“Fly free, little brother.” She made the words a prayer. Mara watched till the clouds swallowed the dark bird and then she knelt to claim the pebble. Just a small gray stone till she noticed the symbol etched on one side. Her fingers traced the carving. She couldn’t read but every slave knew the symbol for rebellion. Her heartbeat quickened. She turned it over and saw three scores on the other side, a message from the gods.
Elated, she rushed to the nearest knot of people. “Do you see it?”
Three of them held pebbles. They all bore the same markings.
Mara smiled, “It’s a message from the gods!” Rumors started this way, but she didn’t care. She found herself running, suddenly fleet of foot, all the way to the large hut that served the council of elders. A small crowd had already gathered, a murmur of voices in the muddy lane. Shrugging the basket from her shoulders, she wormed her way to the front. A single guard blocked the doorway, a big man with a Taal’s sloped forehead. He looked intimidating but Mara knew him from childhood. “Braith, let me in!”
He shook his head and stamped his foot. “No one passes.”
Standing on tiptoes, she whispered in his ear. “Uncle Elswin asked for me.”
Braith grinned a lack-wit’s smile. “Okay, just you.”
She slipped through the doorway, always surprised by the sudden warmth. A dung fire glowed in the center of a large circular room, the smoke rising to the peaked roof. The elders took their ease around the circular hearth, leaning on pillows, sipping cups of cha served by a handful of women. Thirteen elders ruled the slums, all of them men, their hair respectable shades of silver, gray, or white.
Mara clung to the shadows, slipping along the wall till she reached her great uncle, the only one she dared approach. She crept forward to kneel by his side. “Honored Uncle,” she kept her voice to a hushed whisper, her head bent in respect, “I have something you should see.”
He turned towards her, a rounded face framed by a wealth of silver hair. A necklace of polished red beads hung from his shoulders, the symbol of his council seat. “Mara, child, you should be working.” He reached out to caress her cheek with a six-fingered hand. “You’ve a pleasing face but you disturb the council chambers all too often.”
“But Honored Uncle, you must see this.” She pressed the pebble into his hand. “Stones are falling from the sky. It’s a sign from the gods.”
“What?” Surprise flitted across his face. “You bring me a pebble?”
She struggled to contain her excitement. “I bring you a message! All the stones bear the same symbol!”
He fingered the pebble, a flash of annoyance on his face. “You bother me with nonsense.”
“No!” She fought to keep her voice a whisper. “A rain of stones fell from the sky, all bearing the same message! It’s a message from the gods! They mean for us to follow the words of the prophet, to rise up and claim our freedom.”
“Quiet!” His voice hissed. “Talk of treason will get us all hung from the Stones.” He dropped the pebble as if it had stung him. “Forget this nonsense. It took a fist full of favors to get you a dung sellers’ basket. Now get back to work before you lose your place.”
She shook her head, baffled by his disbelief. “But I saw you in the crowds. You heard the prophet. Everyone knows Clovis had the third-eye. And now stones fall from the sky, giving proof to his words!”
He pounced, grabbing her arm, pulling her close, the smell of rancid milk on his breath. “You little fool.” His face twisted to an ugly sneer. “Dung falls from the sky! Do you name that a miracle?” His long fingernails bit into her flesh. “Now be gone, or you’ll find yourself chained in the brothels, nothing more than a broodmare for soldiers.”
Horror pierced her heart, wakening her deepest fear. Snatching up the pebble, she scuttled backwards, fleeing the cruelty of his gaze. Desperate to be gone, she fled to the doorway, but the entrance was clogged with people, a barefoot mob chanting for answers. “Lead us! Free us!”
Braith struggled to open a space, his towering bulk pressed against the mob. “No one passes.” He waved his arms like clubs, forcing the crowd from the doorway.
Spying an opening, Mara ducked beneath his arms. Clutching the pebble, she joined the crowd, just another dirty face in a sea of brown. The crowd’s chant beat against her, waking the anger in her soul. “Lead us! Free us!” The chant rolled through the people like a rumble of thunder.
