The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga)

by Karen Azinger

  A terrible reek rose from two iron grates set in the floor, the stench of unwashed bodies and overflowing piss-buckets. Duncan gagged. He shuddered, wondering how he’d ever grown accustomed to the stench of captivity.

  Dropping the crossbows, he knelt by the first grate, trying the keys from the ring. The third key worked. Ripping the grate open, he yelled into the hold, “Rise up and fight, you’re free men!” He thrust a ladder down and then raced to the next grate. By the time the second grate clanged open, men were staggering up out of the first hold. Filthy and bedraggled, they milled around the chamber as if dazed. Most looked defeated, lash-marks striping their backs, but a few still had the spark of anger in their eyes.

  Duncan leaped onto a wooden stool and raised his voice to a shout. “Hear me!” A hundred faces turned his way. He raised his arms, displaying his broken shackles like trophies of war. “Chains can be broken. Guards can be killed. The men of the mines are rising! This is your chance. Find weapons, kill the guards, and release every prisoner. We take the mine and then the Pit.”

  A few men cheered but most gawked as if he’d grown a second head.

  Unsheathing his sword, he raised it high, the steel blade glittering in the torchlight. “This is your chance. Claim a sword and be men once more!”

  A dozen roared their approval, pumping their fists in agreement, but the others just stared, cowed by captivity.

  Duncan pointed to a big man in front, a giant with a wild shock of flaming-red hair. The mark of the Pit dominated his face, a third eye in the middle of his forehead. “You, what’s your name?”

  “Krell Three-eye.”

  “Will you fight with me, Krell?”

  “Aye, with my bare hands if needs be!”

  Others began to shout, “I’ll fight! Give me a sword!”

  Duncan kept his gaze on Krell. “Pick a dozen of the best fighters.” As the big man began choosing, Duncan tried once more to rouse the others, raising his voice above the murmur of talk. “Time is against us. We have this one chance to escape the doom of the mine. The choice is simple. Fight to live or cower and die.” Too many hung their heads like whipped curs, their souls shriveled by slavery, but Duncan had no more patience for the timid and the meek.

  Turning his back on the others, he joined Krell and his men. The big man grinned a gap-toothed smile. “I’ve got your dozen.” Raising fists as big as hammers, Krell cracked his knuckles, a ruthless grin on his freckled face. “We’re ready to break heads.”

  Duncan grinned, liking the big man’s bravado. “I’ve friends rising in the depths of the mine. I need men willing to go deep, to take the guards from behind and crush them between us.” He stared at the men, noting the anger smoldering behind their eyes. “Are you with me?”

  A chorus of ‘ayes’ answered his question. Krell had chosen well.

  “First we get weapons, then we fight.” Duncan handed a crossbow to one of the men. “Follow me.”

  Mara waited by the door, her back to the wall, clutching a crossbow as if she wasn’t sure who to trust.

  Duncan gripped her arm, flashing a reassuring smile. “We’ve gained allies.” He eased the extra crossbow from her shoulder and gave it to one of the men. “Come.”

  The corridor rang with distant shouts. Duncan’s senses pricked with warning. Gripping the crossbow, he set off at a run, leading the men back to the guardroom. Shouldering the door open, he was relieved to find the bloody carnage undisturbed. “Choose your weapons.” The men poured into the room, pillaging the dead for swords, daggers, and whips. A few struggled to strip boots and leather jerkins from the corpses. Krell wrestled the boots from the Taal, grinning when they fit.

  Duncan kept watch at the door, anxious to be gone. “Krell, which of these men do you trust with your life?”

  Krell pointed to a dark-skinned man with scars crisscrossing his face. “Naga is a good man. I’d trust my back to him.”

  Duncan nodded. “Naga, to me.”

  The dark-skinned man belted a sword to his waist and then joined Duncan, bowing his head in deference. “M’Lord.”

  “I’m not a lord.”

  Naga gave him a broad smile. “A man who frees other men from the heart of evil must truly be a lord.”

  Duncan shook his head, impatient with the banter. He gestured to Mara. “This is Mara. Every man here owes his freedom to her. Guard her close and see that she escapes unharmed.”

  Naga grinned, thumping his chest with his fist.

  Mara gasped. “You’re leaving me?”

  He gave her a soft smile. “You’ve already saved my life once. I won’t have your blood on my hands.”

