The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga) (15 page)

Gripped by a shiver of foreboding,
the marshal sought to stop the madness. “Sire, he’s only a messenger.”

“No!”
The king’s anger was beyond reason. “I’ll see the darkling in irons.
Capture him!”

The captains obeyed, closing ranks
on the monk, a ring of steel slowly tightening.

Sworn to the king, the marshal
could only watch.

But the monk refused to be taken.
“The Kiralynn Order serves the Light.” He leaped to the windowsill, a flutter
of dark blue robes. And then he jumped.

The marshal lunged, grabbing for a
fistful of robes, but he caught only air. Leaning out the window, he expected
to see blood and robes spattered at the tower’s base…but there was nothing
below. He searched for some sign of the monk but found no trace of the man. And
then he saw it, a winged shadow racing across the muddy yard. A giant frost owl
soared across the wall, rising toward the mountaintops. “
Magic!”
The
marshal made the word a curse. He watched the frost owl disappear into the
clouds, a sense of dread choking him like a hangman’s noose. Feeling unsteady,
he gripped the windowsill, rough stone beneath his calloused hands. He was just
a swordsman, a leader of knights, but the world had changed. Against demons and
magic, how could swords prevail?

16

Duncan

Rain pelted against his face, cold
as ice. Lightning flashed overhead, slashing an ominous sky. Duncan ran into the teeth of the storm,
cursing the wet weather, as if the clouds fought for the Mordant. Soaked to the
skin, he ripped his cloak from his shoulders, letting the sodden wool drop to
the ground, choosing speed over warmth. Released from the wet weight, he
lengthened his stride, desperate to slay the seventh man.

Sword in hand, Duncan followed the trail of trampled grass. Encased
in leather, his longbow beat a rhythm against his back, useless in the rain.
 

Lightning cracked the sky, revealing
a break in the long wall. A gate of some sort lay head, and in front of that
gate stood the silhouette of a man, the seventh soldier. His prey stood within
easy reach of his longbow…saved by the dark-damned rain. Duncan cursed his ill luck. Tightening his
grip on his sword, he ran harder, fighting to close the distance.

A soul-wrenching scream split the
air.

Skidding to a stop, Duncan cowered to the
ground. Hands over ears, he stared into the twilight sky, half-expecting demons
to attack.

Howls and shrieks raged from the north,
as if the very gates of hell had ripped open, disgorging the damned.

Slinking low, Duncan waited, straining his senses, but
nothing attacked. The hideous screams came from the break in the long wall.
Perhaps some devil guarded the way north. He gripped his sword, wondering if
steel could harm a demon. Determined to finish the hunt, he advanced on the
gate.

The screams of the damned beat
against his ears, a torture of howls.

Lightning flared, silvering the
gateway. Duncan
gasped, certain his eyes played tricks. Twelve stone gargoyles reared into the
sky. Thrice the height of a tall man, the gargoyles seemed cast in stone, yet…
they
moved!
Like nightmares sprung to life, they writhed against the sky. Wings
unfurled and fangs bared, they clawed at the heavens, howling soul-numbing
screams.

Duncan shuddered, making the hand sign
against evil, wondering if he faced the very gates of hell. Every instinct
screamed for him to run, to disappear into the south, but for Kath’s sake he
had to finish the hunt.

Step by step he drew near the
gateway.

The great stone beasts writhed
overhead.

Gripping his sword, Duncan kept watch,
expecting an attack…but gargoyles seemed fixed to their pillars, shrieking a
warning into the sky.

A warning!
Perhaps the tortured
screams were the gargoyles’ true purpose. The ensorcelled monsters put the fear
of hell into the enemy while calling an army from the north. And then he noticed
the seventh man was gone. Duncan
cursed the gods. If his guess was true, he did not have much time. He stared at
the stone monsters, wondering if he dared to cross beneath them. Steeling his
courage, he shouted a challenge,
“For
Kath and the Light!”

