The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga) (12 page)

Nodding, the monk reached within
the pocket of his robe. “Once more I offer the Octagon the test of a Dahlmar
crystal.” He held aloft a milk-white crystalline shard, the length of a small
dagger. If there was something magical about the crystal, the marshal could not
see it. “Each knight need only hold this crystal in his hand. If a harlequin
lurks within, the crystal will glow cherry-red.”

The king stirred, his voice a low
growl. “We took your test before and not one of your demon traitors was found
amongst my men.”

“But the test was only conducted in
Castlegard. Raven
Pass is guarded by men
drawn from all across the Domain.”

The marshal stared, hearing truth
beneath the monk’s words, but the king resisted, his words gruff. “The Octagon
girds for war. The mere rumor of a traitor will destroy morale.”

The monk nodded, his face
thoughtful. “Perhaps the test can be contained. The Dark Lord is stingy with
his favors. Few of his servants gain the status of harlequins. Hosts for the reborn
are always chosen to give the Dark Lord the most advantage.” His gaze darkened.
“If a harlequin is among you, he will most likely wear the face of one of your
captains, or perhaps a champion, someone of power and influence, someone who
sits at your council table.”

“You dare name one of my captains a
traitor?” The king’s voice held a dangerous edge.

“Not a traitor, a demon possessed.”

“Is this a certainty or a wild
accusation?”

The monk hesitated. “Nothing is
certain…but it is
likely
.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“Because treachery has already claimed
a steep price.” The monk matched stares with the king. “At Cragnoth Keep, where
a traitor took your son’s life.”

The marshal stifled a gasp, the
monk knew too much. But the argument turned the tide. He watched as anger bled
from the king’s face, revealing a well of grief.

The king nodded. “So be it. My
captains will take your test and we will end this talk of demon cursed
traitors.” His face hardened and his voice rose to a shout. “Baldwin!”

The door burst open and the king’s
red-haired squire rushed in. “Yes, m’Lord.”

“Summon my captains and the
champions of the maroon. I have need of them here and now. But make no mention
of our blue-robed guest. Now go and be quick about it.”

Sketching a hasty bow, the squire
scurried from the chamber, closing the door behind him.

“A traitor amongst my captains.”
The king swore. “
Likely,
you said.”
He drew his blue sword, Honor’s Edge, and laid it across the table, a sapphire
threat gleaming in the candlelight. “I’ll have the head of any traitor…or the
head of a fear monger.” He skewered the monk with his stare.

The monk’s stare dropped to the
sword, his face grim. “If a harlequin is found, he must be captured, not
killed. Death will only cause him to be reborn.” He lifted the shard of crystal
and settled it in his pocket. “And now we wait.”

A grim silence settled over the
chamber. The marshal stood behind his king, dreading the test, wondering if a
demon hid behind the face of a friend.

12

Duncan

Unfettered by darkness, Duncan ran sure-footed
through the night, reveling in his birthright. The gods had made his mother’s
people different, gifting them with a cat eyed vision. Even on the darkest
night, his golden eye had more than enough light. In a world silvered by
starlight, he saw details lost to ordinary men.

Carrying his longbow in his fist,
he fell into a rhythm, running to keep a secret safe. He started with the
smaller group, following a trail carved through waist-high grass, three men
racing toward the northwest. Thrashed and bent, the trampled grasses screamed
of panic, survivors desperate to escape the slaughter…but they carried a secret
that had to be silenced. Duncan
lengthened his stride, anxious to finish the task.

Stretching his senses, he tasted
the wind. A northern breeze carried the sweet scent of dried grasses and the
rich loam of earth but he searched for something else. Breathing deep, he
caught a sour tang, the scent of fear, the scent of prey. He quickened the
pace, a long loping stride.

The moon traversed the night sky, a
pale glow shrouded by clouds, and still he ran, driven by the need to keep a
secret safe.

Metal gleamed on the trail ahead. Duncan slowed, wary of an
ambush, but it was only a discarded breastplate. Seven more strides and he
found a broken gorget. A set of greaves, a gauntlet, and a dented helm
followed, desperate men shedding their armor, fatigue overriding caution.
Sensing weakness, he smiled, a wolf hot on the heels of prey.

