The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga) (14 page)

The soldier flashed a feral grin,
his eyes gleaming with confidence. Brandishing his bloody blade, he leaped
forward with an overhand cut. Duncan
raised his sword in a two-handed grip. The two swords met in a furious clash.
Like rams locked in battle, they grappled, steel straining against steel, feet
churning the ground into mud.

Duncan saw his chance, a risky ploy. He
dropped his own sword and wrestled for control of the other blade. Lashing out
with his boot, he caught the man’s shin with a wicked kick. Grunting in pain,
the soldier slipped and fell. Duncan
followed him to the ground, throwing his weight on top. Rolling in the mud,
they fought for the blade. Slippery with blood and rain, they grappled one on
top of the other. Duncan
got his left hand free, reaching for the dagger at his belt. Struggling to hold
the sword at bay, he positioned the point under the man’s breastplate, aiming a
desperate thrust deep into the belly. The soldier’s eyes widened, his mouth
gaping in a silent scream. Shuddering, he arched his back and lay still.

Duncan pulled the dagger free and slit the
man’s throat, needing to be sure. Blood filled the puddles as he staggered to
his feet. Tilting his head back, he drank the cold rain, letting it run across
his face like tears, thankful to be alive.

A moan of pain pulled him back to
his purpose.

The second soldier writhed in the
mud, a feathered shaft protruding from his chest.

Duncan knelt by the wounded man, a veteran
with streaks of gray in his beard. “Where’s the fourth soldier?”

The veteran fought for each breath,
his face wracked with pain, but his gaze was still clear. “You won’t…catch
him.” Triumph filled his face. “The Citadel…will hear…of the witch.”

A dagger of fear sliced through Duncan’s belly.

The soldier laughed, bubbles of
blood foaming at his mouth.

A flash of steel silenced the
laughter…but not the threat. Duncan
sheathed his dagger and then retrieved his longbow. Picking up his discarded
sword, he raced north, desperate to catch the last man.

15

The Knight Marshal

Silent as death, they sat in the
council chamber, awaiting the captains, waiting to learn if a demon lurked
inside of a friend. The marshal stared at the monk, a fierce resentment growing
inside him. How easily this stranger spoke of treachery, casting suspicion on
friends and comrades, men he’d fought beside in battle, men he’d trusted with
his life. He clenched his fist, fighting the urge to reach for his sword.

The marshal knew his king felt the
same, yet his lord hid his rage well. Stern and unwavering, King Ursus sat at
the table, a chiseled look on his face, his stare fixed on the monk.

Perhaps the monk understood, for he
turned away, offering his back to the room. Wrapped in robes of midnight blue,
the monk drifted toward the shuttered window. Lifting the latch, he eased the
shutters open, admitting a cold wind, a bitter breath of winter.

No one complained.
 

The sudden cold suited the chill of
the room.

Candles flickered against the wind,
casting an uneven light. The king’s great sword gleamed upon the tabletop, a
promise and a threat.

No one spoke.

Minutes seemed like hours.

A knock at the door broke the spell,
a bustle of noise from the hallway. Prince Griffin was first to arrive,
followed by Godfrey. Bold and confident, the two princes mimicked their father,
blond-haired warriors dressed in fighting leathers, maroon cloaks at their
shoulders. Griffin
started to speak but one look at his father’s face silenced him. The grim mood
proved contagious. Wood scrapped against stone as the two princes took seats at
the table.

The others came by ones and twos,
the captains and the champions, big men bristling with weapons, maroon cloaks
spattered with mud, answering the call of their king. Sir Dalt, the captain of
Ice Tower, Sir Rannock, the champion of the morning star, Sir Odis, the
champion of the lance, they tramped into the chamber, mud on their boots, the
smells of sweat and horse clinging to their wool cloaks. Eighteen men answered
the summons. Caught by the grim mood, they asked no questions. Veterans of many
battles, they crowded into the chamber, standing behind their king, taking
sides against the stranger.

The marshal knew them all, some of
them friends, all of them brothers-in-arms, warrior-knights dedicated to the
maroon. He studied their faces, wondering if a demon lurked among them, but the
monk’s accusation seemed hard to believe, a stain against their honor.

Sir Lothar flashed a questioning
glance his way, but the marshal kept his face impassive, better to let the king
explain.

Silence prevailed, like a lull
before the battle. The fireplace snapped and crackled, spitting sparks onto the
stone floor. Knights fingered their weapons, every stare locked on the monk.

Alone, on the far side of the
chamber, the monk stared out the window, his dark hair ruffled by the winter
wind.

The king spoke, “My council is
assembled.”

The monk turned, his face pale in the
candlelight. “All of them?”

“All save three captains who remain
at their posts along the Domain; Ulrich is at Cragnoth, Boris at Holdfast, and
Clemet at Castlegard.”

