The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga) (20 page)

For a moment, the old man’s faith
was contagious…but then Duncan
shook his head. “If the gods exist, then they should show their faces and
strike a blow against evil.” He swung the hammer, driving the wedge deep in the
ore-face.

The earth rumbled and shook.

A mighty roar came from the tunnel’s
mouth. A belch of rock dust rolled towards them like a storm cloud. Duncan threw himself to
the ground, his hands over his head, expecting the weight of the earth.

The rumbling stopped…and the
screaming began.

Fear hung heavy in the stale air. Duncan squeezed past the sledge, pushing Clovis toward the exit. Choking on dust, they
crawled on hands and knees till they reached the gallery. Other prisoners
spilled out of their side tunnels, shock and fear etched in rock-dusted faces.

A wail of pain shuddered through
the gallery. “My legs! I can’t feel my legs!”

The cave-in was three tunnels down.
Trell lay pinned beneath a tumble of stones, half-swallowed by fallen rocks.

Duncan
began shifting stones while Clovis
tried to calm the injured man. “We’ll get you out. Lay still.” Duncan set his shoulder to
a large rock, but it would not budge. It was only then that he realized the others
were not helping. He turned to confront their stony stares. “Help me save him.”

A few men looked away, others
fidgeted, but Brock met his stare. The big man shook his head. “No use,
cat-man. He’s already dead.”

“You don’t know that.”
 

“Look at the size of those rocks.”
Brock’s voice was hard as iron. “His legs are crushed, eaten by the mine.”

Trell loosed a keening wail, the
sound clawing at raw-edged nerves.

Duncan pointed to the rock-fall. “And beyond
the fall? Perhaps the other man still lives.”

Doubt flicked across Brock’s face.

Duncan pressed the point. “I’ll not leave a
man buried alive.” Some of the others began to nod. “We work together and
live…or we stand alone and die.” He extended his hand. “Don’t let the mine
defeat us, brother.”

The big man hesitated…but then he
stepped forward and clasped Duncan’s
forearm. “We stand together.”

A ragged cheer rose from the other
men.

The cheer soon turned to resolve;
the men knew time was against them. Brock issued orders and the men formed a
line, passing the fallen stones from hand to hand, stacking them at the far end
of the gallery. Duncan
worked with the big men at the rock-fall, trying to clear the entrance. Smaller
stones rattled and fell as the larger rocks were muscled away. Trell whimpered,
a trickle of blood at his mouth. Clovis
whispered, “I think we’re losing him.”

Duncan grabbed another rock, careful not to
start a slide. “Ask him who he works with. Who wields the hammer?”

Clovis answered. “It’s Bruce.”

Duncan pictured the tall, blond-haired man.
“A strong one.” He wrestled a large rock from the pile. “I’m betting he’s still
alive.”

Trell moaned, his eyes glazed with
pain.

The men worked with grim
determination, whittling away at the rock fall. An opening appeared at the top.
Duncan peered
inside. Dust choked the darkness, making it hard for even Duncan to see. Brock grabbed a torch and
handed it up. Duncan
poked it through the opening, calling for the missing man. “Bruce! Do you
live?”

No response.

Duncan withdrew the torch. “It’s too dusty
inside, too hard to see. Keep working, he might still live.”

Doubt clouded the other men’s
faces, but they kept at it. More stones were cleared, opening a space large
enough for a man to squeeze through. Duncan
stared at the hole, fearing another collapse. “My idea. I’ll go.”

No one argued.

He took the torch to protect his
secret and climbed to the opening. Rocks shifted under his weight, a bad omen.
Thrusting the torch forward, he crawled on his belly, stones scraping against
his bare-chest. His shoulders just fit, like a well-measured tomb. The way
ahead narrowed. He shoved a rock aside, praying the ceiling would hold. Stones
tumbled forward with a disturbing clatter. Duncan waited, holding his breath…but the
ceiling held. Worming his way through, he gained the other side. Dropping the
torch, he pulled free of the passage, peering through the dust. “Bruce! Do you
live?” Halfway back, he found the blond-haired man sprawled amongst a tumble of
stones. His face was covered in rock dust…but a strong heartbeat pulsed at his
neck. Duncan
shook him hard, willing him to wake.

Bruce’s eyes fluttered open.
“W-what happened?”

“A cave-in. We need to get out. Can
you move?”

His eyes widened in fear. “I’ll
bloody well try.”

Duncan led the way, Bruce struggling to
follow. Ahead, the torchlight glowed like a beacon in the dust. They reached
the rock-fall and Bruce gasped. “Buried alive!” The big man began to shake.

Duncan gripped his arm. “We work together and
we live.”

Bruce nodded, his eyes wide and
wild, his face pale.

Brock’s voice came from the far
side. “Any luck?”

