Laughing, Kath moved among them, offering a word and a smile. And just for a moment, she reminded Blaine of the king.
But then her laughter changed and she looked at him, an impish grin on her face. “It’s too long!” She lifted the cloak and pivoted. More than a foot of maroon dragged on the ground.
Blaine shared her laughter. “Let me.” He cut a notch in the wool and then tore a wide swath from the bottom. He handed it to her. “Better?”
“Better.” But then her face changed, like quicksilver, suddenly growing solemn. She stared at the men around her and they caught her mood, becoming quiet.
A hush settled over the warriors, a gleam of expectation in their eyes.
“You’ve all shown your valor, daring to fight the hellhounds instead of retreating, keeping me safe while the magic claimed me.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Will you share my pride and wear my colors?”
A resounding, “Yes!” echoed from every man.
They crowded close, watching as Kath cut thin strips from the cloak’s remnant. Bear was first. The big man insisted that Kath tie the maroon strip around the bulging muscles of his right arm. Boar and Torven came next. One at a time, they accepted the strips of wool as if they were symbols of valor…or holy talismans.
Blaine stood aside, watching their faces. With a strip of cloth, Kath claimed them for her own, a troop of warriors who’d fight to the death, no matter the odds. And he marveled again at what a mere girl could do.
57
Blaine
Running, always running, they pressed on, into the steppes. For five grueling nights they played cat and mouse with the gore hounds. On moonlit nights, they became the cat, hunting the hounds. On cloud-shrouded nights, they stayed in a defensive hedgehog, fending off the beasts. But even on cloudy nights, they fought back, for the mice had gained fangs. Kath changed their tactics, putting the slingers inside a ring of swords. When the hounds came hunting, the slingers cast stones at any sound, confident they’d not strike a companion. After five nights of fighting, the hounds came no more.
“Do you think we’ve finished them?” Kath nudged a dead hound with her boot, pulling her throwing axe from the beast’s ugly maw.
Blaine shrugged, his sword held at the ready. “Either they’re all dead or they’ve learned to fear us.”
“Let’s hope they’re dead, else Danya and the others will have a tough time of it.” She stared up at the waning crescent. “Three more nights till the dark of the moon,” she gave him a wolfish grin, yet he could see her worry in every line of her body. “It’s past time we caught a glimpse of the Dark Citadel.”
The Dark Citadel, the name alone conjured nightmares, a bastion of evil. Blaine wiped the gore from his sword and sheathed it. “When we came north I never truly believed we’d attack the Mordant’s lair.”
“Nor I, but we’ve gained allies, just as the monks said.”
“But will it be enough?”
She stared at him and he saw the nightmares crowding her eyes. “It has to be.”
“You think Duncan is there.”
Kath made the barest of nods, but then she looked away, her voice a whisper. “He has to be there…else he’s dead.”
He wanted to say something reassuring but the words eluded him.
Torven found them, keen eyes staring from an eagle’s face. “Time to leave before the ravens find us. Shall we head for the citadel?”
Kath nodded. “It’s time.”
They ran across the frozen north, the morning sun rising at their backs. Kath kept pace beside him, her throwing axes strapped to her back, the small octagonal shield on her left arm, the maroon cloak billowing in the cold wind. Blaine smiled to see the cloak, knowing how much it meant to her. Strange how the impulse had come over him, but then he scowled, wondering what the other knights would say. He doubted the king would approve, or the lord marshal, but such worries were leagues away, as distant as another lifetime.
They settled into a loping run, boots pounding the frozen ground, each breath a plume of frost. Having grown accustom to the pace, Blaine stayed near the front with Torven and the scouts. Of the original eighty men, the hounds had chewed them down to thirty-four swords. The painted warriors paid a steep price for their audacity, yet they never faltered. Their ways were strange, and often unfathomable, but Blaine had come to trust their courage. Hard fighters, tough and stubborn to the core, yet they were wild and undisciplined. He wondered how they’d fair in a real battle against stone walls and trained soldiers. A grim laugh bubbled out of him. They ran towards the citadel. He’d soon know the answer, for better or worse.
