The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga) (5 page)

4

Katherine

Blaine’s voice carried across the glade.
Riding next to Danya, he regaled the dark-haired girl with tales of ancient
battles. Zith rode close behind, leading the packhorse. Kath ducked behind her
horse, fumbling with the saddle, her mind ablaze with thoughts of the coming
night. Unable to resist, she risked a glance at Duncan.

He flashed her a secret smile.
“Tonight.”

Her face blazed like a sunset.
Struggling for composure, she staked the stallion and rubbed him down with
handfuls of grass. While the others settled their horses, she slipped
downstream seeking privacy behind a bush. She longed for a proper bath, but a
quick wash would have to do. Crouching by the stream, she pulled off her shirt,
shivering against the biting-cold water. A small lump of amole root served as
soap. Leaning forward, she peered into the water, trying to catch her
reflection, but the rushing stream held too many ripples. Her boots slipped and
she nearly took the plunge. Regaining her balance, she laughed at herself. If
she’d stayed in Castlegard her wedding night would have been so different.
Scented baths, silken finery, and a sumptuous feast in the great hall…but the
man waiting at the altar would never be of her choosing. Far better to wash by
a stream and marry Duncan
beneath the trees. Eager for the night, she finished and returned to the
others.

A crackling fire drew her back to the
glade. Six fire-rings of blackened stones proved the glade was an old
campground, a staging area for the knights before they sallied into the north.
Kath found her companions gathered around the ring closest to the stream,
bedrolls spread in a circle around the fire pit. Duncan had set his bedroll next to hers, the
same discrete distance as always, but Kath blushed to see it. She ducked her
head, hoping the others would not notice.

Busying herself with work, she went
to gather kindling, but pinpricks kept dancing down her spine. She whirled to
find Duncan
staring. The man was driving her to distraction, but she could not repress an
answering grin.
 

Returning with an armful of
kindling, she found Zith had assumed the role of cook, taking over from Sir Tyrone.
Rabbits spitted on sticks sizzled above the flames. The smell made Kath’s mouth
water, sparking a sudden hunger.

They shared the rabbits, licking
grease from their fingers. Bryx chuffed, gnawing on the bones. Sitting circled
around the fire, they leaned on bedrolls, sipping mugs of tea, the warmth
chasing away the evening chill. Kath smothered her impatience, wishing the
others would sleep, but Blaine
nattered on about the forest of shields and the heroes of old. Kath had never
seen him so talkative. She studied the blond-haired knight and the wolf-girl,
wondering if the attraction was mutual. Blaine
was clearly smitten, showering the girl with attention, but Danya seemed
distracted. Huddled beneath a cloak of brown wool, her hair bound in a long
braid, she sat cross-legged, staring at something in her hand, a dreamy look on
her face.

Magic spiked through Kath, creating
an irresistible pull. Kath gasped, feeling a magic she’d thought long lost. She
gripped her gargoyle, but it was not the source. A strange certainty ran
through her. Sitting up, she stared at Danya, her voice hard with mistrust.
“What’s in your hand?”

The conversation stilled.

The wolf growled a low warning.

Danya blinked like an owl woken
from sleep. “My hand?”

Kath stifled the urge to leap
across the fire and take what was hers. “What are you holding?”

Understanding seemed to break
across the wolf-girl’s face. “Is it yours?” She opened her hand and held it
out. A small amber pyramid nestled on her open palm.

Kath gasped, fighting the urge to
rip the focus from the girl’s hand. “Where did you get that?”

Danya extended her hand. “If it is
yours, then take it.” Her voice fell to a hush. “I don’t think I need it any
more.”

Kath circled the fire, her gaze
locked on the amber pyramid. Her right hand gripped her sword hilt, unable to
believe that Danya would give up the focus without a fight, but the
brown-haired girl did not waiver, the amber pyramid offered on her open palm.

Kath snatched the focus from her
hand…and staggered backwards, as if released from a spell.

Duncan leaped to catch her, concern in his
voice. “Are you well?”

Kath shuddered, released from the
compulsion. Sinking onto her bedroll, she stared at the amber pyramid and then
at the wolf-girl. “I’m sorry.” She shook her head, struggling to understand. “I
don’t know what came over me.” Clenching her fist, she held the pyramid tight.
“I somehow knew you had this…and I had to have it back.”

