They milled on their horses, staring up at him, shock writ large across their faces, yet they waited for a single name to be proclaimed. But he had nothing to give them. Instead he said, “Time to honor our king. He earned a hero’s cairn.”
The others bowed their heads in acceptance.
The marshal shot the healer a silencing glare.
They washed the king and bound his wounds. One last time, the marshal armored his lord, greaves and gorget, bracers and helm. They laid him on the crest of the hill, where he could keep watch over Raven Pass. The marshal arranged the king’s maroon cloak so it covered the hideous rent in his breastplate. King Ursus looked as if he slept, his skin as pale as alabaster, yet he would never again wield a sword or lead the maroon into battle. Grief choked the marshal’s throat.
They raised a cairn of stones over him, working late into the night. The healer offered to help but the marshal sent him away, keeping the honor for the maroon.
Working in silence, they scavenged stones from the hillside. The marshal set the last stone on the shoulder-high cairn. A great sadness descended upon him. There should have been trumpets and drums and a long recitation of honors, but there were only four knights and a squire attending the grave. The marshal drew his sword in a final salute. A ring of steel came from the others. He raised his sword to the heavens. “For Honor and the Octagon!”
The others echoed his cry. “Honor and the Octagon!”
The marshal stood at the head of the cairn, remembering his king. “Here lies Ursus Anvril, a valiant king, a staunch warrior, a man of honor, he gave his life defending the southern kingdoms, the last great king of the Octagon.”
He felt the other’s stares but he had no more words to give. One at a time, they sheathed their weapons and bowed toward the cairn and then they drifted away, but the marshal kept vigil with his lord. Twining his gloved hands around his sword hilt, he stood guard over the cairn, watching the stars span the winter sky. The world seemed a lonely place, impossibly empty without his king.
Something white glided through the trees. Silent as a ghost, it came to rest just beyond the cairn. “Whoooo?” A giant frost owl stared up at him, golden eyes glowing in the faint starlight. The owl seemed to ripple and stretch and then a blue-robed monk stood in its place.
The marshal staggered back a step. “So it’s true!” The monk looked older, dark rings beneath his eyes, more than a touch of gray feathering his long hair.
“My sorrow for your loss.” The monk gestured to the cairn. “It seems I’ve come too late. But perhaps all is not lost.” Aeroth raised his right hand, palm held outward, revealing the blue tattoo of a Seeing Eye. “For the third time, I come bearing warnings to the Octagon. The king has fallen and shadows threaten all of Erdhe. Time grows short. Will you listen?”
The marshal gripped his sword, suddenly realizing all the decisions were now his to bear. “Speak your words.”
“A great king dies without naming an heir.”
The marshal gasped, the meddling monks knew too much.
But Aeroth gave him no time to respond. “It is best if the Octagon remains headless.”
“Why?”
“So that the Mordant’s gaze is kept elsewhere, away from the rightful heir.”
His mind seemed to be stuffed with wool. “The rightful heir?”
The monk gave him a piercing stare. “Katherine of Castlegard.”
He gaped to hear the name. “Just a girl.” But sometimes he wondered, ever since the battle at Cragnoth Keep, but it could not be, it went against everything he believed. “Just a girl.”
“The king’s trueborn daughter, born and bred to the sword, yet she is far more than just a warrior.”
A girl wielding a sword, the image was unsettling. “Why does the octagon crown matter to you?”
“It matters to Erdhe.”
Anger boiled within him. “So now the truth is revealed. Your Order is nothing but a bunch of bloody kingmakers.”
The monk shrugged, but the intensity of his gaze never lessened. “We’ve been called worse.” He gestured to the cairn. “One age is ended but another begins. Born of blood and deceit, the new age threatens to be full of Darkness unless a few dare to make a difference.” The monk stared at him, as if peering into his very soul. “Will you dare to be among the few?”
“I’ll hear your words but I’ll make no promises”
“My Order takes the long view. Unlike the king, you know our warnings are worth heeding.”
The marshal waited, unwilling to answer.
“Name no heir, at least for now.”
