Chaos erupted around him. The other champions surrounded the king with a ring of steel. And then a wagon rumbled near. The healer held the horses to a tight turn. Baldwin crouched in the wagon bed, his face chalk white. Quintus pulled the wagon to a stop. “Put him here!” They bent to lift the king.
The healer shouted a warning. “Remove the sword and he’ll die!”
They lay the king in the wagon bed, the dark sword still protruding from his chest. Baldwin cradled the king’s head, crying a river of tears. The healer cracked the reins. The wagon jerked forward, the horses lashed to a gallop.
The marshal grabbed the reins of his stallion and vaulted into the saddle. He threw a glance toward the far end of the valley. The enemy roiled in a froth of confusion. Putting spurs to his stallion, the marshal galloped back toward the Whore. “Sound the retreat!” Standing in his stirrups, he yelled above the din. “Sound the retreat!”
A single trumpeter obeyed, but it was enough. The call stirred the maroon to action. Like angry hornets flung from the nest they scrambled beyond the third wall, seeking mounts and supplies.
The marshal spied Lothar in the confusion. “Get the men away. Tell them to split up and ride for the hills. If we leave a thousand trails, the enemy will never bother to follow. We’ll regroup at the Stonehand in a fortnight.”
Lothar nodded. “And you?”
“I’m with the king.” Heedless of anything else, the marshal put spurs to his horse and followed the wagon tracks toward the hillside, desperate to reach his king.
60
Duncan
Pain pierced every part of his body, a hundred stabs of agony. Chained to the stone floor, lying spread-eagled beneath the gibbering shadows, madness reached for Duncan yet he fought to keep his sanity. He needed to remember, he needed to live, holding onto the hope that Kath would come…yet he feared for her to dare the Mordant’s stronghold.
Kath! Her name alone was like a balm, yet he tried not to think of her, afraid the shadows would invade his mind, tricking him into a betrayal. Yet sometimes he could not resist. Succumbing to daydreams, he clung to her easy smile or a flash of her leaf-green eyes, imagining all that could have been. Such dreams were sweet but fraught with danger. So he locked them tight in his heart, longing to know that she was safe.
On worse days, when nightmares plagued his mind, he lived in dread of the Mordant’s return. Three times the Mordant had reached through his pain, using him as a scrying vessel to speak with the Dark Lord. Always it started with a foul, oily taste in his mouth, a prelude to agony. Even from afar, the Mordant inflicted torment, flaying his body with Darkness, using him like a whore, a sacrifice to the Dark Lord. Each ordeal seemed worse than the last, leaving him shuddering on the cold stone floor, gagging on the foul taste of Darkness. Duncan wondered how much more he could endure.
Naked and chained to the cavern floor, he struggled to survive the slow drip of time, nothing to do but suffer and wait. But then one day, he perceived a change. High among the stalactites, the shadows broiled like angry wasps; perhaps something spoiled the plans of the Dark Lord. Duncan took it as a sign of hope, watching the shadows through hooded eyes.
Later, much later, he learned the truth.
A small voice came to him in the back of his mind. *Are you there?*
*Yes!* He grabbed for the voice like a drowning man lunging for a piece of driftwood.
*Listen to me!* The voice of the monk whispered through his mind. *A great battle has been fought*”
His heartbeat quickened, thinking of Kath and her sword, but then he forced the image away, striving to listen.
*Raven Pass has fallen; the Mordant’s hordes sweep south. The Octagon is defeated but not broken, not humiliated. A traitor was revealed, spoiling the Mordant’s plans. Ever the Deceiver, the Mordant laid a trap for the knights, hoping to defeat the Octagon with their own honor. But the knights escaped the trap, scattering into the mountains. Even in defeat, there is still hope!*
*What about the north?* He longed for some word of Kath yet he dare not reveal too much. He still did not trust Bryce, not with his most precious secret.