Movement at the council doorway. A space cleared and her uncle emerged, his hair glinting silver in the sunlight, his necklace of red stones adding authority to his broad shoulders. He raised his hands for silence, six fingers spread wide on each hand, proving to the people that he was one of them.
An expectant hush settled over the crowd.
Mara shuffled to the left, anxious to see, but not to be seen.
“Be calm, my friends,” her uncle wore a paternal smile. “Return to your work. All is well.”
“But the stones!” A tall man near the front dared to argue. “Surely it’s a sign from the gods!”
A murmur rose from the crowd.
Her uncle raised his hands for quiet. “Think, my friends. Everything that comes from above does so by the will of our overlords.” The crowd began to protest, but her uncle shouted above the murmur. “Hear me! The stones are a test devised by the priests! A way of sorting the rebellious from the loyal.”
Mara gaped, knowing it was a bold-faced lie. “Ravens brought the stones.” It was only a whisper, but others repeated her words, an undercurrent of hope threading through the crowd.
Other councilmen emerged to stand behind her uncle, a show of authority. “Do not be deceived by the stones! Return to work and all will be well.”
A dark-haired woman raised her voice in protest. “But what of the words of the prophet? Clovis had the sight! And now the gods have given us a sign!”
Anger flashed across her uncle’s face. “Clovis died on the Stones and the gods did nothing. Don’t be misled by false prophets.” He glared at the crowd like an angry father disciplining a wayward child. “You have a duty to yourselves and your families. Life in the Pit is simple. You work and you eat. You work and you stay warm. You work and you live.” He waved his arms in dismissal. “Be gone from here. Forget the stones and return to work before the soldiers come to claim the rebellious.”
Mara stared at her uncle with fresh eyes. For the first time she noticed all the councilmen wore boots. Boots! Cold mud oozed between her toes, a reminder of her station in life. She realized the overlords set the councilmen apart from the people. Coddled by luxury, the council would never heed the gods’ call. Mara stared at the pebble, flipping it from one side to the other, rebellion in three. But three what? And then she understood. Three nights till the dark of the moon, the perfect time for an uprising. The meaning burned with certainty in her heart, proving the truth of the message.
The council retreated to their chambers and the crowd began to thin. Most shuffled away with their heads bent, yoked once more to the will of the overlords, but a few knots of discontent remained.
Rebellions grew in the shadow of misery. Mara smiled, gripping the pebble in her fist. She’d seen the raven and she understood the message. Perhaps a pretty face could sway others to the truth. She tucked her blond hair behind her ears and moved toward the nearest knot of conspirators. Three days to make a difference, she swore to the gods she’d not be counted among the sheep.
59
The Knight Marshal
Three hours to prepare for mortal combat, yet the king seemed at ease, passing the time with his captains. The marshal sat at the king’s right hand, sharing meat and mead by the fire’s warmth. They supped on a light meal of roast ham, hard biscuits, and bread pudding, the best their meager stores could provide. Baldwin fussed over the king’s armor, making sure every belt and buckle was secure, but there was no need to sharpen the king’s sword, for blue steel never dulled.
King Ursus was in high spirits, regaling the me
n with tales of heroes from the Octagon’s past. All the heroes triumphed, vanquishing their foes with keen swords and dauntless courage. The marshal listened but he could not share the revelry. A feeling of doom pressed down upon him, obsessed with the riddle of the Mordant’s challenge. He stared into the fire but found no answers.
The healer came begging a word, but the king dismissed him and the marshal ignored him. Neither man could stomach more words of warning.
All too soon, the time was gone. The marshal claimed the honor of armoring the king. Greaves and gauntlets, breastplate and bracers, he made sure each piece was tightened and secure, everything polished to a silvery glow. On the king’s head he placed a crowned helm, and for his left arm, a massive octagonal shield made of stout oak and beaten metal. Few men could wield a great sword and a shield, but the king did it with ease, a boon of blue steel.
Last of all, the marshal reached for the king’s great sword, Honor’s Edge. Five feet of peerless blue steel, the monk’s crystal freshly set in the pommel; it was a mighty blade, a king’s sword, forever honed to a silk-cutting edge.
