The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga) (9 page)

“We hold your life in our hands.” The High Priest made the sign of the
pentacle with his staff. “Let the Trials begin. May the Dark Lord judge the
truth of your claim, for no imposter shall ever rule the Ebony Throne.”

Trumpets blared and drums thundered, announcing the start of the Trials.
Thousands streamed through the golden gate into the courtyard, soldiers from
his entourage mingling with citizens of the upper tiers, come to witness the
spectacle.
 
An honor guard formed a
crescent at his back, the Darkflamme snapped overhead. He flicked a glance at
their faces, knowing they’d take his head if he failed, or be among the first to
swear their loyalty if he succeeded.

Turning his back on the crowd, the Mordant stared up at the palace steps.

The High Priest gestured and a second trumpet sounded a volley of notes.

The elite of the citadel parted, opening a path to the palace doors. Six
black-robed priests emerged, each pair bearing a coffin-shaped box. Made of
silver embossed with runes, the three coffins were placed in front of the
Mordant. The priests made a ceremony of unlocking the boxes, slowly opening the
lids.

Lined with purple velvet, each box contained three staffs, all of them
made of the blackest iron. At first glance, they seemed much the same. Six-foot
in height, each topped with a five-fingered iron claw clutching a red crystal.
The crystals’ color and facets varied slightly, as did the rune markings
inscribed on the long shafts, but the true difference lay in their hidden
power.
 

The High Priest gestured toward the boxes. “Choose correctly or die.”

The Mordant stepped toward the boxes. Nine staffs to choose from. Three resonated
with power…but only one called to him, the most treasured focus in his hoard of
magic. The Staff of Pain sang to the Darkness in his soul. The Mordant made his
choice, the red crystal glinting as he lifted it into the fading sunlight. His
hands caressed the rune-carved shaft, his blood thrumming with Darkness, forging
an instant bond.

Footsteps whispered from behind.

The Mordant whirled, summoning the staff’s power.

A guard lunged, his sword raised for a killing strike.

The Mordant unleashed the staff, loosing a burst of pain.
 

The soldier froze in mid-stride, his face contorting in agony. His sword
clattered to the pavement. Crumpling to his knees, his hands scrabbled at his
groin as if seeking a dagger that did not exist.

The Mordant twisted the power, deepening the torment.

Screaming, the attacker writhed at the Mordant’s feet.
“Please, lord!”
His back arched, his
head nearly touching his buttocks, and then he fell still, a trickle of blood
dribbling from his open mouth.

The Mordant swayed, his vision suddenly blurred. Leaning on the staff, he
struggled to hide his weakness, his new body not yet accustomed to so much
magic. Taking a deep breath, he turned to face the High Priest, his voice a low
growl. “Treason can be a lesson. Does your ambition outweigh your sense of
survival?”

The High Priest did not even blanch.

The Mordant smiled, this one had steel nerves. Gavis would make a fine
High Priest…or a fresh corpse.

“The Ebony Throne is not
yet
yours.”
The High Priest gestured and five men were brought forward. All five wore the
black and gold armor of citadel guards, but their faces were worn by age, their
hair faded to varying shades of gray. They dropped to their knees, their heads
bowed.

“It is said that the Mordant can weigh a man’s soul with a single
glance.” The High Priest gestured to the five. “One of these carries scars from
the past, name him and his deed or fail the fifth Trial.”

The Mordant stepped towards the five. A single breath told the tale. The
fourth kneeler reeked of fear, a special fear that few mortals lived to bear.
He pointed toward his choice. “This man served as a guard for the Door.”

Soldiers rushed forward to grab the Mordant’s choice. They stripped him
of armor and clothes, till he stood bare-chested in the waning light. The proof
was writ across his chest for all to see. Tattooed above his heart, was the
rune of the Dark Lord. But unlike all other tattoos, this one was inked by dark
magic, inscribed
beneath
the guard’s
skin.

Darkness called to Darkness.

The Mordant stretched out his hand, holding his palm a foot above the
man’s chest. “You witnessed my death in the Dark Chamber…and now I’ve come to
witness yours.”

The old soldier stared wide-eyed, but the others held him captive.

“
Salra cathra abendt.”
 
The Mordant called the rune.

Shuddering, the soldier’s face convulsed with fear. Sweat erupted across
his skin…and then his chest began to bulge outward, as if something sought to
escape his flesh. He screamed in agony, but the others held him rigid.

