The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga)

by Karen Azinger

  Blaine’s disapproval must have shown from his face.

  Torven scowled. “It’s our way.”

  Others were already moving among the dead, scavenging weapons and food.

  “So how do we fight them?”

  “With steel and with guile. These are no ordinary beasts.” Torven raised his voice to a shout. “Tarly and Pren, skin the hounds. We’ll rest an hour and then move out.”

  No one argued. The two painted warriors set to work skinning the beasts. Blaine sat huddled with the others, gnawing on a strip of dried horsemeat. No one talked. Their faces said it all. Streaked with weariness and grim determination, they’d pit swords against the terrors of the night. He wondered how many would survive. The battle for the north had begun, but instead of soldiers they fought nightmares that prowled on four legs, making meals of men. Blaine shuddered, thankful for his blue steel sword.

  53

  Duncan

  Darkness swirled overhead, shadows darting among the stalactites. Chained to the floor, Duncan drifted in a haze of agony. Knives studded his body, a hundred stabs of silver. So much pain, it seemed as if his body was nothing but hurt. He begged the gods for death, or perhaps he’d already died, dead and gone to hell, trapped in an eternal nightmare, the torment of the damned.

  A sibilant voice whispered at the back of his mind, the voice of the Mordant. Fear struck like lightning. Duncan raised his head and searched the chamber, but only the shadows remained.

  A foul oily taste crept into his mouth and then he remembered. He was alone yet it was happening again. A shout sprang to his lips, “No! I won’t let you use me!” Braziers erupted in flames, tongues of fire licking the stalactites. A thrum of power filled the cavern.

  “Not again!” Duncan shrank into the floor, trying to seal his mind.

  Tentacles of darkness descended from the ceiling, as if searching for his warmth. Cold as midnight, they slithered across his skin, seeking out his wounds.

  He thrashed against his bonds but he was held tight, shackled to the floor, an unwilling sacrifice.

  Darkness seeped into him, like acid in his veins. A scream roared out of him, too much to contain. Magic thrummed through him, dark and terrible. Words shuddered through his mind, whispered in the voice of the Mordant, spoken in a language long dead. The words held no meaning yet they rushed to be born, erupting from his mouth like vomit. He thrashed and bucked, caught in the grip of evil. Something answered. Shadows crawled across his skin. A relentless darkness pressed down on him like a smothering hand. It poured into him, forcing its way down his mouth. He choked and gagged and still it came. Just when he thought he would drown in darkness, a roaring filled his ears. A single clap of thunder and the darkness was gone.

  Duncan lay naked on the stone floor, gasping for breath, like a drowned man tossed on a stormy shore. Exhausted, he opened his eyes, half afraid to look. The shadows were gone, retreated back amongst the stalactites, waiting for another chance to pounce. The cavern stank of fear and piss, his fear, his piss. Shuddering against his fate, he closed his eyes, desperate to sleep, but all his dreams held nightmares.

  Something poked his side.

  Groaning, he opened his eyes. A pair of black robed priests hovered near like hungry vultures. At first he thought he was dreaming, but then one of the priests knelt and forced a thin reed into his mouth. A spurt of warm liquid gushed down his throat, a revolting taste of boiled blood and herbs. He gagged but the foul flood kept coming. He swallowed more than he wanted, gasping for breath when the reed was withdrawn.

  Priests knelt on either side of him, sponging him clean, tending him like a babe.

  “Just let me die.” But they ignored his words.

  “Why? Tell me why?”

  Finished with their work, they turned and strode from the cavern. The copper door shuddered closed, sealing him in with the shadows.

  Duncan lay chained to the floor, a single tear running down his cheek. “Why?” The word was a whisper, a question for the Light. “Why did you let this happen to me? What have I done to deserve this?” He stared at the nearest brazier, willing an answer from the light, but it never came, not even the hint of an echo. A deadly silence reigned in the cavern. He heard his heartbeat and willed it to stop but even that prayer went unanswered.

  Cursed and forsaken, he closed his eyes, enduring the pain, waiting for the next assault.

  He must have dozed, or else succumbed to a haze of misery, he couldn’t tell the difference anymore, but then he heard the voice, a faint whisper scratching at his mind.

  *Listen to me!*

  Duncan jerked awake, afraid the Mordant had returned. He cringed against the stone floor, his heartbeat thudding loud in his ears.