*The Mordant’s gaze is fixed on the south.* Urgency spiked the monk’s words. *You must tell the others. The crystal dagger must come south!*
*Where are you? Tell me more*
Fear flashed through the whispered words, *The Mordant wakes. I dare not linger.*
And then the monk was gone, like a door closing in the back of his mind. Duncan was once more alone, trapped within his own nightmare. He rattled his chains and glared at the shadows, but within his mind he savored the words of the monk. Even in defeat, there is still hope. The words gave him strength, a way to fight back, making him a warrior once more. Laughter bubbled out of him, a wild berserker’s laugh. Duncan stared at the shadows and roared his defiance. “You shall not win!” From the depths of the cavern, his words echoed back to him, as if a thousand ghosts took up his war cry. “You shall not win!” But the grim chorus could not shake his conviction. Even in this desolate hell, Duncan knew there was more to the world than just darkness.
61
Katherine
Poised for battle, Kath and her band of warriors hid within the shadow of the citadel, waiting for the dark of the moon. The dark of the moon, that fallow time of the month when all life held its breath and the dead drew near. A time of superstition and fear, when honest folk sought shelter and nightmares held sway. Even the sea birds sensed the coming dark, stilling to a hush as twilight fled.
Kath made the moonless night her ally. Dark and forbidding and laden with omens, it was the perfect setting for a deceit of swords.
Twilight deepened. The dark was nearly upon them. Hiding beneath a sheepskin cloak, a smudge of cream against the snow, Kath led her small band toward the dark walls. Silent as death, they crept within the very shadow of the Dark Citadel. Needing the assurance of cold steel, Kath drew her sword and stared up at the monstrous fist of stone, the lair of the Mordant.
Nightmares lurked within. She felt it in the marrow of her bones, yet she refused to turn back. More than a fortress, the citadel was a bastion of evil, a source of power for the Mordant. She swore to deny him that power. But oh, the risks. The painted people had come to believe in her, naming her their Svala, the wearer of their War Helm. Without reservation, they lent her all their strength, every warrior, young and old, male and female, committed to a single battle. If they failed…if she failed, a proud people would be left defenseless before the Mordant’s soldiers. She could not fail. Yet despite the risks, she would not turn back. In the depths of her soul, she believed this was their one great chance to strike a blow against Darkness. And she believed her plan would work. Kath prayed to Valin like she’d never prayed before.
A soft rustle at her back. Beside her, Bear whispered, “They come.”
Pride rushed through her; she’d never doubted it.
More than three thousand painted warriors crept across the frozen fields. Hiding beneath sheepskin cloaks, they seemed a part of the landscape, a wild force of nature. Approaching from the north, they lay in ambush behind her, waiting for her signal.
Kath planned to attack from the north, from the direction least expected. While the bulk of her army moved into position, another smaller force of eight hundred, led by Fanggold, was making its way up from the south with Danya. The citadel was an imposing fortress but it had two weaknesses, two gates, a main one on the south side, and a smaller sea gate in the north. Like swordplay, battle was all about feints and misdirection. If her plan worked, the forces of the citadel would rush to protect the southern gate while she attacked from the north. But much would depend on Danya and the dark moon.
She leaned towards Bear, keeping her words to a whisper. “Call a runner.”
The big man cupped his hands to his mouth and made a soft whirring sound, imitating a bird of the steppes.
A few moments later, a youth clad in white sheepskin crept near. In the fading twilig
ht, Kath could just make out the fierce fox tattooed on his face. “Your name?”
“Tannin, Svala.”
“Tannin, I need you to get a message to Fanggold. Tell him to attack the barracks at the Pit, release the horses from the stables, and then set them aflame. And tell him to raise a loud noise, for I want the enemy to hear the battle. The citadel needs to be convinced that a great army lies beyond its southern gates.” She stared at him. “Can you do that, Tannin?”
“Aye, Svala, I will.” And then he was gone, scurrying across the frozen fields like a mouse evading a hawk, his sheepskins blending into the snow.
Kath prayed he wasn’t seen.
Blaine leaned toward her, his face darkened with streaks of mud, just like her own. “What now?”
“Now we wait for Danya.”
