The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga)

by Karen Azinger

  “No.” The monk retreated, his face pale. “The prophecy spoke of a demon in the Octagon, nothing more. I came to warn you, to save you from a plot by the Dark Lord.”

  “Save us!” The king roared, his gaze fever bright. “Your words bring nothing but doom. I name you a minion of Darkness!”

  “Grief blinds you. You know the Order walks in the Light.” The monk’s retreat came to a halt, his back to the open window. “We are allies against the Dark.”

  “More words. I’m weary of your warnings. You can spew your dark tidings in the dungeons!”

  “No.” The monk’s stare flashed from the king to the marshal. “Detain me and you aid the Dark.”

  Gripped by a shiver of foreboding, the marshal sought to stop the madness. “Sire, he’s only a messenger.”

  “No!” The king’s anger was beyond reason. “I’ll see the darkling in irons. Capture him!”

  The captains obeyed, closing ranks on the monk, a ring of steel slowly tightening.

  Sworn to the king, the marshal could only watch.

  But the monk refused to be taken. “The Kiralynn Order serves the Light.” He leaped to the windowsill, a flutter of dark blue robes. And then he jumped.

  The marshal lunged, grabbing for a fistful of robes, but he caught only air. Leaning out the window, he expected to see blood and robes spattered at the tower’s base…but there was nothing below. He searched for some sign of the monk but found no trace of the man. And then he saw it, a winged shadow racing across the muddy yard. A giant frost owl soared across the wall, rising toward the mountaintops. “Magic!” The marshal made the word a curse. He watched the frost owl disappear into the clouds, a sense of dread choking him like a hangman’s noose. Feeling unsteady, he gripped the windowsill, rough stone beneath his calloused hands. He was just a swordsman, a leader of knights, but the world had changed. Against demons and magic, how could swords prevail?

  16

  Duncan

  Rain pelted against his face, cold as ice. Lightning flashed overhead, slashing an ominous sky. Duncan ran into the teeth of the storm, cursing the wet weather, as if the clouds fought for the Mordant. Soaked to the skin, he ripped his cloak from his shoulders, letting the sodden wool drop to the ground, choosing speed over warmth. Released from the wet weight, he lengthened his stride, desperate to slay the seventh man.

  Sword in hand, Duncan followed the trail of trampled grass. Encased in leather, his longbow beat a rhythm against his back, useless in the rain.

  Lightning cracked the sky, revealing a break in the long wall. A gate of some sort lay head, and in front of that gate stood the silhouette of a man, the seventh soldier. His prey stood within easy reach of his longbow…saved by the dark-damned rain. Duncan cursed his ill luck. Tightening his grip on his sword, he ran harder, fighting to close the distance.

  A soul-wrenching scream split the air.

  Skidding to a stop, Duncan cowered to the ground. Hands over ears, he stared into the twilight sky, half-expecting demons to attack.

  Howls and shrieks raged from the north, as if the very gates of hell had ripped open, disgorging the damned.

  Slinking low, Duncan waited, straining his senses, but nothing attacked. The hideous screams came from the break in the long wall. Perhaps some devil guarded the way north. He gripped his sword, wondering if steel could harm a demon. Determined to finish the hunt, he advanced on the gate.

  The screams of the damned beat against his ears, a torture of howls.

  Lightning flared, silvering the gateway. Duncan gasped, certain his eyes played tricks. Twelve stone gargoyles reared into the sky. Thrice the height of a tall man, the gargoyles seemed cast in stone, yet…they moved! Like nightmares sprung to life, they writhed against the sky. Wings unfurled and fangs bared, they clawed at the heavens, howling soul-numbing screams.

  Duncan shuddered, making the hand sign against evil, wondering if he faced the very gates of hell. Every instinct screamed for him to run, to disappear into the south, but for Kath’s sake he had to finish the hunt.

  Step by step he drew near the gateway.

  The great stone beasts writhed overhead.

  Gripping his sword, Duncan kept watch, expecting an attack…but gargoyles seemed fixed to their pillars, shrieking a warning into the sky.