He could have laughed, or cried, for he had no heir to name. For the thousandth time this night, he wished the king had spoken a name, just one name, any name, taking the awful weight from his shoulders. “I’ll wait…for now.”
The monk nodded, his face solemn. “And be wary of the dark sword, for it is not meant for the hands of men.” And then the monk was shifting, blurring, changing, till a giant frost owl took wing into the night.
“Wait! I have questions.” But the owl was already gone, soaring over the treetops.
The marshal swayed on his feet, suddenly struck with a profound weariness. Too much had happened this day, too much loss, too much pain. The night tightened around him, dark and cold and quiet…and full of loneliness.
Torchlight glimmered in the valley below. A river of torches moved south, too many to count. The enemy rallied, claiming Raven Pass. The way was open to the south, nothing to stop the Mordant’s hordes. The Octagon had failed.
Defeat, the word tasted sour in his mind. Weary and disheartened, the marshal leaned on his sword, standing guard over the cairn. His king was gone and the world had changed. His soul rang with sadness. Perhaps the monk had the truth of it. Perhaps it was a new age, full of magic and darkness, full of tricks and deceit, but for the sake of his king, he would not give up. He raised his sword to the night sky and made his pledge before the king’s cairn. “For Honor and the Octagon!” And it seemed the mountains echoed his cry, as if the gods accepted his word. Perhaps honor and valor still mattered in a world turned dark. The marshal clung to the hope, for it was all he had left.
64
Katherine
The fighting was fierce, a brutal plod through the cobblestone streets. The Dark Citadel proved a stone beehive full of stinging traps. Each level was guarded by a gate and each gate marked a different battle, a logjam of death, yet the fighting never seemed to end.
Corpses littered the street, the dead mingled with the dying. They left a bloody trail behind them, racing the ever-tightening death spiral toward the clouds. Resistance stiffened as they neared the top. Kath supposed the wealthy had more to lose but she refused to be bogged down in a siege. Urging her men forward, she used her magic to take most of the gates, but each level grew harder, weariness sapping her strength.
The numbers of her army waxed and waned with each spiral. Painted warriors fell in battle and brown-robed citizens emerged from houses to take up their swords. Kath led a wild-eyed swarm of tattooed warriors and starving urchins bent on vengeance. Her makeshift army stormed ever upward like a force of nature refusing to be denied. They showed no mercy. Even if she wanted to, Kath could not have stopped them. Every priest was doomed to death, torn to shreds by the mob, their grisly heads mounted on pikes like war trophies. Kath assumed they’d earned their fate, that evil begat evil, but the gory heads seemed like an ill omen, a barbarous act mocking the goodwill of the gods. She sent a swift prayer to Valin, hoping she never lost his favor.
Dawn streaked the eastern sky and still they fought.
Weariness assaulted her. Exhaustion became a second enemy, yet they dared not stop lest the soldiers regroup. Tired beyond the telling, Kath rounded the final bend, shocked to realize they’d reached the last gate. “Of course it’s gold.” Tall and imposing, the golden gates portrayed scenes of evil, cities destroyed, people enslaved, a fitting entrance to the palace of the Mordant.
Beside her, Blaine leaned on his blue sword, blood spatters marring his silver surcoat. “Can you?”
Kath shook her head. Countless passages through the dark walls had taken their toll. “I dare not, not without rest. My magic is spent. If I enter the wall I will not leave it.”
Blaine nodded. “Then we’ll do it the old fashioned way.” He raised his voice in command. “Bring the ram!”
A dozen burly warriors carried the crossbeam from the last gate. The massive beam served as a makeshift ram. Her painted warriors raised scavenged shields above the ram, forming a protective shell of gold and black. Like an armored turtle, the ram bore down on the golden gate. Spears and crossbow bolts rained death from the wall but they could not slow the turtle. Bristling with feathered bolts, the ram barreled toward the gate.
Beside her, Blaine whispered, “Almost there!”
But the sense of victory eluded her.
Once, twice, thrice, the ram knocked against the golden gates. A great boom echoed through the street. And then the ram broke through. The golden doors buckled and broke. The way was open. They’d breached the last tier, reaching the palace of the Mordant.