  “But I can help…”

  “…by leaving the mine.” He met her gaze. “If we take the mine then we must also take the Pit. It’s all or nothing, victory or death.” Her face paled but her stare never wavered. “If you want to help, then seek out the leaders of the Pit and tell them what we do here. If we win the mine, we’ll need their help.”

  “Spread the Light.” She nodded, her face solemn. “I can do that.”

  “Then hurry, before the jaws of death snap shut around us.” He stared at Naga. “Go.”

  They burst out of the guardroom, swords at the ready. The clangor of fighting echoed down the hallway, but the corridor remained empty. Naga shepherded the girl away, setting off at a run. Duncan watched till they rounded the bend, “The luck of the gods go with you,” then he turned and led his men into the depths of the mine.

  33

  Bryce

  Bryce crouched in the gray void of his prison, peering through the keyhole of light. He watched as the Mordant took the woman. A tumble of long blond hair framed a heart-shaped face, so achingly beautiful. His gaze roved across her, feasting on every detail. Her blue eyes looked eager, her curves tantalizing beneath diaphanous silk. She leaned forward, her silken shoulder straps giving way. The woman laughed, her nipples swelling to his touch. His touch! Yet Bryce felt nothing, locked within his prison, reduced to a voyeur of his own body.

  “Come, my Lord.” She tugged at the Mordant’s hand, pulling him toward a massive bed. “Let me please you.”

  Her words came to Bryce like an echo through a tunnel.

  A sheath of pale silk slipped from her hips. Naked in the candlelight, she offered a beguiling glimpse of ecstasy. “Come to bed, my Lord, and together we shall make a son.”

  The Mordant laughed, a throaty rumble. “Is that what you think I want?”

  She rubbed against him like a cat, marking him with her scent, pulling him down onto a sea of pillows. “Of course, my Lord, for a son is a man’s immortality.”

  He rolled on top, pinning her beneath his weight. “Children are the weakness of mortals.”

  She gave him a playful pout. “But all kings need a son.”

  “I need no sons.” He caught her wrists, pinning them to the bed. “But I’ll take your pleasures.” And then he took her, hard and triumphant, reveling in each thrust. “I am my own legacy.” He pounded each phrase home. “My own past…my own present…my own future.”

  Shuddering, Bryce pulled away; tortured by an intimacy he could only watch. Writhing within his prison, he felt both repelled and attracted to the keyhole. The narrow glimpse of life let him eavesdrop on the Mordant, but it was a sterile view, without taste or smell, or touch. How he longed for a single touch, a single caress. The keyhole kept him sane, a gift from the gods, yet sometimes it seemed a cruel curse, leaving him parched for life. Nights were the worst, a torture to endure. The Mordant kept a harem of lovers, a bevy of concubines, taking a different one every night, yet Bryce had never known a woman. Closing the keyhole, he succumbed to the gray void, a ball of misery locked away from the world.

  Later, much later, he felt the Mordant stir. He’d grown attuned to the moods of his jailor. Sensing a keen interest, something much more than sexual, Bryce dared a glimpse of the world.

  Night cloaked the royal bedchamber, the candles melted to stubs. Naked, the w
oman lay sprawled across the bed, lost to sleep, her blond hair tussled across the pillow. The Mordant shrugged a black robe over his shoulders. Barefoot, he prowled the marble corridors.

  Bryce kept vigil, spying through the keyhole. There had to be a reason the gods gifted him with this view, some way he could make a difference. Perhaps the Mordant hid a weakness, a key to unlock the harlequin’s ruin. Bryce clung to the hope, desperate to give meaning to his cruel existence.

  Monsters filled the keyhole.

  Bryce stifled a gasp and then took another look. Candlelight revealed a torment of fangs and claws…but the monsters were all frozen in stone. So lifelike, Bryce shuddered, wondering if they were more than carved rock. After the gargoyle gates he’d learned to distrust stone.

  Demons of every description leered from the walls. Winged harpies flew across the ceiling, while snarling balrogs and horned devils cavorted along the hallway. Shifting shadows gave the illusion of life. A seamless nightmare carved into the walls, every inch riddled with details.

  Bryce craned for a better view. He’d never seen this hallway before, never seen anything like it. He kept watch, desperate to understand.

  The Mordant claimed a candle from a wall sconce and knelt to inspect a devil’s grin. Sculpted of gray marble, the carving bore a long pointed face with curved horns, the face frozen in a perpetual wink, as if the imp kept a secret. Covering the devil’s left horn with his thumb, the Mordant pushed. The horn slid into the wall, a soft grating sound.

