The last thing she remembered…poison! Bolting awake, she sat up, the sheepskin cover slipping down to reveal her nakedness. Grabbing the cover, she scanned the small cave, relieved to be alone. Stretching, she tested her leg, expecting agony. The skin of her left thigh pulled taut with only a twinge of pain. She picked at the bandage, needing to see. Five claw marks scored her left thigh, but the wounds were scabbed over, free of the poison’s black taint. Shivering with relief, she stretched muscles stiff with disuse but otherwise well. Even the blisters on her left hand had healed to calluses, becoming a match for her sword hand. Naked, she touched Duncan’s warrior ring, letting the ring and the small stone gargoyle dangle between her breasts, comforted by their presence, glad to be alive.
She found her clothes folded in a neat pile next to the bedroll, her green wool cloak on top of her leather jerkin…but where were her weapons? A chill shivered down her spine. Attacking the pile, she ransacked the clothes, but her sword belt and axes were missing…and so was the crystal dagger. Fear sliced through her, without the dagger she had no hope of defeating the Mordant…and the absence of weapons meant she was a prisoner. But whose? And where were the others? A flood of questions assaulted her.
A second fear stuck like lightning. She grabbed the leather jerkin, plunging her hand into the deepest pocket, relieved to find the amber pyramid. They’d taken all her weapons, including the dagger hidden in her boot, but perhaps her captors did not recognize magic, a definite advantage. Clutching the pyramid, she pulled on her clothes, surprised to find them washed and mended. A neatly stitched patch repaired her leather pants. Why would her captors mend her clothes? Another mystery.
She tried standing, slowly easing weight onto her left leg. The leg held with only a slight twinge of pain, one less worry.
Kath searched the cave, looking for weapons, looking for clues to her captors. The narrow chamber ended in a rough rock wall, the floor worn smooth by use. A clay chamber pot sat behind a boulder, but otherwise the cave was empty, except for the chalk drawings. Horses pranced along one wall and up across the ceiling, more beautiful than any castle tapestry. Rich with color and movement, the horses ran wild and free, a vibrant celebration of life. Surely whoever made these drawings could not serve the Mordant. Perhaps there was hope.
Retreating from the dead end, she walked beneath the mural, seeking a way out. It struck her that the cave was well lit; yet there were no torches or any scent of fire. Light came from the far side of a boulder, perhaps a way out. Feeling the need for a weapon, Kath hefted a fist-sized rock, a poor substitute for steel. Sticking to the shadows, she rounded the boulder…and stared slack-jawed. Light streamed from a foot-tall crystal embedded in the floor, enough radiance to light the cave. Perhaps her captors had magic after all. Extending a hand, she slowly moved toward the crystal, surprised to feel no heat. Kath wondered if she dared touch it.
Soft footfalls came from behind. “Don’t touch that.”
Kath whirled to confront a middle-aged woman, dark hair framing a tattooed face. “The Painted Warriors!”
“So you know of us.” The woman had a disarming smile. “I came to tend your wounds but it seems you’re healed.”
“Who are you? Where are we?” Kath staggered under an avalanche of questions. “Where are my friends? My weapons?” She stared at the blue tattoos, a raven etched on the woman’s face, giving her an eldritch look. “How did you find us?”
She laughed, a light-hearted sound. “So many questions.” Flicking her dark hair behind her ears, she settled gracefully to the floor and sat cross-legged, holding a stoppered jug in her lap. “Sit, Kath of Castlegard, and I’ll do my best to answer your questions.”
“You know my name?”
Another laugh. “The tall blond knight, Sir Blaine, is a plague of questions, always pestering the healers for word of you.”
“Then Blaine is safe.” Relief washed through her. “But what of the others? Is Danya awake? And what about the monk? And Duncan…” A cold fist gripped her heart.
“Will you not sit and join me?”
Kath bridled her questions and sank to the earthen floor, studying the raven-faced woman. Except for the elaborate tattoos, she seemed ordinary enough, clad in a sheepskin jerkin with leather pants tucked into knee-high boots. But it was the dagger sheathed at the woman’s belt that caught Kath’s attention. Her voice dropped to a steely whisper. “Am I a prisoner?”
