The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga)

by Karen Azinger

  The boys leaped to obey, circling the chamber with the two buckets.

  Grack pulled Clovis from the line. “You get to eat the spill. Nothing’s ever wasted in the Pit.” The Taal laughed like crush of boulder. “On your knees, maggot. I want to see you use your tongue.”

  Clovis knelt. Keeping his gaze on Grack, be bent forward, lapping the spilled stew from the floor. Duncan glowered, hating to see his friend debased, but there was nothing he could do.

  The boys made the rounds, doling one bowl of stew and one cup of water to each man. Clovis finished the spill, scrambling to his feet in time to get the last serving. Grack scowled but said nothing. Ravenous, the men ate standing, slurping down their supper. Duncan got lucky, two greasy lumps floating in his stew. Tough and stringy, the meaty lumps tasted like salted pork. Duncan ate them, despite his suspicions. He licked the bowl clean and then gulped his one cup of water, thirsty for more.

  Empty cups and bowls clattered into the leather sack. With the meal over, the three boys scampered back up the ladder. Grack prowled the chamber, swinging his mace in a deadly arc. “Sleep well, maggots, for tomorrow’s another day in hell.” Laughing, he hooked the mace on his belt and then struggled one-handed up the ladder.

  The ladder disappeared, yanked from above. A heavy metal grate clanged shut. A key turned in the lock and the shadow of the big Taal moved away. Lantern light bled through the grate, casting a checkered pattern on the rock floor, the only light in the chamber.

  Three men lunged forward, fighting to lick the floor where the stew had spilt, desperate for anything Clovis might have missed.

  Duncan looked away.

  The rest of the men claimed their lumps of straw for the night. The choicest spots were farthest from the piss-buckets. Duncan sat halfway along one wall, staring up at the grate, watching for shadows. A few men talked in quiet murmurs, but most succumbed to exhaustion, snoring on their pallets.

  Brock rose from his pallet and stood over Duncan. “Seth, take my place.”

  Seth grunted. “What’s a matter? You don’t like yer own lice?” A few men sniggered, but Seth moved to Brock’s pallet at the far end of the chamber.

  Brock settled to the floor, sitting with his back against the wall. “You had something to say, cat-man?”

  Duncan kept his voice a low whisper. “Fifty-seven against one.”

  Brock shook his head. “Yeah, but that one’s a vicious-mother of a Taal.”

  “A one-handed Taal.”

  Brock just stared.

  “We could take a one-handed Taal.” Duncan lowered his voice. “Wouldn’t you like to see him dead?”

  Brock grunted, his fists clenched.

  “We take him when he’s halfway up the ladder.”

  “And then what?”

  “We release the other prisoners, take the mine and then the pit.”

  “Just like that?” Brock shook his head. “You’re a crazy bastard.”

  “You’d rather die in the mines?” When Brock did not reply, Duncan pressed his argument. “From what I saw of the pit, I figure we have the numbers all the way…but only if we work together. It’ll take all of us to succeed.”

  “It will never work.”

  “If we don’t try, then we all die.”

  Brock shook his head. “We’d have a better chance of finding a tit on a bull.”

  “But it’s a chance, no matter how slim. I’ll take a chance over certain death any day.”

  Brock grinned. “I like you, cat-man. I like the way you think.” He nudged the man next to him. “Wake the others, pass the word.” Men snorted awake, nudged by their neighbors. Brock got to his feet, his voice a command. “Hal and Feldon, check the grate.”

  Hal grumbled and complained, but he knelt below the grate while Feldon climbed on top. The giant stood with the skinny man perched on his shoulders. Feldon grasped the grate and peered through the bars. “No one above.”

  “Good, keep watch.” Brock raised his voice, claiming the men’s attention. “The cat-man has something to say.”

  Duncan rose and stood in the checkered torchlight, letting the men see his face. He turned slowly, surveying each man, and then he stopped and spoke, putting steel in his voice. “Fifty-seven against one.”

  A few men swore. Some looked away while others grumbled. “Not a chance.”

  “Certain death.”

  “No chance in hell.”

  Duncan spoke over them. “And when Grack kicks the bucket so there’s no food for any of us…what then?”

