The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga) (2 page)

 
Bryce shuddered, his last hope crushed by the
Mordant’s certainty.
*You wrote the questions…and the answers.*

 
*Of course, signed and sealed before each
of my deaths.*
The Mordant spoke aloud, his voice pitched to reach the
waiting soldiers. “I conquer death with each new lifetime.”
 

The priest checked the scroll,
growing pale with each correct answer. “Who made the Gargoyle Gates?”

“Ten dead wizards buried beneath
their last creation.”

Sweat beaded on the priest’s brow.
“What do you claim?”

“I am the Mordant re-born.”

“What are you owed?”

The Mordant smiled. “Your
allegiance.”

The priest blanched, his hand
gripping the amulet at his neck. “What do you demand?”

“An escort to the Dark Citadel
where I can finish the Trials and prove my claim to the Ebony Throne.”

“Or die trying.”

The Mordant completed the ritual.
“Or die trying.”

The priest gave a cautious half-bow
and then turned to address the ranks. “The stranger has passed the initial
Trials of Return. By the Darkness he is named a claimant to the Ebony Throne.”
He traced a rune through the air as if granting a blessing. “Behold the na-Mordant!”

Two hundred fists thumped against
steel breastplates. “
The na-Mordant!”

The storm of cheers rained like
acid on Bryce’s soul. He screamed inside his prison, railing against the
Mordant’s victory.

The officer sheathed his sword and
saluted the Mordant. “Centurion Caylex, leader of the third border guard, at
your command. My troops will see you safe to the Dark Citadel. I’ll have a
mount brought up for you.” He glanced toward the unmade knight. “I assume your
servant will ride the pale mare.”

The Mordant raised a hand,
forestalling the commander. “My plans cannot wait till my ascension. I claim
the na-Mordant’s boon.”

The centurion gripped his sword
hilt, his questioning gaze sliding to the black-robed priest. The priest stared
wide-eyed, clearly forced beyond the comfort of his authority. “B-but surely
this boon can wait till the high priests prove your claim?”

“Check your scrolls, priest. It is
within my rights as na-Mordant to claim a single boon.”

The priest hesitated, caught
between risk and ritual.

Huddled in his prison, Bryce felt
waves of Darkness lap around him.
 

“Look into my eyes, priest. Dare to
meet my gaze.” The Mordant’s voice was a silken command. “Find the truth behind
my stare.”

The priest gasped a strangled sound.
Felled to his knees, his face turned chalk-white, sweat beading his brow.
Cringing, the priest raised his hands in supplication, shielding his eyes. “He’s
the one, the Mordant Returned!” Lurching to his feet, the priest grabbed the
centurion’s arm, panic written across his face. “By the Darkness, grant his
boon!”

The Mordant’s voice carried a
sarcastic twist. “My first believer. I’ll remember you, Tavros, priest of the
border guards.”

The priest quaked. “I n-never said
my n-name.”

“Darkness knows you, priest. Your soul
shouts its secrets to me, the least of which is your name.”

Trembling, the priest bowed low and
backed away, clutching his amulet as if a mere metal trinket could save him.

The Mordant turned to the
centurion, his words a command. “Cragnoth Keep is held by men loyal to the
north. They wear maroon cloaks but serve the Darkness. Trask is their leader,
an axe-wielding knight turned mercenary.” He gestured to the ranks of spears.
“Take two thirds of your men and ride hard for the keep. Relieve Trask and secure
the stronghold against the Octagon.”

“But your escort?”

“The true Mordant needs no escort.”

The centurion saluted, his fist
striking against his breastplate. “As you command.”

The Mordant smiled. “And one more
thing. Trask and his men were promised golds for their betrayal. Payment will
be delivered once I ascend to the Ebony Throne. Make sure Trask lives. I have
plans for the traitor-knight.” He made his voice a command. “Ride hard and
claim the keep for Darkness, securing a gateway into the south.”

The centurion saluted, snapping
orders to his men.

A soldier brought forth a black
stallion. Another soldier knelt by the stirrup. The Mordant stepped on the
soldier’s back, mounting the stallion. Taking the reins, he turned the horse
with a flourish. Raising his fist in triumph, the Mordant addressed the troops.
“To the men of the third border guard, I give the honor of striking the first
blow! Loose the gore hounds and bring war to the kingdoms of Erdhe!”

A cheer rose from the soldiers.
Spears clattered against shields, horses stamped and snorted, and above it all,
the gore hounds howled, the fearsome din of war.

In his prison, the monk wept for a
chance lost, for a world teetering on the brink of war. He prayed to all the
gods for a way to kill the Mordant, a way to kill himself, but his prayers went
unanswered. Sick at heart, Bryce slumped in his prison, betrayed by the
impotence of the gods.

