The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga) (31 page)

His words evoked a shiver in Duncan’s mind. So this was
the meaning of the older man’s prophecy, “
Light
from a stone reflected in the faces of the people.”
A wild hope surged
through him; perhaps all was not lost.

A soldier threatened Clovis with his spear.
“Shut up, old man.”

But Clovis would not stop. Hanging from the
boulder, struggling for breath, he spoke with the elegance of a preacher and
the conviction of a prophet. First cajoling and then haranguing, he strove to
rouse a crowd of thousands. Defying the agony of the boulder…he talked till his
voice failed. Falling silent, he hung limp in his chains, his chin sunk to his
chest, as if his words had consumed the last of his strength.

The crowd stirred but Clovis did not move.

Duncan studied his friend, anxious for some
sign of life. “Clovis,
are you with us?” But there was no reply. “
Clovis
!
”
Duncan’s
foot slipped, the lead weights pulling him down. Pain tightened like steel
bands around his chest. Gasping for breath, he fought the weights, struggling
to regain his footing. Drenched in sweat, he balanced on his perch, staring at
the crowd. “
Will you let your prophet die?”
His voice shook with
rage…but the crowd did not move. Desperate to save Clovis, he willed the crowd to action but
they just looked away.

Silence hung like a shroud over the
boulders…till Brock took up the argument.

Slow and steady, the big man used
simple words, but he spoke with the voice of a warrior, a leader of men. Like a
blacksmith forging a sword, Brock spoke a steady hammer-fall of words, pounding
the same message over and over. “You have the numbers. You’ve heard the
prophet. Dare to rise and win.” He talked till the sun began to set, quenching
the pit in shadow. As the last rays pierced the brown cloud, his voice fell
silent, like a heavy hammer laid to rest.

The crowd stirred. A line of
torches carved a path toward the boulders. Duncan watched with interest, till he
realized it was merely soldiers come to replace the guards.

Twilight gave way to darkness, and
the crowd began to leave, trickling away in twos and threes. Duncan hung from his chains, drenched in
bitterness and despair. So many people complacent in their bondage, how could
men become such sheep? He sent an accusing stare to the heavens, but the pit
was covered in a vault of darkness. Not a single star shown through the murk,
as if the gods had turned their backs on his plight. Rage and resentment boiled
inside of him. “
Why?”
He shook his chains, his voice a raging bellow. “
Why should good men die for you?”
His
shout rang across the pit, as much a question for the gods as for the
retreating crowd…but there was no answer. Disgusted, he clung to his perch, a
purgatory on the edge of pain.

The night proved a torment.

Every part of his body ached, his
shoulders worst of all. Shackles cut into his wrists, heavy weights dragging on
his feet, a grim tug-of-war. And then there was his raging thirst. He bit his
lip and sucked the blood, desperate for moisture. Exhausted, he sank into a
haze of pain. Three times he dozed, his foot slipping from his perch, yanked
back to wakefulness by a blaze of agony.

Morning came but there was no
relief.

Sunrise revealed the suffering of the others.
Clovis hung
like a waxen corpse, his head sunk on his chest, no sign of life. Duncan mourned his friend,
but at least he’d passed beyond the agony of the stones. Death was an escape of
sorts. Brock still struggled for breath and so did Seth but the others hung
like carrion from their chains, locked in shrouds of pain.

Daylight brought the return of the
crowds. They sat in widening circles around the boulders, like vultures drawn
to the spectacle of death. Their morbid fascination sickened him. He wanted to
scream at the crowd, but his mouth was too parched to shout. Instead, he
glared, picking out individual faces and compelling them to leave. A bearded
man with the shoulders of a blacksmith, a woman with a babe in arms, an old
hunchback with a third eye…and then he saw a familiar face. Startled, he
stared. Short and slender, blond hair framing a serious face…he was sure it was
Mara…so the girl had escaped the mine. He grinned, flushed with an irrational
spark of triumph. Not everything had been in vain.

She gave him a soft smile, and he
nodded in reply, but then he forced his gaze away lest he entangle her with his
own doom.

The day passed in a dull haze of
misery. Twilight came and the crowd grew restless, perhaps disappointed by the
lack of drama. Duncan
looked for Mara, surprised to find her moving closer. Puzzled, he looked away,
but a sixth sense told him when she reached the base of his boulder.

“
Clovis
was a respected prophet.”
Her
voice reached him, a soft whisper. “
His
words were heard by the elders. Some see the strength of numbers. A few work to
convince many.”

Hope struck like a lightning bolt,
but he made no movement, watching the guards through hooded eyes.