  Anger rippled through the men.

  “This morning there were fifty-eight of us. Now we’re fifty-seven.” Duncan’s stare circled the chamber. “Death stalks us all.” Raising his left forearm, he pointed at the hated brand. “We’re like cattle marked for slaughter. Death brands our skin. If we don’t fight, the mine will slay us all.” His voice hardened. “How will you die?” He turned and pointed at Bredan. “Crushed in a rock fall?” He pointed at Seth, “A fall from the ladder? Bashed by Grack’s mace? Death by hunger?” Someone coughed and his finger pointed in their direction, “Death by rocklung.” Duncan turned and pointed at Bruce, “Or buried alive.”

  A harsh silence settled over the chamber.

  “We can wait for death to claim us…or we can fight and take a chance at life.”

  Most swore and muttered “no”, but a few said, “How? Tell us how?”

  “It starts after the evening meal. We swarm Grack when he tries to climb the ladder. Grab the mace from his belt and give the bastard a taste of his own weapon.”

  A few men grinned. “The bloody Taal deserves it. Shove his head in the bloody piss bucket and let him choke on it.”

  Duncan hissed. “Listen to me!”

  An uneasy silence held sway.

  He met their stares. “This isn’t about revenge, it’s about escape!” More than a few nodded. “We kill the Taal and then climb the ladder and release the others. Rumors say there are five other cells, as many as three hundred prisoners.” He let the numbers sink in. “Three hundred is an army. Enough to take the mine.”

  “Yeah, but then what?”

  “Then we take the pit.” He filled his voice with confidence, trying to stem the avalanche of doubt. “We rouse the people. If the people fight with us, then we’ll have the numbers to win. It’s all about the numbers.”

  A grim silence choked the chamber.

  Bruce spoke, voicing the fears of the others. “What about the soldiers? The Mordant has a whole army in the citadel. We can’t fight trained soldiers. We’ll be crushed like glass beneath a blacksmith’s hammer.”

  “We’ll have the element of surprise.” Voices started to protest, but Duncan talked over them. “The brown cloud hides the pit from above. We take the pit and then wait till nightfall. We fill the cages with our own men and capture the cranes. Once we win the pit top, then we ferry up the rest.”

  “But the Mordant’s army?”

  “We don’t fight the army. We get out of the pit and run. We head south, seeking a better life.”

  Some men shook their heads in disbelief; other gaped. Simeon, one of the hunchbacks said, “You’re preaching doom, a death wish for us all.”

  “Aye, you’ll get us all killed.”

  “Or worse, tortured and then beheaded.”

  Clovis raised his voice above the others. “We’re already dead.” He stared at the others. “The cat-man is offering us a chance at life.”

  A grim silence choked all argument, like a hand snuffing a candle flame.

  Duncan stared at the men, his voice a whisper. “Like you, I want to live…but I’d rather die fighting than let the mine have me.” He circled the chamber, pointing to the weak and the vulnerable. “Feldon, you’re nothing but skin and bones, how much longer can you live without a decent meal? Gren, how many times have you slipped on the ladder? And Seth, you’re already coughing up blood, how much longer till you succumb to rocklung?” He turned and stared at Bruce. “And Bruce, you�
��re a strong one yet you should already be dead, buried alive, the worst fate of all.”

  More than a few men made the hand sign against evil.

  “So instead of dying like slaves…lets live like men. Let’s take a chance and fight. Who’s with me?”

  Brock stood. “I am.”

  Clovis was next. “I am.” Seth followed Clovis. A few became many, swaying the reluctant, pulling them to their feet. Bruce was the last to stand. “I guess I owe you my life.” A cheer rippled through the men, a pulse of pride in their voices.

  Duncan raised his hands, drawing their attention. “And so it’s decided. We’ll fight as men.”

  Brock stepped forward. “When?”

  “Not tomorrow, but the day after. Save your strength, working just hard enough to make the quota. We need to eat in order to fight.” He stared at the men. “In two days, we fight for our lives, for our freedom.”

  The men murmured ascent, all talking at once.

  Brock silenced them. “We best get some sleep. And act like nothing is planned. Don’t let Grack suspect anything.”

  The men returned to their pallets, but it took a while before the snoring started.

