The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga) (4 page)

He held her stare.

Kath struggled to explain.
“Everything’s changed. I’ve lost my home, forced to escape Castlegard, forced
to flee from my own father. I’ve slain knights of the Octagon, traitors to be
sure, but I never thought to slay a knight. Sir Tyrone is dead and my brother
murdered. And now we follow the path of death, chasing the Mordant into the
north.” She struggled to find the right words. “We’ve crossed the Dragon Spines,
passing into nightmares. Whatever happens, whatever lies ahead…I can’t lose you
too.”

His fingers caressed her face, his
voice full of reassurance. “You’ll never lose me.”

“It’s more than that. In Cragnoth
Keep I faced death without ever having tasted love.” She met his mismatched
stare, willing him to believe. “I need you…all of you.”

His breath caught. “As my wife?”

She felt his heartbeat racing beneath
his leathers, and knew her own raced at the same breakneck pace. Kath dared to
follow her heart. “Yes.”

He lifted her into his arms,
kissing her with the ardent promise of more.

Horses clattered into the glade,
the sound of voices emerging from the trees.

They pulled apart, a quick distance
that was suddenly painful.

Duncan sent her a fervent whisper, “
Tonight, beneath the trees, while the others
sleep.”

Nodding, Kath felt her face flame
red, her loins liquid with need. She turned away, busying herself with her
horse’s tack, hoping the others did not notice. Her hands shook as she worked
the buckles. A part of her could not believe her own audacity…but another part,
her heart, soared at the thought of finally knowing Duncan. She clung to his words, repeating
them like a prayer.
Tonight…beneath the
trees…while the others sleep.
Kath stared at the sky, willing the moon to
rise.

3

The Mordant

The Darkflamme flew overhead,
snaking against a steel-gray sky, twelve feet of black silk ending in two silken
tails of bright red flecked with gold. The forked banner snapped like a
serpent’s tongue, creating the illusion of darkness on fire, a threat of terror
to the Mordant’s foes, a promise of victory to his legions. Unfurled above the
gathering host, the battle banner announced his return, the na-Mordant, the
ruler of the Dark Citadel, the claimant to the Ebony Throne.

Like the useless skin of a molting
snake, the Mordant shed the maroon cloak and silver surcoat of the enemy. Clad
in his true colors, black adorned with gold, he chose the trappings of a
soldier over the robes of a priest, sending a message to his followers. Black
gauntlets, a black cuirass emblazoned with a gold pentacle, black leather pants
tucked into knee-high boots, and a sweeping cape of the finest black wool, but
he kept his head bare, awaiting a crown.

Riding at the head of the gathering
host, he held the dusky stallion to slow trot, turning the journey north into a
stately progress, a monarch surveying his domain. Word of his return raced
ahead, spread by mounted couriers, carrier pigeons, and rampant rumors. With
every passing league, the Mordant’s entourage grew. Officers, soldiers, and
priests, dispatched from every unit and outpost of his army, they flocked to
his standard. Some came to bear witness; others came to enjoy the spectacle,
but most came to curry favor, to gain a place in the new court of a
dictator-king.

He welcomed them all with an open
smile, keeping the weight of his years hidden, his glorious darkness buried
deep beneath the facade of a young monk’s face. His youthful countenance served
him well. Cloaked in the illusion of inexperience, his appearance emboldened
his entourage, inviting advice, and boasts, and whispered secrets. Only the
graybeards remembered, hanging back, wary with their words, a glint of fear in
their eyes. The Mordant listened and watched, hiding his amusement, studying
his subjects.

The bold and the ambitious competed
for his time, jostling to ride next to him. The Mordant spent his days in the
saddle, listening to schemes and petitions without giving a single promise. His
silence never deterred the flood of ambition…or his steady progress into the
north. Crossing the grasslands at a trot, they eventually reached the sprawling
farmlands of his inner domain, the black soil lying fallow for winter. A song
of praise erupted from the host at his back, now swelling to the size of a
small army.

Each night, he held court in his
pavilion, a sumptuous tent lavish with wine and sweetmeats. Beneath the billowing
silk, they came before him, some to bow allegiance, others to stand
stiff-kneed, reserving fealty till the Trials were complete. He accepted them
all, the stubborn and the compliant, plumbing their souls, weighing their
worth.