The Mordant flexed his power, calling the dark rune. “
Salra cathra abendt.”

Blood erupted from the man’s chest, like a spear thrust from within. The
dark rune burst from beneath the guard’s skin, flying to the Mordant’s hand…and
with it came the beating heart.

Screams ripped through the crowd. Women swooned, soldiers quailed, and the
elite drew back. Fear and terror claimed the courtyard.
 

The Mordant breathed deep, such intoxicating scents, such an important
lesson. He raised the blood soaked heart aloft. Revealed by the power of
Darkness, his voice thundered, “I
am
the
Mordant Reborn!”

Behind him, soldiers and the low born clattered to the ground in
homage…but the elite were made of sterner stuff. They shrank back, their faces
pale, but they did not cower. One man pushed to the front, a hatched-faced
general in gilded armor. Tall and imposing, the general made his way down the
steps, daring to approach. Despite the assault of age, the Mordant recognized
his face. His body was still warrior-lean but his hair had gone silver and his
face bore a ragged scar running from his right eye to his chin. Thumping his
fist to his breastplate, he bowed low. “I always knew you’d return, Lord.”

Pleased by the show of faith, the Mordant said, “General Haith, it has
been a long time.”

“A lifetime, lord, yet I never doubted.”

“Come and stand with your sword at my back. Your faith has earned you
that privilege.” The Mordant turned his stare to the High Priest. “Where will
you stand, Gavis?”

“The Trials are not yet complete.”

“How many Dark miracles will you need before you believe?”

“Only as many as prescribed by the Trials.”

Such a careful answer,
the Mordant nodded. “So be it.”

Black-robed priests scurried forward to claim the heart and clean the
blood from the Mordant’s hand. Other attendants removed the ruined body, blood
sopping onto the granite pavement. One attendant knelt, using his robe to wipe at
the blood.

“Leave the blood. The stones will drink it.”

Blanching, the attendant scuttled away.

The Mordant faced his high priest. “Finish it.”

Gavis thumped his staff against the stone courtyard, his voice ringing with
command. “Bring forth the final Trial.”

Once more, the doors of the palace opened, disgorging a gray-haired
bishop, wearing a flowing black robe and a black miter. He bore a small golden
casket aloft. Descending the stairs, he opened the casket, offering its
contents to the High Priest.

Making the sign of the pentacle, Gavis addressed the waiting crowd. “The
Dark Lord is the final Trial, for no imposter will ever sit on the Ebony
Throne.” He reached into the casket and withdrew a single shard of crystal,
eight inches in length and straight as a dagger. “By the light of this sacred
crystal, the truth will be known.” Gripping the shard in his fist, he raised it
so all could see. “In the hands of a mortal, the crystal remains dormant. But
in the hands of the true Mordant, it will glow bright red, revealing the Dark
Lord’s favor.” He turned so all could witness the quiescent crystal, a pale
shard of milk white, unsullied by red. “Let the Dark Lord’s will be known.” He
extended the crystal toward the Mordant, offering it on his open palm.

The Mordant stifled a secret smile, enjoying the irony. A tool of his
oldest enemies now served to protect his throne. Steeped in magic, the Dahlmar
crystal was used by the Kiralynn Order to detect the re-born. Taken from a
captured monk, the Mordant had long ago subverted the crystal to his own use,
making it part the Trials of Return.

He reached for the shard and raised it high. “Let the truth be known.”

The crystal blazed to life, glowing with the red light of Hell.

Compelled by the crystal’s magic, the Mordant’s eyes revealed his true
nature. Like twin lanterns, his gaze filled with a fiery red glow, revealing
the oldest of the harlequins. “I
am
the Mordant re-born.” He turned
toward the crowd, his voice booming across the courtyard. “The power of the
Dark Lord flows in me.
Kneel before me
and obey!”

Thousands fell to their knees. Lying prostrate on the cold stones, they
groveled before him.

The Mordant turned his fiery gaze back to the citadel’s elite. All sank
to their knees…except for the High Priest. Unlike the others, Gavis had tasted the
rulership of the citadel. Sometimes stewards needed to die before they were deposed.
“Which will it be, Gavis, service or death?”

The stiff-backed priest slowly sank to his knees. “Yours to command.”

“A wise choice.” The Mordant returned the crystal to his High Priest,
extinguishing the red light. “This will be a glorious lifetime.” Climbing the
palace stairs, he turned to accept the adoration of the crowd, the ruler of all
he surveyed.
 

