The mumbled litany continued. “Two sons pinned on one sword. Four sons dead, lost to treachery. Red eyes, demon eyes, glowing in the face of my son.”
Frustration burned to rage. As if the demon stood before him, the marshal raised the great sword in a two-handed grip. With all of his might, he brought it down on the tabletop, a killing blow. Oak cracked in two. The table split in half, crashing to the floor.
The king staggered to his feet, his eyes blazing. “How dare you!”
Relief washed through him. “Sire, you’re back.”
“What?” Dazed, the king stared about the chamber, as if waking from a spell. He stared at the broken table and tugged on his disheveled beard, sniffing at the sour smell of his clothes. His lower lip curled in disgust. “How long?”
“Nigh on a fortnight, enough for rumors to run rampant.”
Groaning, the king rubbed his hands across his face, lines of grief graven deep, as if he’d aged a decade. “So the men have heard the tale?”
“Heard it, re-told it, embellished it, twisted it till they see demons lurking behind every face.” The marshal sheathed his sword. “It’s as if the god-cursed demon still lives, wrecking havoc amongst the maroon. Morale is pushed to the breaking point. Defeat threatens before the enemy has even reached the gates.”
The king moved to the fireplace, his shoulders hunched as if bracing for a blow. “Will the men still follow me? A king with a demon for a son?”
The marshal’s breath caught, never having considered the question. “Sire, they’ll follow you to hell and back. But they must see you. They need to know you still lead.”
“My son a demon…yet I never knew.” The king turned to face the marshal, his gaze haggard and haunted. “I never knew.”
So it was not just grief that plagued his king, but doubt as well. “Sire, there was no way to know.”
The king shook his head. “Four sons lost to treachery.”
Fear slashed the marshal, he couldn’t let the king retreat into nightmares. “Sire, you still have an heir, your first-born son.”
“Yes, Ulrich, the least of my sons.”
“And there’s still a daughter.”
The king turned from the fire, a spark of anger in his eyes. “I rule a kingdom of swords, a kingdom of steel. Of what worth is a daughter?”
The marshal did not press the point, relieved to have the king distracted from grief. “The men need to see you. We need to vanquish the legacy of the demon.”
“And how am I to do that?”
The question staggered him; the king was ever in command, a master at morale. He fumbled for an answer. “By doing what you always do.” His words gained conviction. “Turn a disadvantage into an advantage.”
“How so?”
The marshal struggled to grasp thoughts that seemed just out of reach. “Perhaps Darkness has betrayed itself.” His hand found his pocket, fondling the crystalline shard. “The demon proves we fight for more than just land and swords. The Dark Lord sent his minion against us…proving he fears the Octagon!” His thoughts gathered strength, like a stone rolling down a hill. “More than ever, the Octagon has a reason to fight. For we stand against pure evil.”
The king straightened, as if hearing a battle call, but a nagging tic dogged his left eye, as if his reclaimed sanity was a fragile thing. “You words ring true, Osbourne. But will it be enough to wean the men from fear?”
The marshal fingered the crystal, wondering if he dared remind the king of the monk. Deciding to risk all, he removed the shard from his pocket. “There might be a way. Fight magic with magic.”
The king’s eyes widened, his hand sketching the sign against evil.
“Lothar found this in the fire grate, lost in the confusion. But it might prove a boon.” Holding the crystal aloft, he pressed the king with a flurry of words. “Claim the crystal as your own. Have it worked into the pommel of your sword. Let every man renew their oath by laying hands on the hilt of the king’s sword. Let the men see for themselves that there are no demons among us.”
“Magic worked into my sword?” Shaking his head, the king paced the chamber like a cornered bear. “I like it not.”
“Dire times call for dire methods.”
The king stilled, his face a snarl. “I’ll think on it.”
“As you wish.” The marshal moved to the fireplace, setting the crystal upon the mantle, a constant reminder. “And the men?”
The king sighed. “The men need their king.” He glanced down at himself, like a man waking from a long slumber. “But not like this. Where’s my squire?”
