The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga) (24 page)

30

Duncan

A loud clang came from the trapdoor
above. Duncan
watched the others wake, trying to gauge their resolve. A few gave him confident
nods as they shuffled into place, but too many looked away, their heads bowed,
their hands shaking. Duncan
tried to meet their stares, to bolster their courage, but it was too late for
words.

The trapdoor clanged open and Grack
descended the ladder. “On your feet, maggots!” Awkward with just one hand, the
big Taal lurched down the rungs, but once he
reached the bottom his awkwardness vanished, replaced by a cruel menace. Prowling
the chamber, he twirled his spiked mace. “Time to earn your gruel, maggots. Serve
to live!”

The bucket boys doled out the
morning slop, a sour mash of oats and barley mixed with something foul that Duncan did not have a name
for. Starving like the others, he gulped his portion down despite the taste.

An odd choking sound filled the
chamber. Gren bent double, spewing his meal onto the floor.

Grack was on him in a heartbeat.
“Not good enough for you, maggot?” His massive fist lashed out, smashing the
dwarf to his knees. Grasping the small man by his hair, Grack pressed Gren’s face
into the stinking vomit. “Lap it up, maggot. For you’ll get no more.”

Gren squirmed, desperate to
breathe.

Across the chamber, Brock’s stare
drilled into Duncan.
His fists flexed, poised to fight, a burning question in his gaze.

Duncan shook his head no, willing Brock to
stand down. They had to wait, or they’d all die for nothing.

Grack kicked Gren, a vicious blow
to the ribs, but the small man just moaned, curling into a ball. Grack soon lost
interest, his voice a snarl. “Get him on his feet!”

Seth and Clovis rushed to help. Gren tottered on
shaking legs, bruises blooming on his face.

A sour smell hung in the chamber…the
rancid reek of fear.

Grack scowled, “Into the hole,
maggots. The Mordant needs his iron ore.”

They lined up and shuffled towards
the door. Duncan’s
stare circled the chamber, willing the others to remain calm. A handful met his
gaze, Brock, Clovis,
Thomas and Seth, but too many of the others looked skittish. Pale and shaken,
fear etched their face, yet none of them talked. Perhaps Grack’s cruelty had
pushed them to silence. Either way, Duncan
was relieved when he finally reached the ladder. He swung out and followed the
others down, careful to avoid the missing rungs.

Strung out in a line, they
descended into the mine.

And then the screaming started.

A piteous wail came from above.

Twisted by distance, the wail held
no words…only fear.

Duncan clung to the ladder, trying to protect
his head, expecting a body to come tumbling from above…but the corpse never
fell. Silence followed the screams, leaving a mystery hanging in the stale air.

From below, Brock bellowed, “What’s
happening?” but no one answered.

Duncan yelled, “Keep moving!”

Someone whimpered, but they started
moving again, shuffling down the ladder. No one spoke, but the pace increased,
as if they all yearned to stand on solid ground. Duncan finally reached the bottom and found
the others milling in the central shaft, a mixture of confusion and fear on
their faces. Duncan
took a risk and singled out Gren. “Do you still want to fight?”

The others stilled, their stares
spearing the dwarf.

Bruised and battered, Gren met Duncan’s stare, a glint of
anger riding his eyes. “I want to
kill
the bloody Taal.”

Duncan nodded. “And so you shall.” He looked
at the others. “It’s easy to die in the mines. That’s why we need to fight, but
not until the appointed hour. First we work to meet the quota, then we eat…
then
we fight.”

A few flashed wolfish grins.

Duncan said, “Now get to work. We need to
make the quota so Grack doesn’t suspect.”

Stragglers descended the ladder.

Duncan longed to question them, but instead
he turned for the gallery, needing to set an example. Passing close to Clovis, he whispered,
“Find out what happened.” Without pause, he strode down the gallery to an empty
tunnel. Kneeling, he crawled to the ore face, taking up the hammer and spike.

Iron pounded against stone in a
relentless heartbeat. Duncan
drove the wedge deep, wondering if they’d been betrayed. Shackles on his wrists
clanged with each stroke, echoing his rage. Swing and strike, he attacked the
ore-face, releasing a shower of blood-red rock. Coughing on the dust, he
studied the rock-face, desperate for a trickle of water, for a chance to slake
his thrust, but the rock did not oblige. Unwilling to weep, the dark-cursed
rock proved as cruel as the gods.

Behind him, wood scraped against
rock. Clovis
pulled the empty sledge toward the ore-face. Duncan leaned on the hammer, taking the
weight off his knees. “Who was it?”

Despite the dim darkness, Duncan saw a flicker of
fear in the older man’s eyes. “Bruce.”