The woman sighed. “Will you give me a chance to explain?”
Kath nodded, hiding the rock in her fist, unsure if it was needed.
“My name is Thera, a healer, a mother of three, and a follower of the Raven.” She set the clay jug aside. “And you are lucky to have escaped the poison of the gore hounds.”
“Gore hounds?”
“Aye, for that is their true name. Abominations created by the Mordant, made with the darkest magic.” The healer’s voice dropped to a whisper. “It is said that the souls of men are bound within the hounds, the reason they hunt with unnatural cunning and ferocity.”
Kath reeled backwards, remembering the uncanny attack, stunned by the horror behind the woman’s words. “Valin’s sword.” Shuddering, she made the hand sign against evil, dispelling the nightmare. “But how did you find us?”
“The ravens. Their dark wings blackened the sky, too many to merely be a trap.”
“A trap?”
“We value steel but cannot make it, for the Ghost Hills provide no iron ore. So our men follow the ravens, scavenging the battlefields of the steppes. Such a huge cloud of ravens signaled a rich find of steel, a tempting prize.” Her voice hardened. “But the soldiers of the Mordant know of our need. Sometimes they butcher a few slaves to draw the ravens, setting a trap for our men.” The healer looked away. “My husband died in just such a trap.”
“My sorrow for your loss.” Kath considered what she’d learned. “So if we’d stayed at the battlefield, your men would have found us?”
“The Mordant’s men got there first.”
Kath’s heart froze.
The healer flashed a triumphant smile. “But this time it was our men who closed the trap. Numbers always win in the steppes.”
For a heartbeat, the raven’s fierceness dominated the woman’s features, blue feathers and a sharp beak accenting the wild gleam in her dark eyes. Kath half expected the woman to sprout wings and caw. “Why does a healer wear the tattoos of a raven?”
“Ravens know death.” She cocked her head like a bird. “Know your enemy in order to defeat him.”
And these people know the Mordant, living in his very shadow. Fierce warriors, they could be the very allies she needed. Kath leaned forward, anxious to learn more, but the healer forestalled her with a question. “How do you know of my people?”
“I grew up in Castlegard, listening to tales of the north. The knights tell stories that are almost legends, about an elusive people who tattoo their faces with images of animals and dare to ambush the Mordant’s forces.”
“So, we are little more than legends to you?” The healer’s voice held a bitter edge.
Surprised by the bitterness, Kath sought to repair the damage. “I met a Painted Warrior once, in the courtyard of Castlegard.” She remembered the morning when a patrol of knights clattered into the castle’s inner courtyard, two years and a lifetime ago. “Tattooed like a mountain lion, he wore a shirt of soft white leather embroidered with small blue flowers.”
The healer gasped, her face turning ghost-pale.
Kath studied the woman, trying to read the emotions swirling beneath the blue tattoos.
The healer fondled a beaded leather bracelet on her left wrist, avoiding Kath’s stare. “The mountain lion is rare among our people.”
“And the blue flowers?”
“Maiden’s Tears.” Her voice was distracted, her gaze fixed on the bracelet. “It is said that Maiden’s Tears only bloom on the graves of heroes.”
Kath sat statue-still, watching the healer, trying t
o avoid pitfalls in a conversation she did not understand.
The healer glanced at Kath, dark eyes framed by raven’s feathers. “What happened to this man of the mountain lions?” Her was voice deceptively calm, a subtle warning.
Kath hesitated, feeling as if she stood on the edge of a cliff…but the woman deserved an answer. “He died…”
“Stop!” The healer’s hand flew to Kath’s lips. “Do not speak of it!” The raven glared fierce from the woman’s face. “The truth of such a death must first be told in the Great Hall, for all to hear and learn and remember.”
Kath nodded, wondering why one man could matter so much.
“Promise that you will not speak of it until the appointed time.”
“If you wish.”
“Swear it.” The words were flung like daggers.
Kath did not understand, but she nodded, her voice solemn. “I so swear.”
“Good.” The healer raked a hand through her long hair, her face a mixture of grief and worry, her voice cold. “Come, I will take you to your friends.” She rose to her feet, turning her back on Kath.
