The Mordant gestured with a flick of his hand.
Gavis snapped opened a scroll and began to read the list of names. His baritone voice summoned two hundred of the most powerful men in the citadel to swear allegiance to their god-king, a public display of fealty.
General Haith came first. Resplendent in burnished armor, the old soldier bowed low. Drawing his sword, he extended the gilded hilt toward the Mordant. He climbed the dais and he knelt to make his offering. “My sword is yours to command.”
The Mordant touched the hilt in acceptance.
The general sheathed his sword and completed the oath of loyalty. “As the Dark Lord is my witness, I swear to serve my lord, the Mordant, to obey his every command, to crush his enemies, to extend his reign, to live or die for him.” Falling prostrate to the golden steps, he kissed the Mordant’s boot, the ultimate act of submission.
Pleased with the display, the Mordant smiled. “Your fealty is accepted. Serve well and live long.”
The general retreated while other powerful men came forward to make their pledge. One at a time, they climbed the golden steps and knelt before the Mordant, swearing the oath of fealty. Generals, bishops, stewards, and assassins, they all abased themselves before the power of the Ebony Throne.
The Mordant watched them come, his face set in a benevolent mask, his malevolence hidden behind a cloak of stolen youth. He studied each soul, marking their names, gauging their worth while enjoying their abasement. He accepted them all, even the ones who carried the scent of treachery…until a certain bishop dared to climb the dais. Fat with easy living, Bishop Tynes huffed up the stairs, his multiple chins quivering with each step. Dropping to his knees, he pressed his hands together in prayerful worship, intoning the words of ritual. “As the Dark Lor…”
“Bishop Tynes.”
The bishop stuttered to a stop, confusion beaming from his moon shaped face. “Yes, Lord?”
The Mordant smiled, the corpulent bishop would make a fine example. “I received your gift of brandy.”
The bishop gaped liked a fish pulled from water but the sweat on his forehead ruined his performance. “Brandy, Lord? I know nothing of any gift.”
“A cup of death brought by a priest in your service.” The Mordant despised bad liars but he kept his voice soft and paternal. “Surely you will not lie to your Lord?”
The fat prelate shook his head; his jowls quaking like a stormy sea. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Did you think I wouldn’t know?”
The bishop stared, wide-eyed, his face flushed with fear.
“The truth was written on Fenthane’s soul.” Leaning forward, he prodded the bishop’s belly with the butt of his staff. “Confess your sins.”
Screaming, the bishop scuttled back down the golden steps, cowering at the foot of the dais like a crab looking for a rock to hide under. “I only obeyed! It wasn’t my idea!” His voice twisted to a screech. “I’ve done nothing but serve the Pentacle.” His stare raced around the Basilica but whatever support he sought did not come forward.
The Mordant called the Darkness. “Look at me.”
Huddled at the base of the dais, the bishop raised a tentative stare.
“Treachery can be transformed…but never stupidity.”
The bishop whimpered and tried to look away but his gaze was already caught. The Mordant plunged into his soul, plucking details from the fat prelate’s mind. The trail of names led all the way to the way to the royal palace, so predictable, so disappointing. In all the years he’d ruled the Ebony Throne, the conspirators never thought to send an honest man against him. Finished, the Mordant withdrew, burying his powers beneath a mask of youth.
Released, the bishop crumpled to the marble floor, gasping like a hollow reed.
Sitting back in the throne, the Mordant studied the powerful men clustered around the dais, making note of those who trembled and those who hid their guilt well. He decided to let them stew in their fear; one example should be enough. Pounding his iron staff against the golden dais, he made his voice a command. “For committing treason against the Lord of the Ebony Throne, Bishop Tynes is hereby stripped of his robes and his priestly duties. Expelled from the citadel, he is condemned to spend the rest of his life in the Pit, chained to a slave in the iron mine till his soul departs from his body.”
“Nooooo!”
“Let my will be done.”
The gong sounded, a deep thunder sealing the Mordant’s command.