He stepped onto the stone roadway.

Lightning flashed and rain pelted
down, shedding cold tears on his face…but the gargoyles did not attack. Fixed
to their pedestals, the stone beasts writhed overhead, hurling screams into the
sky.

Duncan took another step…and then another.
Shadows reached for him, a nightmare of stone claws, but he refused to retreat.
His heart thundering, he broke into a run. He sprinted beneath the gauntlet of
horrors, an eternity in every stride. Six more strides…and he stumbled onto the
tall grass. Falling, he dug his fingers into the earth, needing to know it was
real, needing to smell the clean, wet soil.

Spattered with rain and mud, he
stared back at the writhing gargoyles. He’d crossed the gates, passing into the
north. Shuddering, he made the hand sign against evil, relieved to be alive.

But the screaming did not stop.

A shiver ran down his back, knowing
he would not be the hunter for long.

Goaded by urgency, he got to his
feet and searched the ground, looking for clues to the seventh man. A single
set of tracks led north. Shivering with cold, Duncan set off at a run. He lengthened his
stride, desperate to finish the hunt. The quicker he made the kill, the quicker
he’d return to his wife. Thinking of Kath, he swore to find his way back…even
if it meant escaping from the very gates of hell.

17

Blaine

Poison!
The word scared Blaine more than any sword
in battle. Swords he could defeat but against poison he was useless. He gripped
Kath’s shoulders, trying to shake her back to consciousness. “Don’t leave me.”
Her weakness shattered him. He’d come to believe the girl was made of steel;
she couldn’t die like this. “Fight this, don’t let the Darkness win.”

Kath moaned in pain, a cold knife
slashing into his guts. Always a warrior, she’d insisted on going north,
pulling a travois of twelve stone without complaint…and now she lay felled by
poison, so hurt, so weak, it scared him more than he could say. He wrapped his
arms around her and pulled her close, willing her to heal. “Don’t give up.” His
voice shook. “By Valin, don’t abandon me.” But she lay limp and unresponsive,
her face pale, her blond hair sodden with sweat. Cradled against his chest, he
carried her back to Danya and the wolf. Kath blazed with heat like a
blacksmith’s forge, as if the fever consumed her from within. His grip
tightened, he’d sworn to protect her.

He laid her in the grass next to
the wolf, gently easing the axe harness from her shoulders and the sword belt
from her waist. She yielded her weapons without a murmur, another dagger of
fear. Desperate for a glimmer of hope, he held the water skin to her lips,
trying to coax her to drink, trying to draw her back, but the water just
trickled down her chin. Her tunic was drenched in sweat, her face ghost-pale;
he was losing her.

He had to do something. Racked with
worry, he struggled to think. He needed bandages and something to clean the
wound…and a cure for the hellhound’s poison. Where in the god-cursed steppes
was he going to find a cure? Did one even exist? Balling his hands into fists,
he shook his head, fighting the panic. He needed to try. And at the very least,
he needed to keep them all together.

Twilight was fading to night, a
thin sliver of red on the horizon; he was losing the light. He raced back to
the monk and lifted the travois. The burden seemed suddenly light, as if he carried
a ghost. Gripped with fear, he stared at the monk. Hollow-cheeked and ashen,
the old man looked like death but his breath made a faint rasping sound, still
in the land of the living. Relieved, Blaine
lifted the travois and pulled it back to the others.

He set the monk next to Danya and
then dropped to his knees, ransacking their supplies. Swearing, he tore through
saddlebags and pouches, looking for anything that might help, cursing himself
for not bringing more. Perhaps the Mordant’s soldiers carried a cure. Perhaps
he’d left it on the battlefield, hidden among the dead. Spare blankets, water
skins, a wine skin, a flint, a packet of salt, a sack of dried meat…and a
healer’s pouch. Hope shivered through him. His fingers fumbled with the leather
tie, dumping the contents onto the grass. Packets of herbs tumbled from the
pouch, symbols embossed on the leather wrappings…but he had no idea what they
meant. Rocking back on his heels, he glared up at the darkening sky, cursing the
gods and his own ignorance. A knight wielded a sword not a healer’s bag of
tricks. He had no knowledge of herb lore and even less of poisons.