Trying to bridge the sudden chasm, Kath gripped the healer’s arm. “I did not mean to offend.”
“No offense was taken.” But her tone remained cold.
“Are my friends well?”
The healer hesitated. “The girl is awake but heart-sore, eating little and saying less. The old man,” Thera shook her head, “the poison of the gore hounds is slow to act but terrible in its vengeance. With the loss of an arm,” she shrugged, “it remains to be seen if the old man will defeat the poison.”
“He must survive.” The words hissed out of Kath.
“We do our best, but his life depends on the gods.”
Thera turned to go, but Kath had one more question. “My weapons?”
The healer stopped, her face guarded. “Your throwing axes with their red hawk harness are much admired. Good steel, excellent craftsmanship.”
No mention of the crystal dagger. “I need my weapons.”
“They are being held in safe keeping.”
The meaning behind the words hit Kath hard. “So we’re prisoners.”
“Not prisoners…guests who are not yet trusted.”
“But we both fight the Mordant.”
The raven stared back at her, eyes as cold and hard as ebony chips. “Freedom is hard won.”
Her reply struck like a cold slap. Kath felt as if she teetered on the edge of a chasm, a division of history and customs, a great divide sundering potential allies. “How can I win the trust of your people?”
The raven retreated, letting the woman return. “The Ancestor will decide.” She raised a hand forestalling any more questions. “When the old man’s battle is either won or lost, then you will be tested.” Her voice held a note of finality. “In the presence of the Ancestor, much will become known.” She turned. “Now come, your friends await.”
24
Duncan
“On your feet, maggots!” The harsh cry came from overhead. “Rise and serve. The Mordant needs his ore.” A grated trapdoor clanged open and a wooden ladder was thrust through the hole. Three boys in ragged clothing scampered down into the chamber. Two carried large buckets while the third held a bulging sack over his shoulder.
The smell of sour gruel pierced the chamber, pulling even the sick and the feeble from their straw pallets. Only the dead did not respond, two men sprawled face down in the soiled straw.
Fifty-eight prisoners rose and stood along the rock walls, a clang of chains and a shuffle of bare feet, every pair of eyes focused on the two buckets. Like a pack of starving wolves, the men slavered to be fed. Duncan stood with the others, fighting the urge to lunge for the pail of murky water. More than food, he craved an end to his raging thirst, but he bridled his need, refusing to act like an animal.
Light blazed in the chamber’s heart, a lantern lowered on a chain through the trapdoor. Grack, the one-armed turnkey followed, the ladder groaning under his massive weight. Maimed and battle-scarred, the ogre-like Taal wore cruelty like a cloak. “Get to it boys.” His voice sounded like gravel. “Feed the maggots and then we’ll get them into their holes. The day’s a wasting.”
The three boys leaped to obey, working their way around the chamber.
One at a time, the prisoners reached into the bag and grabbed a small metal bowl and a cup. The bucket boys followed, allowing each man one dip of gruel and one cup of murky water. Duncan waited his turn, watching the buckets with desperate eyes, angry if even a single drop was spilled. Any man who wasted water or gruel rarely lived to see another morning.
When his turn finally came, Duncan plunged his bowl into the grayish-brown gruel and dipped his cup into the bucket, careful not to spill a drop. Like the others, he ate standing, quickly lapped the foul-tasting gruel like a starving cat. A sour mash of barley and wheat, he licked the bowl clean. Finished, he gulped the muddy water, the taste of metal fouling his mouth. All too soon, the cup ran dry, leaving his raging thirst unslaked. One cup was never enough.
While the others slurped their morning meal, Grack prowled the chamber, swinging his spiked mace in a deadly arc. “We’ll have no slackers in this cell.” The fearsome weapon whistled with threat. “Only death frees a man from the mines.” Moving with surprising speed, the massive Taal strode to the nearest dead man, smashing the mace into his head. Blood and brains splattered the chamber. Grack laughed. “Meat tonight, boys.” Two quick strides and the mace struck the second corpse. The skull shattered with a sickening crunch. Death was never feigned in the mines.