He plied his dark powers with
subtlety, putting a name to each face and a value to each soul. Nearly a
quarter of those who flocked to his banner were closed to him, honest men who
lacked sufficient darkness in their souls. He probed the honest ones with words
instead of magic, but he judged them all, each according to their worth. Most
served with their swords, fodder for the coming war, but a few had value beyond
the killing fields. Memorizing their names, he kept a secret tally, noting some
for promotion to his personal guards, others for positions in the Citadel. But
not all of the petitioners were faithful. Some harbored the seeds of treachery
in their souls, mostly among the priests. Those he marked for death. Their treachery
did not surprise him. After all, the Ebony Throne had sat vacant for more than
thirty-two years, long enough for men to forget their fear, for treason to
breed and plots to hatch. But even the traitors would serve, providing an
example to others.

Growing bored with the fawning
prattle, he waved them all away. A handful of priests lingered. He made his
wish a command, a touch of darkness lurking in his voice. “Leave me.” Finally
alone, he settled into a camp chair, the charcoal braziers dispelling the night
chill. Sipping a fine merlot, he studied the campfires spread across the fallow
fields, knowing it was but a fraction of those who served the Ebony Throne.

Seeking amusement, he reached for
the one soul who knew the truth of his Darkness.
*Come, monk, attend me. I
appoint you my court jester, a foil for my royal thoughts.*

But the monk did not reply, a
brooding prisoner locked in the Mordant’s mind.

He could have forced the monk to
his will but a taste of freedom long denied often proved the cruelest torture.
*Come,
I give you leave to see through my eyes, to feel the brazier’s warmth, to smell
the soil’s rich loam, to taste a full-bodied wine. Come and remember what it
means to be alive.*

He felt the monk rise to the
temptation, looking through his eyes, swooning over the wine’s lingering taste.
The damned were so predictable. Chuckling, he prodded the captured soul.
*I’ve
felt you brooding, monk, ever since the Gargoyle Gate. Have you finally decided
to renounce your useless Lords of Light?*

*Never!*

He laughed.
*A pity I cannot
dress you in motley and have you caper before me, the perfect court jester.*
His
laughter turned to a chuckle.
*But let me guess at your discomfort. You
thought I would be served by rabid monsters, not mere men, and certainly not by
men free of the taint of Darkness.*

A brooding silence was the only
reply.

*Answer me, monk, or the taste
of life will be revoked.*

*You deceive them.*

*No, they wallow in their own
delusions. If there is one thing the centuries have taught me, it is that
mortals are masters of self-deception, even disbelieving their own mortality.
Thousands of men have died by my own hand and all of them had one thing in
common. Shock always filled their faces as the dagger pierced their hearts.*

*That proves nothing.*

*Then look at the faces of those
who serve me. Raised under the Pentacle, they believe their cause is just, that
the Dark Citadel is the pinnacle of civilization, enduring against the threat
of the barbarous south. Trapped by myths of their childhood, honest men make
the most loyal soldiers.*
He laughed.
*Mortals are victims of their own
delusions…a boon to any tyrant who has the good sense to use them.*

*No! You are the Deceiver.
 
I won’t listen. I walk in the Light. I walk
in the Light.*

*See, you prove my point. You
stubbornly cling to your own delusions, believing in gods who ignore you, while
proof of the Dark Lord’s bounty surrounds you. What will it take to break your
mortal delusions?*

Footsteps approached from the dark.

The Mordant suppressed the monk,
letting him share his eyes, but nothing more.

A black-robed priest crept to the
edge of the brazier’s light. Red hair and a pudgy face splashed with freckles,
Fenthane was a minor priest serving a bishop of the border guards. So this is
how they would come at him, sending the young and the unsubtle to test his
skills, more proof of the potency of his youthful disguise. “Fenthane, why have
you returned?”

Bowing low, the priest took mincing
steps into the light. “To offer a gift from my lord bishop,” he proffered an
amber flask trimmed in silver. “A flask of rare Urian brandy for your
pleasure.”

Draining the last of the merlot, the
Mordant extended his goblet. “A thoughtful gift. It has been too long since
I’ve tasted a fine brandy.”

The priest’s hands shook as he uncorked
the flask, filling the goblet with amber liquid.

“Why so nervous, Fenthane?”

“It is an honor to serve you,
Lord.”

“No doubt.” The Mordant swirled the
brandy and raised it to his face, inhaling the rich aroma. Autumn apples
fermented to the fiery scent of alcohol, aged in oak barrels to provide a woody
base, but he caught no hint of any taint. At least the poison was subtle if not
the hand that delivered it.
*Shall I drink, monk? It would kill this body
but one of us would be reborn.*

He felt the monk tremble, hungry
with hope.

Setting the cup to his lips, he
watched triumph bloom in the young priest’s eyes…but he did not drink. Lowering
the cup, he gave the priest a charming smile. “Tell me, Fenthane, what are your
dreams, your ambitions?”

“M-my dreams, Lord?”