  *You must listen, I’ve little time.*

  The voice came again, a subtle whisper, small and naked, without the frightening power of the Dark. Duncan struggled to understand. “Who are you?” His own voice echoed against the stalactites, “you…you…you.”

  *I’m a prisoner like you.*

  Duncan raised his head, staring into the gloom. Perhaps it was a ghost, the shade of another prisoner come to taunt him…or perhaps the pain had finally forced him to madness.

  *No, I’m trapped inside the Mordant.*

  A bolt of fear struck Duncan. “You’ve come to trick me.” He shrank inside of himself, bracing for the next assault.

  *No, don’t close your mind to me. You must listen.*

  Duncan waited for the tendrils of darkness to attack but they never came. He risked a thought aimed at the other voice. *Can you hear me?*

  *Yes,* a whisper at the back of his mind. *My name is Bryce. I was studying to become a Kiralynn monk when the Mordant took me. He stole my body and trapped my soul. Like you, I’m a prisoner of the Mordant.*

  Shock and surprise rippled through Duncan’s mind, but he was afraid to trust. *I don’t believe you.*

  *Trust your own senses. Do I feel like Darkness?*

  The question made him think. He fought his own pain, questing within his mind, but he felt none of the oily corruption that came with the Mordant. *How is this possible?*

  “Magic, a boon of the Light, call it what you will, but when the Mordant sleeps he lowers his guard. Somehow I found my way to you, like sneaking beneath a locked door. But we must be quick. I’ve eavesdropped on the Mordant. I know his plans to conquer Erdhe. The southern kingdoms are in grave danger. You must get my words to the others.”

  “Others?” Duncan barked out loud, an explosion of rage and frustration. “I’m chained in this god-forsaken place, pierced with a hundred knives! You’ve picked the wrong messenger!”

  The cavern mocked him, “messenger…messenger.”

  But the voice was undaunted, *And I’m chained within the Mordant, unable to speak, or touch, or smell, a lost soul condemned to watch a monster use my body. I’d willingly trade my hell for yours.*

  His reply sobered Duncan like a slap in the face. Perhaps hell had many levels and he hadn’t yet reached bottom. He took a deep breath, shuddering against the pain. *How can I help?*

  *I’m a prisoner yet I spy on my jailor. I’ve seen his plans. I know what he intends. You must live and you must get my words to the others, to the champions of the Kiralynn monks.*

  Fear struck Duncan to the core, fear for Kath and the others. For the thousandth time he wondered what he’d babbled to the Mordant. Mustering his courage, he dared to ask the question. “What did I tell the god cursed Mordant?”

  *Your words made little sense, your mind was swamped by pain.*

  The answer came like a balm to his heart. So he hadn’t betrayed them, he hadn’t betrayed her. He clung to the belief that Kath remained safe. *Thank you.*

  The voice became tentative. *Will you tell me who wields the crystal dagger?*

  Suspicions rose like a spring tide. It felt too much like a trap. *No.*

  A sigh of sadness blew through his mind. *I understand. Perhaps it is best. The crystal dagger is my only h
ope.* But then the voice changed, a sense of urgency pulsing through his mind. *Our time grows short, you must listen, listen and remember.* A floodgate opened and images poured into Duncan’s mind. A map of Erdhe lay spread before him, but it was unlike any map he’d ever seen. Jeweled castles and ivory walls sat amongst painted fields and forests. He soared like an eagle across the land, hearing details of the Mordant’s plans, dire warnings about a place called Raven Pass, and the Kiralynn monastery, and the Queen of Lanverness. Visions tumbled through his head, a jumble of thoughts and ideas, each one potent with urgency. A strange hallway carved with demons of every description. A secret door opened to reveal a vast hoard of treasure and forgotten magic. His vision blurred and he was in a courtyard, in the heart of the Dark Citadel, yet he saw a squad of knights in silver surcoats, false knights wearing the colors of the Octagon, knights of deception. Another shift and he sat on a dark throne giving orders to men bearing tridents. An avalanche of thoughts and visions pummeled his mind. So confusing, they crashed against him, like being tossed in a storm racked sea. He struggled to make sense of the chaos. *I have questions, things I don’t understand.* But the other voice retreated, leaving a whisper of fear in his mind. *You must live. You must remember!*

  And then it was gone, snuffed out like a candle.