Torven led them out of the grasslands and into fallow fields, a flat crust of snow stretching in every direction. The fields surprised Blaine. Somehow he didn’t think of the Mordant as ruling a bunch of farmers, yet he supposed they had to eat.
Just before noon, Torven called a halt. Weary from running, they dropped to the ground, spreading bedrolls across the frozen field. Blaine stayed close to Kath, chewing strips of dried horsemeat and handfuls of dried berries. No one bothered to talk. He finished the meager meal and crawled into his bedroll, falling fast asleep.
All too soon, someone shook him awake. Blaine lunged for his sword but a whisper stayed his hand. “Time to run.” Groaning, Blaine stretched and made his toilet, and then they were running again, across the fields and into the setting sun.
The crimson sunset drew them west like an ill omen, and then he saw it. A black fist jutted up into the bloody sky, rampant and strong, a malevolent fortress bristling with battlements. The Dark Citadel, the name thundered through Blaine’s mind like a curse. With each stride it loomed larger. Somehow seeing it was far worse than anything he’d imagined. As much a city as a fortress, tiers of dark stone wrapped around a massive monolith. He’d expected a simple walled city guarded by a castle, not this monstrous beehive of stone. The citadel’s dark ramparts defied his worst nightmares. Blaine shuddered, refusing to think how many soldiers lurked within its walls. “We’re going to take that?” The question burst out of him, but no one answered.
Torven signaled and they dropped flat onto the frozen land. “We dare not draw closer. Not till darkness falls.”
Hiding beneath their sheepskin cloaks, they appeared nothing more than a smudge of cream against the snowy expanse. Blaine and Kath huddled on either side of Torven, studying the citadel from afar. Still leagues away, yet the details of the mighty fortress were clear as daylight. Blaine counted nine rings of battlements stretching toward the clouds, no telling how many men walked those dark walls, or what weapons lay in wait, catapults, trebuchets, and other engines of war. A host of warnings whispered through his mind, reminding him that this was the lair of the Mordant. Beneath his sheepskin, he made the hand sign against evil. A fear deeper than swords gripped him. If the legends proved true, then the Mordant was a master of magic. Dark magic, weapons he couldn’t even begin to imagine. Back in the caverns, he’d agreed with Kath’s plan, naming it bold and imaginative, but in the shadow of the citadel it seemed insane, a vain conceit run amok. Riddled with doubt, he stared at Kath. “How in the nine hells are we going take that?”
Her voice was calm, not a hint of fear, but her eyes told another story, shadowed with worry. “It all depends on how many men the Mordant took south. The fact that we haven’t run across a patrol is a good sign. He left the gore hounds but I’m betting he took most of the men south.
“You’re betting with our lives.”
“I know, but it’s our best chance.” She met his gaze. “Remember, no matter the numbers, we’re counting on deception and surprise to win the day. Danya will provide the deception, and this,” she pulled her stone gargoyle from beneath her chainmail shirt, “will provide the surprise.”
Blaine’s frustration boiled over. “But your plan is all sleight of hand, a house of straw! Once we’re inside those walls, we could face a hundred thousand men or more! The odds are staggering!”
�
�We take the north gate…and then we hope the people rise and fight.” She stared at him, as if willing him to believe. “We seek surrender not a bloodbath.”
Surrender! He nearly spat the word. Surrender was the wet dream of every commander who’d ever lived, yet it seemed to Blaine that it rarely happened, especially when the enemy held the walls. And these walls were formidable. He bit his lip and kept his doubt to himself. “What are those things over there?” Five leagues to the east of the citadel, a series of wooden towers reared into the sky like malformed dragons.
Torven answered. “That’s the lip of the Pit.”
“The Pit?”
Torven scowled. “It’s the worst of the Mordant’s domain, worse than any dungeon. Those wooden structures lower cages down into the Pit, the only way in or out.” He pointed to the left of the towers. “And over there are the soldiers’ barracks, for the Pit guards, and next to them, the stables.” His voice deepened, revealing a touch of pride. “Come the dark, Fanggold will lead a war party against the barracks when Danya brings the others.”
