The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga) (21 page)

Gavis pounded his staff against the
steps. “Summon the Sea Lords.”

The Mordant sat forward, keen to
renew the longstanding alliance.

The booming voice of the gong
thundered a summons. The doors of the Basilica swung open. Twelve men in
fish-scale armor swept in like a storm-blown gale. Their bronze armor gleamed
in the torchlight, their long capes the deep blue of a bottomless sea. Tall and
proud, they carried trident-tipped spears, their faces weathered by salt and
sun. Marching the length of the colonnade, they strode to the foot of the
golden dais and made a curt half-bow.

The Mordant kept his face still,
allowing the stiff-necked sea-folk the illusion that they were more than mere
vassals.

One of the twelve stepped forward,
his voice a deep rumble. “The Sea Lords answer the call of the Ebony Throne.”
The speaker was an older man, tall with streaks of gray in his long dark hair,
his beard braided into a three-forked trident that reached to his waist.
“MerChanter Timoth comes to renew the alliance of sea and land.”

The plans of the Dark Lord required
ships, but the sea had never been the Mordant’s domain. Many lifetimes ago he’d
struck an alliance with the sea-folk, using them as mercenary vassals, his
wolves of the ocean. “Emissaries of the Sea Lords are ever welcome in our
court.”

Another man from the MerChanter’s
party stepped forward, laying a cloth-wrapped bundle at the foot of the dais.
“A gift from the Miral of the sea.”

The Mordant gestured and Gavis bent
toward the bundle. The outer wrapping fell away, revealing a glitter of gold on
black. The High Priest stood, holding a man’s cloak trimmed in sealskin, gold
discs shimmering along its length.

The Mordant waved him forward.
Gavis climbed the steps, laying the cloak across the Mordant’s knees. The truth
of the cloak lay in the details. Gold coins were cunningly bound into the
sealskin like a shimmer of scales. But every coin was different. Many were worn
smooth with age while others bore a coats-of-arms or a crowned visage few would
recognize, tokens of kingdoms long lost to history. The Mordant fingered the
cloak. None save a harlequin of many lifetimes would know the true age such
coins. “A most fitting gift.” A smile graced his face. “The cloak of an eternal
conqueror.”

The MerChanter grinned, a flash of
gold in his teeth. “You see the truth of it.”

He gestured to Gavis and to General
Haith. The two men climbed the dais. The Mordant stood and they removed the
black wool cloak, settling the cloak of many coins across his shoulders. He
liked the weight of it. The cloak felt like destiny, the solid tug of
inevitability. “We are pleased with your gift.”

The MerChanter nodded. “Then the
Miral will be pleased.”

“But you have come for more than
ceremony.”

“Aye.” The MerChanter tugged on his
beard, his face stern. “Long have we hunted distant shores as per our accord
with the Ebony Throne. But the sudden crossing of the great ocean has taken its
tithe. The holds of our longships are empty. Our rowers grow hungry for meat
and mead.”

The Mordant nodded. “Your holds
shall be filled and a feast laid for your people.” It was part of their
longstanding bargain, safe harbor below the Dark Citadel and stores to fill the
holds of their ships.

“We’ve crossed the great ocean at
your summoning, but our tridents long for blood and our Miral seeks fresh
plunder.”

“You shall have both.” The Mordant
raised his voice, his words meant for the crowd as well as the sea folk. “I
have returned to lead the Pentacle to war. The southern kingdoms are fat with
peace. The southern coast will provide rich pickings for the Trident,
especially the seaside kingdom
of Navarre.”

The MerChanter grinned like a sea
wolf. “Then the tides run true for us both.”
 

“The tides of blood and plunder.”
The Mordant descended the dais. “Come, let us seal our alliance with a feast,
for we have much to discuss.” He strode down the long colonnade, the sea folk
marching behind like an honor guard. The multitude fell prostrate as he passed,
like wheat bent before the scythe. The Mordant smiled. Now that he had the Dark
Citadel in hand, he could turn his attention to conquest. A thousand years of
destiny yearned for fulfillment, calling to him like a siren, the rapture of
power pulsing through his veins. Soon the southern kingdoms would cower beneath
his boot heel, setting all of Erdhe beneath his dominion, an undisputed
god-king ruling for all eternity.