Accustomed to cruelty, the boys continued working their way around the chamber, gathering the empty cups and bowls. Grack chose two prisoners to strip the dead, lifting their shattered bodies up through the trapdoor. Duncan used the time to stretch, knowing what lay ahead. Bare-chested, he’d cut his leather shirt to strips, wrapping his feet for protection against the rock shards. His ankles were free of chains but he still wore shackles on his wrists and an iron collar around his neck. Collared and chained like a beast, they’d even put a brand on his left forearm, a rune of some sort, marking him like cattle. The brand had long since healed, but Duncan couldn’t stand the sight of it. Being ‘owned’ was anathema to the people of Deep Green…but he was a long way from the great forests, chained in this hell-spawned pit. His hatred ran deep; the Mordant had much to pay for.
“All right maggots, time to earn your gruel.”
The prisoners shuffled into line as Grack unlocked the iron-studded door. One at a time, they shambled through. Duncan waited his turn with the others. His fellow prisoners were a strange bunch, as if a freak-show carnival had been captured and forced to work the mine. Hal was a giant of a man, with a face like a Taal and the mind of a child. Gren was a dwarf with a nasty temper. Simeon and Brent were hunchbacks. Trell had a clubfoot and Stan a cleft lip. But Nef and Bredan were by far the strangest. Nef had six fingers on each hand, making him an excellent juggler, but Bredan’s deformity was downright eerie. The older man had a closed eyelid in the middle of his forehead, like some monster from a bard’s nightmare. Duncan found himself staring at it, wondering if the lid truly hid a third eye. He shivered at the strangeness of the thought. Deformities were not unknown to the villages of Erdhe, but it seemed to Duncan that nature had run amok in the pit…or perhaps nature was not the cause. The Mordant’s hellhounds were not natural…and neither was a third eye. Shuddering, he made the hand sign against evil, following the others toward the door.
“Hurry up, maggots.” Grack growled, “The Mordant needs his iron ore. Meet the quotas or no one eats.”
The prisoners quickened their pace. Duncan reached the doorway and one of the bucket lads handed him a flaming torch. Every tenth man got a torch, the only light in the depths of the mine. Twenty steps and the rocky corridor opened onto the side of a deep vertical shaft, the throat of the iron mine. A massive set of chains dangled down the center, with buckets attached every ten f
eet. Rumors said the chains went all the way to the surface. Duncan stared up; hoping for a glimpse of sky, but the mineshaft was too deep.
One at a time, the men swung out into the shaft, clinging to the iron ladder. Hammered into the rock wall, the ladder disappeared into the depths, a line of ragged men clinging to the rungs. Some of the rungs were missing, making for a tricky descent. Careful not to drop the torch, Duncan followed the others. Like spiders descending a single strand, they made their way down. Abandoned galleries began to appear, dark mouths gaping in the rough rock wall. More than a few side tunnels were clogged shut with rock-falls, proof of the danger of cave-ins. Duncan wondered how many men lay buried beneath the rubble, a grim way to die.
A hundred rungs of the ladder and still he descended, as if hell had no bottom. The mine grew hot and the air tasted stale with sweat and rock dust. Above him, a man slipped, his foot missing a rung. Duncan braced for the impact but it never came. Dangling by his hands, Clovis regained his footing. Relieved, Duncan kept moving, slick with sweat by the time he reached the bottom.
A deafening clatter filled the central shaft. The bucket-chain rattled to life like some ancient metal monster wakened from slumber. Running all the way to the surface, the chain slowly jerked around a wheel fixed to the bottom of the mineshaft. Clanking and clattering, the empty buckets went down one side while full buckets went up the other, an endless chain of buckets starving for ore.
Giving the bucket chain a wide berth, Duncan paused to stretch muscles aching from the long descent. Clovis joined him and the two men entered the long gallery that led to the ore face. Forty smaller tunnels branched off the main gallery, two men working each tunnel. Hammers pounded against rock, flooding the mine with a wild heartbeat. The men worked without overseers, yet they wasted no time, knowing if the quota was not made none would eat. Hunger proved a powerful force, bending the men to the will of their jailors.
The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga) Page 19