The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga)

by Karen Azinger

  The night proved a torment.

  Every part of his body ached, his shoulders worst of all. Shackles cut into his wrists, heavy weights dragging on his feet, a grim tug-of-war. And then there was his raging thirst. He bit his lip and sucked the blood, desperate for moisture. Exhausted, he sank into a haze of pain. Three times he dozed, his foot slipping from his perch, yanked back to wakefulness by a blaze of agony.

  Morning came but there was no relief.

  Sunrise revealed the suffering of the others. Clovis hung like a waxen corpse, his head sunk on his chest, no sign of life. Duncan mourned his friend, but at least he’d passed beyond the agony of the stones. Death was an escape of sorts. Brock still struggled for breath and so did Seth but the others hung like carrion from their chains, locked in shrouds of pain.

  Daylight brought the return of the crowds. They sat in widening circles around the boulders, like vultures drawn to the spectacle of death. Their morbid fascination sickened him. He wanted to scream at the crowd, but his mouth was too parched to shout. Instead, he glared, picking out individual faces and compelling them to leave. A bearded man with the shoulders of a blacksmith, a woman with a babe in arms, an old hunchback with a third eye…and then he saw a familiar face. Startled, he stared. Short and slender, blond hair framing a serious face…he was sure it was Mara…so the girl had escaped the mine. He grinned, flushed with an irrational spark of triumph. Not everything had been in vain.

  She gave him a soft smile, and he nodded in reply, but then he forced his gaze away lest he entangle her with his own doom.

  The day passed in a dull haze of misery. Twilight came and the crowd grew restless, perhaps disappointed by the lack of drama. Duncan looked for Mara, surprised to find her moving closer. Puzzled, he looked away, but a sixth sense told him when she reached the base of his boulder.

  “Clovis was a respected prophet.” Her voice reached him, a soft whisper. “His words were heard by the elders. Some see the strength of numbers. A few work to convince many.”

  Hope struck like a lightning bolt, but he made no movement, watching the guards through hooded eyes.

  Mara slipped away, mingling with the departing crowd, but the hope stayed with him, an inner strength that got him through the long night.

  Something spattered against his face. Cold and wet, he opened his mouth to the rain. Duncan drank the drops, a sweet relief for his parched throat. The storm lasted long enough to quench his thirst. Perhaps the gods had not forsaken him.

  For six days he hung on the boulder, nurtured by rain and a persistent hope. Seth died on the third day and Brock on the fourth. On the fifth, Duncan slipped from his perch, no longer able to resist the lead weights. Pain racked every part of his body, a deadly stretch pulling him apart. Every breath a tortured struggle, he thought he saw Mara weaving her way through the crowd, or maybe it was Kath, everything blurred in a haze of pain.

  A woman’s soft voice whispered at the base of his boulder. “The elders cannot agree…I tried…I’m so sorry.”

  Her words cut through his pain like a knife, killing his last shred of hope. He’d fought death for nothing. The taste of ashes filled his mouth. “Tell them,” his voice was a harsh rasp, “those who will not fight for their own lives…are not worth saving.”

  It was over. All he had left was death. Duncan shut his eyes and surrendered his body to the agony of the boulder, while his mind fled to better memories. Green, he longed for the smell of crisp pine needles, the heady scent of a spring forest. And water, swimming beneath a crystal clear waterfall, drinking his fill, the luxury of so much water. …And Kath, taking his wife’s hand, leading her to a hidden glen, to lie entwined among the ferns, slow and sure, all the time in the world.

  38

  The Mordant

  The Mordant entered the map room. His battle commanders snapped to attention, fists thumping against breastplates. More than a few gasped when they saw his armor. Golden ribs etched on burnished metal, like death come to life, the ancient armor glittered in the torchlight. Clad in the breastplate of the Skeleton King, the Mordant reveled in the legendary power. Fear annealed into metal, the armor evoked a primal sense of dread few mortals could withstand.

  Cowed by the armor, his generals backed away. Confronted with a legend, they kept their distance, hands gripping their sword hilts, fear flickering across their faces.

  “So it’s true!” General Haith dared to speak.