Mara slipped away, mingling with
the departing crowd, but the hope stayed with him, an inner strength that got
him through the long night.

Something spattered against his
face. Cold and wet, he opened his mouth to the rain. Duncan drank the drops, a sweet relief for
his parched throat. The storm lasted long enough to quench his thirst. Perhaps
the gods had not forsaken him.

For six days he hung on the
boulder, nurtured by rain and a persistent hope. Seth died on the third day and
Brock on the fourth. On the fifth, Duncan
slipped from his perch, no longer able to resist the lead weights. Pain racked
every part of his body, a deadly stretch pulling him apart. Every breath a
tortured struggle, he thought he saw Mara weaving her way through the crowd, or
maybe it was Kath, everything blurred in a haze of pain.

A woman’s soft voice whispered at
the base of his boulder. “
The elders cannot agree…I tried…I’m so sorry.”

Her words cut through his pain like
a knife, killing his last shred of hope. He’d fought death for nothing. The
taste of ashes filled his mouth.
“Tell them,”
his voice was a harsh
rasp, “
those who will not fight for their own lives…are not worth saving.”

It was over. All he had left was
death. Duncan
shut his eyes and surrendered his body to the agony of the boulder, while his
mind fled to better memories. Green, he longed for the smell of crisp pine
needles, the heady scent of a spring forest. And water, swimming beneath a
crystal clear waterfall, drinking his fill, the luxury of so much water. …And
Kath, taking his wife’s hand, leading her to a hidden glen, to lie entwined among
the ferns, slow and sure, all the time in the world.
 

38

The Mordant

The Mordant entered the map room.
His battle commanders snapped to attention, fists thumping against breastplates.
More than a few gasped when they saw his armor. Golden ribs etched on burnished
metal, like death come to life, the ancient armor glittered in the torchlight. Clad
in the breastplate of the Skeleton King, the Mordant reveled in the legendary power.
Fear annealed into metal, the armor evoked a primal sense of dread few mortals
could withstand.

Cowed by the armor, his generals
backed away. Confronted with a legend, they kept their distance, hands gripping
their sword hilts, fear flickering across their faces.

“
So it’s true!”
General Haith dared to speak.

The Mordant smiled, enjoying their
unease. “Yes, the Dark Furies ride to war. There will be no half measures in
this lifetime.”

He strode to the iron railing,
drawn to the gods-eye view. Built to his design, the map room was like a silver
jewel box. Balconies lined the four walls, overlooking the windowless chamber.
Light from a hundred torches cast a bright glow along the walls. Sheets of
beaten silver mirrored the glow, illuminating the room’s treasure. Spread
across the sunken floor, the map was exquisite, the chessboard of the Mordant.

Silk rustled at the doorway. Gavis
and a pair of black robed bishops glided onto the balcony. “You summoned me, my
Lord?”

“You’re late.” The Mordant turned
to face his high priest.
 

Gavis stared at the armor. His face
remained impassive, but his left hand clutched his staff with a white-knuckled
grip, the only betrayal of his fear. “I beg your pardon, Lord.” Elegant in
robes of black embroidered with gold runes, Gavis made a curt bow and then
moved along the balcony. He claimed a spot opposite the battle commanders, the
priesthood balanced against the army, competing rivals overlooking the map of
Erdhe.
 

The Mordant studied his high priest.
Gavis had courage, but his insolence was one step away from a corpse. “You all
have your roles to play.” Now was not the time to deal with his high priest. He
turned, a swirl of black and silver, and descended the stairs to the narrow
walkway. Like a god, he loomed over the knee high map.

Carved from six massive tabletops,
the map showed every mountain, hillock, valley, and river of Erdhe.
A century in the making, it drew on details from a thousand sources. A legion
of thieves had spent a lifetime scouring the southern kingdoms, procuring a
host of maps. Master craftsmen sculpted the maps into mountains and valleys,
creating an eagle-eye view of Erdhe. Color brought the board to life, shades of
amber for the steppes, deep greens for the forests, frothing blues for the
rivers, and a dusting of ground quartz crystals for the snowy mountaintops. Paint
froze the landscape in summer, the season of war, but not everything on the map
was fixed. Elaborate chess pieces sat upon the tabletop. Castles carved from
ebony, ivory and emerald, man made landmarks carved from gemstones, easy enough
for the Mordant to tumble their walls or change their colors.

He stood at the north, at the
source of his power.