“I found him. He lives!”

A muffled cheer rose from the far
side.

Brock’s voice bellowed over the
others. “Then get your lazy asses back on this side before more rocks fall.”

Duncan looked at Bruce. “Sound advice. You go
first.”

Trembling, Bruce nodded and then
scrambled up the rock-fall to the hole. Duncan
retrieved the torch, knowing that Grack would punish them if it was lost.

Rocks shifted under Bruce’s weight,
a few stones clattering to the tunnel floor, but the hole remained open. Duncan followed, worming
his way back, rocks scraping against his bare skin. Hands reached for him,
pulling him from the rock’s embrace. The others gathered around, pounding Bruce
and Duncan on the back, talking all at once, celebrating a victory over the
grave. Only Brock and Clovis
stood apart.

Duncan
looked at Clovis.
“Trell?”
 

The older man shook his head. “He
died before we could get him out.”

Duncan frowned, another life claimed by the
mine, another victory for the Mordant.

Brock gripped his arm. “Bruce
nearly died as well, buried alive. A terrible way to die.” The big man
shuddered. “You were right, cat-man.”

Duncan nodded. “You see what men can do when
they work together.”

Bitterness flooded the big man’s
voice. “Yeah, we can live to die another day. We’re all fodder for the
mine.”
 

“Maybe not.”

A spark of interest lit the big
man’s eyes. “You have a plan, cat-man?”

The deafening clang of the
bucket-chain rattled to a stop. The sudden silence signaled an end to their
time in the depths.

A cheer rose from the men, they’d
survived another day in hell, rescuing one of their own from death’s embrace.

Duncan nodded at Brock. “We’ll talk later.”

The men moved along the gallery to
the central shaft, but instead of shuffling with weary defeat, they walked with
purpose, even pride. Duncan
noticed the change. Perhaps the cave-in was a godsend. Tonight might be his
best chance to convince them to fight.

25

The Mordant

Splendor was the decree of the day.
The Mordant abandoned subtlety for the trappings of power, choosing the garb of
a warrior king. A gleaming gold breastplate inscribed with a pentacle, black
leather pants tucked into knee-high boots, and upon his head he wore an iron
circlet studded with black diamonds, a king come to claim his throne.

A dozen guards scrambled to open
the massive bronze doors.

A gong sounded, a deep-throated
voice announcing his presence.

Thousands of supplicants fell
prostrate, their faces pressed to the cold stone floor.

The Mordant crossed the narthex,
boot heels ringing on polished marble. He stood on the threshold, backlit by
the fading sunset.

Intimidation wrought into stone,
the Basilica of the Dark Citadel proclaimed a thousand years of dominance. Vast
enough to foster echoes, the cavernous hall wielded proportion like a war
hammer. Massive pillars lined the nave, supporting a vaulted ceiling shrouded
in darkness. Slender rays of sunlight speared the upper dome, but they quickly
faded, consumed by the gloom. Massive candles sculpted like malformed faces
provided the light, weeping waterfalls of wax tears. Mosaics glorified his past
lifetimes, every detail designed to enhance his power. Built of dusky-colored
stone, the Basilica portrayed all the subtle shades of Darkness from smoky-gray
granites and dark-green marbles to the true black of onyx. Gold provided the
only relief, a crushing display of wealth paving the steps to the throne. And upon
the glittering dais, exulted above all else, sat the Ebony Throne. Carved from
the heartwood of a giant tree, the massive throne was jet-black with rich
swirls of green in the ebony grain, a wealth of rare wood, a triumph of Darkness
over nature…and all of it, his to use, his to command.

The Mordant strode down the long
aisle, his black cape flaring behind, the Staff of Pain clicking on the marble
paving. Beneath his stride, he walked on names. History was written on the Basilica’s
floors. Names of battlefields won, cities plundered, towns burned, and villages
raped. Most were long forgotten, missing from present-day maps, but in the
Mordant’s citadel they remained etched in stone, eternally trod beneath his
boot heel.

Dark glory echoed from every aspect
of the Basilica. The Mordant breathed deep, imbibing the heady rush of unrestrained
power. Virile with stolen youth, he traversed the immense nave. His boot steps
echoed on marble, the only sound in the vaulted hush. His stare feasted on the
sea of prostrate subjects, as if the path to the throne was paved in mortal
souls. Reaching the dais, he mounted the steps, a fortune of gold beneath his
boots. His black cape swirled as he turned to survey the long hall. Thousands
of subjects remained prone, covering the stone floor like a living tapestry.
Not a single man dared to lift his head. The Mordant smiled, fear was such a
beautiful thing.

He took a seat on the Ebony Throne,
regal in black and gold.

The voice of the gong rumbled like
thunder.
 