A great cheer swept through her army. With a roar, they rushed forward, eager to claim the ultimate prize, but Kath entered with dread, all of her nightmares crowding close.
The gates opened onto a vast circular courtyard. A royal palace dominated the far side, like nothing Kath had ever seen. Gilded steps led to a great crescent-shaped palace adorned with golden columns and black marble. Grand and imposing, it reeked of power and opulence. Kath wondered what horrors lurked within.
Steel clanged against steel. Small battles raged across the courtyard, pockets of guards making a desperate stand, but they were soon cut down. Her army swept across the yard like a tidal wave, an unstoppable force bent on victory.
Kath followed at a measured pace, her sword in her hand, Bear and Boar at her back. And then she noticed the detail beneath her feet. Dark runes marred the silvery granite. Carved from black marble and inset in gray granite, the runes spiraled inward toward the courtyard’s heart, like a trail of dark magic, a curse writ in stone. The runes seemed to writhe with evil, daring her to read them, a dark incantation waiting to be woken. She followed the runes, drawn toward the center. At the heart of the runic spiral, the peak of a dark monolith thrust up through the courtyard like a primal force. And on the side of that monolith was a doorway, a dark cleft in the stone.
Kath shuddered in fear. She’d seen that doorway in the worst of her nightmares. It called to her like a fate that could not be escaped.
She crossed the courtyard, oblivious to the fighting.
A wounded soldier reared up in her path, a sword in his hand, an ugly leer on his face. “You’re mine, witch.”
“Svala!” Bear leaped in front, crossing swords with the soldier.
A hand grabbed her ankle, but Boar attacked, severing the grip.
Swords clashed across the courtyard, yet she did not care. Kath walked passed, drawn toward the doorway. She entered the cleft, a chill spearing her soul. Steep stairs spiraled down, torches lining the rough-hewn walls. The very air reeked of evil.
Blaine called to her, but she did not answer.
She took the stairs two at a time. Cold and dank, the shadows flitted around her like swarms of bats. Sensing steel would be of little use; she sheathed her sword and reached for the amber pyramid. Light glowed in her mind like a shield. Down and around, the stairs delved deep, as if she descended to the very pits of hell. Even the air tried to strangle her, so thick with evil she nearly choked. Fighting her own dread, she raced down the steps, desperate to prove her nightmares wrong.
Footsteps followed behind, a fading echo. Friend or foe she did not know, but she could not wait. A bonfire of urgency burned through her blood. Kath raced the darkness into the depths.
Down and around she followed the last spiral, and then the stairs opened to a small chamber. A massive copper door blocked the way. Two guards startled alert. Bristling with spears, they leaped toward her. But Kath never slowed. She reached for her axes, two whirls of death. The guards died where they stood, clattering to the stone floor.
Kath stood before the Door.
Incised with runes, the great copper door was green with age. Round like a portal, it reeked of time and death and evil, a prelude to nightmares. Kath gripped the amber pyramid, wondering if she dared even touch the rune-covered copper.
The Door shuddered open.
Moving of its own accord, it gaped like an invitation…or the maw of a trap. A rotting stench poured out, the smell of sulphur and blood and death, a taunt of fear. Kath whispered a prayer to Valin and then plunged through the Door.
She entered a cavern carved from nightmares. Red stalactites hung from the vaulted ceiling like drops of frozen blood. Braziers belched flames, tongues of fire licking the ceiling. Shadows capered across the cavern walls. And there, at the heart of the chamber, chained to the floor like an offering…Duncan!
“No!” The scream tore from her heart. “Not you!”
He lifted his head. “Kath?”
She raced toward him, kneeling by his side, overcome by the sight of his broken body. “What have they done to you?”
Fear shimmered in his eyes. “Are you real or an illusion come to tempt me?”
She touched his face, covering his mouth with a kiss. “I’m real, beloved.”
He gasped, staring up at her, as if drinking in her face. “I knew you’d come.” Love shown from his eyes, tearing at her heart.
She longed to take him in her arms and hold him close, to feel his heart beating against hers, but oh the daggers. Pierced by a hundred silver knives, they’d ruined his magnificent body. She shuddered to think of the pain, wondering that he still lived. “We need to get you out of here.”
