The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga)
Page 28
He felt the Mordant connect with the throne, a flush of triumph.
Light flared like an exploding star.
Bryce was hurled through the air, flung from the throne like a rag doll. He landed on a heap of gold coins, gasping and flailing, desperate to master his body.
The Mordant reached for him. Gray walls slammed down. *No!* Pain lanced through him, the thrust of a thousand spear tips. Ripped from his body, he was hammered into a small ball of consciousness and forced back into his prison. Bryce railed against his bonds, but he had no form, no substance, just a wisp of thought beating against steel walls.
A malevolent presence surrounded him.
The Mordant lashed out. *You failed me, monk. The throne rejected both our souls.*
Pain ripped through him, like a scourge of acid, but in a corner of his mind he stayed connected to his jailor.
Enraged, the Mordant stood, sending a shower of gold coins clattering across the floor. Ripe with vengeance, he strode across the crypt and took up the black sword. Darkness rippled along the five-foot blade, drinking in the light. Armed with the fearsome weapon, he turned to face the throne.
*No!* Bryce screamed, desperate to save the last relic of the Star Knights.
*Oppose me at your peril.* The Mordant raised the sword in a two-handed grip…but then he stopped. The sword hovered above the winged throne like an executioner’s axe. Flames in the braziers guttered, casting strange shadows across the crypt. The Mordant’s rage slowly annealed to a cold anger. He lowered the weapon. *Another time, another lifetime. Like the Dark Lord, I take the long view.* Gripping the sword, he turned and strode toward the staircase.
Bryce huddled in his prison, locked in misery, but in the depths of his heart he nurtured a thin hope. He’d learned his prison had a key. Perhaps in time he’d find a way to unlock the door…to reclaim his body. And then he’d rid the world of a thousand-year-old evil.
34
Duncan
Twelve men. He’d freed a hundred yet he’d gained only twelve warriors, a grim start to the rebellion. Duncan hadn’t reckoned on the soul-eating nature of slavery…or the help of a young woman. The Mordant used the mine to crush men’s spirits but perhaps the gods lent a hand. Either way, the die was already cast, victory or death the only possible outcomes.
Clutching a loaded crossbow, he led his small band through narrow corridors and vaulted caverns, always choosing the deepest route…but with every step his senses screamed that he ran the wrong way. To control the mine, he needed to control the entrance, but first he had to find Brock and the others. Together, they’d sweep upwards, killing the guards and releasing the prisoners. A simple plan, but the mine was proving a labyrinth, a kicked anthill swarming with armed guards.
Rounding a bend, he heard a subtle snick. “Crossbow!” Duncan screamed a warning as he lurched left. A quarrel rushed passed his right ear, a deadly hum. The man behind shrieked, clutching at his face.
Shadows crowded the corridor but Duncan saw every detail. Twenty guards with swords drawn, but the immediate threat was the single crossbowman. While the other bowman struggled to reload, Duncan raised his own crossbow. He loosed the tickler. The weapon bucked, spitting a feathered quarrel. The crossbowman screamed, crumpling to the floor. Duncan followed the bolt with a bloodthirsty yell, wielding the crossbow like a club. The wooden stock smashed against a guard’s face, felling him with a sickening crunch. Dropping the crossbow, Duncan drew his sword. Chaos erupted around him. Howling like banshees, his ragged band attacked. Fighting with scavenged weapons and bare fists, they rushed the guards. Some fought with their shackles, clasping their hands together and wielding the chains in a deadly arc, cracking the skulls of their jailors. Ferocity proved their best weapon, driving a wedge into the guards.
Duncan rode the tidal wave of hate, fighting at the spear point. Hack and slash, he wielded his sword, twisting away to avoid a low thrust. Beside him, Krell laughed like a berserker. The big redhead picked up the felled body of a guard. Wielding the corpse like a battering ram, Krell charged. Shocked by the barbarity, the lead guards pulled back, seeking to retreat, but the passage was clogged by other guards. Confusion reigned and the battle became a rout. Duncan’s men swarmed forward, releasing a frenzy of hate. Blood slicked the floor and screams filled the corridor. Showing no quarter, they hacked at their jailors, prying weapons from their dead hands. The remaining guards retreated into a tight knot, presenting a hedgehog of swords. Laughing, Krell heaved a corpse at them. Another prisoner threw a severed head. Other body parts followed, a bloody bombardment.