26

Katherine

Bear and Boar stayed two steps
behind, a pair of shadows Kath could not shake. Surly and taciturn, the guards
followed her everywhere, speaking only when something was forbidden, refusing
all conversations, not even offering their names. Kath had taken to calling
them by their tattoos. If either man minded, they did not say. Undaunted by her
silent shadows, Kath spent the better part of her days exploring the caves,
seeking clues to the riddle of her captors, searching for a bridge across a
chasm of differences.
 

The den proved to be a maze of
chambers, galleries, and tunneled passageways, an easy place to get lost. Animal
paintings dominated most chambers. A celebration of life danced on the rough
rock walls, raced across the vaulted ceilings, and peered from the faces of
young and old. Bears, foxes, badgers, owls, boars, and at least one eagle,
stared back at her, etched with blue ink on the faces of men and women alike. A
melding of human and animal that suggested a feral power. And all of them
carried a weapon of some sort, a dagger, a sword, a mace, a battle-axe, more
proof they lived in the Mordant’s shadow.

The tattooed people seemed as
strange and daunting as the caves in which they lived, but Kath knew they’d
make valuable allies against the Mordant. The Painted Warriors were a riddle
waiting to be solved…if only she could find the key to their trust. She
shivered, missing the monk’s wisdom and Duncan’s
instincts. Somehow she’d have to find a way to turn her captors into allies.
Feeling their hostile stares, she wondered if it could be done.

Kath persisted in exploring the
caves. Her wanderings had yielded at least one secret. The caves were best
traversed by following a single animal. Today she followed the white-tailed
deer, eager to discover where they might lead. Ocher deer pranced across the
rough rock walls, leading her through a series of twists and turns. Bold strokes
of color gave the deer a sense of motion, as if they might leap off the walls
and race down the rocky corridors. The artistry never failed to amaze her.
Startling in their intensity, the chalk drawings transformed the caves into a
cathedral, evoking a reverence for life, a vibrant celebration of freedom. If
the drawings mirrored their makers, then the Painted Warriors would make stout
allies of the Light…if only she could win their trust.

The corridor twisted left and then
forked into three separate passageways, including one that was little more than
a three-foot wide crack. Curiosity drew her to the narrow cleft. Saber-toothed
lions lurked in the shadows, slinking across the rocks, teeth bared in a snarl
of rage, as if they protected the narrow entranceway. A shiver of anticipation raced
down her spine. She’d been searching for lions, trying to understand the importance
of the Painted Warrior who’d died in Castlegard, but so far she’d had little
luck. Lions seemed to be rare in the caves…perhaps this narrow passage held the
insights she so desperately needed. Kath stepped towards the cleft.

“Not that way.” Bear’s gravelly
voice tugged like a leash.

Hating to be caged, she dared another
step.

“
Not
that way.”

She whirled, confronting her
shadows. “Why not?” Boar spoke even less than Bear, so she turned her anger on
the blond giant. “What’s down there? What are you hiding? What’s so special
about the lions?”

“Not that way.”

Anger boiled within her. “Give me a
reason.”

But the bear of a man just stared
at her, his face impassive, his hand on his sword hilt.

It was like talking to a rock, a
pair
of rocks. Tall, barrel-chested, and blond, Bear had the flattened nose of a
brawler. In contrast, Boar was dark and stocky, with an ugly scar that ran
along his tattooed tusk, as if the boar had ripped through the man’s face
trying to break free. She wondered which came first, the scar or the tattoo.
“Tell me about your tattoos. Why do you wear them? What do they mean?”

Neither man offered any response;
they just stared, their hands on their weapons.

Grinding her teeth, Kath considered
sprinting for the narrow passage, certain she could outrun her guards, but
trespassing on forbidden ground was not the best way to win friends. Swallowing
her frustration, she decided to try a different tactic. “You won’t return my
weapons. You won’t show me the way out. You won’t tell me about the caves. You
won’t talk about this so-called Ancestor. And you won’t even give me your
names.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Then tell me about the Mordant.”