Death galloped towards them. Still
leagues away, the soldiers rode in disciplined ranks, bristling with spears.
Hunters following the hellhounds, the threat of steel chased the savage bite of
fangs. Kath guessed they numbered a hundred or more, too many to doubt the
outcome.

Duncan stood beside her, his voice calm.
“Fight or flee?”

Kath shook her head. “With only two
horses, we won’t get far. And there’s nowhere to hide in the grasslands.” She
shuddered, recalling tales of torture from the north. “I’d rather die fighting.”
She stared at each of her companions, seeing her own grim resolve etched on
their faces. Even Danya, the girl who never carried a weapon, gave a solemn nod.
Kath gripped her sword hilt. “Then we fight. Let’s use what time we have.”

She studied the steppes, cursing
the flat openness, realizing the slain horses offered their only cover. Two of
them lay close together, forming a rough vee. “We’ll make our stand here, using
the dead horses as a bulwark. Get your weapons. We have little enough time to
prepare.”

Ignoring the pain in her left
thigh, she hurried to recover her throwing axes, not bothering to wipe the blood
from the blades. Next, she approached the sorrel stallion, searching her
saddlebag for the chainmail shirt at the bottom, carried all the way from Queen
Liandra’s kingdom. Burnished bright, the chainmail gleamed in the sun, but what
good would it do against a hundred spears? Banishing the grim thought, she pulled
on the quilted jerkin and then shrugged into the chainmail. Her harness with
her throwing axes went over the chainmail, her shoulders tightening beneath the
added weight. From the rear of the saddle, she unbuckled a small octagonal
shield she’d found in Cragnoth’s armory. Lastly, she unwrapped Sir Cardemir’s
princely gift, setting the gleaming garnet helm on her head. Girt for battle,
she stripped the saddle from the stallion and beat his rump with the flat of
her sword. “Run!” Snorting, the warhorse sprinted south. She prayed he’d make
it home to the Octagon; the valiant steed deserved a better end than death in
the god-cursed steppes.

Armed for war, she had one more
thing to attend to. Reaching into her deepest pocket, she removed the amber
pyramid. To the victors went the spoils, but she dared not let the Mordant
claim the Quickner. Kath scanned the trampled grass for a hiding place. Knowing
pockets and saddlebags would be searched, she knelt by one of the dead horses.
Taking a last look at the small amber focus, she pried open the horse’s mouth.

A shadow fell across her. She
looked up, meeting the monk’s stare. “You said the amber pyramid should never
fall to the Mordant.”

Zith nodded, his face solemn.

“Then I’ll give it to death.” She
shoved the pyramid into the horse’s mouth. “Let the gods and the ravens fight
over it.”

A muffled thunder came from the
north, a warning that the enemy drew near.

Wiping her hands on the grass, she
joined her companions.

Duncan gave her a lingering look. “Armor
becomes you.”

Kath felt her face flush…but the
pounding hooves intruded, drawing her back to the threat at hand. “We’ll make
our stand behind the dead horses.”
 

They stood behind the vee formed by
two dead horses, a pitiful bulwark but it was all they had.

Blaine unsheathed his great blue sword.

Duncan nocked a black-fletched arrow, three
full quivers tied to his belt. He stared at Kath, his voice steady. “They’re
almost within range.” He quirked a half smile. “Shall I let them know we intend
to fight?”

She looked at her companions,
giving each of them a last chance to retreat. “There’s one horse left.”

Blaine hefted his sapphire blue sword,
sunlight glinting on his silver surcoat, looking like a hero of old. “What else
are blue swords for?”

She gripped his arm, grateful for
his lighthearted bravado. Releasing the knight, she turned to the others, a
question in her stare.

Zith leaned on his quarterstaff,
his voice grim. “The gods’ willing; I’ll see this to the end.”

Danya stood further apart, a dagger
awkwardly clutched in her right hand, her left hand on the wolf. She gave Kath
the smallest of nods, her face pale but determined. The wolf pressed close to
the girl, issuing a throaty growl.

Pride rushed through Kath. “So be
it.” She turned to Duncan,
memorizing the lines of his face, wishing they had more time. “Make every arrow
count.”

He smiled, his voice full of
meaning. “And every sword stroke.” He pulled the bowstring to a kiss, a fluid
motion, and then released.