General Haith gestured and a pair of bare-chested Taals pushed their way to the foot of the dais. Over eight-foot tall and muscle-bound, the ogre-like Taals bowed to the Mordant and then stepped to either side of the condemned bishop. Hands the size of shovels gripped the prelate’s robe. Silk ripped down the center, sundering the robe in two. The bishop fell back on his rump, dumped like a lamb from the womb, naked except for a silk loincloth. Fat and quivering, he stared at the crowd, his eyes wide with horror. The Taals gave him little time to react. Lifting the fat man between them, they carried him down the long nave. The bishop writhed in their grip, screaming as his feet wind-milled a foot above the marble floor. The great doors opened. The Taals and their burden passed from sight. The massive doors shut with a dull thud.
Minutes passed before the echoing screams fell silent.
An ominous hush settled over the cavernous hall.
No one moved.
No one dared meet his stare.
The Mordant smiled, a lesson well learned. He gestured toward his High Priest. “Continue.”
Bowing, Gavis returned to the list of names.
The elite of the Citadel answered the summons, a newfound fear etched in their faces. Bowing low, they crept up the golden stairs, every man making a full obeisance.
The Mordant enjoyed the spectacle, watching their faces, reading their souls. So much abasement for a single death, the portly bishop was coin well spent.
Gavis was the last to take the oath. Holding his staff up in offering, the High Priest lay prostrate on the golden stairs, his words a hushed whisper, intended for the Mordant’s ears alone. “Treachery can be transformed.”
Amused, the Mordant stroked the beginnings of a beard. “Why waste a sharpened dagger, eh?”
Gavis lay still, his black silk robes draping the golden stairs like a shadow. “A dagger against your enemies.”
The Mordant waited, drawing out the lesson. Beads of sweat glistened on the High Priest’s forehead…but he did not beg, and he did not waver. The hand holding the staff remained rock-steady. This one had potential. Leaning down, the Mordant touched the staff in acceptance. “Serve well and live.”
Remaining prostrate, Gavis completed the oath of fealty. “As the Dark Lord is my witness, I swear to serve my Lord, the Mordant, to obey his every command, to crush his enemies, to extend his reign, to live or die for him.” He crept forward to kiss the Mordant’s boot.
“No.” The Mordant pulled his foot back, his words loud enough for the elite to hear. “I set my High Priest above all other men.”
Gavis looked up, a glint of gratitude in his dark gaze. He rose from the steps and took his place halfway down the dais, his face lined with dignity, his back stiff with pride.
The Mordant smiled, a dagger turned but not blunted.
The High Priest resumed his duties, his voice echoing through the Basilica. “The oaths of fealty have been pledged and accepted. In celebration of our Lord’s return, the Mordant will hear the petitions of his people. Come forward and ask a boon from your liege.”
A murmur of anticipation swept through the crowd.
The elite of the citadel were the first to approach. Leading women veiled in colorful silks, the lordlings offered their daughters to serve as concubines. Fathers unveiled their nubile young daughters, displaying their curves like gifts before the dais. Most were comely enough, some were even stunningly beautiful, but he took them all, even the dowdy and the plain. Instead of influence the fathers gained obligation, boun
d to the Ebony Throne by their own ambition, desperate to see the Mordant succeed in the hopes that their grandsons might one day wield power. Each daughter gained him a willing vassal, chained by blood and ambition. The Mordant chuckled, so much loyalty bought for the price of sex.
When the parade of daughters ended, the rabble of the lower tiers came forward. Approaching the throne on their knees, they begged opportunities for their sons, for better wages for their craftsmen, and for more food for their tables. The lower tiers especially, begged for the largess of more bread and gruel. The Mordant played the benevolent ruler, granting a majority of requests. He’d leave it to the priesthood to renege on his promises, enforcing austerity and sacrifice, all in the name of war.
Growing weary of the petty rabble, he signaled an end to the petitioners. The hallway cleared but no one dared leave.
Gavis pounded his staff against the steps. “Summon the Sea Lords.”
The Mordant sat forward, keen to renew the longstanding alliance.