  The Mordant smiled, enjoying their unease. “Yes, the Dark Furies ride to war. There will be no half measures in this lifetime.”

  He strode to the iron railing, drawn to the gods-eye view. Built to his design, the map room was like a silver jewel box. Balconies lined the four walls, overlooking the windowless chamber. Light from a hundred torches cast a bright glow along the walls. Sheets of beaten silver mirrored the glow, illuminating the room’s treasure. Spread across the sunken floor, the map was exquisite, the chessboard of the Mordant.

  Silk rustled at the doorway. Gavis and a pair of black robed bishops glided onto the balcony. “You summoned me, my Lord?”

  “You’re late.” The Mordant turned to face his high priest.

  Gavis stared at the armor. His face remained impassive, but his left hand clutched his staff with a white-knuckled grip, the only betrayal of his fear. “I beg your pardon, Lord.” Elegant in robes of black embroidered with gold runes, Gavis made a curt bow and then moved along the balcony. He claimed a spot opposite the battle commanders, the priesthood balanced against the army, competing rivals overlooking the map of Erdhe.

  The Mordant studied his high priest. Gavis had courage, but his insolence was one step away from a corpse. “You all have your roles to play.” Now was not the time to deal with his high priest. He turned, a swirl of black and silver, and descended the stairs to the narrow walkway. Like a god, he loomed over the knee high map.

  Carved from six massive tabletops, the map showed every mountain, hillock, valley, and river of Erdhe. A century in the making, it drew on details from a thousand sources. A legion of thieves had spent a lifetime scouring the southern kingdoms, procuring a host of maps. Master craftsmen sculpted the maps into mountains and valleys, creating an eagle-eye view of Erdhe. Color brought the board to life, shades of amber for the steppes, deep greens for the forests, frothing blues for the rivers, and a dusting of ground quartz crystals for the snowy mountaintops. Paint froze the landscape in summer, the season of war, but not everything on the map was fixed. Elaborate chess pieces sat upon the tabletop. Castles carved from ebony, ivory and emerald, man made landmarks carved from gemstones, easy enough for the Mordant to tumble their walls or change their colors.

  He stood at the north, at the source of his power.

  A massive onyx castle marked the position of the Dark Citadel, fixed on the shores of the Western Ocean, surrounded by a sea of grasslands. Granite walls cut the steppes in half, ten rearing gargoyles marking the ten gates. Beyond the steppes, the mighty Dragon Spine Mountains reared like a wall, a snowcapped barrier to the south. Castles, walls and keeps carved from maroon garnets studded the mountain passes like clots of blood, marking the strongholds of his enemies. The Octagon knights blocked the mountain passes, the gatekeepers to the south. Beyond the Dragon Spines, the rest of Erdhe waited. Verdant farmlands and rolling hills dotted by gemstone keeps and ivory castles. A rich land, besotted with peace and ripe for plunder, awaiting the hand of Darkness. And in the far south, in the corner opposite the Dark Citadel, a vast jumble of mountains crowded the edge of the tabletop, the impenetrable Southern Ranges. The Mordant smiled, his words a whisper. “Your secrets are safe no longer.”

  The Mordant followed the walkway, moving along the perimeter of the map, east along the steppes and then south toward the Dragon Spine Mountains. Like a lover coveting the curves of a woman his fingertips caressed the map’s contours. He paused to hover over Castlegard, the great garnet castle dominating a saddle-shaped valley, always a thorn in his side. So tempting to reach out an
d obliterate the ancient stronghold yet Castlegard was one place he needed to avoid. He’d squandered a lifetime trying to break those cursed mage-stone walls. Memories of the battle assailed his mind, the smell of blood, the ring of steel, as if it were yesterday.

  He felt the stares of his generals, calling him back to the present. They lined the iron railing, waiting to hear the details of war.

  “Yes, you’ve come for war, for battle plans and destruction.” Darkness rose within him, a tidal wave of power. A thousand years of history coursed through his mind. Immortality was nearly his, close enough to taste. Flush with dark power, his voice rang with certainty. “We stand on the brink of a great Dark destiny. In this lifetime, old scores will finally be settled.” He stood over the map like a god. “The first to fall will be the Octagon knights. But their fall will be no ordinary victory. Killing is easy. Taking life pleases the Dark Lord, but it garners the least of his favors. Our god favors those who have a long reach, those who affect the ripples of time, changing the very nature of history. In this war, we seek more than just victory. The defeat must be a rout, a total humiliation, so that the very name of the Octagon knights will be forever ground into oblivion.”