The Mordant put spurs to the
stallion, crossing the gate and galloping into the north.
*Do you feel it, monk? Do you feel the gathering glory? I ride to claim
a throne and all the power of the north, while you whimper in the dark, praying
to a pack of useless gods.*

Bryce cringed, hiding in the corner of his prison.

*
You’re a stubborn one,
monk, but your gods will never answer. My rebirth is the ultimate proof of the
Dark Lord’s bounty. Forget the Lords of Light and spend your prayers on a god
who answers.*
The Mordant’s voice
boomed through the gray void, a relentless goad.
*What do you pray for, monk?*

Bryce swallowed his thoughts and shrank to insignificance, a moth
hiding in the dark.

*Answer
me.*

Darkness pressed around him like a threatening hand.
*I was…*
His voice faltered, snuffed by fear.

*Come
now, monk, your thoughts are mine to rape.*

Bryce quaked in terror, knowing silence would be his undoing.
*I was…*
he forced the words out,
*…praying
for a chance to kill you.*

Mocking laughter rolled through the darkness.
*Of course you were.*
 
The
Mordant’s laughter intensified, beating against him, coming from all sides,
like waves of acid.
*But you will
never get the chance. For you are a gift from the Dark Lord, mine to use or
abuse, to reward or punish, my pet, my tamed monk, my servant for all
eternity.*
 
Darkness tightened around him, a fist holding him tight.
*But keep dreaming of murder…of sweet
revenge…and soon you shall be one with the Dark.*

The hand released him. The laughter receded. The darkness faded to
gray.

Once more alone, Bryce curled into
a ball. He stayed small and insignificant, afraid to move, afraid to think. But
a single thought crept into his mind,
what
if the Mordant was right?

King Ursus took the stairs two at
time. The knight marshal shadowed his king, keeping his hand on his sword hilt.
Reaching the tower top, the king bulled through the outer doors, striding out
onto the windswept battlement. A pair of guards snapped to attention but the
king paid them no heed. A faint jangle of arms and armor marked their steps as the
two men strode to the crenelated battlement. They’d come for the eagle’s view. The
great eight-sided castle stretched below, an invincible vision of martial
splendor, but their gaze passed over the mage-stone battlements, drawn westward
to the Dragon Spine Mountains.
Dawn crowned the mountains in a glorious blaze of red and gold, the snowy
ramparts dividing north from south. And there amongst the jagged peaks a signal
beacon blazed bright.

“I knew it, Osbourne. I dreamt of
it last night.” The king gripped the merlon, staring west like a man seeing a
vision. “Before my page ever brought word, I knew the signal towers would be
lit.”

The marshal’s breath caught. The
king oft displayed a sixth sense for war, as if an ancient battle magic flowed
in his veins. But magic was anathema to the Octagon. The marshal banished the
traitorous thought. “You dreamt of it, sire?”

“Lionel,” the king spoke in a grave
voice, “Lionel is in trouble. When the messengers come, they’ll bring word of
Cragnoth Keep.”

It was too soon for messengers.
“How can you be sure?”

“Do you trust me, Osbourne?”

Clad in scarred fighting leathers,
his great blue sword looming like a threat over his right shoulder, the king
remained a battle-keen warrior despite his years. The marshal bowed his head.
“Always, sire.”

“Then we gird for war.” A cold wind
snatched at their maroon cloaks, a bite of winter snapping at their faces. “I’ll
not tarry for messengers. We ride for Cragnoth Keep.”

“A war in winter?” The one-eyed
marshal shook his head as if he did not believe his own words, but his gaze was
drawn to the proof, to the signal fire burning bright in the snowy heights.
“The Mordant has never been so bold.”

“Bold?” The king barked an angry
laugh. “I call it devious. The Mordant is ever treacherous.”

“Then you think it a ruse? A feint
to draw us from Castlegard?”

“Tricks and traps are the hallmark
of the Mordant, but either way the signal fire must be answered.” The king’s
voice dropped to a low growl. “And Cragnoth is our weakest point. It makes
sense for the first thrust to fall on the frozen keep.”

The marshal countered the argument.
“Cragnoth holds the fewest knights, but the keep is built strong. The tunneled
pass-through could choke an army.”
 

“But did it?” The king glared at
the marshal, a fire in his eyes. “Did an army choke to death in the stone
passageway or has the keep fallen, opening a door to the south?”

The marshal had no answer.

“Waiting only serves the Mordant.” The
king balled his gauntleted hands into fists. “Summon the knights. I’ll lead a
vanguard into the mountains to learn the truth of this threat.”