Boar’s dark eyes widened, his gaze
flicking to Bear…but neither man answered.

Encouraged, Kath pressed the attack
“Tell me about the Dark Citadel. What weaknesses does it have? There must be a
secret way out, an escape route that could be used for an attack? And what
about the gates that guard the long wall? How do you get past the magic?” Hands
on her hips, she glared at the two men, daring them to answer.

Bear met her gaze, while Boar
fingered his mace, staring at the ground.

“You’re both warriors. You know the
enemy.” She stepped close, invading their space. “My companions and I came
north to fight the Mordant.” Her words stabbed like a sword. “Don’t send us
into battle blind.”

Boar gasped and retreated a step,
but Bear just stared.

Seeking to keep them off-balance,
Kath pivoted and started to walk away…but Boar’s gruff voice raised a stubborn
challenge. “Women don’t fight.”

She’d found a chink in their armor.
Slowly turning, she fought to keep her face neutral. “Why not? Every woman in
the den carries a weapon, so why don’t they fight?”

“To defend the den, yes, but not in
the open steppes.”

She drilled Boar with her stare,
demanding an answer. “Why not in the steppes?”

“Because…” he stammered, “men can
endure.” Blood rushed to his face. “Far better for a woman to die than to be
taken prisoner.”

“Why?”

“Because…” Boar’s face flushed red.

Kath’s stare intensified. “I need
to know.”

His voice dropped to a strangled
rasp. “Because captured women are sent to the breeding pens.”

A chill gripped Kath. “The
breeding
pens?”

Boar nodded. “In the Pit.”

The more she learned about the
Mordant’s domain, the more she hated it…but she needed to understand the enemy.
“So you’ve been in the Dark Citadel?”

“A slave of the ninth tier.”

Bear scowled, his voice like a
thunderclap.
“Enough!”

Boar looked away, his face flaming
red, his fist gripping his mace.

But the words were said…explaining
much. Kath waited, hoping for more, but the stony silence returned. Pivoting,
she strode down the widest passage, setting a fast pace, forcing her guards to
rush to catch up. Boar’s words shivered in her mind,
breeding pens,
such a revolting thought, another reason to defeat
the Mordant. She wondered how many of the Painted Warriors had once lived
within the Dark Citadel. Their knowledge would be invaluable, if only they’d
help, but their frosty silence was proving hard to crack. Whoever ruled the
tattooed people did so with an iron fist.

Kath followed the deer, lost in
thought, hoping Blaine
was having better luck. They’d split up, trying to cover more of the caves;
perhaps the knight would discover the meaning behind the lions.

The passage widened, spilling into
one of the many long galleries. Half a dozen passageways emptied into the
chamber, white-tailed deer mingling with aurochs, horses, and wolves across the
vaulted ceiling. A crowd filled the gallery, young and old standing in a
circle, straining to see, as if watching a juggler or a mummer. Men cheered and
women made a strange humming sound. Surprised, Kath drew close. She’d seen
large galleries where the tattooed people gathered to card wool, weave cloth,
cook meals, or repair chainmail, but she’d yet to see any form of merriment or
revelry. Curious, she joined the crowd, threading her way to the front. Gaining
a clear view, she gasped in surprise.

Blaine
’s blue steel sword!

A fox-faced man gave an exhibition
of sword work, blue steel slicing through imaginary foes. Pivoting and leaping,
he slashed and hacked, fighting a mock battle. The man proved agile and quick
but the sword strokes were crude and clumsy, a self-taught brawler wielding a
hero’s sword. The coarse display sickened her, a waste of blue steel. The great
sword deserved better, yet the painted people did not seem to know it.

Kath studied the crowd, tattooed
faces eagerly following the sapphire sword, cheering with appreciation. If they
only knew what an Octagon knight could do with such a blade.

Blaine
!
As if conjured from
thought, the blond-haired knight stood on the far side of the crowd…but one
glimpse of his face warned her of trouble. Like a starving lion, the knight’s
hungry stare followed the blue sword. His hands were balled into fists, his
mouth curled into an ugly smile, his eyes burning with a devil-may-care
attitude, all the telltale signs of a berserker on the brink of battle…yet he
had no weapon. Kath feared that he might get hurt, feared that he might ruin
any chance for an alliance.
 