A black-fletched arrow arced into
the steel-gray sky. It soared for a small eternity…and then plummeted into the spears,
a declaration of war.

A cry erupted from the enemy.

“Now they know we have teeth.”
Kath’s hand tightened on her sword hilt, determined to make a difference.

Beside her, Duncan pulled and released, a thrum of arrows
arcing skyward, a steady rain of death.

A horn sounded and the dark riders
spread out. A long line of spears swept south across the grasslands, a scythe
of death.

Kath watched them come, their
lances leveled. “If anyone has a brilliant idea, now would be a good time.” She
looked at Zith, half-hoping the monk had some secret magic, but he shook his
head, his face grim, his hands white-knuckled on his quarterstaff.

Danya moaned and sank to her knees,
her face ghost pale, her eyes glazed, the dagger discarded on the ground.

Kath felt sorry for the wolf-girl,
but there was nothing she could do. She raised her sword to the heavens,
shouting loud enough for the gods to hear.
“For
Honor and the Octagon!”

The wolf loosed a howl, as if
echoing her cry.

Blaine lifted his blue sword, “Honor and the
Octagon!”

Hoof beats thundered from the
north, a long line of death. Details became clear, gold pentacles on black armor,
stern faces beneath dark helms, black battle banners snapping in the wind. She
watched them come, a dark wave racing across the golden grassland, a destiny of
spears.

Duncan’s arrows thrummed a constant rhythm,
poking holes in the long line, like bees stinging a raging lion…but the beast
kept coming.

Kath counted their numbers, still too
many. The ground shook with the threat of hooves. A cold hand seized Kath’s
stomach, the grim certainty of impending death. She gripped her sword hilt,
sending a prayer to Valin, hoping her courage would not fail.

Thunder pulsed beneath her feet, a
looming wall of spears. The enemy drew close, a tidal wave of death.

Kath set her shield, bracing for
the clash, sweat dripping from her forehead.

Then the screams started.
 

Squeals of terror erupted from the
horses, a chaos of thrashing hooves. The disciplined line shattered. Warhorses
bucked and bellowed, throwing their riders. A wild madness gripped the horses.
Rearing, they turned on their fallen riders, lashing out with iron-shod hooves.
Kath watched as a foam-flecked stallion trampled his rider, crushing the man’s
head like a ripe melon. The rider lay still as death, yet the horse kept
stamping, churning the body to a slushy red gore. The grisly scene repeated across
the battlefield. Enraged warhorses fought like demons on four legs, biting and
kicking, a frenzy of hooves slashing in all directions, pounding their riders
to a bloody pulp. Soldiers fought against their own mounts, a desperate slash
of steel. Hamstrung horses bellowed in pain, struggling to stand. Screams of
the dying mingled with the squeals of the maimed. The grasslands became a
killing field, a blood-soaked horror.

Kath and her companions gaped in
shock, held spellbound by the carnage.

A battle horn sounded, a wild trill
of notes.

The slaughter began to slow, the
numbers thinned by death. A stallion reared, bellowing a challenge. A lone
officer answered, raising his sword in defiance. A straggle of soldiers formed
a circle, fighting back to back, a desperate bristle of spears holding the
horses at bay.

Quick as summer lightning, the
madness fled. Blood-spattered horses stamped and snorted, milling across the
field but they did not fight. A foam-flecked stallion reared and whinnied,
issuing a clarion call. The remaining horses answered. Together, they fled into
the steppes, galloping as if chased by hell-damned demons.

A harsh stillness settled over the
battlefield. Mangled bodies covered the field, blood and gore soaking the
steppes. Only seventeen soldiers remained standing, seventeen out of a hundred,
all of them wounded. Surrounded by a sea of carnage, the survivors turned their
weapons toward the companions. Issuing a guttural growl, they threw down a
gauntlet of hate.

For a moment, neither side moved.

Duncan’s voice broke the spell. “Finish
them.” Lifting his longbow, he loosed a shaft. His arrow whistled straight for
the enemy. A lone scream marked another death.

The enemy charged, releasing a
blood-curdling yell.

“Stand your ground! Let them come
to us!” Kath waited, letting the enemy come, letting the arrows do their work.

They charged like berserkers,
racing across the bloody ground. Arrows thinned their numbers, but still they
came, screaming a wild howl of vengeance.