“The bond of the focus re-asserts
itself.”

They all stared at Zith.

Wrapped in his midnight-blue robes,
the monk tugged on his silver beard, his voice thoughtful. “A magical bond is
created between the focus and the wielder. It usually displays as a compulsion
to touch or fondle the focus, to always keep it near, to never let anyone else
have it.” He stared at Kath. “The bond called to you, demanding to be
reclaimed.”

Kath opened her fist and stared at
the pyramid, disliking the compulsion, but unable to give up the small amber
carving. “But why now? The pyramid has been missing since I woke from the gray
space.” She stared across the fire at Danya, questions in her gaze. “I lost it
in the Deep Green. Why didn’t I sense it before?”

The wolf-girl nodded, her face
pale. “I found it in my pocket when I woke from that awful nightmare.” She
shivered, her voice holding a note of apology. “I never knew it was yours.”

Kath stared at Danya, relieved to
hear the honesty in her voice. She turned to Zith, needing answers. “Why didn’t
I feel it before?
 
Why now?”

The monk held up his hand, forestalling
her questions. He turned to Danya, his voice full of soft inquiry. “Did you
bond with the focus? Do you know its purpose?”

Kath held her breath. She’d carried
the amber pyramid since the monastery but she’d never learned its secret.

Danya nodded, her face hesitant. “I
think so.”

“Can you tell us what it does?” The
monk’s voice was soothing, a gentle prod.

Danya lifted her left arm, slowly
rolling back the sleeve to reveal a gleam of silver. An ornate silver cuff
covered her arm from wrist to elbow, silhouettes of animals incised along its
length. “It taught me how to use this.”

The monk gasped but Kath’s stare
remained locked on Danya.

“Before, I could only talk to Bryx.
Sometimes I’d catch a few stray thoughts from the horses, just bursts of emotions.”
Danya stared at the cuff, turning it so the firelight flashed along its silvery
length. “But at Cragnoth Keep, I could feel the eagles. I knew why they circled
overhead. I saw the dead as they did, bodies broken on the rocks, discarded
carrion, food for eagles.” She stared at Kath, her dark eyes begging for
understanding. “And today, when you raced ahead, I felt the horses. I knew they
ran for the joy, not fear, so I knew there was no need to follow, no need to
rush and catch up.”

Zith whispered, “A
Beastmaster
,” his voice full of awe. “You’ve
become a Beastmaster.”

Kath said, “Why didn’t you say
something?”

Danya shrugged, her face flaring
red. “I was so overwhelmed…I didn’t know what to think.” She shook her head, a
bewildered look on her face. “At first I did not believe. And then I didn’t
know what to say.” She shivered, a glimmer of fear in her dark brown eyes. “In
the village where I grew up, those who consorted with beasts were hunted down
and killed,” her voice fell to a hush, “burned at the stake. I’ve had
nightmares.”

The wolf whined, pressing close to
the girl, as if offering comfort.

“You’re among friends.” Kath stared
at the dark-haired girl, willing her to hear the truth in her voice. “We’d risk
our lives for you.”

Blaine unsheathed his blue sword, his silver
surcoat shimmering in the firelight. “By my sword, I swear to protect you.”

Danya stared at Blaine and then back to Kath, a mixture of
relief and gratitude on her face. “I could not ask for better friends.”

Duncan leaned toward the fire, his voice
intense. “This proves we are
all
outcasts, each in our own way.” His single
cat-eye glowed golden in the firelight, a reflection of his mixed heritage.
“Perhaps that is why we’ve been chosen for this task. Those who are overlooked
may yet make the greatest difference.”

The archer’s words fell like a
mantle across the five companions, binding them together, a promise and a geas.

The monk broke the silence. “The
gods work in mysterious ways.”

A shiver raced down Kath’s back.
“What do you mean?”

“More raw power sits around this
fire than any dared hope for.” Zith stared at Danya. “There has not been a true
Beastmaster since before the War of Wizards.” He turned his gaze to Kath. “And
in addition to the crystal dagger, you now carry a Quickner.”

Kath shook her head, confused.