The cloud-shrouded moon sank toward
the western horizon, nearly set, the last dark before the dawn. He breathed
deep, sensing sweat tainted with fear, the prey was close. Leaving the trail, he
sought the cover of the tall grass. Crouching low, he made his way forward, an
arrow nocked to his bow.

A moan of pain shivered through the
night.

Duncan froze.

“Stop your belly-aching, Carlyle,
or I’ll stop it for you.”

“It bloody-well hurts. The cursed
horse shattered my bleedin’ shoulder. I can’t feel my left arm.”

The wind carried their voices,
making them seem a stone’s throw away. Duncan
risked standing, trying to spot his prey, but they remained hidden by the tall
grass. He considered loosing a volley, but he needed to see his targets to be
sure. Keeping low, he crept forward, closing the distance, a black-fletched
arrow nocked to his bow.

“Stop moaning, or I’ll give you a
taste of my sword.”

Mad laughter erupted. “We’re all
dead men. Deserters earn the deepest level of the pit…if the damn centurions
don’t feed us to the bloody gore hounds first.”

“We won’t be going to the pit.” The
third voice held a note of command. “Not when they hear about the blond-haired
witch.”

Duncan’s blood ran cold.

“They had a knight with them, but
it was the witch that killed us.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“The cursed Octagon never fights
with magic.” The voice turned to a sneer. “And they never bring women to the
battlefield. Word of the witch will earn us saddlebags full of gold and a
fortnight in the brothels.”

“What makes you think they’ll
believe us?”

“The tale’s too wild to be untrue.
Besides, the battlefield holds the proof. Now shut your mouths and get some
sleep. We’ve a long run to reach the nearest gate.”

Duncan eased the tension on his bow, giving
his prey time to sleep. The words of the soldiers clawed at his mind,
confirming his worst fears. Survivors of the battle would name Kath as a witch,
all the more reason they needed to die. He took a sip from his water skin and
then spilled a trickle onto the ground. Working the small puddle with his
dagger, he made a paste. Dabbing mud onto his face and hands, he disappeared
into the darkness, a shadow of death.

Three against one, he’d need to be
quick and accurate, and he’d need the element of surprise. Stretching his
senses, he sought to detect movement. A chill breeze blew from the north,
rustling the grasses. A cricket chirped a peaceful rhythm. But the men remained
silent. He wondered if the sudden silence was an opportunity or an ambush. Either
way, he was out of time.

The moon set, the deepest dark
before the dawn. Selecting an arrow, he rose to a crouch. Drawing the longbow
halfway, he crept forward, stepping to the rhythm of the cricket. Grasses
whispered around him, just another shadow in the night.

The scent of prey intensified.

He found them in a hollow of
trampled grass, three men rolled into their cloaks, lost to sleep, too tired or
too careless to set a sentry.

The bowstring thrummed, the voice
of death.

Quick as thought, he loosed a
second arrow.

The third man rolled to his feet,
his sword unsheathed. “What the…”

Duncan turned and loosed, a point-blank shot.

Thunk!
At such close range,
the arrow pierced armor and flesh, throwing the third man onto the ground.

He nocked a fourth, holding the bow
taut, the fever of battle thrumming through him. Standing at the edge of the
tall grass, he surveyed his prey, daring them to move. The first two men lay
pinned to the ground, heart-shot. The third moaned, a wet gurgling sound, a
feathered shaft through his lung. Duncan
eased the tension on the bow, no sense in wasting a good arrow.

Drawing his dirk, he closed on the
third man.

Impaled by an arrow, he lay on his
back, his eyes wide with fear, blood leaking from his mouth. “W-what are you?”

Recalling the words of the
soldiers, Duncan
flashed a wicked grin. “The witch’s assassin.”

The man struggled like a stuck
fish, reaching for his sword, but Duncan
was quick, slashing the dirk across his throat. Just to be safe, he slit the
throats of the other two and then cleaned his blade on a dead man’s cloak.
Sheathing his dirk, he unstrung his bow, wiping the length of yew with a soft
cloth.

He stared at his handiwork. Three
dead bodies, three voices silenced, but another group had survived the battle,
his work was not yet done. The sun chose that moment to rise, bringing a pale
blush in the east. Color returned to the world in a rush. His vision shifted,
making the transition to day. His best advantage was lost.

