erdhe it was past time they showed their hand. Her fingers wove through the sheepskin, absently tugging on soft tufts. Or perhaps the gods already had. Surely the War Helm was a gift from the gods, an unforeseen boon, but what was she supposed to do with it? She’d gained a ragtag army, proud and fierce, but their numbers were too few. In the north, numbers always held sway. The god-cursed steppes negated the elements of surprise and strategy. Any battle always came down to the harsh reality of numbers, crush or be crushed. Against the hordes of the Mordant, the painted people would be slaughtered to a man…and she couldn’t let that happen, she couldn’t betray their trust. The gods had set her an impossible task.

  Kath closed her eyes, and stared inward. Visions from the Womb of the World filled her mind. Once more she saw the Mordant’s army, a vast horde marching south, an endless sea of enemies stretching to the horizon. How could the Octagon hope to hold against so many? Who would come to their aid? She could lead her small army south and attack from the rear, but the problem of the steppes remained. Her army would be crushed, swatted like an annoying flea, their deaths making no difference to the Octagon’s fate. The taste of ashes filled her mouth. Why had the gods shown her such a vile vision if there was nothing she could do about it?

  And then there was Duncan. With every passing day, a fear grew in her heart. She’d badgered the scouts but none had seen any sign of the leather clad archer. He must have been captured…or worse. Her mind shied away from the thought. In depths of her heart, she believed he still lived, waiting for her to come…but how?

  Shivering, she took a deep breath, trying to quell her rising panic. Sitting cross-legged, her chin in her hands, she huddled under her sheepskin cloak, seeking refuge in the wild beauty of the wind-swept hills. Sunlight played across the sculpted stone, accentuating the giant beehives. She wondered how long it had taken the wind to shape the stone. Surely the gods took the long view.

  The thought spurred something in her mind. The gods take the long view. Perhaps the solution lay in the past. The gods had sent the Taishan of the mountain lions to Castlegard more than two years ago, before she’d even found the crystal dagger. Perhaps it was all connected. She’d needed to journey south before she could come north. But what had she learned? She’d gained the crystal dagger and learned to master her gargoyle; surely both were needed in the north. And then there was the monastery. Master Rizel had said she’d find help in unexpected places. His words had surely come to pass. She’d found an army hiding in the Ghost Hills…but a ragtag army was not enough. What else did she have? A Beastmaster always fights alongside the Star Knights. Danya was a newly awakened Beastmaster, full of potent magic, clearly an important part of the puzzle. The wolf-girl had already saved their lives once, but the trick with the horses would not be repeated. There must be something else Danya could do, something subtle…something that would make a great difference.

  Thunder rumbled on the horizon, a flash of lightning cracking the distant sky.

  The lightning served as a goad to her thoughts. There had to be something else, something Master Rizel had said. She pictured the blue-robed master in the garden of contemplation; warm sunlight shining through the glass ceiling, the lush smell of green…and then the words came back to her. You must understand the true nature of evil in order to be victorious. Perhaps she was meant to turn the enemy’s tactics back against him. But how did the Mordant wage war? There hadn’t been any major battles fought in her lifetime, only a series of tricks and traps. That got her thinking. They’d followed the Mordant north, but what had they learned from their prey? In Wyeth they’d been chased by frightened peasants and bloodthirsty mercenaries…all because of Zith’s tattooed hand. In the Deep Green they’d endured suspicion and hatred because of the burnt forest. And in Cragnoth Keep they’d discovered a bitter betrayal. They followed a trail of evil, a series of tricks and traps…but what was the underlying principle? And then she saw it, as clear as a lighting flash. First he deceives, then he divides, and then he conquers. She shivered with understanding, so simple yet so effective.

  Small stones tumbled down the beehive. Alarmed, Kath reached for her sword…but it was only a sheep, scrambling along the beehive’s crest. So many sheep, if only the painted people were half as numerous.

  Kath stretched, staring up at the sky. She watched the distant storm dissolve to nothing, leaving a clear horizon. The sun sank toward the west, a great orb of red. Snuggled beneath her sheepskin, Kath watched the landscape change, the stone beehives deepening from burnt orange to a deep crimson. A bloody sunset, an ominous sky painting the land red, the steppes would run with blood if she didn’t find a solution.

