The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga)

by Karen Azinger

  Something struck him from behind. Powerful as a battering ram, it knocked him to the ground. He lost his grip on his sword. Turning, he got his left arm up. Saber-fangs lunged for his face, a snarl of hate. He forced his arm deep into the beast’s mouth, holding the fangs at bay. Teeth clamped down in a painful grip but his chainmail held. The beast snarled, a rage of hot drool dripping into Blaine’s face. Desperate for a weapon, he struggled to reach the dagger at his belt. The beast shook him like a rag doll. Groping blind, Blaine found the dagger, plunging it deep into the beast’s belly.

  The hound snarled but the jaws refused to release. Once, twice, three times he stabbed the beast before he found the heart. Blood spurted over him, a gush of warm gore. The creature shuddered and then lay still, pinning Blaine to the ground.

  Gasping for breath, he pushed the beast away, trying to avoid the fearsome claws. He checked his arm. His fingers still worked but his arm ached horribly, too dark to see if the chainmail was broken.

  Screams split the night, proof the battle still raged.

  Someone wailed in pain, “It’s eating me! Get it off!”

  Nightmares lurked in the dark. Blaine knelt in the grass, frantic for his sword.

  Something moved to his right, but he only had a dagger. Drenched in sweat he searched the grass. And then his hand touched steel. He gripped his sword and rose to a crouch. Guided by sounds, he eased to the right, hoping to take a hellhound from behind. Sensing movement, he swung his blade to the left, but his sword found only air. The beasts were too clever by half.

  A low growl came from his right…and another to his left. They had him surrounded, taunting him with snarls, playing with their food. Drenched in sweat, Blaine pivoted left and then right, but the darkness favored the beasts. He cursed the night. Staying in a crouch, he waited for the first attack, vowing to take at least one with him.

  But then the gods lent a hand. The wind picked up. A cold blast from the north, opened a swath in the cloud-shrouded sky. Moonlight bathed the steppes in a silvery light. And then he saw them. Black and brown, the beasts stood out against the silvery grass. A shout of triumph rose from the other men. Slings whirled, a whisper of death hurled into the night.

  Blaine leaped forward, charging the nearest gore-hound.

  The beast whirled, a snarl of fangs as sharp as sabers, but Blaine had the advantage of reach. The great blue sword swept forward like vengeance unleashed. Steel struck the beast’s head, sundering the skull in two. He wrenched the blade loose and turned to find another. But the battle was already won.

  Dead gore hounds littered the trampled grass.

  Moonlight brought their first triumph.

  Raising their fists and howling to the moon, the painted warriors celebrated a primal victory. Blaine joined them, sharing a flagon of mead. Bathed in moonlight, they danced and clapped and sang, raising their weapons to the heavens. And in the midst of the revelry, Kath woke.

  Perhaps the gods had not abandoned them after all.

  55

  The Knight Marshal

  The sun rose in a blaze of golds, too glorious a morning for such a grim day. The marshal watched it rise, wondering if it would be his last.

  All along the Whore, the men took their positions, waiting for the horde to come calling. A lone battle banner flew overhead, the king’s blazon, maroon silk embroidered with a golden crown. Saved by Baldwin in the mad dash from the second wall, the banner was tied to a broken lance. The lone standard snapped proud in the cold morning wind, like a mailed fist defying the terrible odds.

  The king stood beside his banner, his crowned helm and silver breastplate polished bright, his great blue sword looming over his right shoulder. A single sunbeam broke from the clouds, anointing the king. Gleaming like a star set in a long line of maroon, he stood tall and indomitable, a fabled hero clad in sun-kissed armor. The sunbeam seemed a sign, like a blessing of the gods. A cheer roared from the wall, a burst of pride from the men.

  Clouds blew in from the north, shrouding the sun.

  And then it began to snow. A flurry of snowflakes pelted down, turning the land sepulcher white. Winter had come, the ally the king had hoped for…but too late to save the maroon.