The Mordant swept his hand toward
the campfires glittering like stars against the night. “Surrounded by
followers, I am constantly plagued with petitions and requests, why should I
not hear yours?” He raised the goblet in salute. “Especially given your
princely gift.”

The young priest swallowed, his
hands fumbling with the amber flask. “I long to leave the border priests, to
serve in the marbled halls of the Citadel.”

“An ambition as small as the man.”

The priest retreated a step, his
face suddenly fearful. “W-what do you mean, Lord?”

The Mordant called the Darkness,
summoning the weight of his years. Darkness rushed to fill his gaze. He stared
at the priest, drilling into his mind. Like a flock of starving vultures the Darkness
struck, shredding the man’s soul. The priest screamed. He fell to his knees,
but he could not look away. The Mordant made it rape, taking what he wanted and
then flooding the man’s mind with visions of torture, the brutal death of a
traitor. The priest whimpered a strangled sound, the smell of hot urine
flooding the pavilion. Satisfied, the Mordant withdrew, burying the Darkness
beneath a mask of youth.

Released, the priest crumpled to
the ground, a puppet without strings. Drenched in sweat, the young man groveled
at the Mordant’s feet. “
Forgive me, Lord! I did not know!”
 

Guards rushed to surround the priest,
their swords drawn.

The Mordant raised his hand,
forestalling bloodshed. “There is no danger, only a lesson. Sheath your swords
and watch.”

The guards obeyed; steel sliding
into scabbards.

Making his voice soft and soothing,
he nudged the priest with his booted foot. “Sit up. Let me see your face.”

Sobbing, the priest obeyed, his
face streaked with a river of tears.

“It is always the weak who are
first sent against me.”

“But they told me…”

“Shhh…” The Mordant kept his voice
soothing. “There is no need for words. All the answers are written upon your
soul.”

The priest shuddered, a hint of
hope in his gaze. “Then you’ll forgive me?”

“You know what you’ve done…and now
you must atone for your sin.”

“But I did not mean to, Lord, I did
not know it was truly you!”

The Mordant gestured and the priest
fell silent. “I’ve shown you the fate of traitors.”
 

The priest made a low whining
noise, like an animal caught in a trap.

“I offer you a choice.”

Choking on a sob, the young man sat
back on his heels, staring up at the Mordant, his face ghost-pale. “A
c-choice?”

The Mordant extended the goblet.
“Drink.”

The priest shrank back, his eyes
wild.

“The cup or a traitor’s death,
yours to choose.”

“Is there no other way?”

The Mordant waited.

Trembling, the priest took the
goblet, his face flushed with fear.

The Mordant hid his smile, the
power of fear was intoxicating to behold. “Drink it. Every drop.”

The priest stared into the cup,
slowly raising it to his lips. Tipping the goblet, he drained it in one long
draught. Empty, the golden goblet fell from his hands. A single drop of amber
liquid gleamed like a deadly jewel on the young man’s lips. Shaking, the priest
sat back on his heels, staring up at the Mordant, his face as pale as death.

The Mordant settled back in the
chair, savoring the entertainment. “Now we’ll see the true nature of your
gift.”

He did not have long to wait. The
priest groaned, bending at the waist. Wracked with sudden convulsions, he fell to
his side, writhing like a snake. Arching his back, he clawed at his throat,
fingernails gouging bloody rents in the pale flesh, his mouth contorted in a
rictus of pain.

Drinking in the details, the
Mordant felt his manhood stiffen.

The priest flopped like a landed
fish, foam flecking his lips. His eyes rolled back in his head, his back bent
to an impossible angle. Uttering a final strangled gasp, he fell still, the
smell of death hanging in the air.

A hush settled over the pavilion.

The Mordant studied the faces of
his guards, his voice calm. “Treachery gains its just reward. Remember the
lesson.”

The guards saluted, fists thumping
breastplates.

The Mordant nudged the corpse with his
boot. “Return this to Bishop Tynes. Have the body stripped naked and staked in
front of his tent, an offering to the ravens and a warning to traitors.”

The guards saluted, reaching for
the corpse.

“And captain,” the Mordant smiled,
“bring me a clean goblet and find me a woman.”

The captain saluted, overseeing the
removal of the corpse.

The Mordant leaned back in the
chair, eager for the woman, hungry for release. Foiled treachery always
sharpened his appetites. Power and youth made for such a heady combination. His
hand worked the stiff ache at his loins, enjoying the vigor of a body in its
prime. He had much to look forward to. Centuries of planning would finally come
to fruition. This lifetime promised to be a glorious, full of retribution,
deceit, and war.

A woman approached. Dark haired and
dark eyed with a full and buxom figure, she was just the sort to quench his
need. “Drop your robe and kneel. I have much to celebrate.”