Knowledge…perhaps the monk held the
answers.

He grabbed the water skin and tried
to get the monk to drink. “Zith, I need your help.”

The old man groaned, his face
ashen, water dribbling down his beard.

“Kath’s been poisoned.” He shook
the monk harder than he meant to. “You have to help. She gives meaning to your dark
damned prophecies. You can’t just let her die.”

But the monk lay still as death, a
sheen of sweat glistening his forehead.

Blaine stared at the old man, trying to
figure a way to break through. Perhaps the monk’s wound festered, severed limbs
were always dire. Blaine’s
fingers fumbled at the wrapping, pulling the cloth away. Branded closed, the
stump was ugly and red, but the upper arm showed no taint of corruption. Then
why did the monk refuse to wake? And then he noticed the old man had a second
wound, strips of blanket binding his chest. Blaine gripped his dagger and cut.

“
Valin’s sword!”
Reeling
backwards, he made the hand sign against evil.

Five claw marks scored the old
man’s chest. And all of the marks oozed black pus.

Blaine staggered backwards, trapped in a
nightmare. Unsheathing his sword, he pivoted, desperate for someone to fight.
But the god cursed steppes were empty…except for his companions. Four dark
forms lay in the grass, helpless, still as death, as if bewitched, caught in a
dark spell.

“
Valin help us!”
He roared his frustration at the heavens,
a challenge to the gods.
“Darkness has nearly caught us, yet you do
nothing?”
Furious, he stabbed his sword aloft.
“Have you less honor than
a man?”

A cold wind ripped across the
thigh-high grass, the gods’ only reply.

Drunk on rage, Blaine staggered in a circle, tilting at the
wind. He hurled accusations at the sky…but there was never any answer. The
killing rage slowly bled away, leaving a bitter emptiness. Sinking to his
knees, he stared at Kath, willing her to heal. He’d risked everything for her,
disobeyed his king, taken horses from the way stations, and killed knights
sworn to the Octagon. There was no going back, no returning to Castlegard
without a clear victory…and victory meant defeating the Mordant.

He reached for Kath’s sword belt
and unsheathed the crystal dagger. So many hopes balanced on a single knife-edge.
He laughed, a bitter sound. So foolish to think that five could stand against
the north, such a delusion. They hadn’t even reached the true north, felled by
the Mordant’s hellhounds.
His hounds!
Blaine railed in despair,
but then other thoughts intruded. Memories of the Guardian Mist assailed him,
the fight with the skeleton king and his promise to the guardian. Certainty
shivered through him. He wielded a hero’s sword. He had a destiny, and it was
more than just dying in the god-cursed steppes. Returning the crystal dagger to
its sheath, he got to his feet, there had to be a way out of this trap.

Taking a deep breath, he plunged
into a battle he did not understand. Starting with Kath, he cleaned their
wounds, soaking up the black ooze with a wine-drenched cloth. Smearing the
angry wounds with honey, he bound them with fresh wrappings cut from a blanket.
The monk moaned when he cleaned the claw marks and the wolf whined but Kath
never made a sound. Her silence worried him more than he dared admit.

Shivering against the chill wind,
he laid the four companions close together for warmth, wrapping them in
blankets. Holding a water skin to their lips, he tried to coax them to drink.
Only the wolf responded, lapping at the water, a weak whine. Setting the water
skin aside, Blaine
knew he’d done all he could…but he doubted it would be enough. They needed a
healer. They needed a cure for the hellhounds’ poison.