Blaine prayed the wolf-faced leader brought enough men to take the barracks, else they’d have swords at their back as well as in front. One mistake and Kath’s plan would turn into a deadly trap. His gaze was drawn to the citadel. He brooded on the tiers of dark battlements, ramparts nested within ramparts. Like a Castlegard of the north, it seemed a daunting task, nigh on impossible. His stare slid toward Kath. “Still time to change your mind?”
She shook her head, a stubborn look on her face. “This is our best hope, our one chance to strike a blow against the Dark. It must be done now, while the Mordant marches south.”
Conviction filled her voice, yet it did not ease his doubts. It seemed to Blaine that too much depended on luck and magic. He’d rather put his trust in good solid steel.
“Look over there!” It was Bear, pointing toward the east. A dark smudge flew through the twilight. Like an errant storm cloud, it flew straight for the Pit.
“Danya’s done it.” Kath’s voice rang with a mixture of relief and pride. “She’s called the ravens!”
A flock of ten thousand ravens bore down on the Pit. Blaine shivered beneath his cloak. “It’s unnatural.” He couldn’t help sketching the hand sign against evil. The dark cloud circled overhead and dove into the Pit.
The painted warriors shared a grin, laughing and pointing toward the ravens, but Blaine could not share their joy. To him, the ravens had always been an omen of death, the scavengers of the battlefield. “Ravens are the heralds of death. Now the enemy knows we’re coming.”
Kath glared at him, steel in her green gaze. “Only if they know the symbols of slaves. This message is for our friends.”
“Friends?” Blaine barked a laugh. “Depend on the swords you know.”
Kath did not answer. They kept watch on the Pit. The cloud of ravens eventually remerged. Soaring out of the Pit, they circled the citadel. Round and round, they rode the wind, releasing a chorus of caws, and then they turned east, departing in one massive cloud.
Blaine shivered. “No one could ever see that as natural.”
Kath gave him a barbed stare. “Then perhaps they see it as an omen of defeat.”
Blaine looked away.
It took forever for the sun to set. Huddled beneath sheepskins, they shared a scant meal of dried horsemeat and honeyed mead, keeping watch on the citadel. The sun sank in a blaze of colors, gold and red streaking across a winter sky, but the glorious display was fleeting. Darkness descended like an executioner’s axe. Torches appeared on the dark walls. Too many torches, proof the walls were not abandoned. Blaine took the first watch, but doubt gnawed at his mind. In three nights they’d storm the citadel. He couldn’t help but think they were destined for doom.
58
Mara
Mara trudged through the mud, a wicker basket riding on her back. Brown clouds boiled overhead, sealing the Pit like a cauldron’s lid. She glanced up anyway, longing for a glimpse of blue. Every spring she stood in line, desperate for a chit to work the farms, but her face always betrayed her. Youth and beauty chained her to the Pit. She worked on her feet during the day and on her back at night, a miserable existence, but she never stopped longing for a glimpse of sky, for a taste of freedom.
At least she no longer worked in the mines. After the rebellion, her uncle had gotten her work at the dung heap, but still her beauty betrayed her.
“Come and see me tonight.” A guard leered at her, making a poking gesture with his right hand. “Ask for Harit in the barracks of the First Fist.”
She ducked her head and hurried on. “Cursed be the Dark Lord and all those who serve him.” It was only a whisper but the words eased her burning heart.
A hard frost covered the ground but her weight was enough to break the crust. Cold mud oozed between her bare toes, another blight of the Pit. Pulling her cloak close, she trudged through the muck. Mara reached the gates and a familiar guard waved her through. The dung heap was a landmark of the Pit, a brown mountain leaning against the western wall. Shoveled from the stables above, the dung formed a massive brown cone, a scree slope of waste. Old men in tattered rags scurried like beetles across the steep slope, gleaning the dung from the dross. Horse dung was precious in the Pit, the only source of fuel. Strange how the waste from above became the treasure of those below.
A horn blast sounded from above.
Someone screamed a warning.
A brown avalanche fell from the clouds, tumbling down the sheer rock wall. Workers scrambled to avoid the rush. Mara stopped and stared, unable to look away. An old man stumbled and fell, buried beneath the brown slush. Mara closed her eyes, such a terrible way to die.