The booming voice of the gong thundered a summons. The doors of the Basilica swung open. Twelve men in fish-scale armor swept in like a storm-blown gale. Their bronze armor gleamed in the torchlight, their long capes the deep blue of a bottomless sea. Tall and proud, they carried trident-tipped spears, their faces weathered by salt and sun. Marching the length of the colonnade, they strode to the foot of the golden dais and made a curt half-bow.
The Mordant kept his face still, allowing the stiff-necked sea-folk the illusion that they were more than mere vassals.
One of the twelve stepped forward, his voice a deep rumble. “The Sea Lords answer the call of the Ebony Throne.” The speaker was an older man, tall with streaks of gray in his long dark hair, his beard braided into a three-forked trident that reached to his waist. “MerChanter Timoth comes to renew the alliance of sea and land.”
The plans of the Dark Lord required ships, but the sea had never been the Mordant’s domain. Many lifetimes ago he’d struck an alliance with the sea-folk, using them as mercenary vassals, his wolves of the ocean. “Emissaries of the Sea Lords are ever welcome in our court.”
Another man from the MerChanter’s party stepped forward, laying a cloth-wrapped bundle at the foot of the dais. “A gift from the Miral of the sea.”
The Mordant gestured and Gavis bent toward the bundle. The outer wrapping fell away, revealing a glitter of gold on black. The High Priest stood, holding a man’s cloak trimmed in sealskin, gold discs shimmering along its length.
The Mordant waved him forward. Gavis climbed the steps, laying the cloak across the Mordant’s knees. The truth of the cloak lay in the details. Gold coins were cunningly bound into the sealskin like a shimmer of scales. But every coin was different. Many were worn smooth with age while others bore a coats-of-arms or a crowned visage few would recognize, tokens of kingdoms long lost to history. The Mordant fingered the cloak. None save a harlequin of many lifetimes would know the true age such coins. “A most fitting gift.” A smile graced his face. “The cloak of an eternal conqueror.”
The MerChanter grinned, a flash of gold in his teeth. “You see the truth of it.”
He gestured to Gavis and to General Haith. The two men climbed the dais. The Mordant stood and they removed the black wool cloak, settling the cloak of many coins across his shoulders. He liked the weight of it. The cloak felt like destiny, the solid tug of inevitability. “We are pleased with your gift.”
The MerChanter nodded. “Then the Miral will be pleased.”
“But you have come for more than ceremony.”
“Aye.” The MerChanter tugged on his beard, his face stern. “Long have we hunted distant shores as per our accord with the Ebony Throne. But the sudden crossing of the great ocean has taken its tithe. The holds of our longships are empty. Our rowers grow hungry for meat and mead.”
The Mordant nodded. “Your holds shall be filled and a feast laid for your people.” It was part of their longstanding bargain, safe harbor below the Dark Citadel and stores to fill the holds of their ships.
“We’ve crossed the great ocean at your summoning, but our tridents long for blood and our Miral seeks fresh plunder.”
“You shall have both.” The Mordant raised his voice, his words meant for the crowd as well as the sea folk. “I have returned to lead the Pentacle to war. The southern kingdoms are fat with peace. The southern coast will provide rich pickings for the Trident, especially the seaside kingdom of Navarre.”
The MerChanter grinned like a sea wolf. “Then the tides run true for us both.”
“The tides of blood and plunder.” The Mordant descended the dais. “Come, let us seal our alliance with a feast, for we have much to discuss.” He strode down the long colonnade, the sea folk marching behind like an honor guard. The multitude fell prostrate as he passed, like wheat bent before the scythe. The Mordant smiled. Now that he had the Dark Citadel in hand, he could turn his attention to conquest. A thousand years of destiny yearned for fulfillment, calling to him like a siren, the rapture of power pulsing through his veins. Soon the southern kingdoms would cower beneath his boot heel, setting all of Erdhe beneath his dominion, an undisputed god-king ruling for all eternity.
26
Katherine
Bear and Boar stayed two steps behind, a pair of shadows Kath could not shake. Surly and taciturn, the guards followed her everywhere, speaking only when something was forbidden, refusing all conversations, not even offering their names. Kath had taken to calling them by their tattoos. If either man minded, they did not say. Undaunted by her silent shadows, Kath spent the better part of her days exploring the caves, seeking clues to the riddle of her captors, searching for a bridge across a chasm of differences.