“Danya’s growing talent reveals the
truth of the amber pyramid. Much more than a simple focus, it is a higher
magic, long thought to be lost. A Quickner creates and strengthens the bonds
between a focus and the wielder. In essence, it quickens magic.” His face
turned thoughtful. “If the Grand Master had known of the pyramid’s power, he
would not have let it leave the monastery.” He gave Kath a penetrating stare,
his voice earnest. “You can never let the pyramid fall into the hands of the
Mordant…or any other harlequin.”

Kath tightened her fist around the
pyramid. “Why?”

“The Mordant hoards magic.”

His words brought back memories of her
kidnapping, her ordeal in the woods.

“Given a Quickner, he could bond
with every focus in his hoard, achieving the powers of the wizards of old.”

Duncan gasped, “By all the gods!”

A shiver of fear sliced through
Kath. She opened her palm and stared at the amber pyramid, reluctant to lose
it, but she said the words anyway. “Perhaps we should send it back to the
monastery?”

Zith shook his head, pulling his
midnight-blue robes close. “No. Sometimes magic seeks the wielder. The Quickner
found its way to Danya, to waken her powers, and now it has found its way back
to you.” He stared at Kath, his face thoughtful. “The Quickner chose you for
some purpose. We must trust in the gods…and in our own abilities.”

Duncan’s voice was hard. “The gods have a
habit of being absent when they’re most needed.”

The monk nodded. “Just so.
 
But more than coincidence is at work here.”

Kath shivered, feeling the weight
of prophecy…or the threat of doom. Sometimes it was hard to tell the
difference. She stared at the amber pyramid, wondering that so much power could
be contained in such a small thing. “But why did it leave me? And will it leave
again?”

Zith had a strange look on his face
but he did not answer. Kath wondered if he did not know…or if he did not want
to say. She pressed for more. “Does it serve the Light or the Dark?”

“Magic is like a sword. It serves
the one that wields it.”

A stillness descended on the
companions, each to their own thoughts.

Blaine broke the tension, throwing a log onto
the fire, releasing a spray of sparks. “I’ll take the first watch.”

His words jarred Kath’s thoughts
back to Duncan.
“No, I’ll take first watch.”

Blaine gave her a searching look.

Realizing her words were too eager,
Kath scrambled for an excuse. Opening her palm, she revealed the amber pyramid.
“I have much to think about.”

Duncan said, “I’ll take second watch.”

Blaine shrugged. “As you wish.”

Kath settled by the fire, watching
the others slip into their bedrolls, their weapons close at hand. She clenched
her fist around the amber pyramid, the words of the monk running through her
mind. The Quickner seemed like a boon…and a perilous burden. She wondered if
they dare take it into the north. Staring up at the sky, she searched for
answers, but the stars were hidden. A full moon hung low in a cloud-choked sky,
a single smudge of light against the dark. So dark the sky, it seemed an
ill-omen.

Blankets rustled beside her. Kath
felt Duncan’s
steadfast gaze, tugging her thoughts in a different direction. She met his mismatched
stare, a rope of emotions tethered between them. He leaned towards her, his
voice a low whisper, pitched for her alone.
“Yours
to decide.”

A
choice,
he gave her a choice, the most precious gift of all. Warmth rushed
through her, confirming the rightness of her choice. She held his mismatched
stare, a flood of emotions in her voice. “Yes.”

He smiled like a burst of sunshine
at the dawn. “Then I best get some rest.” He flashed her a rogue’s grin before
pulling his blankets close.

Kath’s face flamed red. One glance
and he brought her blood to a boil, a promise of the pleasure to come. She bit
her lip, finding it hard to wait, but they could not leave till the others
slept. Feeling the amber pyramid in her fist, she buried it in her deepest
pocket. The gods alone knew what they’d face tomorrow, but for this one night,
she would think of nothing but Duncan.

5

The Knight Marshal

Cold seeped into his bones, waking
the pain of old war wounds, yet the marshal felt drawn to the tower. Wrapped in
his maroon cloak, he paced a circuit around the signal platform, another man’s
great sword looming over his right shoulder. Before coming to Cragnoth Keep,
he’d always carried a saber, his First Weapon, but he’d felt compelled to take
up Sir Tyrone’s blade, reclaiming it from the ashes. Kissed by fire, yet the
blade was not blackened or dulled, as if the gods offered their blessing…as if
the blade still held a greater purpose.