  A warning! Perhaps the tortured screams were the gargoyles’ true purpose. The ensorcelled monsters put the fear of hell into the enemy while calling an army from the north. And then he noticed the seventh man was gone. Duncan cursed the gods. If his guess was true, he did not have much time. He stared at the stone monsters, wondering if he dared to cross beneath them. Steeling his courage, he shouted a challenge, “For Kath and the Light!”

  He stepped onto the stone roadway.

  Lightning flashed and rain pelted down, shedding cold tears on his face…but the gargoyles did not attack. Fixed to their pedestals, the stone beasts writhed overhead, hurling screams into the sky.

  Duncan took another step…and then another. Shadows reached for him, a nightmare of stone claws, but he refused to retreat. His heart thundering, he broke into a run. He sprinted beneath the gauntlet of horrors, an eternity in every stride. Six more strides…and he stumbled onto the tall grass. Falling, he dug his fingers into the earth, needing to know it was real, needing to smell the clean, wet soil.

  Spattered with rain and mud, he stared back at the writhing gargoyles. He’d crossed the gates, passing into the north. Shuddering, he made the hand sign against evil, relieved to be alive.

  But the screaming did not stop.

  A shiver ran down his back, knowing he would not be the hunter for long.

  Goaded by urgency, he got to his feet and searched the ground, looking for clues to the seventh man. A single set of tracks led north. Shivering with cold, Duncan set off at a run. He lengthened his stride, desperate to finish the hunt. The quicker he made the kill, the quicker he’d return to his wife. Thinking of Kath, he swore to find his way back…even if it meant escaping from the very gates of hell.

  17

  Blaine

  Poison! The word scared Blaine more than any sword in battle. Swords he could defeat but against poison he was useless. He gripped Kath’s shoulders, trying to shake her back to consciousness. “Don’t leave me.” Her weakness shattered him. He’d come to believe the girl was made of steel; she couldn’t die like this. “Fight this, don’t let the Darkness win.”

  Kath moaned in pain, a cold knife slashing into his guts. Always a warrior, she’d insisted on going north, pulling a travois of twelve stone without complaint…and now she lay felled by poison, so hurt, so weak, it scared him more than he could say. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close, willing her to heal. “Don’t give up.” His voice shook. “By Valin, don’t abandon me.” But she lay limp and unresponsive, her face pale, her blond hair sodden with sweat. Cradled against his chest, he carried her back to Danya and the wolf. Kath blazed with heat like a blacksmith’s forge, as if the fever consumed her from within. His grip tightened, he’d sworn to protect her.

  He laid her in the grass next to the wolf, gently easing the axe harness from her shoulders and the sword belt from her waist. She yielded her weapons without a murmur, another dagger of fear. Desperate for a glimmer of hope, he held the water skin to her lips, trying to coax her to drink, trying to draw her back, but the water just trickled down her chin. Her tunic was drenched in sweat, her face ghost-pale; he was losing her.

  He had to do something. Racked with worry, he struggled to think. He needed bandages and something to clean the wound…and a cure for the hellhound’s poison. Where in the god-cursed steppes was he going to find a cure? Did one even exist? Balling his hands into fists, he shook his head, fighting the panic. He needed to try. And at the very least, he needed to keep them all together.

  Twilight was fading to night, a thin sliver of red on the horizon; he was losing the light. He raced back to the monk and lifted the travois. The burden seemed suddenly light, as if
he carried a ghost. Gripped with fear, he stared at the monk. Hollow-cheeked and ashen, the old man looked like death but his breath made a faint rasping sound, still in the land of the living. Relieved, Blaine lifted the travois and pulled it back to the others.

  He set the monk next to Danya and then dropped to his knees, ransacking their supplies. Swearing, he tore through saddlebags and pouches, looking for anything that might help, cursing himself for not bringing more. Perhaps the Mordant’s soldiers carried a cure. Perhaps he’d left it on the battlefield, hidden among the dead. Spare blankets, water skins, a wine skin, a flint, a packet of salt, a sack of dried meat…and a healer’s pouch. Hope shivered through him. His fingers fumbled with the leather tie, dumping the contents onto the grass. Packets of herbs tumbled from the pouch, symbols embossed on the leather wrappings…but he had no idea what they meant. Rocking back on his heels, he glared up at the darkening sky, cursing the gods and his own ignorance. A knight wielded a sword not a healer’s bag of tricks. He had no knowledge of herb lore and even less of poisons.