“And Ulrich?” The marshal pressed the question, needing to be sure. “Shall I send for the prince, recalling him from Cragnoth Keep?”
“Only one son left,” a tic worried the king’s left eye like a threat. He shuddered as if throwing off a shroud. “Ulrich needs to earn his pride, to lead his own command to victory. I still believe the enemy will strike at the Crag. The Mordant dearly loves deceit.” His face hardened, etched with grief, but the tic remained. “A lesson I’ve learned too well.” His voice firmed with the ring of command. “Let Ulrich stay at Cragnoth and earn the right to wear the crown.”
“As you command. Shall I summon your squire?”
“Yes.” The king flicked a glance to the ruined table. “And you best find me a new table. Seems you’ve slayed this one.”
The marshal could have wept with joy. His king was back. Perhaps they had a chance against the Dark.
20
Blaine
Blaine made the rounds, checking his stricken companions, praying one would wake. Poison, an enemy he did not know how to fight. He railed against the gods, but they offered no help. The sun’s last rays succumbed, abandoning him to darkness.
Cold and desolate, he bundled Kath in blankets and dribbled water on her lips, praying for a change but he saw none. His gaze was drawn to the crystal dagger. It seemed wrong to let it lie in the grass, unprotected. Hesitating, he whispered a promise, “Only till you wake.” He switched daggers, sheathing the crystal blade at his belt. Holding his breath, he listened to the night, half expecting the gods to protest…but there was no sound except the wind.
Chiding himself for silly superstitions, he unsheathed his blue steel sword and stood with his feet braced wide in a stubborn stance. He’d stand guard, keeping vigil against the predators of the night. Turning slowly, he surveyed the steppes, staring out into the darkness, hoping for friends, expecting foes.
A howl came from the south, a chorus of wolves…or hellhounds. Shivering, he tightened his grip on his sword, telling himself it was just wolves feasting on the dead.
Staring south, he tried to pierce the darkness, wishing Bryx would wake, wishing the archer would return. He kept a lonely vigil, without even the stars for company. Time seemed to crawl, a dull sameness, tempting him to sleep.
The moon traversed a cloud choked sky, a pale smudge of light. Blaine jerked awake, catching himself before he fell. Swearing, he gripped his sword, and pivoted, staring into the night, angry for drowsing. Weariness assailed him, yet he refused to succumb.
The moon disappeared, swallowed by the west, but darkness still gripped the sky. The wolves had fallen silent. Nothing moved save the tall grass rippling in the wind. The steppes seemed peaceful enough, slumbering through the night. Blaine stretched his aching muscles, waiting for the dawn.
“We see you, knight.” Words whispered from the north.
Snapping his sword up, Blaine pivoted toward the voice, a chill shivering down his back. Grasses rustled around him, driven by the wind…but he saw no one.
“Who do you serve?”
He whipped around, keeping his sword raised, the back of his neck prickling in warning.
A different voice from the left, “Who do you serve?”
A shiver raced down Blaine’s back. He’d heard that question before…in the Guardian Mist.
“Answer the question.”
But this was a man
’s voice, a real voice, and it came from a different direction. Surrounded and outnumbered…but surely the Mordant’s men would attack rather than talk. “I serve the Light.” He kept his sword raised, pivoting, wary of an ambush.
“Then why are you here?”
The question made no sense, but he was desperate for help. “My companions need a healer.”
“Everything has its price.”
Anger coursed through him, he tired of their games. “Time is my enemy. Three of my companions are stricken with poison from a hellhound’s claws. Do you have a cure?”
Whispers came from every direction, yet he saw no one. Icy fingers shivered down his back. Surrounded, with so many against him, he had no hope of fighting free. Blaine struggled to keep his voice calm. “Will you help?”
“Will you pay the price?”
Another voice hissed, “Anton, they fought our enemy!”
“I command here!”
A shiver of hope raced through Blaine.
“Will you pay the price?”
He had no idea what they wanted or why…but he had to save Kath and the others. “What do you want?”
“We value steel. Your blue sword for safe conduct to our healers.”
Blaine staggered backwards. They asked for everything. A knight’s weapon held his very soul. He was nothing without his blue steel sword…but then he remembered the crystal dagger.