Sitting hunched beneath his maroon
cloak, he considered retracing his steps back to the battlefield. Perhaps the
antidote lay hidden among the saddlebags of the dead, but he dared not leave the
others to the mercy of predators. Kath had asked for Duncan. The archer knew healing lore, but Blaine would never be able
to track the cat-eyed archer, let alone catch him. For all he knew, the archer
might be dead, gutted on the swords of the Mordant’s men. No, there was no
where to go, nothing to do but stay and look after them as best he could,
hoping at least one of them would wake.

18

Duncan

In
the north, beyond the wall, far beyond the trees,
Duncan shivered, feeling an unnamed doom stalking
his back. All of his senses screamed in warning, yet he refused to retreat. He
needed one more kill to keep the secret safe. Shivering in the rain, he tracked
the last set of footprints. Empty grasslands stretched ahead, while behind him,
the gargoyle gates bellowed their hellish screech. Time was running out.

At least the sun had set, giving
him back the advantage of night. Storm clouds hid the moon, snuffing out the
stars. Despite the dark, his golden cat-eye saw the land in silvery detail, the
footprints of the seventh soldier clearly imprinted in the long grass. Duncan lengthened his stride,
covering leagues with a long loping run, needing to close the distance.

Lightning cracked the sky, changing
the rain to hail. Ice pellets beat against him, cold stings biting his face.
The onslaught of hail rendered the land white, turning the steppes into a
frozen hell. He ducked his head against the onslaught but kept running, his
gaze fixed on the enemy’s trail.

Screams of the gargoyles suddenly
stopped, cut-off in mid screech.

As if the same power controlled the
heavens, the volley of hail ended.

An eerie silence descended like a
smothering pillow. The gargoyles must have served their purpose, a threat
building at his back. Duncan
quickened his pace, his sword gripped in one hand, his canvas-covered bow in
the other. Wet and cold, he raced through the grassland, all his senses
screaming of danger.

Muted thunder came from behind…the
distant sound of drumming hooves.

And so it started. The hunter
became the hunted.

He kept running, trusting the
darkness to hide him. Leagues passed and still the hoof beats persisted…but on
the horizon, Duncan
caught sight of his prey. His heartbeat quickened; perhaps the gods hadn’t
abandoned him. Ripping the canvas sheath from his bow, he bent the yew to the
string. His stock of arrows was depleted, but he’d saved the best for last.
Fletched with peacock feathers, a gift from the Treespeaker, the arrows were
straight and true. Iridescent eyes on their fletchings glimmered in the pale
light.
Eyes of the forest, eyes of his
people.
Setting an arrow to the string, he raised his longbow to the
heavens. His muscles strained, demanding the maximum curve. Every sense focused
on the target, adjusting for wind and distance, needing to be flawless. Half a
heartbeat…and an arrow thrummed into the sky. Three more followed.

Duncan waited, willing the arrows to fly
true.
 

Hoof beats rushed from the
south…and still he waited, poised to run.
 

A cry split the north. His prey
stumbled and fell. Experience told him all the arrows struck true. The seventh
soldier died, taking the secret to his grave.

A thunder of hooves drew near,
close enough to hear the jangle of armor mixed with the galloping beat…and
something else, something he’d missed before…the low growl of hounds. He’d
heard that sound before.
Hellhounds.
A
shiver of fear raced down his spine. Duncan took off at a hard run, racing toward
the northeast, praying the hounds followed the seventh soldier’s scent.

Distance was his best hope. Duncan pressed for speed,
dashing through the waist-high grass, and all the while his senses focused
backwards, listening for pursuit.

The hounds erupted in a wild chorus
of yelps, likely caused by the diverging scents. Duncan kept running, praying to all the gods
that the hounds followed the original trail.

Whips cracked and men yelled commands.
The hounds bayed and the horses resumed the hunt.