A guard poked her with his spear butt. “No time to gawk. Those who work, eat.”
Mara lurched forward, following mud-churned footprints. A brown mist clung to the air, the pungent scent of fresh manure. The tumble of waste slowly settled, adding a fresh layer of dung to the mountain. Workers scurried up the slope, hoping to find treasure buried among the dross.
Oblivious to the drama, a dozen old women knelt on the frozen ground, kneading straw into dung. Their hands beat a steady rhythm, forming the mixture into flat patties suitable for cook-fires. Stacks of patties dried in the weak winter sun, worth a small fortune to the overseers. Mara eased the empty basket from her shoulders and bent toward the nearest stack.
A toothless old crone scurried to her side, her back bent, her hands stained brown to her elbows. “Mara let me help.” Thessala touched her hand, the old woman making a deft exchange. Mara risked a quick peek. A small comb carved of bone, only a few teeth missing, nestled in her hand.
Thessala flashed a snaggletoothed smile. “It’s good, isn’t it? Found it yesterday. Some soldier probably carved it for his sweetheart, lost among the stable’s dross.”
Mara slipped the comb into her pocket. “It should fetch a good price, an extra ration at least.” She tucked her blond hair behind her ears and reached for another patty.
The old woman worked beside her, helping to fill the basket. “You’re a good girl, Mara. With your face, you’ll get a good price.”
Her face, a blessing and a curse, but Mara just nodded, knowing the crone meant no harm. Forty patties filled her basket, a seller’s allotment. Mara knelt, slipping her arms through the straps. Bending forward, she slowly rose, taking the full weight on her shoulders, just another beast of burden. She waved to Thessala and trudged toward the gate.
Mud squished between her toes, cold and slippery. One step at a time, she made her rounds, delivering the patties. Two tokens bought a single patty, enough to heat a pot of stew. A few women haggled for a better deal but the price was never hers to set.
Dirty faces peered from mud huts and thatched hovels, everything brown and dreary, a misery that leached into her soul. Nothing ever changed in the Pit…except for him, the man with the mismatched eyes, the one who’d dared to start a rebellion. She’d helped him in the mine,
and helped herself to revenge. Her fist tightened, remembering the feel of the dagger, the sweet nectar of justice, but the rebellion was short-lived. She didn’t even know his name…but she’d never forget his face, or the way he’d made her feel, like a woman with choices instead of chattel. At least she no longer served in the mine, gaining a dung sellers’ basket by the grace of her great uncle, but she never forgot that brief taste of rebellion. A shame the gods didn’t favor the uprising. Six men condemned to death, the soldiers hung them from the standing stones, a lesson for others. She’d kept vigil in the crowd, needing to witness their fates. The man with the mismatched eyes remained stoic in his pain, but the others began to talk, especially Clovis, calling the people to rebellion. His words kindled a fire in her heart. She’d sought out the council of elders, adding her voice to the others, begging them to rise up. But old men are slow to action, debating while brave men died.
A shadow fell across her face. The standing stones stood empty, the rotting bodies finally put to rest, but the call of rebellion still roiled in her heart. She leaned against the stone, wondering if the gods ever listened.
Something hard struck the back of her head.
She whirled to find the culprit…but no one was there.
Suspicious, she waited.
A stone clattered against the standing stones.
Astonished, Mara stared skyward. Another pebble fell from the sky. Piercing the thick brown clouds, it bounced and skittered, landing in the mud. A stone from the sky. And then she saw another. She stared open-mouthed.
The sky rained stones.
People emerged from their huts to stare. A hail of pebbles clattered into the Pit, a brief storm and then it was over.
Dark wings glided down from the clouds. Mara’s breath caught at the rare sight. A single raven soared in a circle and then came to land at her feet. It dropped a pebble and then glared up at her, as if expecting something. “Caw!” Feathers ruffled, it stared at her with smoke-colored eyes. “Caw! Caw!” Dark wings stretched wide and the raven took flight, beating for the sky.
The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga) Page 45