The den proved to be a maze of chambers, galleries, and tunneled passageways, an easy place to get lost. Animal paintings dominated most chambers. A celebration of life danced on the rough rock walls, raced across the vaulted ceilings, and peered from the faces of young and old. Bears, foxes, badgers, owls, boars, and at least one eagle, stared back at her, etched with blue ink on the faces of men and women alike. A melding of human and animal that suggested a feral power. And all of them carried a weapon of some sort, a dagger, a sword, a mace, a battle-axe, more proof they lived in the Mordant’s shadow.
The tattooed people seemed as strange and daunting as the caves in which they lived, but Kath knew they’d make valuable allies against the Mordant. The Painted Warriors were a riddle waiting to be solved…if only she could find the key to their trust. She shivered, missing the monk’s wisdom and Duncan’s instincts. Somehow she’d have to find a way to turn her captors into allies. Feeling their hostile stares, she wondered if it could be done.
Kath persisted in exploring the caves. Her wanderings had yielded at least one secret. The caves were best traversed by following a single animal. Today she followed the white-tailed deer, eager to discover where they might lead. Ocher deer pranced across the rough rock walls, leading her through a series of twists and turns. Bold strokes of color gave the deer a sense of motion, as if they might leap off the walls and race down the rocky corridors. The artistry never failed to amaze her. Startling in their intensity, the chalk drawings transformed the caves into a cathedral, evoking a reverence for life, a vibrant celebration of freedom. If the drawings mirrored their makers, then the Painted Warriors would make stout allies of the Light…if only she could win their trust.
The corridor twisted left and then forked into three separate passageways, including one that was little more than a three-foot wide crack. Curiosity drew her to the narrow cleft. Saber-toothed lions lurked in the shadows, slinking across the rocks, teeth bared in a snarl of rage, as if they protected the narrow entranceway. A shiver of anticipation raced down her spine. She’d been searching for lions, trying to understand the importance of the Painted Warrior who’d died in Castlegard, but so far she’d had little luck. Lions seemed to be rare in the caves…perhaps this narrow passage held the insights she so desperately needed.
Kath stepped towards the cleft.
“Not that way.” Bear’s gravelly voice tugged like a leash.
Hating to be caged, she dared another step.
“Not that way.”
She whirled, confronting her shadows. “Why not?” Boar spoke even less than Bear, so she turned her anger on the blond giant. “What’s down there? What are you hiding? What’s so special about the lions?”
“Not that way.”
Anger boiled within her. “Give me a reason.”
But the bear of a man just stared at her, his face impassive, his hand on his sword hilt.
It was like talking to a rock, a pair of rocks. Tall, barrel-chested, and blond, Bear had the flattened nose of a brawler. In contrast, Boar was dark and stocky, with an ugly scar that ran along his tattooed tusk, as if the boar had ripped through the man’s face trying to break free. She wondered which came first, the scar or the tattoo. “Tell me about your tattoos. Why do you wear them? What do they mean?”
Neither man offered any response; they just stared, their hands on their weapons.
Grinding her teeth, Kath considered sprinting for the narrow passage, certain she could outrun her guards, but trespassing on forbidden ground was not the best way to win friends. Swallowing her frustration, she decided to try a different tactic. “You won’t return my weapons. You won’t show me the way out. You won’t tell me about the caves. You won’t talk about this so-called Ancestor. And you won’t even give me your names.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Then tell me about the Mordant.”
Boar’s dark eyes widened, his gaze flicking to Bear…but neither man answered.
Encouraged, Kath pressed the attack “Tell me about the Dark Citadel. What weaknesses does it have? There must be a secret way out, an escape route that could be used for an attack? And what about the gates that guard the long wall? How do you get past the magic?” Hands on her hips, she glared at the two men, daring them to answer.
Bear met her gaze, while Boar fingered his mace, staring at the ground.
The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga) Page 21