“We trade lives for steel. Will you pay the price?”
“Can you cure them?”
“If the poison is not too far gone. You risk their lives by waiting.”
He’d sworn an oath to Kath; he owed her his allegiance…even if it meant his blue steel sword. Honor was a hard taskmaster. He reversed the blade and extended the hilt. “Then take my sword and save them…or there’ll be hell to pay.”
Figures melted out of the grass, more than thirty. Hands on swords, they surrounded him. One drew close, moving with a lithe grace, claiming the offered sword. “The price is paid, the bargain accepted.”
Blaine clenched his fists, naked without his blue blade. “Then help them.” He pointed at Kath, his voice a low growl. “Help her first.”
The clouds chose that moment to part, a flash of moonlight revealing his captors. Blaine gasped, retreating a step. Blue tattoos transformed their faces. Intricate designs of animals melded with human features, an eerie blending that created a wild, feral look. Fox, wolf, bear and eagle, they seemed otherworldly. Savage and fierce and illusive as legends, he stood surrounded by a pack of Painted Warriors.
Relief warred with unease. Blaine stepped forward, offering his hand. “Well met. I had not hoped to find allies of the Octagon so deep into the steppes.”
The fox-faced leader barked a harsh laugh. “What allies? There’s only a common enemy…or so we thought.”
Warnings pricked the back of Blaine’s neck. “What are you saying?”
“Tige, see to the wounded. I want to be gone before the dawn. And don’t leave any of their belongings.”
The fox-faced leader turned away, but Blaine grabbed his arm. “I want an answer.”
“An answer!” The leader whirled, the tip of the blue steel sword poised at Blaine’s throat. “Why are you here, knight? What brings you so deep into the steppes? Are you a deserter seeking the Mordant’s service? Are you a spy? Or just a coward?”
“A deserter!” Outrage flamed through Blaine. He clenched his fists, fighting to swallow his rage. “We came to slay the Mordant.”
“Hah! With two girls and an old man!” The leader’s voice filled with scorn. “The Mordant must be trembling.”
Rage erupted within Blaine, they had no idea what his companions were capable of. “You must have seen the battlefield just south of here?”
The fox-faced man gave a terse nod.
“That victory was ours.”
Murmurs rippled through the Painted Warriors.
The leader’s face twisted to a sneer. “Liar!”
Blaine ducked past the raised sword and lunged, but another man stepped between them. “Stop this!”
Blaine hissed, “I do not lie.”
Tattooed with a bear’s face, the big man seemed unnaturally strong. “You asked for our help, do you still want it?”
Need dampened Blaine’s anger. “Yes.”
The fox-faced leader growled, “Let him go, Bearant. I’ll spit this liar with his own sword.”
The big man shook his head. “No. A bargain was made. The price was paid.” He turned towards the leader, his voice dropping to a hushed whisper. “There is some riddle here, Anton. This is a matter for the Old One.”
The leader snarled. “So be it.” He glared at Blaine. “But if you prove false,” he raised the blue sword in threat, “then your life and all of your possessions will be forfeit.” He spat onto the ground as if sealing a bargain and then stalked away.
Blaine tightened his fists, staring at the leader’s back, fighting his anger.
The bear-faced man leaned close, his voice a whisper. “Do not give him a reason to kill you.”
Blaine struggled to sheath his rage, watching as two of the Painted Warriors wrapped Kath into a type of carryall. “Can you heal them?”
“Our healers are skilled but we must reach the den to give them succor.”
“Your den?”
“Our home.”
The words held a world of pride. “Where is this den?”
“Do not get curious, knight. You’ll be blindfolded long before we reach the den.”
Blaine stiffened.
The man’s voice held a placating tone. “It is not an insult but a matter of survival. The Mordant’s forces far outnumber us. No outsider can know our secret paths.” He gestured toward the northeast. “Come, we must be away. The dawn is our enemy.”
The Painted Warriors gathered up his companions, including the wolf, and set off at a ground-eating pace. Silent and sure, they ran like a hunting pack, slipping through the tall grasses.