  The Mordant chuckled, his voice a soft whisper, “The devil’s in the details.”

  Startled, Bryce froze, expecting pain…but his jailor seemed preoccupied with the carvings.

  Moving through the hallway, the Mordant stopped at specific demons…and all the while, Bryce watched.

  Eye of varg and claw of balrog, tongue of ghoul and skull of lich, a code of details slid into the wall, a rhyme of monsters carved in stone. A hidden doorway eased open. A lich king glared from the darkness, ruby eyes glinting in the candlelight. The Mordant stepped into the narrow passage. He pressed the lich king’s left eye and the outer door swung shut.

  Cobwebs choked the inner passage, decades of dust on the stairs, proving the passage was long forgotten. The single candle guttered, casting a feeble light. The Mordant made his way down a short spiral staircase. A profound darkness lurked at the bottom, a crypt carved from solid rock. He paused at the entrance and turned a tap protruding from the wall. A dark liquid gushed into stone runnels. The Mordant set the candle flame to the liquid.

  Light leaped to the oil. Flames rushed along the runnels, drawing a line of light along the walls. Fire spewed from the mouths of demons filling basins carved from stone. Braziers erupted with flames, belching sparks to the ceiling. The walls of the crypt glowed bright, revealing a glittering treasure.

  Bryce gasped, dazzled by the glow. Gold gleamed along the back wall, chests brimming with emeralds and rubies the size of a large man’s fist. Jewels and coins spilled careless from caskets, the fortune of many kingdoms strewn across the floor. Bryce gaped at the unimaginable wealth. Other treasures sat nestled amongst the gold, stacks of cedar chests and baskets brimming with scrolls. Amongst faded battle banners, a suit of armor stood proud upon a rack. The armor trapped Bryce’s gaze. Fearsome to behold, the breastplate showed the ribs of a skeleton etched in silver, the helmet fashioned into a grinning skull, a legend thought lost to time. Even coated with dust, the armor radiated fear, evil annealed into steel. Bryce trembled, knowing he beheld the ancient armor of the Skeleton King. The monks had thought the armor long lost, succumbed to legend, yet here it was, hidden amongst the Mordant’s treasures, a powerful relic of war. Bryce pulled his gaze from the horror.

  Everywhere he looked, treasure lay strewn across the floor, a king’s crown tumbled next to a silver goblet, a hoard of wealth mingled with history, but one thing did not belong. An elegant throne sat in the center. Sculpted into silver wings, encrusted with sapphires and yellow diamonds, it glowed like captured starlight, like hope chained in the darkness. A feast for the soul, Bryce fixed his gaze on the throne.

  Coins scattered underfoot. The Mordant moved through the chamber, touching his treasures. He caressed a faded battle banner and then lingered over a stone reliquary. For the longest time, he stood in front of the Skeleton armor, but then he turned to face the throne. The details became clear. An eight-pointed star adorned the winged seat, a legend proved true. Bryce wept when he saw it, how could the gods be so cruel?

  *Come, monk, attend me.*

  Terror rushed through him. Bryce slammed the keyhole shut just as a relentless force snatched him up. The hand of his jailor drew Bryce into the eyes of the Mordant. The unfettered view struck him like a hammer blow, treasure in every direction.

  *A triumph of spoils,* the Mordant spread his arms wide, his gaze circling the crypt. *A thousand years of pillage gathered from across the ages. Wealth and weapons, magic and spell lore, treasures that time has forgot. Like the Dark Lord, I take the long view, waiting for the right lifetime.* He crossed the chamber and pulled a shroud from an altar stone, revealing a great sword. Black as sin, the folded steel rippled with evil, dragons forged into the crossguard. *A triumph of my fifth lifetime. A sapphire blue sword corrupted to black, made stronger for its dedication to the Dark Lord, a surprise for the Octagon Knights.* He moved to a small cedar chest and opened the clasps. Three dull-iron statues shaped into the form of crude fists sat nestled in black velvet. *And these rare beauties, three Wizard’s Knocks, the last of an ancient magic. Power enough to topple the strongest walls.* He caressed the iron fists, like a miser counting his treasure. *Behold the treasures of my past! Enough secrets to fell all my enemies…even your precious monks.* His gaze came to rest on the silver throne. *But one secret still eludes me.* His tone darkened. *Do you know it, monk?*