“Not that sword.” The king’s voice was a low growl. “I’ll take my revenge with Ulrich’s sword, Mordbane.” His voice softened. “The name always seemed a son’s conceit but now it proves prophetic.” His voice hardened. “I’ll wield Mordbane, the perfect sword to claim a blood debt from the Mordant.”
A shiver of foreboding raced down the marshal’s back. “But Sire, for such a fight, you should use your own blade, the sword that best knows your hands.”
“Give me Mordbane, for I’ll use no other.”
The king’s voice was implacable. Bowing, the marshal unsheathed Honor’s Edge, handing the great sword to Baldwin for safe keeping. Retrieving Ulrich’s blue blade, he sheathed the sword and settled the harness across the king’s shoulders.
Finished, the marshal bowed to his lord. “May Valin guide your blade.”
The king smiled and gripped the marshal’s arm, brothers-in-war once more. “Osbourne, guard my back.”
It was the highest praise one warrior could give another. The marshal’s voice caught. “Always, Sire.”
A troop of knights brought the king’s warhorse, Snowmantle, freshly curried and caparisoned in maroon and silver. Such splendid finery was unexpected. The men had clearly scavenged among the other mounts to outfit the stallion in the best the maroon had to offer, a gift for their king.
King Ursus openly admired the stallion and then he swung into the saddle like a man half his age. Unsheathing Mordbane, he raised the sapphire sword to the heavens. “For Honor and the Octagon!”
The men answered with a thunderous roar. “Honor and the Octagon!” They drew their weapons and beat their shields, giving the king a warrior’s acclaim.
As if in reply, a rumble of drums announced the enemy. A dark line appeared on the horizon. A thicket of spears and shields clogged the snow-cloaked valley, yet the horde kept their distance. As before, only six riders approached the Whore, but one was the Mordant. Distinctive in his skeleton armor, he rode a massive black stallion caparisoned in gold. Overhead, the Darkflamme fluttered and snapped like a serpent slithering in the wind, announcing his presence.
The marshal shivered with foreboding, but it was too late for words.
The king rode out to meet them. The marshal and four champions rode at his back, a keen set of weapons protecting their liege, the one precaution the king had agreed to. They stopped fifty yards beyond the wall, waiting for the enemy.
Six men rode toward them...led by the Skeleton King.
His armor glistened with a baleful light. Helm and breastplate, greaves and gauntlets, the silvery armor was patterned to resemble a lich king. The breastplate showed a skeleton’s ribs, the helmet fashioned into a fearsome skull. A whisper of terror spiked the marshal, his gaze shying from the Mordant’s armor. It reeked of wrongness, as if evil were somehow annealed into steel. A sudden queasiness gripped his stomach. A part of him wanted to rip the helm away and judge the enemy by his eyes, but another part expected a red-eyed ghoul to stare from the helm, a living dead encased in armor, a nightmare sprung from the pits of hell. Doubt gnawed at the marshal, as if the king faced an invincible foe. He shuddered and looked away. “Sire, you cannot fight that.”
“I gave my word.” The king swung down from his warhorse, a blaze of silver and maroon.
The marshal’s horse stamped and shied, fighting the bit as the enemy drew near.
Six riders stopped a bowshot away, the Darkflamme snapping overhead. The Mordant dismounted and walked forward alone.
The marshal swung down from his horse and gripped the reins, studying the enemy with veteran eyes. The skeleton helm hid the Mordant’s face but he was most likely the younger man. Quickness and perhaps stamina would be to the Mordant’s advantage, but the king had a lifetime of experience, a seasoned warrior, a master at the sword. And the king stood slightly taller and heftier than the Mordant, giving him the advantage of reach and strength. The Mordant carried no shield, but that was to be expected. Only blue steel allowed a great sword to be wielded in one hand, another advantage to the king. But the skeleton armor proved hard to look at, as if some dark magic ensorcelled it with an aura of dread. Steel against magic, he liked it not. The marshal made the hand sign against evil, sending a desperate prayer to Valin.