He shrugged his shoulders against
the harness, unaccustomed to the weight. A cold wind battered his face, a
bitter squall from the north. Storm clouds threatened to break but at least the
gray sky was empty of eagles. All the dead were buried or burned, yet a pall still
hung over the tower, a lingering stench of treachery.

Rusted hinges squealed in protest
as the tower door opened. The marshal turned, hoping to see the king, but it
was just a pair of squires laden with wood. Sir Tyrone’s remains were gone,
given honorable burial with the prince and his men. Swept clean of ash, the
stone platform held layers of chopped wood carted up from the valley below,
fuel awaiting the next signal fire. The squires hesitated when they saw him but
the marshal waved them toward the platform. “Stack it tall and stack it well,
lads, for the signal fire’s sure to burn a warning ere winter’s end.”

Iron-shod hooves clattered into the
courtyard below. He leaned over the parapet to spy the new arrivals. A party of
six, their horses sweat-streaked from a hard ride. One in particular was
familiar, Sir Lothar, the captain of the Salt Tower, the farthest to ride and
the last to arrive for the king’s council.
 

Keen to greet his old friend, the
marshal abandoned the tower top. Descending the spiral stairs, he paused on the
sixth level, but the king’s door remained shut as it had since Lionel’s burial.
Except for morning arms practice, the king kept to himself, wrapped in his
grief. But too much grief could erode a man’s soul. The marshal hesitated, his
hand raised to the door, but his resolve bled away. After all, what did he know
of a father’s loss?

He passed the door and descended to
the great hall. Like stepping from winter into summer, the hall brimmed with
light and life. Heat blazed from both hearths, the smell of roast lamb teasing
his hunger. Every table was crowded. Knights in maroon cloaks sat shoulder to
shoulder on the long benches, sharing an ale and a jest. Gray-garbed squires
scurried between tables, helping the stewards serve heaping platters of
spit-roasted lamb. Laughter erupted from a far table, echoing a line from a
bawdy joke.

The marshal forged a path between
the benches, making note of names and faces. A man’s choice of drinking
partners often revealed his alliances. Even within the maroon, politics played
a part.

Like a ripple in a pond, men raised
their heads as he passed, some nodding greetings while others stared at the
great sword looming over his shoulder. The marshal kept his face closed,
ignoring their stares. Command had its privileges and its burdens. His true
friends were few, his responsibilities many. The marshal eavesdropped as he
walked, regretting that he hadn’t paid closer attention to Trask and his
cronies.

Six knights trooped into the hall,
a dusting of snow on their maroon cloaks. The marshal’s gaze snapped to their captain,
Sir Lothar, his weather-beaten face sporting a long mustache, his dark gaze
full of questions. The marshal crossed the hall to greet the newcomers. “Well
met.” Sir Lothar clasped the marshal close, his voice a low whisper, “Are the
rumors of treachery true?”
 

“Too true.”

“And the king?”

“Locked in his grief.”

They parted with a knowing look.
The marshal said, “Come and share meat and mead with me. There is much to
discuss.” He led Lothar to the high table. Most of the chairs were already
taken, filled with captains come to pay court to the king’s three remaining
sons. The princes dominated the table. Ulrich and Godfrey sat in the center,
supping on ale and lamb and roasted potatoes, while Prince Griffin sat sprawled
at the far end, his hands curled around a tankard. All three were fierce
warriors and able swordsman, captains in their own right, commanding strongholds
along the Domain. Big blond men, well muscled and bold, the princes echoed the
king’s bearish physique. They struck an uncanny resemblance, especially Ulrich.
The king’s first-born wore scarred fighting leathers, the hilt of a blue steel
sword looming over his right shoulder. For half a heartbeat the marshal
hesitated, like staring into the past. Yet there was something missing, some
indefinable quality that made the son a pale imitation of the father.

Ulrich broke the spell, his booted
foot pushing an empty chair toward the marshal. “So the one-eyed eagle comes
down from his aerie. It seems even the knight marshal must eat.”