Thousands rose to their feet, a
shuffle of humanity, all bowing toward his throne. Familiar faces stood the
closest, the high priests and the generals, dressed in their finest, come to
pay homage to his reign. He gave them a paternal smile, and then he began to
speak.

“
The Mordant has returned!
” A trick of the architecture allowed his
voice to boom through the Basilica. “The time of waiting is over. I have come
to take up the Dark Lord’s sword, to bring the destiny of a thousand years to
fulfillment. A new age of Darkness yearns to be born. Like all births, it will
be drenched in blood, the blood of the southern kingdoms, for
we
are the
Masters of War.” Cheers rose from the crowd but he quelled them with a raised
hand. “The Basilica bears the proof of our prowess. Triumphs of the past
surround us. Melted crowns gild the steps of our dais. Names of the vanquished
are trod beneath our boot heels. Nothing in history has ever stopped the Dark
Lord, and nothing will stop us now.”

“Victory!” A single shout rose from
the base of the dais. The crowd took up the chant.
“Victory! Victory!”
A
rolling thunder echoed through the dark vault.

The Mordant eased back against the
throne, basking in their adoration, more proof of his power. After a time, he
raised his hand to still the crowd. When silence returned, he nodded to his
High Priest.

Gavis climbed halfway up the dais,
resplendent in robes of the blackest silk trimmed with runes of gold. “My Lord,
shall we begin?”

The Mordant gestured with a flick
of his hand.

Gavis snapped opened a scroll and
began to read the list of names. His baritone voice summoned two hundred of the
most powerful men in the citadel to swear allegiance to their god-king, a
public display of fealty.

General Haith came first. Resplendent
in burnished armor, the old soldier bowed low. Drawing his sword, he extended
the gilded hilt toward the Mordant. He climbed the dais and he knelt to make
his offering. “My sword is yours to command.”

The Mordant touched the hilt in
acceptance.

The general sheathed his sword and
completed the oath of loyalty. “As the Dark Lord is my witness, I swear to
serve my lord, the Mordant, to obey his every command, to crush his enemies, to
extend his reign, to live or die for him.” Falling prostrate to the golden
steps, he kissed the Mordant’s boot, the ultimate act of submission.

Pleased with the display, the
Mordant smiled. “Your fealty is accepted. Serve well and live long.”

The general retreated while other powerful
men came forward to make their pledge. One at a time, they climbed the golden
steps and knelt before the Mordant, swearing the oath of fealty. Generals,
bishops, stewards, and assassins, they all abased themselves before the power
of the Ebony Throne.

The Mordant watched them come, his
face set in a benevolent mask, his malevolence hidden behind a cloak of stolen
youth. He studied each soul, marking their names, gauging their worth while
enjoying their abasement. He accepted them all, even the ones who carried the
scent of treachery…until a certain bishop dared to climb the dais. Fat with
easy living, Bishop Tynes huffed up the stairs, his multiple chins quivering
with each step. Dropping to his knees, he pressed his hands together in
prayerful worship, intoning the words of ritual. “As the Dark Lor…”

“Bishop Tynes.”

The bishop stuttered to a stop, confusion
beaming from his moon shaped face. “Yes, Lord?”

The Mordant smiled, the corpulent
bishop would make a fine example. “I received your gift of brandy.”

The bishop gaped liked a fish pulled
from water but the sweat on his forehead ruined his performance. “Brandy, Lord?
I know nothing of any gift.”

“A cup of death brought by a priest
in your service.” The Mordant despised bad liars but he kept his voice soft and
paternal. “Surely you will not lie to your Lord?”

The fat prelate shook his head; his
jowls quaking like a stormy sea. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Did you think I wouldn’t know?”

The bishop stared, wide-eyed, his
face flushed with fear.

“The truth was written on
Fenthane’s soul.” Leaning forward, he prodded the bishop’s belly with the butt
of his staff. “Confess your sins.”

Screaming, the bishop scuttled back
down the golden steps, cowering at the foot of the dais like a crab looking for
a rock to hide under. “I only obeyed! It wasn’t my idea!” His voice twisted to
a screech. “I’ve done nothing but serve the Pentacle.” His stare raced around
the Basilica but whatever support he sought did not come forward.

The Mordant called the Darkness.
“Look at me.”

Huddled at the base of the dais,
the bishop raised a tentative stare.

“Treachery can be transformed…but
never stupidity.”
 

The bishop whimpered and tried to
look away but his gaze was already caught. The Mordant plunged into his soul,
plucking details from the fat prelate’s mind. The trail of names led all the
way to the way to the royal palace, so predictable, so disappointing. In all
the years he’d ruled the Ebony Throne, the conspirators never thought to send
an honest man against him. Finished, the Mordant withdrew, burying his powers
beneath a mask of youth.