The king met the Mordant halfway. Whatever words were exchanged, the marshal could not hear. The combatants moved apart, putting two spear lengths of snowy ground between them.
King Ursus drew his blue sword, a gleam of sapphire in the afternoon light. “For Honor and the Octagon!”
The Mordant remained silent, slowly drawing his sword. The great sword had the same length as the king’s, but the blade was black! Dark as sin, it seemed to swallow the light.
“What sorcery is this?” The marshal’s words were a hiss.
Beside him, Sir Rannock growled, “We swore not to interfere.”
The marshal ground his teeth, “Sorcery was not part of the bargain!” but the battle was already joined. The king sprang forward, attacking with an overhand cut. The sapphire sword sliced down with a deadly whistle, a mighty overhand cleave, but the Mordant glided sideways, evading the blue sword. Pivoting, the king chased his opponent with a powerful diagonal cut, but once again the Mordant slipped away, almost as if he anticipated the king’s moves. Attack and evade, the battle fell into a maddening rhythm.
“He’s toying with him, trying to wear the king down.”
“But look at his footwork, the bastard glides like a veteran.”
And it was true, the Mordant fought like a seasoned knight. The marshal’s mind screamed a warning, yet he could only watch.
Stroke and evade, they circled like a pair of scorpions wary of each other’s sting. The king’s footwork began to slow, and the Mordant leaped to the attack. The black blade slashed down in an overhand cut. The king was quick to parry. For the first time, the two blades met in a fearsome clash…but the sound was wrong. Instead of a metallic clang, the swords loosed an ear-shattering screech.
Blue steel screamed in pain! The sound scrapped across the marshal’s soul.
The king staggered backwards, but then he recovered, aiming a fury of blows at the Mordant’s head. The black blade parried each blow…and each time the steel screamed.
The combatants broke apart, slowly circling, testing with a series of feints. Fatigue slowed their footsteps, but both kept their swords raised. It seemed as if both men waited for an opening, but then the king did something unexpected. He hurled his shield at the Mordant, making him stumble. Leaping forward, the king attacked with a mighty two-handed blow, a great overhand cleave. Keening a deadly whistle, the sapphire sword descended like righteous vengeance. The blow should have cut the Mordant in two, but somehow the Skeleton King raised his dark sword. Black steel parried the blue blade, releasing a deafening screech.
And then the king’s blade broke.
Blue steel shea
red in half! Ulrich’s sword failed!
The marshal gaped in horror. “Impossible!”
The king staggered to a stop, staring at his broken sword, little more than a hilt in his hands.
The Mordant attacked, sending a vicious cut to the king’s head.
Weaponless, the king jerked backward, trying to avoid the blow…and then he tripped and fell. The Mordant leaped forward. Placing his boot on the king’s chest, he held him at sword point. The Mordant removed his helm. “Behold the man who claims the life of a king! Vengeance is mine this day!”
The marshal gasped for he knew the face. Not a ghoul, not a lich, but a man with broken octagons branded deep into his cheeks, Raymond, the traitor-knight of Castlegard. The marshal’s great sword leaped to his hand as if it belonged there. Rage drove him forward, a scream of defiance on his lips. “No!”
The traitor lifted the black sword in a two-handed grip, the tip held poised above the king’s chest.
The marshal redoubled his speed, desperate to save the king.
The black blade plunged down. An unstoppable force, it sliced through steel and leather, flesh and bone. The king screamed as if burnt.
“NO!” Two strides and the marshal swung. His great sword took the traitor at his throat, cleaving the head from the body. Blood gushed from the severed throat. Headless, the skeleton staggered for two steps and then crumpled to a bloody heap.
The marshal glared at the Mordant’s guards and they chose to flee rather than fight, running for the enemy’s lines.
A great shout rose from both armies, but the marshal did not care. He knelt by his king, grief struck. “My lord!”
The king still lived, clutching the dark blade embedded in his chest, but it was a mortal blow, and they both knew it.
A sob broke from the marshal. “My lord, they lied, it was not the Mordant.”
The king’s eyes locked on his. “Sound…retreat.”
The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga) Page 46