The king’s place was in Castlegard
but the marshal’s protest died on his lips. Ursus was too much of a warrior to
wait while other men fought. “And if it’s a trap”

“Then we’ll meet it with steel.
Either way, the signal tower will be answered.” The king turned to face his
marshal, his gaze keen and sure. “Take a deep breath, Osbourne. Can’t you smell
it? War is in the very air. A great battle comes from the north. Our last war,
our last chance for glory. This time we’ll defeat the Mordant, ending forever the
threat from the north.” Conviction blazed from the king’s face, the conviction
of a man grasping a great destiny.

 
“You have my sword, sire.”

The king clapped a gauntleted hand
on his marshal’s shoulder. “Then rouse the maroon. We ride for Cragnoth.”

The marshal turned to obey, but the
king was not finished.

“Do you think Lionel still lives?”

The king’s voice held an odd
timber, betraying a father’s worry. The marshal hesitated. It was well known
the king favored his youngest son for the throne. “Cragnoth Keep is well built
and Lionel is a well-loved captain. Under his command, the Crag will never
yield.”

Dread flickered in the king’s gray-green
gaze. “Last night I dreamt of the signal towers…but I also dreamt of death.”
The marshal had no answer. The king scowled, his face mired in worry. “I can’t
lose another heir.” Turning to stare up at the snow-capped mountains, the steel
returned to his voice, the monarch replacing the father. “Summon the knights. Assemble
a vanguard. We ride for the Crag.”

The marshal saluted, leaving his
king alone with his thoughts.

Castlegard thrummed with
expectation, a hornet’s nest set alight by the blazing beacon. Scores of
knights clamored for a chance to wet their swords. The marshal chose the best
of them, limiting the vanguard to two hundred knights and half a hundred
archers. Provisions were drawn from the stores and parceled into saddlebags. Horses
were brought from the stables, saddled and armored for war. The host assembled
in the great yard, a gleaming swirl of burnished steel mounted on snorting warhorses.

A cheer thundered through the yard,
announcing the coming of the king. Bold and bright like a hero of old, the king
wore a helm crowned with gold, his breastplate gleaming silver in the morning
light. A squire held the king’s warhorse, a dappled gray stallion caparisoned
in maroon. King Ursus swung into the saddle like a young man, defying the
weight of his armor. A double line of mounted knights formed behind the maroon
banner. The marshal nudged his mud-brown gelding forward, taking his place at
the king’s right hand. A trumpet sounded and the king led them out at a slow
trot, a clatter of hooves drumming across the drawbridge. Knights, squires, and
men-at-arms lined the castle walls, cheering the vanguard to victory. The
marshal turned in the saddle, drinking in the cheers and the sight of the
mage-stone walls. The view was grand enough to swell a man’s pride and melt
away the years, yet he could not shake a nagging sense of doom.

The king set a blistering pace but
the marshal insisted on outriders, always leery of a trap. The countryside
proved peaceful; fallow farmland teetering on the edge of winter. They spent
long days in the saddle, always pressing for speed. Farmland gave way to a
cedar forest skirting the steep mountain trail. Single file, the horses forged
upwards, snowflakes swirling down from the ice-bound heights. The trail
narrowed to a series of knife-edged switchbacks, a long line of maroon snaking
up the mountainside. Cold winds blew down from the pass. Riding behind the
king, the marshal huddled under his wool cloak, seeking refuge from the wind’s
bite.

The king’s squire saw it first. “
There,
Sire!”

A square, blockish tower squatted
at the top of the pass like a stone fist. Crusted in ice, Cragnoth Keep was an
ugly lump of stone, yet a maroon banner still flew atop the ramparts.

The king turned in the saddle, snowflakes
crusting his beard. “The Crag is still ours.”

The marshal spurred his horse
forward. “Sire, beware! Look to the sky.” Eagles circled the keep, dark wings
carving lazy circles in an iron-gray sky. In the flatlands, crows and ravens
were ever the first to spy a carrion feast, but eagles ruled the snowy heights.
“Something’s wrong. Beware a trap.”

The king nodded, his eyes like
chips of flint. “If it’s a trap, then we dare not linger.” Unsheathing his blue
sword, the king stood in his stirrups, raising a flash of sapphire to the
heavens. “For Honor and the Octagon!”
 

“
Honor and the Octagon!”
The
war cry echoed down the long maroon line. Weapons gleamed in the afternoon
light. The marshal unsheathed his sword and spurred his horse to a gallop,
determined to protect the king. Trumpets blared as the war host thundered up
the switchbacks. Rounding the last bend, they charged the keep.

An angry shriek split the
courtyard. A pair of eagles fought over a severed hand. A feast of corpses lay
strewn across the ground. The courtyard was empty…except for the dead…and all
the dead wore maroon cloaks.
 

The marshal hauled on the reins,
pulling his gelding to a stop. Behind him, the war host ground to a halt.
Weapons in hand, the knights stared slack-jawed from their horses, nothing to
fight but death.