Weary and worried, Blaine struggled to keep pace. Feeling like an ox herded by wolves, he felt their dark stares tracking him, watching him, judging him, predators assessing prey. Cursing his lot, he longed for his sword, for the feel of blue steel in his hands. A knight without a sword, he gripped the crystal dagger at his belt. At least he’d kept that weapon safe…so far, but all would be for naught if the others died. Poison and hellhounds and tattooed warriors, the north was plagued with unexpected traps, worse than any nightmare. Cursing his ill fate and the indifference of the gods, Blaine ran through the tall grass, wondering if he’d bargained with friends or foes.
21
The Mordant
Darkness beckoned, a pulsing power in the dead of night. The Mordant snapped awake. Throwing off the silken sheets, he freed his arm from the concubine’s embrace, ignoring her soft murmur. Drawing on a loose robe of black silk, he reached for the Staff of Pain, never far from his hand. Pulled by the summons, the Mordant strode through the palace, his bare feet silent on the cold marble floor, answering the call of his god.
The hallways were empty; the palace slumbered, but never the Dark Lord. He reached the marbled entranceway, surprising a pair of guards leaning on their spears. Snapping a salute, they scrambled to throw open the outer doors. A cold wind blew in, threatening the torchlight. He paused in the doorway, surveying the outer courtyard. Glinting with moonlight, the granite pavement shimmered like an arcane sea. Runes spiraled around the yard, black marble inlaid in granite, a ripple of spells circling the ancient boulder. Thrust up like a dark island in a sea of runes, the top of the great monolith pierced the courtyard, the bedrock of the citadel. The ancient stone throbbed with power, the summons emanating from a boulder’s shadowy cleft. Drawn to Darkness, the Mordant crossed the runes till the monolith loomed overhead, a primordial darkness blotting out the stars.
Old and full of secrets, the cleft gaped with shadows, a deep gash in the side of the stone. He slipped inside; his footfalls smothered by a cold s
ilence, as if he’d entered a tomb. Stairs spiraled down, worn with age, leading to a secret buried in the heart of the great rock. Shadows gave way to torchlight, the smell of soot hanging in the cold, damp air. Descending into the depths, the Mordant summoned the monk. *Attend me, for tonight you shall meet a god.*
Inside his mind, the monk gibbered in fear, hiding behind a litany of prayers.
*You feel it, don’t you monk, the call of the Dark Lord.*
*I walk in the Light. I walk in the Light.*
Amused by the feeble defense, the Mordant laughed. His laughter echoed in the well of stone. Twisted by the depths, it became an eerie chortle, like a ghost leading him downward, a deep delving into the earth. Carved from solid rock, the steps were old and treacherous, footprints worn deep into the ancient stone. Six hundred and sixteen steps, the number of steps to power, the number of steps to hell.
The Dark summons tugged at his soul, offering promise of power. The same song had lured him to the heart of the monolith…twelve lifetimes and over a thousand years ago. So many victories, so much dark glory, but this lifetime would exceed them all. His footsteps quickened. Infused with the vigor of youth, he returned to the source of his power.
The long descent ended in an antechamber of dancing torchlight. Two guards in black and gold armor stood at attention before the great copper Door. He stared at the guards. “Do you know your Lord, the Mordant re-born?”
They fell to the floor in prostration, a clatter of armor on stone.
The Mordant strode toward the great Door, ancient runes inscribed in the gleaming copper. He made his voice a command. “Sion rasmathus!”
As if drawn by invisible hands, the great Door slowly swung open. Cold air laden with the stench of sulfur flowed out, a breath of Darkness calling him forward.
The Mordant crossed the threshold, his bare feet silent on the cold floor. Ancient beyond telling, the cavernous chamber brimmed with Darkness. Red stalactites dripped from the ceiling as if the stones wept blood, a testament to so many sacrifices. Beneath the vaulted ceiling, a golden pentacle stretched across the marble floor. Five braziers glowed at the points, flames fueled by the fires of Hell, an eternal glow quenched only by the Dark God’s will.
The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga) Page 17