Desperate to stop him, she pushed
through the crowd. A smother of people blocked the way. Dodging the press, she
fought her way forward, straining to reach him in time. She lunged, grabbing
his sleeve. “
Blaine
!”

He whirled, his eyes smoldering
with rage, his face on the verge of a berserker’s madness, no recognition in
his stare.

Pounding his chest, she tried to
get through to him. “Stop it, Blaine.”

Snarling, he batted her away,
turning back toward the sword.

She grabbed his arm, but he shook
her off.

Thwarted by his strength, she
reached for her father’s voice, a battle leader using the voice of command.
“Sir Blaine, attend me!”

He staggered back a step, his gaze
snapping toward her.

She seized the chance. Laying a
hand against the stubble of his cheek, she held his gaze, appealing to the man
instead of the battle-crazed warrior. “I can’t lose you.”

He swayed on his feet, his gaze
uncertain.

Kath persisted, her voice a hushed
command. “By the Octagon, do not risk our victory.”

He came back to her then, the anger
in his eyes dampened to a sullen bitterness. “I need my sword.” The battle madness
left him in a rush, his shoulders slumping forward, a defeated, hangdog look
souring his face.

A hard stare drilled into her back.
Whirling, she locked eyes with the raven-faced healer. So, they were being
watched, judged by standards she didn’t understand, all the more reason to get Blaine away.

Kath gripped his arm, drawing him away
from the tattooed stares. “Come.” Blaine
kept pace, his face sullen, but at least he did not argue. Four guards followed,
Bear and Boar and the two that shadowed Blaine.
Irritated by the nagging shadows, Kath tried to ignore them. Retracing her
steps, she followed the chalk horses, leading Blaine back to the privacy of their sleeping
chamber.

Ducking low, she entered the small side
cave; thankful the guards remained outside, stationed at the only entrance. Their
sleeping chamber was L-shaped, more horses cantering across the low vaulted ceiling.
A large glow crystal sat on a central boulder, casting a soft white light. Bedrolls
lay spread across the floor, the rear of the chamber reserved for the chamber
pot. Danya sat on her bedroll, hugging the wolf, her face buried in his thick
black ruff, but at least the wolf-girl had stopped her muffled crying. Bryx
chuffed a greeting but the girl did not stir.

Blaine sprawled on his bedroll, his voice
sullen. “Prisoners returned to their cage.”

Kath did not like his tone,
especially after the incident in the gallery. “They’ve given us the freedom to
explore the caves, a chance to change our fate.”

He shook his head. “We’re still
prisoners.”

Kath’s anger snapped. “That’s the
trick,” she glared down at him, “turning captors into allies.”

He glowered, looking away.

“You were supposed to befriend
them, explore the caves and try to win their trust,
not
start a fight
and get yourself killed.” She stubbed her boot hard against the sole of his
foot. “What were you going to do? Fight him with your bare hands?”

He sprang to his feet, a coil of
anger. “
Allies
shouldn’t demand payment for help.”

“Exactly.”

“What?” He stared at her, confusion
muting his anger.

“We need these people for allies.”
She drilled him with her stare. “They live in the very shadow of the Mordant.
They know his ways. They know the Dark Citadel.” She lowered her voice to a
whisper. “And they have the
crystal
dagger
.”

Blaine glowered. “I tried to keep it from
them…but they took it with the rest of our weapons.”

She willed him to understand. “Win
their trust and we’ll regain our weapons.”

“I want my sword back.”

“To get it, you must first
understand them.”

His gaze burned into her.

“Trade stories with their warriors.
Find out how they fight the enemy, discover how they make decisions, how they
divide the spoils of war. Learn about them and find a way to regain your sword
without raising their ire.”

Blaine scowled. “Just that simple.”

“There’s nothing simple about it.”
She had to make him understand. “It’s up to us to find the common ground, to
forge an alliance. We’re being watched. Every move we make is being judged.
Don’t you see that?”

“What I see is my sword in
another’s hands.” His voice dropped to a growl. “A knight is nothing without
his sword.”