He left the dead where they lay,
food for wolves. Setting out at a lope, he ran toward the northeast, searching
for a second set of survivors. If the tracks proved true, there’d be seven
against one. Even for a ranger of the Deep Green the odds were grim. Duncan gripped his longbow
and settled into a run, a lone hunter chasing a deadly secret.

13

Katherine

Ravens woke her, a squabble of
harsh caws. Bleary from sleep and still muzzy with pain, Kath stared at a sky
blackened by a thousand dark wings. Confused, she watched the ravens fly, circling
and dipping, casting a black plume against the pale morning sky.

Understanding struck like a curse.
Kath bolted awake.
The ravens betrayed us!
The black plume marked the battlefield, twisting their victory into a trap.
Their guides had turned traitors, signaling their doom.

She threw off the blanket, wanting
to scatter the ravens to the four winds…but the dark birds were everywhere, a
living shroud of scavengers fighting over a field of corpses. So many dead, the
stink of carrion was already rising. The grim reality of the battle hit Kath
hard. Without Danya’s magic they’d be lying among the dead. Without speed they’d
join them. She glared at the ravens, refusing to let the dark birds steal their
victory.

She pulled on her boots, provoking
a blaze of aches. Her shoulder hurt, her right arm throbbed, and her left thigh
burned like hellfire. Cursing the pain, she kicked the tangle of blankets away.
Something silver tumbled into the grass.

Duncan’s
warrior ring,
her heart skipped a beat. He wore it always, night and day, queen’s
court or forest deep. Silver embossed with Aspen
leaves, she stared at the ring; terrified at its meaning.
He’d left to hunt the survivors
, a lone archer against the fleeing
swords. She hadn’t even asked how many. Enough swords could overwhelm even the
best archer. Kath clutched the ring; desperate to believe it was his first gift
and not his last.

She struggled to stand, ignoring
the pain biting her left thigh. Surveying the camp, she was surprised to find Blaine sitting idle,
feeding fagots to the fire.

Her voice was a goad. “The ravens
set a trap.”

He stared into the fire, his blue
sword looming over his right shoulder, not bothering to even turn in her
direction.

“If we stay here, we’re dead. We
have to leave.”

He barked a rude laugh, his face
grim. “Easier said than done. Danya won’t wake, the monk’s lost in a haze of
pain, and we have no horses.”

Anger spiked through her. “Since
when does the Octagon give up?”

Growling like a baited bear, he
stood and unsheathed his great sword, a flash of sapphire-blue steel. “What
would you have me do?” He brandished his sword at the heavens. “Tilt at the
ravens?”

“Steel is not the only way to
fight.” A cold anger seeped into her. “I can’t carry them by myself.”
 

He stared at her, as if slapped
from a trance. “You’re right. I just…” He shook his head. “When none of you
woke, it seemed hopeless.” He sheathed his sword. “What can I do?”

She nodded, relieved to have him
back. “We’ll build a pair of travois. We’ve got a windfall of supplies,” she
gestured to the battlefield. “Two spears can serve as the shafts, with blankets
fastened between them. And tack from the horses can serve as a harness to ease the
weight.”

Blaine nodded, “I’ll gather the supplies.” He
strode towards the battlefield, her swordmaster and her friend.

Kath unclenched her fist, staring
at the Duncan’s
warrior’s ring. She missed him, yet he was barely gone. Sighing, she clutched
the ring. Her hair had always been too fine to hold a ring, so she cut a leather
strip from a saddlebag, threaded it through and tied it in a loop, placing it
around her neck. Tucking the ring under her tunic, she let it fall between her
breasts and then pressed it to her heart, praying they both survived.

Dark wings fluttered close. A raven
settled on her discarded blanket. Its dark eye stared up at her. “
Caw! Caw!”

She aimed a kick at the raven,
angry at the bird’s betrayal. The bird squawked and fluttered to the nearest
horse bloated with death.

Pale morning light revealed a
horror of corpses. Ravens squawked among the dead, a feeding frenzy of dark
wings. Kath walked in the opposite direction from Blaine. Squatting behind a dead horse, she
winced at the stabbing pain her thigh. Cursing the hellhounds, she made a quick
toilet.