  Bryce shuddered, held in the grip of his jailor. *I’ve heard legends.*

  *And you despair to find it here.* The Mordant chuckled. “Despair is good, you please me monk,” he stepped toward the throne, *but do you know its purpose?*

  He felt the Mordant hover close, like a raptor keen to strike. Bryce chose his words with care, never straying from the truth. *Only an acolyte, never a full-sworn monk. I’ve heard legends, nothing more.*

  *And?*

  *And the legends speak of a winged throne of the Star Knights. A throne dedicated to the Light and endowed with a greater magic, lost long ago.*

  *The legends lie. It was never lost, but captured by my legions, a spoil of treachery.* The Mordant paced a slow circle around the throne, frustration coiling like a whip. *It reeks of magic, yet in all my lifetimes it has never served me.*

  *And it never will.*

  The Mordant hissed in anger. *What?*

  Bryce cowered in his prison. *I don’t know!* He hid behind a thin shield of truth, desperate to keep his secret safe.

  Darkness loomed like a fist. *Tell me.*

  *Soul magic!* He did not know where the words came from, yet they seemed true. *The throne is keyed to the Light of the soul and the depth of the need.*

  *And mine is full of Darkness.* The Mordant stared at the throne, a coil of cold calculating anger. *Yet in all my lifetimes, I have never before worn the face of a monk,* he circled the silver seat, *or held a monk’s soul locked within my own.* He came to rest in front of the throne, the silver wings gleaming in the torchlight. *Perhaps the time has come for old magic to awaken. Will it serve you monk?*

  *Me?* Bryce quailed in his prison.

  *After all, the monks are kin to the Star Knights.*

  *But I’m not a monk, only an acolyte!* Bryce clung to the slender truth, terrified that Mordant might somehow use him to betray the Light.

  *Come, monk, let’s test the strength of your soul.* The Mordant dared to sit on the throne.

  Bryce huddled in his prison, expecting a thunderbolt.

  Nothing happened. The Mordant settled into the throne, his back pressed agains
t the silver wings, his hands gripping the armrests.

  Bryce prayed for the throne to strike, for the silver wings to incinerate the Darkness. Take my life, me for him! Strike now while you have the chance!

  The Mordant chuckled. *Yes, pray for my demise. But in all my lifetimes, the throne has never struck against me.* The Mordant caressed the silver seat. *Perhaps together we can claim the magic.*

  Flames danced along the crypt walls but the throne remained dormant.

  *It will never serve you.*

  The Mordant chuckled, a mocking sound tinged with cruelty.

  Bryce felt something change within his prison, like a lock slipped from the chain, or a key turned in the cell door. Gray walls receded, disappearing like mist in the sunlight. He felt himself unfold, expanding outward, claiming his body, a man once more. He took a deep breath and stale air filled his lungs. His lungs! He gasped, giddy with life. His hands clutched the silver armrests, his bare feet pressed against the cold stone of the crypt. Cold, he could feel cold! Hope raged through him like a river in flood. He dared to flex his fingers, but it was hard, harder than he ever remembered; like being encased in rusted armor, yet his fingers began to move.

  *Call the magic!* The Mordant’s command thundered through his mind.

  “I don’t know how.” Bryce said the words, real words. His voice echoed in the hollowed chamber.

  The Mordant roiled through his mind, a malignant darkness, tentacles spreading everywhere. Darkness found a hidden doorway, a shadowy place buried deep within the monk’s ancestral memory. Assaulted by the Mordant’s will, the doorway burst open. Knowledge poured out, releasing a sixth sense attuned to magic, a gift he never knew he had. Guided by the Mordant, tendrils of thought yearned towards the throne. *Serve me!*

  “No!”

  *Together we can be great, the knowledge of the monks serving the Dark Lord. Submit your soul to me, for it is your destiny.*

  “Never!” Bryce fought the command, his scream echoing against the rock walls. He yearned for a way to end this evil, to end his life. The black sword was too far to reach, the mere sight of the blade making him queasy. Frantic, his gaze roamed the chamber, desperate for a weapon. A jeweled dagger gleamed near the throne, a trinket of conquest tossed aside, but perhaps it would buy his freedom. Bryce strained against his bonds, concentrating on his right hand. Like swimming in molasses, the hand lifted from the throne, reaching toward the dagger. He leaned forward, his body slow and sluggish, slumped across the throne like a drunk, straining to reach the dagger. Fingertips brushed the hilt, just a little further.