  Silence struck like a thunderbolt.

  Suddenly alone, Duncan shuddered against the stone floor, gasping for breath. He struggled to understand, wondering if he’d finally gone mad. Visions swam in his mind, things he’d never seen before, thoughts that could never have been his own. The Mordant was a monster, a demon in the guise of a man. And if the visions held true, then south had little chance.

  Pain threatened to swamp him, a constant companion gnawing at his sanity, but the memories of the other voice assaulted his mind. “You must live. You must remember!” Duncan turned his head to stare up at the nearest brazier, his gaze fastening on the flickering light. “You used me.” His voice sounded hoarse in his ears. He still wanted to die, still wanted the pain to end, but he changed his prayer, his voice a low whisper. “Let Kath come, let her hurry.” He bit back a sob, resolved to endure the pain, for the secrets of his mind could not die with him.

  54

  Blaine

  Strung out in a line, they shambled across the steppes, a shrinking column of weary warriors. For five nights they’d fought the hell hounds, a grim battle of attrition, and each morning they ran, needing to get clear of the dead lest the feasting ravens betray them.

  Blaine forced himself to keep running. Every breath froze to a ragged plume of white, his boots pounding the ground in a jagged rhythm. Speed bled from his stride, dragged down by the weight of his armor. He fell behind the others, sorely tempted to shuck his chainmail…were it not for the hell hounds. The burnished links had saved his life more times than he cared to count…but he paid a price for the added weight. Gritting his teeth, he fought to keep running, waging a constant battle against the gnawing ache savaging his side.

  Torven raised his hand, signaling a halt.

  Gasping, Blaine slowed but he did not stop, needing to know how Kath fared. Bear and Boar carried her litter. Where they found the strength, Blaine did not know.

  He found them near the front of the column. “Is she?”

  Bear shook his shaggy head.

  Nodding, Blaine crumpled to the ground, desperate for sleep. He spread his bedroll and crawled inside, chewing on a piece of dried horsemeat. No one spoke. No one had the strength to spare. The battle with the hell hounds had its own unique rhythm. Starting at first dark, the men formed a circle, a bristle of weapons surrounding Kath, waiting for the hounds to come calling. Sometimes they stood for hours, a weary vigil. Just when sleep threatened to claim them, the beasts attacked. Screams and howls filled the night, a series of short battles separated by long stretches of quiet. Nerves grew as taut as bowstrings, always listening for the next ambush. Dawn brought the only relief, revealing the cost of the night. Each morning, they tallied their dead and gathered their wounded. Poison made even minor wounds a deathblow. Anyone who couldn’t keep up was given a merciful end. They left the dead behind, food for ravens, and started running, needing to escape the battlefield.

  Bone-weary, Blaine stared up at the afternoon sun, wondering how much more they could endure. Eighty men whittled down to forty-three. They waged a valiant fight, but the cursed hounds kept coming. At least they hadn’t yet attacked in daylight. Pulling his cloak over his head, he fell dead asleep, expecting another fight at nightfall.

  Someone shook him.

  Blaine startled awake, reaching for his sword.

  “It’s all right.”

  Confused, he blinked up at Torven. The sun hadn’t yet set, too soon to fight. “What?”

  Torven leaned close, his words a low whisper. “We need to change tactics. We can’t keep this up.”

  Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Blaine struggled to wake. He’d puzzled the problem on their long runs, but he’d never found a solution. “A ring of fire might hold the beasts at bay but it would also signal the enemy.” He scowled, knowing they couldn’t afford a fire, trapped by their own need for secrecy. “We should retreat and wait for the army.”

  Torven glared at him, the tattooed eagle fierce on his face. “The Svala said we should scout the citadel.”

  “To what end? Kath’s not even awake!”

  “We obey the Svala.”

  The painted warriors had become fanatical when it came to Kath, as if their common sense was scattered to the four winds. Frustrated, Blaine growled, “We’re losing more men every night.”

  “True.” Torven frowned “I’ve never seen such a large pack. Unless we defeat them, they’ll ruin the Svala’s battle plan. Best if we fight them before the others cross the gate.”

  “Each night they kill more of us than we kill of them. The night is their element and the bastards use it to their advantage.”

  “That’s why we need to change tactics.”