The amber pyramid called to her, a
tug at the back of her mind. The compulsion pulled her through the maze of
corpses. More than forty horses lay strewn across the field yet she knew the
right one. Squatting, she tried the mouth but rigor had set in. The dead did
not give up their secrets easily. She drew her dagger and tried prying the
teeth apart, but death’s bite was too strong. Anxious to regain the pyramid,
she cut into the horse’s jaw, a grisly task. Three cuts later and the corpse
relinquished the hidden treasure. The amber pyramid nestled in her palm, a hope
and a threat.

Returning to the fire, she used a
full water skin desperate to wash away the stench. Kath wasn’t hungry, but she
forced down a fistful of dried meat. She tried to wake Danya, but the
brown-haired girl remained pale and insensate. Her magic had saved them, but
now it seemed she paid a steep price. Kath gripped her sword hilt in
frustration; realizing magic was both a boon and a curse.

Blaine returned, dropping an armload of
pilfered gear by the fire. “I tested the spears. These four seem sturdy
enough.”

Feeling the need to be away, they
worked quickly. Laying the spears on the ground, they stretched blankets
between them. Using a knife as an auger, they lashed the blankets to the spears
with strips of leather. Kath doubled the knots while Blaine fashioned a harness from bits of tack.

A winged shadow passed overhead. A
raven landed on the travois, dark eyes inspecting her work. Kath swiped at the
bird, a squawk of feathers, wishing she could scare the whole murder away.
“Time is running out.”

Blaine’s face tensed. “I know.”

They made a last check of the bindings
and then set the first travois next to Danya. Shifting the wolf-girl, Kath
winced at the sharp pain lancing her thigh.

“Are you hurt?”

She shrugged. “The cursed hellhound
clawed my leg.”

Blaine stared at the torn strips of blanket
wrapping her thigh. “Should I check that?”

“No time.”

They shifted the monk onto the
second travois and covered him with a blanket. Zith moaned, a sheen of sweat
coating his forehead, but he did not wake. Kath hoped he survived. She wove a
length of rope around his chest and under his arms, securing him to the travois
while Blaine
did the same for Danya.

A low growl came from behind. Kath
whirled, unsheathing her sword but it was only Bryx. The wolf loped from the
tall grass, snapping and snarling at the ravens.

Blaine said, “He doesn’t like the ravens.”

“He’s not the only one.” She
shivered, feeling the need to be away.

“We still need supplies.”

“And I can’t leave without my
axes.” She found her leather harness lying next to her shirt of chainmail, a
puddle of steel links gleaming in the sunlight. The chainmail had saved her
life more than once. She was reluctant to leave it but she couldn’t afford the
weight. Her octagonal shield would have to be left behind as well, another
loss.

Shrugging the leather harness over
her shoulders, Kath hurried in search of her axes. Retracing the battle, she
eventually found the soldier felled by her throw. He’d seemed a towering brute,
but now he was only a crumpled corpse, diminished by death, food for ravens.
She whispered a prayer to Valin, knowing how close they’d come to death. Wiping
her blades on the dead man’s cloak, she returned to the campfire.

Blaine had loaded the monk’s travois with
supplies, but Danya’s remained unburdened. He gave her a wary look, as if he
expecting a rebuke, but Kath did not complain. Stepping between the shafts, she
settled the leather harness across her shoulders and lifted. The weight seemed
bearable, but the day was young.

She scanned the horizon for a gleam
of black armor, but there was none…yet. She prayed to Valin for time to escape.

Blaine lifted the monk’s travois. “Which
way?”

The question surprised her. “Into
the north.”

He stared at her, as if considering
her reply. For a moment, she thought he would argue, but then he shrugged. “You
don’t give up, do you?”

“We won a battle, not the war.”

“Did we win?
 
This doesn’t feel like victory.”

“We’re alive. They’re not.”

He gave her a half-smile. “Live to
fight another day.”

“Just so.”

The wolf chuffed, disappearing into
the grass.

“The wolf has the truth of it. We
best be away.”

Blaine took the lead, breaking a trail into
the north. Kath leaned into the harness, taking up her friend’s weight. She
lurched forward, the wound in her thigh screaming with agony. Ignoring the
pain, she focused on taking one step at a time, trying to keep pace with the
blond-haired knight.