Barbarity turned the tide of battle. The guards broke and ran.
The prisoners howled in victory, giving chase like wolves hot on the scent of prey.
Duncan tried to stop them, fearing the mad rush would end in an ambush. His roar cut through their howls. “Hold your ground!”
Krell staggered to a stop, the glaze of battle leaving his eyes. He grabbed the nearest man and dragged him to a stop. “The cat-man’s right. Stand your ground.” His voice boomed through the corridor, tugging at the men like a leash.
They stumbled to a halt. Battle lust slowly bled from their faces. Some leaned against the wall, clutching their weapons and gasping for breath, while others winced in pain, feeling wounds for the first time. One man lay dead and two badly wounded, a steep price for victory but the alternative was death.
Duncan strode amongst them, offering words of encouragement. “We’ve proved the guards can be defeated.” The spark of pride lit their eyes, transforming ragtag prisoners into fighting men. “But we must stay together and make the most of our numbers. We’ve had our first taste of victory but there are more battles to be won, and more prisoners awaiting release. Bind your wounds and loot the fallen. We can’t afford to tarry.” Duncan joined the search, surprised to find a half-full wineskin hanging from a belt. Sniffing the stopper, he took a long pull. His mind knew it was swill, but his mouth savored the sudden taste of grape.
“Share the spoils, cat-man.” Grabbing the skin, Krell spouted a red stream into his open mouth. “Ambrosia of the gods! Now that’s worth fighting for.” The wineskin made the rounds, each man gaining a mouthful.
Krell grinned, slapping Duncan on the back. “The men fought well, cat-man.”
“Ferocity won the first battle but that mad dash could have been our undoing. We need to stay together and not rush into a trap. One defeat and we’re all dead.”
Krell growled. “You worry too much, cat-man.”
“Someone has to.” Duncan retrieved his crossbow, making sure the mechanism still worked. Putting his foot in the stirrup, he reset the tickler. The crossbow suited him so much better than a sword, but in the heat of battle it was only worth one death. He searched the dead bowman, scavenging another handful of quarrels. The looting proved a boon. The dead guards gave up a score of swords and half as many daggers. His band of freed men bristled with weapons, some wielding a sword in each hand. Duncan called the men back to their purpose. “We’ve gained the teeth of war, now let’s show the guards how freed men fight!”
The men growled their assent, a pack of hungry wolves at his back. Duncan led them into the depths, running at a lope. Despite the danger, he set a hard pace, feeling as if a trap closed around them. Always taking the downward path, he stretched his senses, alert to ambush. Breathing deep, he tasted the air. The corridor stank of blood and death yet he heard no clash of steel. He readied his crossbow, his thumb near the tickler. Rounding a bend, he found a corridor awash in blood. Corpses lined the hallway; a dozen prisoners hacked to death. A few still gripped swords, at least they’d died as warriors. Duncan stared at their faces, relieved to find them strangers. “The rebellion spreads. We need to find our brothers-in-arms.”
Torches flickered in the hallway. They came to a three-way fork and he paused to listen, testing the scents at each passage. The middle fork rang with the faint clash of steel. “This way.” The sounds of battle drew them on.
Beside him, Krell flashed a feral grin. “The gods favor the bold!”
Whispered words passed between his men.
They approached from behind, cold and silent, the perfect ambush. Two strides from the guards, Duncan loosed a quarrel. Thunk! The bolt punched a fist-sized hole through the first man and skewered the second. Duncan swung the crossbow like a club. Slash and hack, they fell on the guards, blooding their swords without opposition. They cleaved a swath deep into enemy ranks before the guards began to turn. The murderous ambush turned into a desperate fight. Trapped between two bands of prisoners, the guards fought like rabid dogs. No quarter was asked for and none was given, a bitter struggle to the death.