  Pieces of the puzzle tumbled through her mind, but they made no sense. Try as she might, she couldn’t find an underlying pattern. She knew the Mordant’s army had already marched south, the citadel’s great gates thrown open, disgorging a horde of soldiers. But had the Mordant marched with them, or had he stayed in the citadel…or had he gone elsewhere? First deceive and then divide.

  Like a bolt of lightning it hit her. The Mordant had divided his forces, emptying the citadel. Her best opportunity lay in the north…but she still did not have the numbers, not enough to take a fortress…and she had no time for a siege.

  The sun sank toward the horizon in a blaze of reds and golds. Shadows cast by the beehives undulated across the land like great sea serpents, creating a compelling illusion, simple but deceptive. And then she saw it, an elegant solution. She needed a deceit of swords, a way to make the rule of numbers work in her favor. Kath studied the hills, seeing everything they held. A smile lit her face, a plan inspired by the gods. The plan would require every element from her past, her gargoyle, the crystal dagger, the magic of a Beastmaster, a knight with a blue steel sword, and a small army of fierce warriors. Together they’d deceive, they’d divide, and then they’d conquer, dealing the Darkness a crippling blow.

  45

  The Knight Marshal

  Drums thundered in the dead of night. The marshal bolted awake. Boom…boom, boom, the sound shuddered through the walls, loud enough to wake the dead. His heartbeat quickened, answering the drums…so the enemy had finally come. Dressing with haste, he strapped his great sword to his back and grabbed his shield.

  The marshal took the steps two at a time, climbing to the rampart. A cold wind buffeted his face, tugging at his maroon cloak. Beneath the night sky, unmuffled by stone, the drums sounded twice as ominous. Clouds hid the moon, too little light to see by, yet he was drawn to the battlement, staring down into the inky darkness. Knights lined the wall, summoned by the drums, straining for the first glimpse of the enemy.

  Despite the dark, Lothar found him, a gruff voice at his shoulder. “How many?”

  The marshal shook his head. “Too dark to tell. But judging from the sound, they’ve brought a battalion of drummers.”

  Lothar growled, “Leave it to the Mordant to come calling in the dead of night, ruining a man’s sleep.”

  The marshal grinned, appreciating his friend’s levity, yet there was truth beneath his words. “I’m sure it was p
lanned. The drums will fray nerves before the battle ever begins.” His gaze was drawn to the other men crowding the battlement. “We should double the night watch and get the others to rest. I doubt they’ll attack before first light.”

  Lothar nodded. “I’ll see to the watch.”

  The marshal roamed the wall, speaking words of courage to those on duty while urging the others to return to their pallets. The young ones were too riled to leave but the veterans nodded, knowing the value of sleep. Five times he traversed the wall and all the while the drums boomed, a deep, spellbinding throb, shouting the promise of war.

  His gaze was drawn to the north. Curiosity warred with dread, fueling a need to see their numbers. Hours passed and the weight of sleep dragged at him, but he could not leave the wall. He found a niche shielded from the wind and sat wrapped in his maroon cloak. Perhaps he dozed; a veteran knight could sleep anywhere.

  Dawn broke across a cloud-shrouded sky, red as blood. The marshal woke and stared in shock, staggered by the truth. Morning’s first light revealed the enemy’s numbers, too many to count.

  Lothar stood at his shoulder, “By the gods!”

  The enemy swarmed the grasslands like a kicked anthill.

  Lothar shook his head. “Where in the nine hells did he get them all?”

  The marshal agreed, but the words stuck in his throat. In his wildest nightmare he’d never imagined the north held such an army.

  Lothar leaned on the battlement, caressing the mitered stone like a grateful lover. “Thank Valin for strong walls, else we’d be overrun in less than a day.”

  “Mind your tongue!”

  Lothar bristled. “You’re thinking the same.”

  The marshal could not disagree. Instead, he stared at the enemy, searching for a weakness in their ranks. Their numbers filled the steppes, an ugly roil of black armor, a grim bristle of spears and battle banners. And then he saw it. “No siege engines!” Disbelief warred with hope. He searched their ranks for trebuchets and siege towers but found none.