Released, the bishop crumpled to
the marble floor, gasping like a hollow reed.

Sitting back in the throne, the
Mordant studied the powerful men clustered around the dais, making note of
those who trembled and those who hid their guilt well. He decided to let them
stew in their fear; one example should be enough. Pounding his iron staff
against the golden dais, he made his voice a command. “For committing treason
against the Lord of the Ebony Throne, Bishop Tynes is hereby stripped of his
robes and his priestly duties. Expelled from the citadel, he is condemned to
spend the rest of his life in the Pit, chained to a slave in the iron mine till
his soul departs from his body.”

“
Nooooo!”
 

“Let my will be done.”

The gong sounded, a deep thunder
sealing the Mordant’s command.

General Haith gestured and a pair
of bare-chested Taals pushed their way to the foot of the dais. Over eight-foot
tall and muscle-bound, the ogre-like Taals bowed to the Mordant and then
stepped to either side of the condemned bishop. Hands the size of shovels
gripped the prelate’s robe. Silk ripped down the center, sundering the robe in
two. The bishop fell back on his rump, dumped like a lamb from the womb, naked
except for a silk loincloth. Fat and quivering, he stared at the crowd, his
eyes wide with horror. The Taals gave him little time to react. Lifting the fat
man between them, they carried him down the long nave. The bishop writhed in
their grip, screaming as his feet wind-milled a foot above the marble floor.
The great doors opened. The Taals and their burden passed from sight. The
massive doors shut with a dull thud.

Minutes passed before the echoing
screams fell silent.

An ominous hush settled over the
cavernous hall.

No one moved.
 

No one dared meet his stare.
 

The Mordant smiled, a lesson well
learned. He gestured toward his High Priest. “Continue.”

Bowing, Gavis returned to the list
of names.

The elite of the Citadel answered
the summons, a newfound fear etched in their faces. Bowing low, they crept up
the golden stairs, every man making a full obeisance.

The Mordant enjoyed the spectacle,
watching their faces, reading their souls. So much abasement for a single
death, the portly bishop was coin well spent.

Gavis was the last to take the
oath. Holding his staff up in offering, the High Priest lay prostrate on the
golden stairs, his words a hushed whisper, intended for the Mordant’s ears
alone. “Treachery can be transformed.”

Amused, the Mordant stroked the
beginnings of a beard. “Why waste a sharpened dagger, eh?”

Gavis lay still, his black silk
robes draping the golden stairs like a shadow. “A dagger against your enemies.”

The Mordant waited, drawing out the
lesson. Beads of sweat glistened on the High Priest’s forehead…but he did not
beg, and he did not waver. The hand holding the staff remained rock-steady.
This one had potential. Leaning down, the Mordant touched the staff in
acceptance. “Serve well and live.”
 

Remaining prostrate, Gavis
completed the oath of fealty. “As the Dark Lord is my witness, I swear to serve
my Lord, the Mordant, to obey his every command, to crush his enemies, to
extend his reign, to live or die for him.” He crept forward to kiss the
Mordant’s boot.

“No.” The Mordant pulled his foot
back, his words loud enough for the elite to hear. “I set my High Priest above
all other men.”

Gavis looked up, a glint of
gratitude in his dark gaze. He rose from the steps and took his place halfway
down the dais, his face lined with dignity, his back stiff with pride.

The Mordant smiled, a dagger turned
but not blunted.

The High Priest resumed his duties,
his voice echoing through the Basilica. “The oaths of fealty have been pledged
and accepted. In celebration of our Lord’s return, the Mordant will hear the
petitions of his people. Come forward and ask a boon from your liege.”

A murmur of anticipation swept
through the crowd.

The elite of the citadel were the
first to approach. Leading women veiled in colorful silks, the lordlings
offered their daughters to serve as concubines. Fathers unveiled their nubile
young daughters, displaying their curves like gifts before the dais. Most were
comely enough, some were even stunningly beautiful, but he took them all, even
the dowdy and the plain. Instead of influence the fathers gained obligation,
bound to the Ebony Throne by their own ambition, desperate to see the Mordant
succeed in the hopes that their grandsons might one day wield power. Each
daughter gained him a willing vassal, chained by blood and ambition. The
Mordant chuckled, so much loyalty bought for the price of sex.

When the parade of daughters ended,
the rabble of the lower tiers came forward. Approaching the throne on their
knees, they begged opportunities for their sons, for better wages for their
craftsmen, and for more food for their tables. The lower tiers especially,
begged for the largess of more bread and gruel. The Mordant played the
benevolent ruler, granting a majority of requests. He’d leave it to the
priesthood to renege on his promises, enforcing austerity and sacrifice, all in
the name of war.

Growing weary of the petty rabble,
he signaled an end to the petitioners. The hallway cleared but no one dared
leave.