  The marshal pulled his cloak close. Turning his back on the winter wind, he walked the wall, trading words with the men. A few muttered prayers, others bantered jokes, but most were stoic, minding to their armor and weapons. The grim truth shown from their eyes, yet he knew they would not waiver. Without archers, the battle would be a bloody. The ancient wall offered little protection. Short and stubby, the Whore would blunt the enemy’s charge, but at a height of only twelve feet he expected the ogres to scale it in a single bound. And only the gods knew what other foul magic the Mordant hid in his arsenal. But one thing was certain; the courage of the knights would not falter. Pride swelled through him. He wondered if a bard would ever sing the tale, so few standing against so many. But bard’s songs went to the victors. The marshal scowled, all his thoughts full of ashes. He drew his great sword, Sir Tyrone’s sword, comforted by the feel of cold steel.

  The waiting proved hard; always the worst part of any battle. The sun climbed the sky and still they did not come. Not until midday did they hear the drums, the steady beat of doom.

  Men tensed along the wall, readying their weapons. They strained to see the horde.

  When the enemy finally came, it was only six riders. Bedecked in plumed helms and dark armor emblazoned with gold pentacles, they sat on their horses and waited fifty yards from the wall.

  The marshal joined the king. “Perhaps they offer terms.”

  The king scowled. “The Octagon never surrenders.”

  “True, but perhaps we should hear them out.”

  The king agreed, so they called for their horses.

  Six men waited so six rode out from the wall. The king led, resplendent on his white war stallion. The marshal rode on the king’s right. Baldwin rode on his left, bearing the king’s banner. Two champions and a captain came close behind: Sir Abrax, Sir Rannock, and Sir Lothar.

  They stopped two spear lengths from the enemy. The king’s white stallion snorted and pawed the frozen ground, as if eager for a fight. The maroon battle banner snapped overhead, a subtle reply.

  The marshal studied the enemy. Four were mere soldiers, muscles bulging beneath armor, but the other two were older, their armor more elaborate, embellished with gold. He judged them to be generals, come with the Mordant’s terms.

  The center general, the one with the most gold on his armor, spoke first. “My name is General Haith, and I speak for my lord, the Mordant.” His horse shied left and he quelled it with a tug of the reins. “Your men fought bravely but they were outmatched. Against our numbers, against our magic, none in the south can stand. Yet the Mordant does not wish to spend his men needlessly. He offers terms.”

  The king’s voice was a low growl. “The Octagon does not surrender.”

  “But will you fight?” The general lifted a mailed hand, forestalling the king’s reply. “The Mordant offers to settle this contest by single combat.”

  “Single combat?” Flummoxed, the king shook his head, sunlight glinting on his armor.

  Sir Abrax muscled forward. “I will fight for the Octagon! Give me the honor, Sire!”

  Sensing a trick, the marshal interposed. “What are the terms?”

  General Haith nodded, his gaze fixed on the marshal. “Single combat to determine the outcome of this battle. The loser retreats with his army, ceding Raven Pass to the victor.”

  Sir Abrax gasped, but the marshal stilled him with a glance. It was a fantastical offer, especially given the enemy’s numbers, yet it reeked of lies. The marshal pressed for details. “If the Octagon wins, you’ll take your army back to the north and leave the southern kingdoms in peace?”

  “Hardly,” the general’s voice dripped with disdain. “If the Octagon wins, our army will retreat and find another way south. Raven Pass is not the only gap in the Drag
on Spine Mountains.”

  “And how do we know you’ll hold to the terms?”

  “You have the word of the Mordant.”

  It was a measure of discipline that none of them scoffed.

  “I need your answer.”

  The king seemed to consider. “Single combat?”

  “To the death.”

  “Our champion against yours?”

  General Haith flashed a grim smile. “No, you misunderstood. Our king against yours.”

  A premonition of dread flashed through the marshal. “Sire, it’s a trick! You cannot do this.”

  The king’s voice cracked with anger. “Osbourne, hold your tongue. This is a king’s decision.”

  The marshal bit back his words, fearing a disaster.