“So be it.” The monk’s gaze circled
the chamber, as if searching the soul of each man. Raising his right hand, he
revealed the tattoo of the Seeing Eye. “Seek knowledge, Protect knowledge,
Share knowledge. My name is Aeroth, a sworn monk of the Kiralynn Order. I come
to you on the brink of war, bringing warning of a dire plot by the Dark Lord, a
deceit designed to defeat the Octagon.”

 
A murmur of anger ripped through the chamber.

The monk reached into his pocket,
revealing the crystalline shard. “A prophecy warns of a harlequin hidden among
you, a servant of the Dark Lord wearing the face of a knight.” He raised the
crystal aloft, candlelight reflecting off the milk-white facets. “I ask each of
you to hold this crystal in your naked hand. If it remains dormant, it proves
you walk in the Light. If it glows bright red, it proves a harlequin hides
beneath your face, a demon disguised as a knight.”

“
Demons!”
Sir Dalt made the hand sign against evil.

A murmur of outrage rippled through
the room. The captains cast uneasy glances at the monk, their hands at their
weapons.

King Ursus leaned forward,
stretching his open hand across the table. “I will be the first.”

The monk had the grace to look
embarrassed. “Majesty, it is not necessary.”

The king’s fist banged the
tabletop, his voice a roar. “Of course it’s necessary! You come here speaking of
treachery. Your words stain the honor of us all.” The king skewered the monk
with his stare, his voice a command. “Give me the shard.”

The monk moved to the table.
Leaning forward, he offered the crystal to the king. Their hands met over the
sapphire sword. The king took the crystal and held it aloft. The shard remained
dormant. A sigh of relief rippled around the chamber.

Godfrey was the first to speak. The
youngest among them, his voice burned with righteous indignation. “How dare you
test our king! How dare you come here and impugn the honor of the Octagon!”

The king turned toward his
third-born son, a glint of approval in his eyes. “You’ll soon learn the monks
dare much. But if the Octagon is to be tested, it’s fitting the king be first.”

But the prince was not mollified.
His voice brimmed with outrage. “We spill our blood guarding the southern
kingdoms!” He stabbed an accusing finger at the monk. “By what right does a
weaponless monk dare judge us?”

The marshal stared at the prince,
fearing he protested too much.

“Enough!” The king’s roar echoed
through the chamber. “By my order, each of you will take this test, but never
speak of it past these walls.” His stare scoured his captains, slaying any
protest. He turned towards, his third-born son. “We lead by example.”

Godfrey glowered, but then bowed
under the weight of his father’s stare. He accepted the crystal, holding it
aloft. The marshal held his breath, but the shard remained dormant, a
dagger-length of milk-white crystal held in the prince’s fist.

The king said, “And now Griffin.”

Godfrey passed the crystal to his
older brother. Griffin
took the shard and held it aloft. “It sleeps.” He turned to pass it to the next
man.

The monk intervened. “Remove your
glove.”

Griffin shrugged. “It matters not.”

“Remove your glove.”

A snarl filled the prince face.
“Curse your crystal.” Erupting from his chair, he hurled the shard at the monk.
Quick as lightning, he unsheathed a dagger and held it to his brother’s throat.
“Back, all of you!”

The marshal drew his sword, a stab
of horror at his heart.
Not the king’s son!

Weapons sprang from scabbards, a
thicket of steel surrounding the prince.

Godfrey struggled, a wild look in
his eyes, but the dagger drew a line of blood at his throat. “
Father!”

“Godfrey!”
The king stood, knocking over his chair, his face a blaze of disbelief. “Don’t
harm my son!”

The knights growled, tightening the
cage.
 

The demon retreated, setting its
back to a wall, holding the younger brother like a shield. “Keep back, or I’ll
kill him.”

“Do as he says.” At the king’s
command, the knights came to a stop, their weapons raised in a ring of steel.

Only the marshal inched forward,
seeking a way to save the younger son.

“All of you keep back.” The demon
glared at the marshal. “You too, old man.” Holding the dagger to Godfrey’s
throat, it shuffled toward the door, its back pressed to the wall. “Drop your
weapons.”

The king gestured and the captains
complied, a rain of steel hitting the stone floor.

Empty-handed, the marshal sidled to
toward the door, desperate to stop the demon.

The king took a step toward his
sons, his hands spread wide in entreaty. “Griffin
don’t do this. Fight this monster and release your brother. I know you’re
strong…”

“
Strong!”
The thing that was
Griffin
snarled. Evil leached onto the prince’s face, a twisted look of pure hatred.
“Your son is weak, a slave crushed beneath my will. For twelve years I’ve worn
this face and you never knew! I ate at your table, diced with you, , sparred
with you, listened to your petty plans, but none of you knew!
None of you knew!
” It laughed, a cruel
sound full of spite. “Shall I let you speak to your precious son? To prove he’s
held captive to my will?” For half a heartbeat, the face went slack, and then
it filled with life, a deep intelligence blazing from the eyes. “
Father, I’m sorry!
” Pleading eyes stared
at the king. “
Don’t let it keep me. Let
me die a knight.”
The words came in a rush.
“Kill me
to
kill it!”