  “Victory to the Dark Lord!” The shout echoed through the chamber. His generals howled like a pack of hungry wolves eager to be released.

  The Mordant raised his hand, stilling the tumult. “I will empty the north in order to win the south. Every Taal shall be called to battle. Half the guards of the Pit and the citadel will be summoned to join the army. I shall unleash a mighty force, an unstoppable horde, the likes of which the south has never seen.”

  Reaching back, he unsheathed his great sword. Darkness rippled the length of the five-foot blade, evil annealed into steel. “And where will they strike?”

  He looked at his generals, but none dared to speak. “I will send the full might of the north against Raven Pass.” His blade pointed toward a steep-sided valley cutting through the Dragon Spine Mountains. Three walls carved of blood-red garnet blocked the valley, three choke points held by the Octagon. “We will swarm the walls, opening a road to the south.” With a flick of the sword, he knocked the walls over, one by one.

  Triumphant, he stared up at his generals. His commanders struggled to hide their doubt but he saw through their mortal masks. “I know what you think. You fear a siege in winter.”

  A wave of nods passed through his commanders, their faces grim. Only General Haith dared to speak. “The Octagon wrought well at Raven Pass. The walls are not mage-stone but they are built tall and stout. It will take siege engines to defeat the walls,” his voice dropped a notch, “and while we batter away at their gates, winter will lay siege to our army. Ice and snow respect no battle banner. The steppes are cruel in winter.”

  “There will be no siege.”

  “But my Lord, numbers alone cannot defeat such walls.”

  The Mordant thrust his sword aloft. “Behold the sword of the Mordant.” Darkness rippled along its length like a slash in the fabric of the world. Most of his commanders looked away, unable to endure the Dark malice radiating from the blade. “This was once the sapphire sword of an Octagon knight, made stronger by its dedication to the Dark Lord. Look upon this sword and wonder how many other Dark Furies serve at my command.”

  A murmur of awe rippled through the chamber.

  “Power begets power,” he lowered the sword. “I will gift my army with three Wizard Knocks. Mounted on the tips of battering rams, and carried by a gang of Taals, the magic of the Knocks will sunder any wall save mage-stone. Knock thrice and Raven Pass shall fall before you.”

  General Haith stood at the center of the battle commanders, a look of confidence on his face. “And once the pass is taken, what are your commands?”

  “Then old scores will finally be settled.” The Mordant used the sword to point toward the map. “Once the Octagon is defeated, the army will split in two. A small force of elite cavalry will ride to the east, heading for the great southern road. General Haith will take command of this force, making all haste for the Southern Mountains.” The Mordant circled the map, removing a carved gemstone from his pocket. “Long have the Kiralynn monks eluded me, but in this lifetime their secret is at last revealed.” He held aloft a small monastery carved of sapphire. “Behold the missing chess piece, the last bastion of the monks.” Tracing a path down the southern road and into the mountains, he settled the monastery on the side of a snow-capped peak. “At long last, the map of Erdhe is finally complete.” A sense of triumph rushed through him, knowing his destiny was at hand. He stared up at General Haith. “I give you the task of taking the monastery and killing the last of the monks. You’ll find it full of bearded old men and young pups in training. They’ll fight with quarterstaffs, if they fight at all.”

  General Haith grinned. “Sticks against steel. Hardly a fitting contest.”

  Memories of his brief time in the monastery flashed through the Mordant’s mind. Walls painted with illuminated script, forbidden secrets hidden behind midnight blue doors. “The monks fight with sticks but you should expect trickery. There’s no telling how much magic they still possess.” He stared down at the sapphire monastery, a lone flash of blue in jumble of white peaks. “Capture the monastery and kill the monks, but do not attempt the midnight blue doors. The secrets locked behind those doors are mine alone.” He stare drilled into his best general. “Spoil them at your peril.”