  Knowledge…perhaps the monk held the answers.

  He grabbed the water skin and tried to get the monk to drink. “Zith, I need your help.”

  The old man groaned, his face ashen, water dribbling down his beard.

  “Kath’s been poisoned.” He shook the monk harder than he meant to. “You have to help. She gives meaning to your dark damned prophecies. You can’t just let her die.”

  But the monk lay still as death, a sheen of sweat glistening his forehead.

  Blaine stared at the old man, trying to figure a way to break through. Perhaps the monk’s wound festered, severed limbs were always dire. Blaine’s fingers fumbled at the wrapping, pulling the cloth away. Branded closed, the stump was ugly and red, but the upper arm showed no taint of corruption. Then why did the monk refuse to wake? And then he noticed the old man had a second wound, strips of blanket binding his chest. Blaine gripped his dagger and cut.

  “Valin’s sword!” Reeling backwards, he made the hand sign against evil.

  Five claw marks scored the old man’s chest. And all of the marks oozed black pus.

  Blaine staggered backwards, trapped in a nightmare. Unsheathing his sword, he pivoted, desperate for someone to fight. But the god cursed steppes were empty…except for his companions. Four dark forms lay in the grass, helpless, still as death, as if bewitched, caught in a dark spell.

  “Valin help us!” He roared his frustration at the heavens, a challenge to the gods. “Darkness has nearly caught us, yet you do nothing?” Furious, he stabbed his sword aloft. “Have you less honor than a man?”

  A cold wind ripped across the thigh-high grass, the gods’ only reply.

  Drunk on rage, Blaine staggered in a circle, tilting at the wind. He hurled accusations at the sky…but there was never any answer. The killing rage slowly bled away, leaving a bitter emptiness. Sinking to his knees, he stared at Kath, willing her to heal. He’d risked everything for her, disobeyed his king, taken horses from the way stations, and killed knights sworn to the Octagon. There was no going back, no returning to Castlegard without a clear victory…and victory meant defeating the Mordant.

  He reached for Kath’s sword belt and unsheathed the crystal dagger. So many hopes balanced on a single knife-edge. He laughed, a bitter sound. So foolish to think that five could stand against the north, such a delusion. They hadn’t even reached the true north, felled by the Mordant’s hellhounds. His hounds! Blaine railed in despair, but then other thoughts intruded. Memories of the Guardian Mist assailed him, the fight with the skeleton king and his promise to the guardian. Certainty shivered through him. He wielded a hero’s sword. He had a destiny, and it was more than just dying in the god-cursed steppes. Returning the crystal dagger to its sheath, he got to his feet, there had to be a way out of this trap.

  Taking a deep breath, he plunged into a battle he did not understand. Starting with Kath, he cleaned their wounds, soaking up the black ooze with a wine-drenched cloth. Smearing the angry wounds with honey, he bound them with fresh wrappings cut from a blanket. The monk moaned when he cleaned the claw marks and the wolf whined but Kath never made a sound. Her silence worried him more than he dared admit.

  Shivering against the chill wind, he laid the four companions close together for warmth, wrapping them in blankets. Holding a water skin to their lips, he tried to coax them to drink. Only the wolf responded, lapping at the water, a weak whine. Setting the water skin aside, Blaine knew he’d done all he could…but he doubted it would be enough. They needed a healer. They needed a cure for the hellhounds’ poison.

  Sitting hunched beneath his maroon cloak, he considered retracing his steps back to the battlefield. Perhaps the antidote lay hidden among the saddlebags of the dead, but he dared not leave the others to the mercy of predators. Kath had asked for Duncan. The archer knew healing lore, but Blaine would never be able to track the cat-eyed archer, let alone catch him. For all he knew, the archer might be dead, gutted on the swords of the Mordant’s men. No, there was no where to go, nothing to do but stay and look after them as best he could, hoping at least one of them would wake.

  18

  Duncan

  In the north, beyond the wall, far beyond the trees, Duncan shivered, feeling an unnamed doom stalking his back. All of his senses screamed in warning, yet he refused to retreat. He needed one more kill to keep the secret safe. Shivering in the rain, he tracked the last set of footprints. Empty grasslands stretched ahead, while behind him, the gargoyle gates bellowed their hellish screech. Time was running out.