Krell led the advance. Bellowing a fearsome laugh, the redhead wielded a sword in both fists. Wrecking havoc with each blow, the big man scythed through the enemy like a god of war reaping a bloody harvest. Duncan followed in his wake. Reloading the crossbow, he killed two men with one quarrel, smashing a third with the heavy wooden stock. Parry and strike, the battle became a blur…till Krell staggered to a stop.
The swords fell silent…corpses strewn across the floor.
From across the corridor, a ragged band of prisoners stared back at them, an odd jumble of weapons gripped in their fists.
For a moment, both sides stared in disbelief…but then one man cheered, and the cheer became a roar. The two sides rushed together, pounding each other on the back, talking at once, brothers-in-arms.
Duncan looked for his friends. Familiar faces crowded the corridor, Seth, and six-fingered Nef, and Simeon the hunchback, but there were two he wanted to see more than the others. He finally found Brock and Clovis together. The big man grinned, brandishing a spiked mace like a rare trophy.
Duncan answered his grin. “So Grack gave up his mace.”
“We took the one-armed bastard on the ladder, just as you said.” Brock twirled the blood-soaked weapon, beaming like a man in love. “This spiked beauty cracked the Taal’s skull like an eggshell. You should have seen the look on the bastard’s face when we charged the ladder.” Grinning, he thumped Duncan’s back hard enough to rattle his teeth. “Your plan worked, cat-man! But I never thought to see your mismatched stare again.”
Duncan gave the big man a wry smile. “Cats have nine lives.”
“Ha! I hope you saved some for the fight ahead. The tunnels teem with guards.”
“All the more reason why we can’t tarry.” He felt the press of time, like a hand strangling his throat. “Get the men ready. Bind their wounds and strip the dead of weapons. We have a mine to take.” Brock grinned and began issuing orders. Duncan turned to Clovis, relieved to find the older man unharmed.
“The gods watch over you, Duncan Treloch.” Clovis smiled, rock dust coating his straggly beard.
Duncan clasped his friend’s arm. “I’d rather they lent a hand.”
Torchlight glinted in the older man’s eyes. “Perhaps they do.”
Duncan shook his head, but there was laughter in his voice. “You and your gods. Better to put your trust in steel, or a good bow.”
Clovis lifted his sword, an odd smile on his face. “Seems I haven’t forgotten the way of the sword…but I long for the color of the sky.”
“We’ll see it again, my friend, but first we must take the mine.” He turned away and lifted his crossbow, raising his voice above the clamor. “We’ve clawed our way out of hell…but I’ve a yearning for the sky. Are you with me?”
The men cheered a roar that shook the corridor.
“Then let’s show the guards how freed men fight.” Setting off at a run, Duncan led them through rock-carved passageways, but this time they traveled up. Left and then right, he threaded a path through the rabbit warren of stone, always heading toward the surface. Wary of ambush, he strained his senses, trying to detect the first clank of steel.
Ambushing guards from behind, they fought a running battle. With scavenged weapons and bare hands, they clawed their way toward the surface.
Needing more men, Duncan breathed deep, always searching for the rotting stench of prison holds. Twice they stopped to release men from bitter hellholes. Shackled and chained, the prisoners climbed out of the depths, astonished by the sudden chance for freedom. Some cowered and slunk away, too broken to fight, but most joined the struggle, their courage bolstered by the sight of so many freed men wielding swords. Their numbers swelled to over two hundred, half of them armed, all of them desperate, a mob running at his back.
Guards blocked their way, setting a thin picket of swords and spears, but the mob would not be denied. Howling like the damned, his men overwhelmed the guards, carving a swath of death through their ranks like justice on a rampage.
One battle at a time, they fought their way up through the twisting passageways, leaving a trail of carnage in their wake. The narrow corridors proved a boon, the perfect funnel for their ferocity. Swarming the enemy, they never lost a battle, but the fighting took its toll, leaching their stamina and culling their numbers to half. Caught in a labyrinth of stone, it seemed they waged an endless struggle…till the air began to freshen, and the men caught the first hint of the surface
It smelled like victory.