Ravens circled overhead, like an
omen of doom. Cursing the birds, she struggled against the traces, desperate to
be away. Ten steps became twenty, a test of strength, a test of endurance.
Lowering her head, she trudged forward, full of sympathy for beasts of burden.
Fifty steps became sixty, a monotony of pain. She glanced back, dismayed to
find the pillar of ravens alarmingly close, a beacon for the Mordant’s
soldiers. Staring up at the sky, she dared the gods to help, but there was no
reply.

Kath chose a spot on the horizon,
determined to reach it without stopping. She leaned into the traces, taking one
step at a time, straining to gain some distance on the ravens.

Morning bled into late afternoon, a
long haze of torment. Drenched in sweat, Kath struggled against the weight,
pain ripping across her back and down her arms. Every step was a victory…or a
testament to torture. Right foot and then the left, an endless shuffle forward.
Pain lanced through her thigh and across her shoulders. Her left hand was
rubbed raw, a mass of welts, yet she refused to loosen her grip. Sweat trickled
down her face despite the chill wind. She licked her lips, a crust of salt, and
kept moving.

Caught in a fog of hurt, she lost
count of the number of steps. Too tired to think, she looked past Blaine, her stare fixed on
the north, a golden line of grass that never seemed end, another trick of the
steppes.

The blond knight forged ahead,
breaking a trail through the grass, the poles of his travois marking a path. He
turned now and then to offer encouragement, waiting for her to catch up. “Let’s
rest for a bit.”

“No, keep going.” Shame flooded
through her. “If I stop, I may not start again.”

“You need to rest.”

She shook her head. “We’re not far
enough.”

He shot her a stubborn glare full
of protest but then turned back to his own burden.

She struggled to keep pace, shamed
by her weakness, knowing she put them all at risk. The travois pulled like an
anchor, the harness biting into her shoulders, a dead weight tethering her to
the ground. She took another step, cursing the vastness of the steppes, cursing
the north, but at least the ravens had long since fallen silent.

Darkness began to claim the sky, a
bloody glow in the west. Kath yearned for the night, knowing she could lay down
her burden and rest. She wondered if she’d ever get up again.

Something caught at her foot. She
tripped and almost fell. A half-buried skull stared up her. Picked clean by
predators and weathered by age, it gave her a mocking grin. Her vision blurred,
and the skull laughed, a cruel, mocking sound, an omen of death. Tightening her
hold on the travois, she used the pain to cling to reality. Death was
everywhere in the steppes. The golden grassland looked benign, but it was
really a clever snare, an endless, relentless trap, a kind of hell. Shivering,
she bent to the traces, taking up her burden, refusing to give up.

The weight seemed to have
multiplied. Kath cursed the skull, deciding it must have been one of the
Mordant’s men, a ghost from an ancient battle sent to plague her. Refusing to
be beaten, she put one foot in front of another, trudging into the north.

A low whine brought her to a
staggering stop. The wolf emerged from the grass, weaving like a rum-soaked
drunk. Tongue lolling, he flopped at her feet, a dull whine of pain.

“Keep moving, Bryx.” Her words were
a dry croak.

The wolf whined, sprawling on the
grass, blocking her way.

Sighing in frustration, she sank to
her knees, every muscle aching. “What’s wrong?”

The wolf rolled on his side,
panting for breath.

“We’re all tired.” She stroked the
wolf, surprised to find his dark fur wet…yet it hadn’t rained. Groggy with
exhaustion, she struggled to think.

Bryx whined and licked his flank.
It was only then that she noticed the claw marks raking his side. Five deep
cuts oozed dark pus, the festering marks of a hellhound’s claws. Shame flooded
through her; the wolf had fought like a warrior yet no one had thought to tend
his wounds. “You need help.”

The wolf chuffed and licked her
hand.

All the supplies were with Blaine. Kath struggled to
stand, shocked to find that the knight had lengthened his lead. Too weary to
chase him, she called his name, “Blaine!”
but her voice was a weak croak.

He kept walking, the fading
sunlight glinting on his silver surcoat.

She had to get help for the wolf.
Shrugging out of the harness, she left the travois and followed. Freed from the
weight, she walked light as air, a strange floating sensation. Kath tired to
run, but her legs buckled. Drenched in sweat, she sank to her knees, her voice
a harsh cry. “
Blaine
!”

He turned.

“Help!”
Exhaustion pulled
her down. She slumped to the grass, longing to rest.