  At least the sun had set, giving him back the advantage of night. Storm clouds hid the moon, snuffing out the stars. Despite the dark, his golden cat-eye saw the land in silvery detail, the footprints of the seventh soldier clearly imprinted in the long grass. Duncan lengthened his stride, covering leagues with a long loping run, needing to close the distance.

  Lightning cracked the sky, changing the rain to hail. Ice pellets beat against him, cold stings biting his face. The onslaught of hail rendered the land white, turning the steppes into a frozen hell. He ducked his head against the onslaught but kept running, his gaze fixed on the enemy’s trail.

  Screams of the gargoyles suddenly stopped, cut-off in mid screech.

  As if the same power controlled the heavens, the volley of hail ended.

  An eerie silence descended like a smothering pillow. The gargoyles must have served their purpose, a threat building at his back. Duncan quickened his pace, his sword gripped in one hand, his canvas-covered bow in the other. Wet and cold, he raced through the grassland, all his senses screaming of danger.

  Muted thunder came from behind…the distant sound of drumming hooves.

  And so it started. The hunter became the hunted.

  He kept running, trusting the darkness to hide him. Leagues passed and still the hoof beats persisted…but on the horizon, Duncan caught sight of his prey. His heartbeat quickened; perhaps the gods hadn’t abandoned him. Ripping the canvas sheath from his bow, he bent the yew to the string. His stock of arrows was depleted, but he’d saved the best for last. Fletched with peacock feathers, a gift from the Treespeaker, the arrows were straight and true. Iridescent eyes on their fletchings glimmered in the pale light. Eyes of the forest, eyes of his people. Setting an arrow to the string, he raised his longbow to the heavens. His muscles strained, demanding the maximum curve. Every sense focused on the target, adjusting for wind and distance, needing to be flawless. Half a heartbeat…and an arrow thrummed into the sky. Three more followed.

  Duncan waited, willing the arrows to fly true.

  Hoof beats rushed from the south…and still he waited, poised to run.

  A cry split the north. His prey stumbled and fell. Experience told him all the arrows struck true. The seventh soldier died, taking the secret to his grave.

  A thunder of hooves drew near, close enough to hear the jangle of armor mixed with the galloping beat…and something else, something he’d mi
ssed before…the low growl of hounds. He’d heard that sound before. Hellhounds. A shiver of fear raced down his spine. Duncan took off at a hard run, racing toward the northeast, praying the hounds followed the seventh soldier’s scent.

  Distance was his best hope. Duncan pressed for speed, dashing through the waist-high grass, and all the while his senses focused backwards, listening for pursuit.

  The hounds erupted in a wild chorus of yelps, likely caused by the diverging scents. Duncan kept running, praying to all the gods that the hounds followed the original trail.

  Whips cracked and men yelled commands. The hounds bayed and the horses resumed the hunt.

  Duncan kept running, kept listening. The wild baying gradually receded. The hellhounds followed the seventh soldier but he’d only gained a short reprieve. He changed strides to a long, loping run, scanning the horizon, seeking for some advantage.

  Running at a steady rhythm, he glided through the grasslands, but the pace began to take its toll. Sweat beaded his brow and his side began to ache, but Duncan could not afford to slow. He tightened his grip on his longbow, always listening for the sounds of pursuit.

  A cold breeze blew from the north. The wind’s smell changed from dry grass to the rich loam of turned soil. Farmland…the steppes must give way to tilled farms. And where there were farms, there were people, a way to hide, a chance to lose his scent in a tangle of humanity. He turned north, running into the wind, hope in his stride.

  Behind him, the tenor of the hunt changed. The hellhounds howled, coming in his direction. The trap was finally sprung.

  Ahead and to the right, something broke the flatness of the steppes. A low round structure, a hut made of stones with a sod roof. Drawn to the first sign of humanity, Duncan changed course. Breathing deep, he tasted the wind. The rich scent of loamy soil grew stronger…but he could find no trace of smoke or fire. Reaching for more speed, he ran through the waist-high grass till he burst into open farmland, the fields lying fallow for the winter.