A forced chuckle circled the high
table, the sound of men currying favor.

The marshal shrugged his cloak over
his shoulder, taking a seat across from the prince. Lothar took a chair next to
the marshal.

Ulrich’s stare fixed on the hilt of
the marshal’s great sword. “So it’s true, you’ve taken up a dead man’s blade?”

He didn’t explain; he wasn’t sure
he understood it himself. “Good steel should never be wasted.”

“But you’ve always been a saber
man. Why take up the great sword when there’s gray in your hair?”

So the princeling flexed his
muscles, reaching for Lionel’s place. The marshal flashed a predator’s smile,
rising to the challenge. “I wanted a sword with greater reach. You understand
the value of reach?”

The prince never broke eye contact,
but he eased back in his chair. “We’ve seen little enough of you these past few
days, and even less of the king. What draws you to the tower top?”

“Snow, rock and more snow.”
Gesturing for a squire to bring a plate for himself and Lothar, the marshal tugged
the leather gloves from his hands, tucking them into his belt. “It’ll likely be
a long winter.”

Ulrich grinned, the right side of
his mouth twisted by an old scar. “But if the signal towers hold true, it’ll be
a winter full of war. A chance for honor and glory, else why call the captains
to council?”

Griffin, a leaner version of Ulrich, answered
from the far end of the table. “For the sake of treachery, brother.”

Ulrich scowled and Godfrey shook
his head but Griffin’s
hooded gaze never wavered. “And then there’s the question of the crown.”

Prince Griffin’s words hung across
the table like a battle axe.

The marshal glared, “Prince Lionel’s
grave is still fresh-turned.”

Griffin held his gaze, “Yet it is the duty of
king’s to have an heir…and our lord father is ever fond of duty.”

Ulrich intervened, wielding his
birthright as the eldest. “Rest assured, brother, the king will name an heir,
else why has he summoned us to council?”

The marshal knew the princes well,
having trained all three to the sword. Ulrich fought like a bull, rushing in at
the slightest hint of an opening, while Griffin
showed a cautious shrewdness, preferring a slow dance of parries and feints.
Godfrey, the third-born prince, was a follower, always mimicking his oldest
brother. “The council is called for treachery…and for war.”

Ulrich flashed a wolfish grin. “So
there’ll be war then.”

“As sure as winter.”

“And the traitors?” The question
came from Sir Gravis. Bald as an egg, his face as tough as boot leather, Gravis
was a stern captain and a staunch friend to the king.

“All dead.”

More than a few made the hand sign
against evil.

“Does the treachery stop at Cragnoth?”

The marshal met Godfrey’s stare.
“That’s the question, isn’t it? How far has the Darkness spread?” A murmur of
unease ran the length of the table. “It’s hard to hold a castle when a traitor
mans the drawbridge.” The marshal reached for a tankard of ale. Talk of treason
left a bitter taste in his mouth.

“They say there was a note,” Prince
Griffin’s voice cut like a well-polished sword, “a note pinned to the tower
door, sealed with a red hawk.”

Rumors were hard to contain. The
marshal nodded, reluctant to speak of the king’s daughter; a mere girl had no
part in war. “The note told of Trask’s corruption to the Dark.”

Sir Gravis nodded, “A message from
Lionel, no doubt, before they murdered him.”

Ulrich’s stare smoldered. “Yes, the
king’s chosen successor, struck down by his own men.” Scorn filled Ulrich’s
face, an ugly mix of ambition and jealousy. “Death by treason. That must have
been a mighty blow to the king.”

The marshal speared the prince with
his gaze. “The king mourns his son.”

“But would he mourn half so much
for the rest of us?” Ulrich’s face hardened like tempered steel. “Or aren’t we
shiny enough for his liking?”

Ulrich talked like he fought, with
broad smashing strokes, but for once his words struck true. The marshal looked
away, unable to deny it. The king’s younger sons had been made of finer stuff, something
shiny and noble. Tristan and Lionel both carried heroic glows that made other
men rise above themselves, willing to dare the fiercest odds. Somehow that shining
characteristic had passed over the older sons, as if the mold had been set but
the metal wasn’t quite right, leaving men of blunt iron instead of bright
steel. The marshal shook his head, mourning the loss. The promise of the
younger sons was gone, snuffed out like a bright-burning flame. Sometimes the
gods were cruel. He reached for his tankard. “The king needs all his sons.”