“
No!”
The monk screamed a warning.
“You dare not kill it!”

Griffin gasped as if strangled. The gasp turned
to a snarl of rage. The demon was back. “Listen to the monk! You cannot kill
me.” It dragged Godfrey toward the door, a hostage held at knifepoint.

The marshal stood across from the
beast, his back pressed to the edge of the table, desperate for a weapon. And
then it came to him. Slow and stealthy, he groped behind his back, seeking the
hilt of the king’s blue sword.

The demon reached the door, a look
of triumph on its face. “You want a prophecy? I’ll give you one.” Its eyes
blazed with hatred. “The Dark Lord will crush the Octagon! He’ll take your
pride, then he’ll take your precious honor, and then he’ll crush you with
defeat. The Octagon will be forgotten, while
I
live on!” It pulled Godfrey
close, the dagger nicking the prince’s neck. “My name is
Shmailgren! And I
am the bane of the Octagon!”
Its voice rose to a shout.
“Behold, for I
bring you despair!”
The dagger bit deep, slicing halfway through Godfrey’s
throat.

“No!”
The king’s roar echoed
through the chamber.

The younger son gasped, a bloody
froth at his throat.

The blue sword came to the
marshal’s hand. Without thought, he lunged, putting his full might behind the
thrust. The sapphire blade struck true. Cleaving chainmail and leather, it
struck straight through Godfrey’s heart and into Griffin, driving all the way to the wooden door.

Impaled upright, the demon gasped,
a look of surprise on its face. It stared at the sword hilt. “I have not
failed.” The demon’s face twisted into a triumphant leer. “I will live…
again!
” Its eyes burned red, like twin
lanterns lit from hell. And then the demon was gone, the malevolent spirit snuffed
out like a candle. But the spark of life was not entirely extinguished. For
half a heartbeat, the true prince stared from his eyes, his gaze seeking the
king.
“Honor…always.”
And then the
face fell slack, the spark of life gone.

Two princes impaled on one sword.

Both
dead.

Horror filled the room. Darkness
had struck at the Octagon’s heart.

A single tear bled down the king’s
face.

The marshal gaped, like watching a
hairline crack ruin a fine steel sword, a death knell in the midst of battle.

“
My sons!”
Grief-struck, the
king staggered to the door. He gripped the sword hilt and yanked it free,
hurling the blade across the room. Blue steel clattered against stone.

Released, the bodies slumped
forward. The king caught his sons and cradled them to his chest. He wept and
the sound shattered the chamber.

The marshal fought despair, knowing
the demon had struck a perilous blow.

One by one, the captains turned
away, shaken by horror, disarmed by the king’s grief, a seed of doubt in their
eyes. Even the stalwart Sir Abrax turned away.
  

Doubt in their eyes.
The
captains doubt their king.
The realization struck the marshal like a dagger
in the back. Desperate to stem the rot, his gaze circled the chamber. A gleam
of sapphire caught his gaze. The king’s blue blade lay abandoned on the floor.
As if the blade called to him, the marshal strode toward the sword. Lifting the
great sword, he turned to face the captains, a flash of sapphire blue in the
candlelight. “Darkness shall not defeat us.” He lifted the sword like a holy
talisman, his words full of conviction. “The king’s sword will never fail. Like
blue steel, the Octagon will never bend, never break, never grow dull. We are
the sword and shield of the southern kingdoms.” His gaze roamed the captains,
willing the doubt away, seeking the strength within.

Pride returned with a rush of
defiance. The captains reached for their weapons, a gleam of steel raised in
salute.
“For Honor and the Octagon!”

The shout broke through the king’s
grief. He raised his head, a smear of tears on his face, a smear of blood on
his leathers. For a moment, he looked old and confused, but then his gaze
settled on the monk. “You!” His finger stabbed like an accusing sword. “You
knew all along! You knew and you did nothing!”

“No.” The monk retreated, his face
pale. “The prophecy spoke of a demon in the Octagon, nothing more. I came to
warn you, to save you from a plot by the Dark Lord.”

“
Save us!”
The king roared,
his gaze fever bright. “Your words bring nothing but doom. I name you a minion
of Darkness!”

“Grief blinds you. You know the
Order walks in the Light.” The monk’s retreat came to a halt, his back to the
open window. “We are allies against the Dark.”

“More words. I’m weary of your
warnings. You can spew your dark tidings in the dungeons!”

“No.” The monk’s stare flashed from
the king to the marshal. “Detain me and you aid the Dark.”