Duncan kept running, kept listening. The wild
baying gradually receded. The hellhounds followed the seventh soldier but he’d
only gained a short reprieve. He changed strides to a long, loping run, scanning
the horizon, seeking for some advantage.

Running at a steady rhythm, he
glided through the grasslands, but the pace began to take its toll. Sweat
beaded his brow and his side began to ache, but Duncan could not afford to slow. He tightened
his grip on his longbow, always listening for the sounds of pursuit.

A cold breeze blew from the north.
The wind’s smell changed from dry grass to the rich loam of turned soil.
Farmland
…the steppes must give way to tilled
farms. And where there were farms, there were people, a way to hide, a chance
to lose his scent in a tangle of humanity. He turned north, running into the
wind, hope in his stride.

Behind him, the tenor of the hunt
changed. The hellhounds howled, coming in his direction. The trap was finally
sprung.

Ahead and to the right, something
broke the flatness of the steppes. A low round structure, a hut made of stones
with a sod roof. Drawn to the first sign of humanity, Duncan changed course. Breathing deep, he
tasted the wind. The rich scent of loamy soil grew stronger…but he could find
no trace of smoke or fire. Reaching for more speed, he ran through the waist-high
grass till he burst into open farmland, the fields lying fallow for the winter.

The baying of the hounds grew
louder, a relentless growl followed by an implacable gallop.

Duncan ran to the hut and put his shoulder to
the oak door. The door flew inward without resistance, banging hard against the
stone wall. Cold ashes and the stink of fear filled the doorway. Nocking an
arrow, he stepped into the darkness.

A muffled cry came from the far
wall. A man sat huddled in rags, a swaddled babe clutched tight in his arms.
“Don’t hurt me!”

Duncan eased the tension on his bow. “Who are
you? What is this place?”

“No one.” The man shook his head,
his words laced with defeat. “Nothing.”

Anger boiled into Duncan, he had no time for despair. “Answer
me. Who are you?”

“A runner.” He hugged the babe
close. “My wife died in childbirth. I promised her the babe would know a better
life. So I ran, stopping here for the night.”

“Running to where?”

“Anywhere…away…south” The man kept
his back against the wall.

Duncan pressed the question. “Are there any
villages nearby?”

“A what?” His voice wavered.
“Nothing here but the Citadel and the Pit.”

The words struck like a death
knell. No place to hide, no place to tangle his scent, no way to outrun the
hellhounds…just a final battle.

The man stepped forward. “Are you
from beyond the wall?” A glimmer of hope crept into his voice.

“Yes.”

A wild howl ripped through the
night.

“
The Mordant’s hounds!”
Fear
shivered through the man’s words. “No one escapes those beasts.”

Duncan stared at the man, knowing he’d led
soldiers to his hiding place…but perhaps his bow could save two lives. “You’d
best run.” Duncan
ushered him toward the door. “Run hard. I’ll hold them off with my bow.” They stepped
from the hut and found the night filled with a wild clamor. The hunt drew near.
The man trembled, holding the child so tight it whimpered. Duncan gripped his shoulder. “Run hard and find
a better life.”

“Luck be with you, stranger.” The
man bowed low and then sped south.

“And with you.” Duncan turned and surveyed the hut. Inside
was nothing but a trap…but the roof might provide a vantage point. He climbed
the wall to the top, testing the sod before he stepped on it, grateful when it
held his weight. He moved to the center, impaling his arrows upright in the grassy
mound. Twenty-six arrows, their iridescent eyes defying the dark. He wondered
if he’d ever see the Deep Green again.

He nocked an arrow and stared
toward the south. The grassy rooftop provided his best view of the hunters. Six
hellhounds carved furrows in the deep grass. Running straight as arrows, they
howled for the kill. A troop of thirty soldiers galloped further behind, spears
bristling toward the sky.
Too many
, but
he’d make them pay dearly for his life. He raised his bow to the heavens,
screaming his defiance. “I am Duncan Treloch, a ranger of the Deep Green, and I
will not yield.”