“Some more than others.” Ulrich
scowled. “They tell me Lionel has his own shield grove, set on the south side
of the mountains so that all travelers from Castlegard to the Crag can pay
homage as they pass. Seems like a lofty honor for a murdered prince.”

The marshal’s voice held a cutting
edge. “The king loved Lionel well.”

“I’ll not begrudge the dead their
due…but he
is
dead.” Ulrich’s gaze
narrowed. “The king must name a new successor.” He leaned back in his chair, a
warrior in his prime. “I’ve always been the strongest, the best sword among my
brothers. In times of war, it’s strength that matters most. It’s past time the
king chose his first-born to rule.”

“Ayes” circled the table…but not
from everyone. Gravis kept silent and so did Sir Mellott and Sir Lothar, while
Prince Griffin merely watched through hooded eyes.

The marshal crossed stares with the
first-born prince. “The royal house of Anvril has ever ruled the maroon, but it
has not always been the oldest who gains the throne.” He lowered his voice, a
warning and a threat. “The king alone decides his heir.”

A low murmur rippled through the
great hall.

The marshal turned to find the king
standing on the stairwell. New lines of grief were graven on his face but his
eyes sparked like flint.

Benches scraped against stone.
Almost as one, the knights rose to greet their king. “The Octagon!” The shout
echoed through the hall. King Ursus moved among them, nodding greetings and
exchanging a murmur of words. Even in the winter of his years, the king roused
a fierce loyalty among his men. Like a blazing hearth, the warmth of
brotherhood swept through the great hall. The marshal stood with the others, proud
to serve such a king.

The press of maroon cloaks parted
and the king reached the high table. He nodded to the marshal, “Osbourne,” and
then took a seat next to Ulrich. His gaze circled the table, keen as sharpened
steel. “The signal fires have been lit. The council of captains is summoned for
war.”

Knights of lower rank took their
leave, nodding to the king, before moving from the high table. The great hall
began to clear. The other captains joined them at the high table, Sir Boris of
Holdfast Keep and Sir Dalt of the Ice
Tower. Each captain
commanded a tower or a keep along the Domain. They filled the high table, five
captains and three princes, with the marshal seated beside the king. One chair
remained empty…the chair of a dead prince.

Stewards poured tankards of ale and
offered plates of roast lamb smothered in gravy. Baldwin, the king’s squire,
spread a map of the north across the heart of the table, tankards set at the
four corners. Their work done, the stewards retreated to the staircase. Logs snapped
and crackled in the two hearths, the only sound in the great hall.
 

The king surveyed his captains. “I
led a war host to Cragnoth expecting battle…but instead found only treachery
and murder. The Mordant found a way to corrupt Trask and some of his knights.
It seems he sought a back door for his army, an easy way into the southern
kingdoms.”

The marshal eased back in his
chair, watching the faces of the captains. Only Lothar and Boris, the last to
arrive, looked surprised.

The king clenched his fist. “This
treachery cost us dear, the death of Prince Lionel and a score of loyal swords,
but Cragnoth is ours once more. The back door is closed, secured against the
north.” His stare circled the table. “But I expect the Mordant will try again,
the Octagon is summoned to war.”

Sir Lothar scowled. “A war in
winter. The Mordant strikes when it is least expected.”

“Exactly.” The king leaned forward,
like a hawk stooped to the hunt. “We must snatch advantage from treachery, heeding
the warning.”

Ulrich grinned. “Then you expect
another strike at Cragnoth?”

“Of a certainty,” the king cast a
sideways glance at his son. “The Mordant never wastes an opportunity. He’ll
send a force against Cragnoth to collect the wages of treason.” His fist
settled on the map, covering the painted symbol of the keep. “When the Mordant
finds his way blocked, he’ll seek another route across the Spines.” His hand
swept the length of the Domain, from Castlegard in the east to Salt Tower perched
on the edge of the Western
Ocean. “With so few men,
we must anticipate the strike.” He turned to study his firstborn. “If the
Octagon was yours to command, where would you wager the bulk of our strength?”