  General Haith saluted, his fist thumping against his gold breastplate. “As you command.”

  The Mordant paced the map’s perimeter. Rounding the Southern Mountains, he headed west, toward the shores of the Western Ocean. “While General Haith rides south, the rest of the army will swing down through Navarre, plunging like a dagger for the heart of Lanverness. The

  Rose Court must be destroyed.” Anger pulsed through him. “A woman dares to sit alone on a throne, ruling the most prosperous kingdom in Erdhe,” his voice shook with revulsion, “The bitch queen is an abomination in the eyes of the Dark Lord.” He tightened his grip on the sword. “We fight for the present as well as the future. This queen of Lanverness is a history that must be undone, a legend that must be fouled. It is not sufficient to defeat Lanverness with swords.” He stared up at his battle commanders, seeking out the slender form shrouded in shadows. “I grant my assassins a special task.”

  Like fluid darkness, a figure emerged from the shadows. Short and spare, the man had the stunted frame of a fifteen year-old boy, yet he moved with a feral grace. Muscles rippled beneath black leather, a baldric of nine throwing knives slung across his chest. Black as sin, the nine knives gave testament to his prowess, a master assassin of the ninth rank. Making a curt bow, Dolf stood poised by the railing.

  The Mordant smiled, for his best assassins were ever spare with words. “A MerChanter longship waits to take you and your brethren south. To my assassins, I give the task of laying the groundwork for the fall of Lanverness. A troop of the best Duegar will be assigned to serve you. I suspect the meddling monks will attempt to save the Rose Queen. The magic sniffing dwarves will help thwart their plans.” He pulled a sealed scroll from his belt and tossed it to his master assassin. “Now go and prepare for your voyage. We will speak again before you sail.”

  Dolf caught the scroll and bowed low. Easing backwards, he disappeared into the shadows.

  “Each of you has your appointed tasks.” The Mordant slashed the dark sword across the map, cutting through a triangle of enemies. “First the Octagon, then the monks, and then the bitch-queen of Lanverness. Topple these three and all of Erdhe belongs to the Dark Lord.”

  “But what of Castlegard?” The question came from General Marris, a tall thin man with iron-gray hair.

  The Mordant nodded, allowing the question. “The heart of the Octagon will be shattered at Raven Pass. Once the rest of Erdhe is secured, then the army can lay siege to the great castle. Huddled behind their mage-stone walls, the last of the knights will die of starvatio
n, a fitting end for the vaunted maroon.” He studied his battle commanders, peering into each man’s soul. Satisfied, he turned to stare toward his high priest. As he expected, Gavis wore the sour look of a man forced to sup on bitter wine. “And upon my priests I bestow the task of inspiring the army with omens of victory.” He sheathed his sword and began to climb the narrow steps to the balcony.

  “What say you, Gavis?”

  “I don’t know what to say, my Lord.”

  “What, my high priest struck dumb?” The Mordant reached the balcony and stared across the map at Gavis.

  “I fear for the safety of the Dark Citadel.”

  “But the citadel is kept safe by my priesthood.”

  Gavis shook his head. “You risk too much on war. Take the guards from the Pit if you must, but leave the citadel at full strength.”

  “Are you saying the priesthood cannot control the mob?”

  Gavis blanched, his eyes like daggers.

  More than one general smirked.

  The Mordant caught their mood. Like a pack of jackals, they yearned to see the priesthood cast low, but Gavis still had a role to play. He turned on his generals, barking a command. “You have your orders. Within a fortnight, the army marches to war.” He strode toward the double doors. “Lord Gavis attend me. I will sup with you tonight.”

  A pair of guards rushed to open the doors. The Mordant left the map room, striding through the marble corridors. Braziers lit the long hallways, dispelling the winter chill. Gavis kept two paces behind, a silent shadow at his back.

  Golden doors marked the entrance to the royal chambers. A pair of blond beauties rushed to attend him. He stood with his arms spread wide as they worked to divest his armor. The Mordant kept his gaze fixed on his high priest. “Why do you object?”

  Gavis avoided his gaze, watching the women instead. “My only concern is for the safety of your citadel.”