Kath reached for a throwing axe,
waiting till she could see the hatred in their eyes. She picked a worthy
target. A big brute towered above the rest, wielding a sword in each hand, his
face a snarl of rage. She threw her axe and reached for the second. Two whirls
of steel flew towards the brute. He deflected the first, but the second took
him in the face, one less enemy for her sword.

The charging line was nearly upon
them, black-fletched arrows sprouting from shields.

Kath unsheathed her sword. Crouched
behind a dead horse, she hurled a prayer to Valin.

Five strides and the battle was
joined. The first blow struck her shield, a mighty sword stroke that nearly
drove her to the ground. Struggling to keep her footing, she dodged sideways.
Her shield arm went numb but she kept her sword raised. Seeing an opening, she
lunged under the man’s guard, stabbing at a weak point in his armor. A sword
blocked her thrust. Steel clanged against steel, locked in a dance of death.

Beside her, Blaine bellowed, “
For the Octagon!
” but Kath kept her stare on her opponent, her
world narrowing to the clash of swords.

Parry and thrust, she fell into the
wild rhythm of war. More than once, the chainmail saved her life, deflecting a
fatal blow. The wolf fought beside her, snapping and snarling, darting in to
hamstring her opponent. As the soldier’s leg crumpled, she lunged for the kill.
Wrenching her sword free, she pivoted to face the next threat. Another sword
sliced toward her face. She ducked and parried, striking the enemy across the
face with her shield. The fight became a blur, a flurry of sword thrusts. Her
muscles began to ache, her lungs gasped for breath, locked in a desperate
struggle.

The footing became treacherous, the
ground slick with blood. The battle seemed never-ending, a test of endurance.
The chainmail weighed her down. Her sword arm ached. Her left thigh throbbed
with pain. Wiping the sweat from her eyes, she parried a sword thrust but lost
her footing, slipping to the ground. The soldier leered above; a big man with a
beard, moving in for the kill…but a blue sword took his head in one mighty
stroke. Headless, the body staggered for two steps then toppled at her feet, releasing
a gush of blood.

Stunned, Kath lay on the bloody ground,
gasping for breath. A man screamed and another yelled a curse and then the
clash of steel fell silent. She gripped her sword, looking for the enemy. Struggling
to rise, she slipped in the bloody muck.

Blaine loomed over her, offering his hand,
bloodstains on his surcoat.

“Is it over?”

He nodded, pulling her to her feet.

Weariness hit her like a warhammer.
She could hardly stand.

Blaine steadied her. “Are you harmed?”

Everything ached, especially her
left thigh, but she was alive. “I’ll live” She gave him a weak smile. Struggling
for breath, she tried to make sense of the blood smeared field, a nightmare
from hell. The sounds hit her first, wounded men crying for mercy, the faint
nicker of dying horses. Bodies lay everywhere, the dying next to the dead, men
next to horses, a bloody swath of carnage. Kath shuddered; amazed to be
alive…but then a new fear seized her. “Duncan?
The others?” She gripped Blaine’s
arm, terrified of the answer.

“This way.” He turned her around,
leading her back toward the vee of dead horses.

Limping, she clutched his arm,
amazed that she’d come so far into the killing field. Her memory was a fog,
full of blood and steel. Kath shook her head, struggling to clear the fog of
war. But then she saw him, broad shoulders in black leather, kneeling with his
back toward her. “
Duncan
!”

She half-ran, half-staggered toward
him, needing to know he was unharmed.

He turned, a smile lighting his
tanned face. “Kath.”

His voice was a balm, easing a
weight from her heart. But then she saw the blood…and the body lying on the
ground. She gasped, “Will he live?”

Duncan’s face turned grim. “That remains to
be seen.”

Her heart hammered. “What can I
do?”

“I need a fire, two strips of
leather, flasks of wine, and some blankets.”

Blaine said, “I’ll get the blankets.”

Kath nodded. “I’ll look for the
rest.” She turned to survey the battlefield. Their packhorse was long lost,
sacrificed in the mad flight from the hellhounds, but the field was strewn with
the enemy’s slain horses, a battlefield of supplies waiting to be harvested.
She sheathed her sword and walked out into the killing field, searching for
dead horses with fat saddlebags. Finding a likely candidate, she knelt,
fumbling with the buckles, cursing her fingers for their slowness. Slicing the
strap with her dagger, she tumbled the contents onto the bloody grass.
Searching through the jumble, she tried to ignore the personal items,
preferring to think of the slain soldiers as enemies instead of men.