A sense of triumph pulsed through the men, lifting their spirits and renewing their strength. Gripping their weapons, they pounded through the rocky corridors like a force of nature that could not be denied.
They rounded a bend and found a clog of guards blocking the corridor. Duncan loosed a quarrel as Krell led the charge. Screaming like banshees, they fell on the guards. Slash and hack, they smashed the blockade, ferocity overwhelming discipline. The guards broke and ran.
Baying like hounds, the men gave chase, their blood hot for battle.
The corridor widened into an enormous cavern. Howling for vengeance, the men spread out, chasing their prey across the broad expanse, hungry for blood.
Duncan ran with the pack, wielding his crossbow like a club. Halfway across, a warning thundered through his mind. He slowed to a stop and stared at the cavern…and then he knew. “Stop! Fall back! It’s a trap!” He screamed at the top of his lungs, grabbing the men around him, knowing that discipline would defeat ferocity in such a large space. “Krell, stop them!” But the big man was lost to the battle-fury. Leading the wild charge across the cavern floor, Krell laughed like a berserker, his flaming-red hair waving like a banner. Caught in the rush of war, the men streamed passed Duncan, brandishing their weapons, their eyes glazed with the heat of battle, giving full throat to their blood lust. Sensing disaster, Duncan tried to stop the rush, but he was one lone man straining against a blood fury.
And then the drumming started. Like a heartbeat of war, the sound thundered through the mine with the force of doom. Ranks of soldiers appeared blocking the far end of the cavern. Not guards, but disciplined soldiers. A solid line of rectangular black shields embossed with golden pentacles, they formed a wall across both ends of the cavern, deadly barriers bristling with spears.
Trapped! Duncan struggled to reform his men. “To me! To me!”
Krell slowed to a stop…and the wild dash veered to a sudden halt. Turning away from the barrier, the men milled in confusion, caught between two shield walls.
A centurion stepped from the ranks, his voice echoing through the cavern. “Put down your weapons! Serve to live!”
Krell gave the answer. Plucking a fallen spear from the ground, he hurled it at the centurion. “Live free or die!” The spear took the centurion in the throat. Roaring, Krell chased after the spear, charging the wall of shields like a magnificent lion…and the men followed.
Heartened by Krell’s audacity, Duncan laughed, embracing to the madness of battle. Bellowing a challenge, he charged with the rest. He loosed a quarrel and then swung h
is crossbow like a club. A hundred strong, they raced toward the shield wall, a ragtag army wielding a motley of stolen weapons, courage and purpose their only armor. As if sanctioned by the gods, a wild hope surged through Duncan, a feeling of desperate invincibility.
Their roar shook the cavern, a righteous wave bearing down on the shield wall.
But the Mordant’s soldiers did not fight fair.
Handlers stepped from the shield wall. Like spurts of black venom, they launched nets into the air. Falling like spider webs, they trapped the rabble army, pinning them to the ground. A net caught Duncan in the face, binding him with sticky strands. Thrashing against the tangle, he tripped and fell. Weighted with leads, the sticky nets tangled arms and weapons in a stranglehold, pulling men to their knees. Across the cavern, men thrashed and hacked but the struggle only deepened the web’s embrace. Swathed in sticky cocoons, they writhed on the floor like flies awaiting the bite of a spider.
One man broke free.
Somehow Krell broke the sticky bonds, rising like a god of vengeance, a sword in each fist. Roaring in defiance, he charged the shield wall like a maddened lion. “Fight me, damn you, fight me!”
A deadly hum of crossbows filled the air.
Krell stumbled, quarrels piercing his arms and legs…but he did not fall. Bleeding from a half-dozen wounds, he lurched toward the shield wall. Roaring like a fiery-maned lion, he beat his sword against the line of spears. “Fight me in single combat! Come out from behind your shields and fight!”