Words tumbled out of him, full of urgency. “I never told him about you. He does not know what you carry. Your secret is safe and so is Danya.”
“Later, tell me later, but first your chains.”
Fear flickered across his face. He threw a glance toward the ceiling. “Beware, the shadows listen.”
She followed his gaze and saw it was true. Shadows broiled across the ceiling, taking sinister shapes. Horns and tails, claws and faces, the shadows took the form of demons, staring down at her like a ravenous horde of nightmares. A sibilant hiss whispered through the cavern. “Give us the Quickner! The power is ours!” Shadowy claws stretched towards her.
Kath ducked away.
Duncan convulsed in pain. “It’s a trap! You must go!”
“Not without you!” She tugged on his chains, desperate to free him, but he was bound tight. Drawing her sword, she attacked his shackles. Steel clanged against steel, drawing sparks, but the shackles did not break. Desperation lent her strength. Again and again, she struck with all her might, but the sword did no damage, as if the dark metal was spelled against harm. Kath sobbed, “It won’t break!” She clawed at the chain, frantic to win his freedom.
The shadows grew bold, darting toward her. “Give us the Quickner!”
Huddled on the floor, she slashed at them with her sword, but steel could not pierce shadows. Her hand crept to the crystal dagger, but a sixth sense warned her to keep it hidden.
Emboldened, the shadows grew close.
Duncan yelled, “Run! You must run!”
And then Blaine appeared in the doorway. Like a hero of old, his silver surcoat shimmered in the torchlight, his sapphire sword in his hand.
The shadows shrieked, retreating to the stalactites.
“Blaine! Your sword!”
Her command conquered his shock. Blaine rushed forward, lifting his sword in a two handed grip. He struck at Duncan’s shackles. Sparks flew and metal screamed. Blue steel blazed bright like a sword of legend. Once, twice, and the dark metal shattered, releasing the first shackle.
Shadows broiled overhead, a flock of angry demons.
Blaine attac
ked the second shackle.
Duncan howled in pain, his face contorted like a thing possessed. “He’s come! The Mordant comes! Don’t let him see you!”
Fear pulsed through the chamber.
The shadows gibbered overhead, dark claws reaching down like a flock of starving vultures.
Kath stared at Blaine. “Get him free! No matter what happens, get him out of here!”
Blaine struck a mighty blow and the second shackle crumbled to dust.
Duncan writhed against the floor, his face a mask of pain, his mismatched eyes clouding with an inky Darkness. “He comes! Get back!”
The force of his warning drove Kath backwards, deeper into the chamber. She crouched on the floor, willing Blaine to hurry.
Blaine leaped to the third set of shackles, his blue sword flashing against the darkness. Metal screeched as if in pain and the third shackle sundered.
Overhead, the shadows laughed.
Duncan convulsed on the floor. His back arched, his mouth stretched impossibly wide, as if he swallowed darkness. And then his voice changed. Another voice, deeper and full of malice, filled the cavern. “I see you, knight of the Octagon!”
Blaine froze, his blue sword held poised above his head.
Kath gaped, knowing she heard the voice of the Mordant.
“You breach my citadel but the prize is hollow. The battle for the south is already lost. The Octagon is broken, scattered before my army. And your king lies dead, spitted upon my sword.”
Father! Kath stifled a whimper, a splinter of pain piercing her heart.
“You come here at the bidding of the Kiralynn monks. Yet you follow a doomed cause. They have deceived you. The monks will fail, condemned to a terrible end just like the Octagon. I alone will rule all of Erdhe.”
Kath’s hand crept toward the crystal dagger…but this was Duncan not the Mordant. Yet what if this was her one chance to slay evil? A chance to defeat the Mordant within his very lair? But her heart cried against it, she could not harm Duncan.
“I alone am the one true power of Erdhe.” The Mordant’s voice boomed through the chamber, full of dark seduction. “Serve me and you shall live. Kneel to me and I will raise you up, granting you powers you cannot imagine!”
The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga) Page 49