  Duncan lay on his back, running the plans through his mind. The odds were long, nigh on impossible, but he refused to die a slow death in the mines. He’d find his way to freedom or die fighting, taking his secret to the grave. Rolling on his side, he tried to still his mind. Weariness claimed him. For the first time since his capture, he dreamt of green trees, and crystal waterfalls…and Kath.

  28

  The Knight Marshal

  Red eyes stared back at him, demon eyes, full of hate, taunting him with visions of defeat. The marshal bolted awake. Soaked in sweat, he shivered. Another nightmare, he wondered if it was a warning or a threat. Either way, those red eyes mocked him, as if the fate of the Octagon rested on his shoulders alone. Groaning, he banished the thought, a disloyalty to his king. “Enough of sleep.” Wiping the sweat from his face, he threw off the wool blanket and climbed from his cot. Still dressed in fighting leathers, ready for any summons, he pulled on his boots.

  Ice rimed the water bucket. He used a dagger to break through, splashing cold water on his face. Grimacing against the chill, he fingered the stubble on his face. Too cold to shave but he did it anyway, a matter of pride, setting an example for the men. Shrugging a chainmail shirt over his head, he fastened his wool cloak with a pin and then reached for his sword. The harness felt right across his shoulders. Another man’s sword had become his own. Good steel should never be wasted.

  Guards saluted as he strode the length of the hallway. He climbed the stairs to the tower top, stepping out into the bitter wind. Leaning on the rampart, he watched a bloody sun rise on the steppes, another cold day of waiting. He’d learned long ago that battles were mostly about waiting, long stretches of boredom punctuated by frenzied periods of killing. Judging by the empty grasslands it’d be another day of boredom but he dare not let the men grow complacent. So he made the rounds, inspecting arms and armor, adjusting duty rosters, bolstering morale, but all the while the red demon eyes haunted his mind. How could men defeat demons? How could swords defeat magic? Questions nagged him like a plague of worries. He dare not burden the king with his premonitions and Lothar had little patience for nightmares. A pity the king had turned against the monk. He bet there was much the blue-robed monk could have told them, but that chance was gone, flown south like a frost owl on the wing. He shook his head in chagrin; he shouldn’t even think such thoughts. Morale was fragile enough without rumors of magic and shapeshifters.

  Finished in the yard, he found his footsteps turning toward the eastern tower. With so many men drawn from across the Domain, the towers of Raven Pass were jammed to the hilt, men billeted in every nook and cranny. But one floor remained eerily empty, a pity it wouldn’t stay that way.

  The sharp smell of lye soap mingled with the scents of dried herbs, proof he’d reached the healery. The outer ward was deserted; rows of cots waiting for the wounded, but a crack of light beneath the far door betrayed the healer’s presence. The marshal crossed the ward and rapped on the door.

  “Come.”

  It was a small room, made smaller by a jumble of crates and bottles. Rows of dried herbs hung from the beamed ceiling, releasing a medicinal scent. A single window stood wide open. Admitting the morning light and a breath of cold air, the wind competed with a blazing hearth, a tug-of-war between heat and cold. The master healer sat with his back to the door, fiddling with a flask boiling over a lit brazier.

  “Yes?” Quintus threw a glance over his shoulder, his eyes widening at the sight of the marshal. “Something I can do for you?”

  “I’ve come to see how you’ve settled in.” The marshal closed the door and turned the latch. “Do you have everything you need?”

  “I brought two wagonloads of supplies with me from Castlegard.” Short and pudgy, with a mop of unruly black hair, the healer set the flask aside and banked the brazier. Turning, he gave his full attention to the marshal. “But only the gods can say if it will be enough.”

  “Just so.” The marshal circled the chamber, pretending an interest in the odd assortment of bottles, instruments, and scrolls that littered the crates. “How was the ride from Castlegard?”

  “Long and bumpy, why?”

  The marshal guessed the healer was in his early forties, relatively young for such a learned position. A modest man, he wore a dark brown robe, the color of peat, cinched at his waist, a dollop of paunch overshadowing his thick leather belt. His face was disarmingly pudgy and jovial, but the marshal knew a keen mind dwelt beneath the amiable appearance, a perfect combination for a healer. “I heard a visitor shared a ride on your wagon.”