Darkness fell like a scythe, slaying the last of the twilight. Kath huddled beneath her sheepskin cloak, desperate for warmth. Time seemed to crawl. Waiting proved hard, giving her too much time to think. Nightmares plagued her mind, memories from inside the gargoyles, images of hell. Souls bound for centuries inside stone statues, trapped in unspeakable torment, a fate she could have shared. Shuddering, she gripped her sword hilt, fighting to banish the memories. She needed to focus on the battle ahead. So many things could go wrong. The biggest risk was the enemy’s numbers. She had no way of knowing how many soldiers lurked within the dark walls. But if her army breached the gates and fought within the narrow streets of the citadel, then the numbers might be negated. And then there was Duncan, a worry of another sort. She prayed her dreams were only nightmares, not a warning from the gods.
The night wore on and the darkness deepened, not a sound upon the land. Even the stars were reluctant to shine. Valin gifted her with a moonless night, so dark and absolute that the sky seemed like the vault of a grave and all the world a tomb.
“Svala, look!”
And then she saw them. Lights crept across the land, thirty thousand or more, moving up from the south. Spread out across the fields, they swept forward like a tide of starlight, as if a vast army marched toward the citadel, each soldier holding a lighted taper.
Blaine gripped her arm. “It works! Danya’s done it!”
“The awesome power of a Beastmaster.” Kath could only imagine the strength of Danya’s magic to hold so many to her will. She’d asked the wolf-girl to bring the mountain sheep out of Ghost Hills and march them across the steppes. Thirty thousand sheep with glow crystals tied to their horns, they moved across the steppes like a vast eldritch army. Superstition and the dark moon completed the illusion, as if an attacking horde swarmed toward the citadel. The ghost army gave Kath the deceit of numbers she so desperately needed. “Now we wait to see if they believe it.”
Huddled at the base of the citadel, Kath was close enough to hear the cries of alarm raised along the walls. Horns blared from the ramparts and drums pounded a warning. Shouts rang out, echoing against the stone walls. The distinctive whump of catapults and trebuchets shook the night, hurling boulders into the steppes. And all the boulders fell toward the south.
Blaine’s voice leaped with eagerness. “You’ve done it! They’ve bought the ruse!”
“Wait.” Kath held her forces back, giving the citadel time to shift the bulk of their men toward the southern gate.
Out on the southern fields, the army of lights kept their distance, a bright swarm dancing just beyond the reach of the defenders, yet the rain of boulders never slowed.
A clash of steel shattered the night, the distant battle sounds heightening the sense of danger. Flames erupted to the east, tongues of fire licking the barracks. A bright orange glow lit the massive wooden structures of the Pit, making them seem like flame-breathing dragons. “Fanggold.” Kath released a long held breath. “Almost time.”
The time for battle was nearly upon them, but she was not afraid, as if she’d finally found her true destiny.
“Stay low and keep quiet.” Kath led her band of thirty-four warriors toward the northern gate, the same men who’d battled the hellhounds, every one wearing a swath of maroon tied to their sword arm. To a man, they’d insisted on following her into the citadel. If they failed, the rest of the army had orders to retreat.
Faces blackened, they crept across the frozen ground to the stone ramp, a broad roadway leading up to the northern gate. Torchlight flickered along the battlement but the ramp remained sheathed in darkness. Kath shed her sheepskin cloak, leaving it in the snow, trusting the maroon cloak to hide her against the dark stone. Slow and stealthy, she crept up the ramp, a thin line of marauders following behind. Halfway up, her shoulder’s blades itched. Fearing an arrow or a crossbow bolt, she hugged the ground, afraid to breathe. When no bolt came, she scurried forward, relieved to reach the ironbound gate.
The gate was immense, timber reinforced with iron plates, thrice the height of a tall man. Wood was impervious to her magic, so Kath avoided the gate, seeking the stone wall on the far side of the gatehouse. Slipping around the corner, she pressed her back against the cold stone. Blaine, Bear and Boar kept close. The others hugged the darkness, an ambush waiting for an open gate.
Kath reached for the amber pyramid lodged deep in her pocket. Breaching the wall would be risky. Anything could lurk on the other side, including a legion of soldiers. Kath knew she was just as likely to walk into a trap, as to succeed, but it was too late for doubt. She sidled close to Blaine. “If I don’t return, take the others back and warn the painted people.”