  Something about the other man’s voice bothered Blaine. “So what do you have in mind?”

  “I’ve spoken with the other scouts and they all agree, the gore hounds avoid their own dead, as if they can’t stand the stench.”

  “So?”

  “So tonight, seven warriors will wait outside the ring of defense, hiding beneath the skins of dead gore hounds. When the beasts come hunting, the seven will rise up and attack from the rear.”

  “I wondered why you had the mangy beasts skinned.”

  “A desperate gamble.” Torven’s gaze went to the hilt of Blaine’s blue sword. “You’ve killed more beasts than any other.”

  Blaine’s mouth went dry. “And if your scouts are wrong?”

  “Then each man will fight on his own.”

  A death sentence, a lone warrior outside the ring would not stand a chance, but Blaine refused to shirk a fight. “I accept.”

  Torven clasped his arm, warrior to warrior. “I knew you’d take the risk. Despite your unmarked face, you have the heart of a painted warrior. You’d make a good eagle.” He raised his voice to the others. “Grenfir, bring the knight a gore-hound skin.”

  Blaine accepted the bundle without a word, appalled by the stench of the uncured hide.

  “Best choose your spot before darkness falls.”

  Taking only weapons and armor, Blaine moved out into the steppes, choosing an untrammeled stretch of grass. The raw hide stank of corruption, far worse than rotting flesh, yet he slung it across his shoulders, knotting the forelegs around his neck like a gruesome cape. At least the poisonous claws had been hacked off, too dangerous to handle. Unsheathing his blue sword, he lay in the deep grass, huddled beneath the skin, waiting for the dark, wondering if this would be his last sunset.

  Twilight lingered, the red sun fading to purple. Thick clouds scudded across the sky, promising another dark night, another advantage for the beasts. Lying prone under the gore-hound skin, Blaine scanned the steppes for movement. Nigh
t fell like a hammer, the moon a faint smudge hidden by thick clouds.

  Darkness prevailed, the time when the beasts held sway.

  Blaine gripped his sword, lying in the tall grass, a knight turned hunter, or was he merely bait? Hairs prickled at the back of his neck, nothing to protect him but the stink of a dead gore-hound. Cold seeped up from the frozen ground, a threat of another sort. Despite his weariness, despite the freezing cold, Blaine thrummed with tension, straining his senses. Kill or be killed, it seemed the only law of the god-cursed steppes.

  Movement in front of him, but it was only the others. The soft chink of arms and armor, proved the painted warriors moved into position, preparing for battle. Hidden by the dark, yet he knew they stood in a circle, weapons held at the ready, waiting for the first sign of ambush.

  The night proved still as death, not a whisper of wind.

  A searing cold seeped up from the ground. Blaine fought not to shiver. Darkness pressed close, making it hard to wait, and harder to lie still. His own breathing sounded loud in his ears, every rustle of grass a threat. Time held no meaning, an eternity of darkness.

  The wind picked up, whispering across the steppes. Blaine cursed the change, knowing the subtle sound would aid the beasts.

  And then he heard it, a soft chuffing.

  So close, just a few paces to his left.

  Blaine froze, not daring to breathe.

  A low growl to his right, the beasts were all around him! He lay exposed, the back of his neck unprotected, yet he dared not move. Sweat trickled down his spine. Lying statue still beneath the gore-hound hide, Blaine gripped his sword, praying the beasts would pass him by.

  He felt them circling, snuffing the air. One padded close…close enough to hear its harsh breath. Blaine gripped his sword, frozen beneath the hide. The beast chuffed, a low snorting sound, and was gone, a soft rustle of frozen grass.

  Blaine breathed again, a brief reprieve.

  A scream broke the night. The battle was begun.

  Blaine stood, his sword held at the ready. He padded forward, searching the dark. Sensing movement, he leaped forward, slashing with his blade. Steel connected with flesh, a howl of pain. Even wounded, the beast whirled, lashing at Blaine’s chest. Claws raked across his surcoat but his chainmail held. He parried the beast, slicing through sinew and bone, severing the paw. The hellhound howled, an unearthly sound, but still it came, fangs snarling in hate. Blaine staggered backward and then whirled to the left, trying to flank the creature. Sensing an opening, he put all his strength into an overhand blow. His sword bit deep, crunching into bone, a lethal stroke.