A second eagle screamed a warning.
Dark wings beat into the sky, carrying off the severed hand. A cold wind
swirled through the courtyard, raising the stink of the dead.

The stench was like a slap in the
face. The marshal dismounted, spewing orders. “Sir Winton, take forty knights
and secure the tower. Sir Abrax, protect the king.” Men leaped to action,
swords held at the ready. An honor guard circled the king, while a troop of
knights dashed for the tower. “Sir Ambrose, another forty with me.” The marshal
led them toward the tunneled pass-through, the key to defending the keep.
Legends said a single knight could hold the passage against all the hordes of
the north. But legends seldom proved true. “Light some torches and be wary of a
trap.”
 

Dark and cold as a cave, the
tunneled passageway gaped open, waiting to swallow the unwary. The marshal
advanced with naked steel, swords bristling around him. A rotten stench slammed
into him, demanding a gag. A veteran of many battles, he’d smelled carrion
before but the narrow passage magnified the reek. Swallowing hard, he pressed
forward, torchlight glinting on rough stone walls. A third of the way in, he
found the source of the stench. Bloated and ripe, a half-dozen corpses lay
jumbled around a fallen warhorse, a clog of death. Like the courtyard, all the
dead wore maroon cloaks, not a single enemy among them.
 

Behind him, Sir Ambrose hissed, “By
the seven hells, what evil did this? They died facing the north, but where’s
the enemy?”
 

The marshal pressed forward,
stepping around the dead, seeking an answer to the riddle. A trail of corpses
littered the passage, all of them knights, many feathered with arrows. He knelt
to pull an arrow from a corpse. All the fletchings were the same, black
feathers, without a speck of gold. Another mystery.

The trail of corpses ended two
thirds of the way down the passage; clumps of horse dung the only other clue.
Needing to see it all, the marshal continued to the end. They found the outer
doors closed and barred, no sign of any struggle.

Sir Ambrose pounded his mailed fist
against the ironbound gate. “How can this be? They must have repulsed the
invaders in order to seal the gates, but where are the victors? And why do all
the dead wear maroon cloaks?”
 

The marshal had no answer. The
passageway stank of treachery.

Sir Ambrose stared at the gate.
“Let’s see what lies beyond.”
 

Two knights moved to shoulder the
heavy bar aside, but the marshal stopped them. “Leave it. We’ll check the far
side from the tower ramparts.” He gripped the hilt of his sword. “I’ll not open
the gates to ambush.”
 

They retreated back down the grim
passage, a clank of armor and weapons. The marshal paused at each body, putting
names to the bloated faces, praying the king’s son wasn’t among them. He recognized
most of the fallen. Men he’d trained, men he’d led, brothers-in-arms, ruined by
battle and ravaged by decay, they stared up at him with vacant eyes. The
marshal wondered if they’d died with honor. If only the dead could talk.
Reaching the last corpse, he turned to Sir Ambrose. “Get the passage cleared.
If this is a trap, I’ll not have our men tripping over corpses to hold the
tunnel against the north.”

Sir Ambrose saluted, his face grim.

The marshal left them to the task.
Stepping from darkness into the windswept courtyard, he took a deep breath to
clear his lungs, but the stench clung to his wool cloak, the putrid smell of
rotting corpses. He flicked the cloak behind him, preferring the cold.

The courtyard was a hive of activity.
Surrounded by a ring of knights, the king took reports and issued commands. King
Ursus met the marshal’s stare. Waving the others away, he asked a single
question. “Lionel?”

The marshal shook his head. “No
sign of the prince.”

The strain on the king’s face eased
a fraction.

The marshal made his report. “They
fought in the tunnel. The outer gates are barred from inside but the passage is
clogged with corpses…all of them knights. They died facing the north but
there’s no sign of the enemy.” He held an arrow aloft. “Many were feathered
with arrows, but the fletchings are pure black, not the black and gold of the
Mordant.” He stared at his king. “More riddles without answers.”

The king tugged at his beard, a
grim look on his face. “Cragnoth stinks of treachery. Come look at this.” The
king led him to one of the dead, a massive knight lying on his back, a
battleaxe locked in his fist.
 

Size alone was enough to name the
dead. “Trask.”

The king nodded. “Look at the death
wound.”
 

A single sword thrust pierced clean
through the breastplate, through chainmail, through flesh and bone, straight to
the heart. A remarkable death-stroke, requiring immense strength and skill, but
the marshal needed to see Trask’s back to be sure. He bent to roll the body,
but the king stayed his hand. “The wound goes all the way through, skewered by
a single thrust. Armor cut like butter.” The king scowled. “I’ve seen wounds
like this before. Made them myself in battle.”

“
Blue steel!”
 

“Just so.” The king voice dropped
to a low growl. “But none were posted to Cragnoth…and only one blue blade is
unaccounted for.”