A massive onyx castle marked the
position of the Dark Citadel, fixed on the shores of the Western Ocean,
surrounded by a sea of grasslands. Granite walls cut the steppes in half, ten
rearing gargoyles marking the ten gates. Beyond the steppes, the mighty Dragon Spine
Mountains reared like a
wall, a snowcapped barrier to the south. Castles, walls and keeps carved from
maroon garnets studded the mountain passes like clots of blood, marking the strongholds
of his enemies. The Octagon knights blocked the mountain passes, the
gatekeepers to the south. Beyond the Dragon Spines, the rest of Erdhe waited. Verdant
farmlands and rolling hills dotted by gemstone keeps and ivory castles. A rich
land, besotted with peace and ripe for plunder, awaiting the hand of Darkness.
And in the far south, in the corner opposite the Dark Citadel, a vast jumble of
mountains crowded the edge of the tabletop, the impenetrable Southern Ranges.
The Mordant smiled, his words a whisper. “Your secrets are safe no
longer.”
 

The Mordant followed the walkway,
moving along the perimeter of the map, east along the steppes and then south
toward the Dragon
Spine Mountains.
Like a lover coveting the curves of a woman his fingertips caressed the map’s
contours. He paused to hover over Castlegard, the great garnet castle
dominating a saddle-shaped valley, always a thorn in his side. So tempting to
reach out and obliterate the ancient stronghold yet Castlegard was one place he
needed to avoid. He’d squandered a lifetime trying to break those cursed
mage-stone walls. Memories of the battle assailed his mind, the smell of blood,
the ring of steel, as if it were yesterday.

He felt the stares of his generals,
calling him back to the present. They lined the iron railing, waiting to hear
the details of war.

“Yes, you’ve come for war, for
battle plans and destruction.” Darkness rose within him, a tidal wave of power.
A thousand years of history coursed through his mind. Immortality was nearly
his, close enough to taste. Flush with dark power, his voice rang with
certainty. “We stand on the brink of a great Dark destiny. In this lifetime,
old scores will finally be settled.” He stood over the map like a god. “The first
to fall will be the Octagon knights. But their fall will be no ordinary victory.
Killing is easy. Taking life pleases the Dark Lord, but it garners the least of
his favors. Our god favors those who have a long reach, those who affect the
ripples of time, changing the very nature of history. In this war, we seek more
than just victory. The defeat must be a rout, a total humiliation, so that the
very name of the Octagon knights will be forever ground into oblivion.”

“Victory to the Dark Lord!”
The shout echoed through the chamber. His generals howled like a pack of hungry
wolves eager to be released.

The Mordant raised his hand,
stilling the tumult. “I will empty the north in order to win the south. Every Taal shall be called to battle. Half the guards of the
Pit and the citadel will be summoned to join the army. I shall unleash a mighty
force, an unstoppable horde, the likes of which the south has never seen.”

Reaching back, he unsheathed his
great sword. Darkness rippled the length of the five-foot blade, evil annealed
into steel. “And where will they strike?”

He looked at his generals, but none
dared to speak. “I will send the full might of the north against Raven Pass.”
His blade pointed toward a steep-sided valley cutting through the Dragon Spine
Mountains. Three walls
carved of blood-red garnet blocked the valley, three choke points held by the
Octagon. “We will swarm the walls, opening a road to the south.” With a flick
of the sword, he knocked the walls over, one by one.

Triumphant, he stared up at his
generals. His commanders struggled to hide their doubt but he saw through their
mortal masks. “I know what you think. You fear a siege in winter.”
 

A wave of nods passed through his
commanders, their faces grim. Only General Haith dared to speak. “The Octagon
wrought well at Raven
Pass. The walls are not
mage-stone but they are built tall and stout. It will take siege engines to
defeat the walls,” his voice dropped a notch, “and while we batter away at
their gates, winter will lay siege to our army. Ice and snow respect no battle
banner. The steppes are cruel in winter.”

“There will be no siege.”

“But my Lord, numbers alone cannot
defeat such walls.”

The Mordant thrust his sword aloft.
“Behold the sword of the Mordant.” Darkness rippled along its length like a
slash in the fabric of the world. Most of his commanders looked away, unable to
endure the Dark malice radiating from the blade. “This was once the sapphire
sword of an Octagon knight, made stronger by its dedication to the Dark Lord.
Look upon this sword and wonder how many other Dark Furies serve at my
command.”

A murmur of awe rippled through the
chamber.

“Power begets power,” he lowered
the sword. “I will gift my army with three Wizard Knocks. Mounted on the tips
of battering rams, and carried by a gang of Taals, the magic of the Knocks will
sunder any wall save mage-stone. Knock thrice and Raven Pass
shall fall before you.”