Kath held her breath, expecting another argument, but he just gave her a curt nod. “I’ll be waiting for you.”
She gripped his arm in thanks. Sending a quick prayer to Valin, she looked at Bear and Boar. “Ready?”
Both men nodded, gently easing their swords from their scabbards.
“Then take a deep breath, and whatever happens, don’t let go.”
She stood between them, linking her arms through theirs, pulling them close. Taking a deep breath, she summoned her magic and stepped into the wall.
Evil assaulted her. Like plunging headfirst into a frozen sea, she writhed in shock. Stone surrounded her, seeking to steal her breath, pulling her down like a dark malignant tide. Panic threatened, like nothing she’d ever experienced. The stone itself was corrupt, imbued with evil. Kath flailed against the dark current, desperate to keep her bearings. Disoriented, her lungs burned with need. She tightened her fist on the small amber pyramid. A light flamed within her mind and the panic eased. Forcing herself forward, she battled against the dark tide…and then she was through, stepping into air. Gasping for breath, she doubled over, convulsing like a drowned sailor.
Firm hands seized her arms.
She looked up, relieved the two men had made it.
They pulled her back against the wall, into the shadows. Her mind snapped back into focus; they were inside the citadel. Excitement laced with fear shivered through her. She’d half expected a legion of soldiers to be lurking just inside the gate but the street was nearly empty. She strained to listen for the tramp of boots. Drums and trumpets echoed through the night, but the sounds were distant, somewhere toward the southern gate.
Torches fluttered along the far wall, drawing her gaze. Kath gasped in shock, recognizing the small statue carved into the wall like a wayfarer’s shrine. Three creatures sitting in a row with rounded ears and long tails, but the carvings had very human gestures. One covered his ears, another his eyes, and the third his mouth, a crude version of the statue in the Kiralynn monastery. The creatures seemed to mock her. She staggered back against the wall, there was more evil here than she’d ever imagined.
“Are you all right?” Bear gripped her arm, staring into her face. “You’re as pale as death.”
Kath nodded. “I’m fine,” but she knew she wasted valuable time. She gripped her sword, desperate to clear her mind. A pair of guards patrolled the gate, but otherwise the street was empty.
A door burst open and a dozen armor-clad guards emerged, half of
them carrying crossbows. They clattered up the stairs to the barbican over the gate.
Kath shook her head. “We need more men.” The plan called for her to slip back into the wall, ferrying her men through two at a time. She shuddered, reluctant to re-enter the stone, but she had no choice. “Wait here.”
Taking a deep breath, she gripped the amber pyramid and stepped back into the wall. Evil struck like a cold wave, battering against her, but this time she was ready. Holding her breath, she forged a path against the dark tide, refusing to be swept away. Head down, she battled forward, holding a blaze of light in her mind. And then she was through, staggering into the air.
Hands caught her, strong and sure, pulling her back against the wall. “Svala!”
Blaine and Sidhorn stared down at her, big men bristling with weapons.
Just for a moment, she sagged against them, gulping air and warmth, and then she took a steadying breath. “You’re needed on the far side.”
They did not hesitate. Linking arms with her, they turned to face the wall. Kath wished she had their certainty. Taking deep breath, she sent a prayer to Valin and plunged back into the dark stone.
Thrice more, she made the perilous passage. Each time, the men were unaffected, but the dark stone took its toll. Shaking, Kath leaned against the inner wall. “No more,” she shook her head, “I can’t do it again.”
Blaine took charge. “Then we’ll have to make do.” He whispered orders to the others. Bear and Boar would open the gate while the rest charged the stairs, attacking the bowmen on the battlement. “Kath, can you take out the two guards with your axes?”
Her hands shook. “Not yet.” She hated admitting the weakness but she’d not spoil the plan, not when they were so close.
Bear said, “We’ll take them with our slings.”
Kath grinned at the irony. The simplest of weapons would open the gates to the Dark Citadel.
Blaine nodded to the big warrior. “When you’re ready.”
The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga) Page 47