  The king stared at the general. “So the Mordant will fight?”

  The general gave a terse nod. “This afternoon, in three turns of an hourglass, midway between our two armies.”

  “No, it will be here, within sight of the third wall, where all my men can bear witness.”

  The general hesitated but then he agreed. “As you wish.”

  “And the weapons will be swords.”

  “Agreed.”

  “And we’ll fight afoot.”

  “As you say.”

  The king nodded, his face solemn. “Then I call upon the gods to witness this agreement. For the sake of the Octagon, I will meet the Mordant in battle.”

  The general smiled. “So be it.” He began to turn his horse but then stopped. “Oh, the Mordant bade me to give you this.” One of his escorts threw a long bundle wrapped in bloodstained maroon to the ground. “In three turns of the hourglass, the Mordant will meet you in mortal combat. To the victor goes the spoils.” The general turned his horse and put spurs to flanks.

  They watched as the enemy galloped into the north.

  “Sir Abrax, the package.”

  The king turned his mount and they galloped back to the wall. The other captains waited near the campfire. The men pressed close, yearning for news.

  Sir Odis, the champion of the lance, broached the question. “What news, my Lord?”

  But the king ignored him. “Sir Abrax, the package.”

  The king sat by the fire, using a dagger to cut the bindings. The bloodstained cloak fell away revealing a gleam of sapphire blue. The king’s breath caught. “My son’s sword.” He lifted the great sword, “Mordbane!” a sheen of blood still coated the blade.

  A hushed silence fell on the men.

  The marshal took a deep breath. “Sire, the sword is a weapon aimed at your heart. More proof of the Mordant’s treachery.”

  Rage smoldered in the king’s green eyes. “He mocks me by returning Ulrich’s sword. As if it has no value.”

  “Sire, he seeks to cloud your judgment. By returning the sword he goads you to battle. He goads you to rage. I implore you, for the sake of the Octagon, do not accept these terms.”

  “For the sake of the Octagon, what else am I to do?” The king rounded on the marshal, a spray of spittle flying from his mouth. “Would you have me hide behind my men, letting his army slaughter us to a man? Or should I take this chance, this one chance, to wrest victory from the Mordant?” The king glared, his mailed hands balled into fists. “It’s not just the fate of the Octagon at stake. Nay, the fate of the entire southern kingdoms lies at risk. You’re the knight marshal of the Octagon. Can you see another way to victory? Can you?”

  The marshal had no answer.

  “This is an offer I cannot refuse. Not and keep my honor.” The king’s voice turned winter cold. “Or do you doubt my skill at arms?”

  Aghast, the marshal shook his head, “Sire, no, never that.”

  “The Mordant is not trained as a knight, nor does he wield a blue sword. He will not stand against me.”

  “Not in a fair fight, no.” The marshal struggled to put his fear into words. “Sire, I cannot believe the Mordant will take the risk. Since when does the Dark Deceiver fight from the front?”

  The king’s gaze narrowed.

  The marshal pressed the attack. “Sire, there’s some trick here that we do not understand.”

  “Enough!” The king’s voice carried a cold rage. “It is done. I’ve given my word. In three hours time, I will meet the Mordant in single combat.” A gasp of awe rippled through the men. “As the gods are my witness, I shall slay the Mordant, claiming victory for the Octagon and vengeance for my sons. So help me, Valin.”

  The marshal bowed before the king’s will. “May the gods make it so,” but in his heart, he feared the Mordant’s treachery.

  56

  Blaine

  It took the better part of the day for Kath to recover. She asked a torrent of questions, while ravenously devouring their meager stores. “Tell me again about the hellhounds.”

  So Blaine told her everything while Bear and Boar sat nearby, urging her to eat. He told her a tale of running during the mornings, sleeping in the afternoon, and then fighting all night. The hardest part was explaining the hounds’ fiendish cleverness, how they always waited till the men were bone weary and how they used diversions, hunting as a pack. And then he told her about Torven’s idea to use the dead hides to ambush the hounds and about the battle in the moonlight.