General Haith stood at the center
of the battle commanders, a look of confidence on his face. “And once the pass
is taken, what are your commands?”

“Then old scores will finally be
settled.” The Mordant used the sword to point toward the map. “Once the Octagon
is defeated, the army will split in two. A small force of elite cavalry will
ride to the east, heading for the great southern road. General Haith will take
command of this force, making all haste for the Southern Mountains.” The
Mordant circled the map, removing a carved gemstone from his pocket. “Long have
the Kiralynn monks eluded me, but in this lifetime their secret is at last
revealed.” He held aloft a small monastery carved of sapphire. “Behold the
missing chess piece, the last bastion of the monks.” Tracing a path down the
southern road and into the mountains, he settled the monastery on the side of a
snow-capped peak. “At long last, the map of Erdhe is finally complete.” A sense
of triumph rushed through him, knowing his destiny was at hand. He stared up at
General Haith. “I give you the task of taking the monastery and killing the
last of the monks. You’ll find it full of bearded old men and young pups in
training. They’ll fight with quarterstaffs, if they fight at all.”

General Haith grinned. “Sticks
against steel. Hardly a fitting contest.”

Memories of his brief time in the
monastery flashed through the Mordant’s mind. Walls painted with illuminated
script, forbidden secrets hidden behind midnight blue doors. “The monks fight
with sticks but you should expect trickery. There’s no telling how much magic
they still possess.” He stared down at the sapphire monastery, a lone flash of
blue in jumble of white peaks. “Capture the monastery and kill the monks, but
do not attempt the midnight blue doors. The secrets locked behind those doors
are
mine
alone.” He stare drilled into his best general. “Spoil them at
your peril.”

General Haith saluted, his fist
thumping against his gold breastplate. “As you command.”

The Mordant paced the map’s
perimeter. Rounding the Southern Mountains, he headed west, toward the shores
of the Western Ocean. “While General Haith rides south,
the rest of the army will swing down through Navarre, plunging like a dagger for
the heart of Lanverness. The

He stared up at his battle
commanders, seeking out the slender form shrouded in shadows. “I grant my
assassins a special task.”

Like fluid darkness, a figure
emerged from the shadows. Short and spare, the man had the stunted frame of a
fifteen year-old boy, yet he moved with a feral grace. Muscles rippled beneath
black leather, a baldric of nine throwing knives slung across his chest. Black as
sin, the nine knives gave testament to his prowess, a master assassin of the
ninth rank. Making a curt bow, Dolf stood poised by the railing.

The Mordant smiled, for his best
assassins were ever spare with words. “A MerChanter longship waits to take you
and your brethren south. To my assassins, I give the task of laying the
groundwork for the fall of Lanverness. A troop of the best Duegar will be
assigned to serve you. I suspect the meddling monks will attempt to save the
Rose Queen. The magic sniffing dwarves will help thwart their plans.” He pulled
a sealed scroll from his belt and tossed it to his master assassin. “Now go and
prepare for your voyage. We will speak again before you sail.”

Dolf caught the scroll and bowed
low. Easing backwards, he disappeared into the shadows.

“Each of you has your appointed
tasks.” The Mordant slashed the dark sword across the map, cutting through a
triangle of enemies. “First the Octagon, then the monks, and then the bitch-queen
of Lanverness. Topple these three and all of Erdhe belongs to the Dark Lord.”

“But what of Castlegard?” The
question came from General Marris, a tall thin man with iron-gray hair.

The Mordant nodded, allowing the
question. “The heart of the Octagon will be shattered at Raven Pass.
Once the rest of Erdhe is secured, then the army can lay siege to the great
castle. Huddled behind their mage-stone walls, the last of the knights will die
of starvation, a fitting end for the vaunted maroon.” He studied his battle
commanders, peering into each man’s soul. Satisfied, he turned to stare toward
his high priest. As he expected, Gavis wore the sour look of a man forced to
sup on bitter wine. “And upon my priests I bestow the task of inspiring the
army with omens of victory.” He sheathed his sword and began to climb the
narrow steps to the balcony.

“What say you, Gavis?”

“I don’t know what to say, my
Lord.”

“What, my high priest struck dumb?”
The Mordant reached the balcony and stared across the map at Gavis.

“I fear for the safety of the Dark
Citadel.”

“But the citadel is kept safe by my
priesthood.”

Gavis shook his head. “You risk too
much on war. Take the guards from the Pit if you must, but leave the citadel at
full strength.”