As if in answer, a bolt of lightning
seared the sky.

The hounds loosed a twisted howl, a
deep-throated baying.

Thinking of Kath, he whispered her
words. “Make every arrow count.” Focusing on the nearest hound, he drew the
great bow to a deadly curve. Leading the beast by three lengths, he unleashed
the longbow’s power. An arrow sang into the night. Without waiting, he chose a
new target. Draw and release, he sent three more arrows toward the hellhounds.

The first arrow struck true. A peel
of pain erupted from the hunters. The leading hellhound yelped, rolling into a
keening ball of mottled fur. Two more hellhounds dropped in their tracks…but
the reaction of the rest chilled Duncan
to the bone. Falling silent, the hounds scattered, abandoning their
straight-arrow rush. Slinking to the ground, they disappeared into the deep
grass, hard to see and harder to anticipate…as if the damn beasts knew how to
thwart an archer.

Trumpets blared. Galloping horsemen
drew near. The trap was nearly closed. Time was running out.

Duncan raised his bow, sending three arrows
arching toward the horsemen, hoping to slow their advance.

A low snarl came from his left.

Duncan whirled, an arrow nocked.

A hellhound broke from the grass, a
tan and black fury streaking across the fallow field.

The arrow thwacked, catching the
beast in the mouth. Howling in pain, it clawed at its own throat, disgorging a
rush of blood.

Movement in the center, Duncan turned and
released. The beast leaped to the left, showing an uncanny prescience, but the
arrow found its flank. Gnashing its teeth, the hellhound lunged forward,
dragging its rear leg, jaws slathering for revenge. If an animal could hate,
this one did. Duncan
spent another arrow, putting a shot in its right eye.

One hellhound left.

Sweat rolled down Duncan’s back.

The horsemen stopped at the edge of
the fallow field, watching in silence, letting the hellhound finish its task.

Duncan’s muscles started to strain, keeping
the great bow taut.

Lightning cracked the night.

A warning pricked at his back. Duncan whirled, his bow at
the ready.

Saber-toothed jaws lunged toward
his face; the beast had gained the roof.

He got the shot off and stumbled
backwards.

The arrow flew straight down the beast’s
maw. Teeth snapped shut in a fierce snarl. The beast plowed into Duncan, pounding against
his chest. Knocked backwards, he shielded his face from the jaws. Beast and
archer tumbled from the roof. The ground hit hard, stealing his breath.
Something snapped and a rush of hot blood soaked his leathers. The beast pinned
him to the ground, a smothering weight. Holding the saber-sharp teeth at bay, Duncan lay still, staring
at the beast’s lifeless eyes.

Gasping for breath, he rolled the
heavy body away. Smeared with hellhound blood, he struggled to stand, amazed to
be alive.

A snarl of rage came from the
soldiers, as if the men became their beasts.

Wakened to the danger, Duncan scrambled for his
bow. The yew lay buried beneath the dead hellhound. He tugged it free and
stifled a cry.
The bow was snapped in half!
 

The solders advanced, their lances
leveled, circling the hut.

His heart hammering, Duncan reached for the
sword, his last defense.

A thicket of spear surrounded him,
the final teeth of the trap.

At least he’d die a warrior’s
death, with his enemies slain at his feet. He beat his sword against their
spears, metal clanging against metal. “Fight me, damn you. Fight me.”

An officer with a plumed helmet
growled, “Take him alive.”

It was only then that Duncan realized the secret
was not yet safe. He turned the sword to his own breast, both hands grasping
the hilt. For half a heartbeat he hesitated, thinking of Kath, longing to see
her one more time. Something struck the back of his head, a thunderous crack. Duncan staggered and fell.
Desperate to end it, he reached for the dropped sword. A boot stepped on his
hand. Had all the gods forsaken him? Another blow to the head…and darkness
claimed him.