  Kath listened hard to every word. When he finished, her face was thoughtful. “I never thought they’d be so many.” She looked at him, a trace of fear in her eyes. “I wonder what other surprises the Mordant has in store?”

  It was a question none of them could answer.

  “Do you think there are more hounds out there?”

  Bear answered. “Most likely.”

  Kath nodded. “Then the battle’s not over.”

  “Svala, we have a gift for you.” Blushing red beneath his blue tattoos, Bear nudged a large leather pack toward Kath, a pack he’d carried all the way from the Ghost Hills.

  “A gift?” Kath smiled, her face a mixture of surprise and pleasure.

  Bear nodded, gesturing to Boar. “We traded for it. We thought it might be yours.”

  “Mine?” Kath pulled the pack toward her, fumbling with the buckles.

  The other warriors crowded close, come to watch Kath.

  She opened the pack and gasped, pulling out a small octagonal shield, the same shield she’d borne from Cragnoth Keep, the one they’d abandoned after the battle on the steppes. “My shield!” Blaine marveled how her face lit up, as if someone had given her the moon.

  Bear said, “It was badly battered, but Gren has a way with fixing shields.”

  She ran her hands across the polished wood. “My thanks.”

  The big man blushed. “There’s more, Svala.”

  Kath reached into the pack and removed a chainmail shirt. The tightly woven links flashed silvery bright in the morning light, a small shirt, suited to a squire or a girl. “My mail shirt! I never thought to see this again.”

  Blaine gaped in surprise, amazed that the big warrior had carried the extra weight all the way from the Ghost Hills.

  Bear nodded, his face solemn. “It was scavenged from a battlefield where more than a hundred of the enemy lay slain.” He dipped his head toward her. “The same battlefield that brought you to us.”

  Kath shrugged the chainmail over her head. It fit like a tailored shirt, a bright gleam of silver.

  Blaine’s breath caught. He’d seen her in mail before but somehow this was different. In the depths of the Mordant’s domain, she suddenly seemed like a warrior princess touched by the gods. But then the clouds dimmed the sun and the spell was broken.

  Kath ambushed Bear with a hug. The big blond warrior flamed bright red. And then she did the same to Boar, settling a quick kiss on his tattooed cheek. “You both have my thanks.”

  The others hooted and laughed, making good-natured sport of the two men.

  Bear and Boar looked away, their faces crimson, but then Bear said, “There’s one more thing.”

  “Something else?” Kath reached
into the pack and then her face turned solemn, tinged with sadness. She pulled forth a knight’s maroon cloak. “This is not mine, never mine.”

  “But Svala, is not maroon the color of Castlegard? And are you not born of the great castle?”

  She smoothed her hand along the cloak’s soft wool, a wistful look on her face. “Yes, but a maroon cloak must be earned. It is a high honor, a mark of knighthood.” Her voice caught. “And never meant for the likes of me.”

  Blaine watched how she fingered the cloak, the look of longing etched on her face, and he thought of the many times she’d stood against the enemy, daring to come north while so many knights stayed safe behind stone walls. He found himself standing, taking the cloak from her hands. “Rise, Katherine of Castlegard.”

  She stared up at him, a look of wonder on her face, and then she stood, her lower lip trembling.

  “Most knights earn their maroon cloaks in the Octagon Trials,” Blaine did not know where the words came from but they felt right, “but you’ve earned yours in true combat. There can be no better way to earn a maroon cloak.” Swirling the cloak, he settled it across her shoulders. “Wear it well.”

  Pride shown from her sea-green eyes, pride and astonishment.

  And then Blaine knelt. “Katherine of Castlegard.”

  All around, the painted warriors knelt, their voices raised to a shout. “Svala! Lead us to victory!”

  She stared at them, as if memorizing every face, and then she unsheathed her sword and raised it to the heavens. “For the Light!”

  “For the Light!” The men echoed her cry. Weapons raised, they danced around her as if victory was assured.