  “Aye, you mean the monk, Aeroth.” The healer shrugged. “He preferred the bump of the wagon to the bounce of a saddle.”

  No doubt. Horses can’t abide a changeling, or perhaps that’s just superstition. The marshal pulled a scroll from a bundle and found a list of ingredients for an ointment. “A long trip from Castlegard, you had plenty of time to talk.”

  “So you’ve come about the monk.” Something dark flashed in the healer’s eyes. “I’ve heard the rumors. Did the prince’s eyes really glow red?”

  “Aye, red like the fiery pits of hell.”

  “Then the monk did the Octagon a great service. A demon hiding beneath the face of a prince could have destroyed the maroon.”

  “True enough. But such a discovery is not without shock, or pain.”

  “So you blamed the messenger?” A sharp-edged question, flung like a dagger. The healer’s eyes bored into him, as if passing judgment.

  The marshal bristled under the scrutiny, but then he sighed, realizing it was no more than the truth. “The king was grief-struck. His treatment of the monk was ill done.”

  The words hung between them, as if weighed on a scale. “And what about the monk’s crystal, how did it end up in the king’s hands?”

  “The demon hurled it across the room.” The marshal shrugged. “Lothar found it abandoned in the fire grate. Amazing it didn’t break.”

  “Lucky for the Octagon.” Quintus gave him a searching stare. “Mounting the crystal on the king’s sword was well done. With one stroke, you counter the foul rumors, proving there are no more demons among us.”

  “One was too many,” the marshal scowled, “and a prince at that.”

  “True enough.” The healer’s glaze softened and it seemed as if some tension leached out of the chamber. “But you’re here for more than just rumors.”

  Suspicion rose like a tide in the marshal. “Why so prickly about the monk?”

  Anger flashed in the healer’s dark eyes. “Because day after day we sit here on this bloody wall, without a lick of help from any ally, waiting for the Mordant’s hordes to attack, and finally someone comes to help. A monk warns us of treachery and when that treachery proves true, the king seeks to lock him in the dungeon. That’s not
the Octagon I serve.”

  The marshal crossed stares with the healer. “Have a care, healer.” He brooked no disloyalty to the king…but the words were true enough, so he bridled his temper. “As I said, the king was grief-struck. A debt of thanks is owed to the monk.”

  Anger bled from the healer’s face. “Sorry.” He turned toward his workbench, his shoulders hunched, a hint of weariness in his voice. “It is hard to sit here, waiting for cartloads of wounded to arrive. Quintus shrugged, fiddling with a mortar and pestle. “You wanted to ask me something?”

  “Aye.” Now that it came to the asking, the marshal found it hard to explain. He paced the chamber, frustration riding his shoulders like a harness. “The monk said a lot, but he also said too little.” He shrugged. “There was never any chance for questions.” The marshal raked a hand through his hair. “Swords I know. But demons and dark magic?” He shrugged, forcing the words out. “Whatever comes from the north won’t just be swords and spears. I need to know how to fight magic.”

  Quintus stared at him. “You should have asked the monk.”

  “Yes, but that chance is lost. So I’m asking you.”

  “I’m just a healer.” Turning his back to the marshal, Quintus swirled a flask filled with a pea-green potion, a puff of smoke rising from the brazier.

  The marshal refused to be defeated. “You’re the most learned man among us. I’ve even heard tales that you once studied in the queen’s great library in Pellanor. Surely with all that learning you’ve read something of magic?”

  Quintus sighed. Setting the flask aside, he turned. “Its true I’ve been to the queen’s library and in all those thousands of scrolls you won’t find a single mention of magic except in the bards’ tales. The War of Wizards was a long, long time ago.”

  “But you must know something?” The marshal’s stare drilled into the healer, desperate for answers.

  “It’s strange that you ask. Aeroth spoke of it on the ride from Castlegard.”

  The marshal waited.

  “You have to understand that magic is nearly gone from the lands of Erdhe. Most people don’t believe in it. So if they’re suddenly confronted with magic, people either feel mind-numbing fear or worshipful awe. I suspect either will get you killed on the battlefield.”