Bruce,
the name ambushed Duncan
with a spike of fear.

“Seth was the last man down. He
claimed Bruce balked at the ladder, refusing the climb.”

“Did Seth see what happened?”

Clovis shook his head. “Seth scrambled down
the ladder, keen to get beyond Grack’s reach.” A racking cough shook the older
man. When it finally subsided, he wiped his sleeve across his mouth. “Bruce was
unmanned by the cave-in. I’ve seen it before. A cave-in preys on a man’s mind
till he can’t take another day in the depths. Choked on madness, such men seek
other deaths.”
 

“But did he seek death or something
darker?”
 

Clovis stared, “You saved his life. Bruce
wouldn’t…”

A cold anger burned in Duncan. “And now he seeks to
save his own skin.” He tossed lumps of ore into the sledge. “If Bruce sought
death he could have waited another day.”

Clovis had no answer.

“If he turned traitor, then death
lies in wait for us all.” His hands balled into fists. “I’d rather die fighting
than go meekly to the executioner’s axe.”

Clovis gave him a wistful smile. “I’d like to
see the sky again.”

“And what about your gift of
prophesy, your second sight? Will we succeed?”

The older man’s face clouded. “Dreams
are often fickle, full of fears and wishes instead of prophecy.”

Clovis
turned away but Duncan
sensed something troubled him. “What did you see?”

Sighing, Clovis tugged on his beard. “Since you’ve
come, I’ve seen many things in my dreams, fighting, blood, and pain. But last
night I saw something different. Light streamed from a boulder, reflected in
the faces of the people.”

Duncan barked a laugh. “Light from a
boulder?” He should have known not to ask.
 
Prophecies never made sense. “Did you see the sky in this vision?”

“The sky?” A slow smile spread
across the older man’s face. “I stood beneath a blue sky and it was beautiful.”

“A blue sky, I’ll take it as an
omen of victory.” He gripped his friend’s arm. “We rise tonight and damn the
traitor.” He dropped the hammer, keeping the iron wedge, a crude weapon but
better than nothing. “Come, we have plans to discuss.” They crawled back to the
gallery and then entered the fifth tunnel. Brock worked the ore-face, sweat
glistening on his broad back. Stilling the hammer in mid-swing, he turned to
stare at Duncan.
“Cat-man.”

Duncan nodded. “You’ve heard about Bruce?”

The big man hawked and spat.
“Either a bloody corpse or a filthy traitor.”

“Aye, that’s the question. But
either way, I say we fight.”

“You said we needed surprise to
win.”

“Just so.”

“How?”

“By rising tonight instead of
tomorrow.”

Brock’s gaze narrowed. “You bloody
schemer. You planned this all along…fishing for a traitor among us.”

Duncan met the other man’s gaze. “There was
always a chance one of the weaker men might break…but I did not expect it from
the strong ones.” His voice dropped to a hoarse rasp. “I did not expect it from
Bruce.”

A grim silence settled over the
tunnel.

Brock’s voice was a low growl. “You
shouldn’t have saved that one.”

Clovis murmured, “Perhaps he’s dead, killed by
Grack,” but his words held no conviction.
 

Brock flexed his arms, cracking his
knuckles. “If I find him alive, I’ll break his bones for bread.”

Duncan nodded. “Let justice be served. Either
way, tonight we rise.”

The big man grinned. “We’ll take
Grack as he climbs the ladder, smashing his thick skull with his own mace.”

“But don’t tarry. The sooner you
release the other prisoners, the better chance you’ll have. Numbers are key.”

Brock scowled. “You talk as if you
won’t be with us.”

“I won’t. I’ve thought of another
surprise for our jailors.”

“What?” Suspicion laced the big
man’s voice.

“I’ll ride the bucket-chain to the
surface and attack from there.”

Brock stared, “
The bucket chain!”

Clovis hissed. “You’re mad! You don’t even
know what’s up there!”

“He’s right, cat-man,” Brock
glared, “You’ll die before ever reaching the top.”

Duncan said, “Has anyone ever tried?”

Brock looked at Clovis, but neither had an answer.

“Just as I thought. I’ll take the
risk.”

Brock drilled him with his stare.
“Why?”

“Because I know a young woman who’d
council that surprise can turn the tide of any battle.”

“A woman, eh?” Brock grinned. “Now
I know why you’re so stubborn to survive. Is she worth fighting for, cat-man?”

Duncan thought of Kath, his voice fervent. “More
than worth it.”

The big man barked a laugh. “Then
we best get you free of this hellhole.”

Duncan lifted his hands, iron chains dangling
from his wrists. “First the shackles.”

A somber mood settled over the men.
They all knew the price. Broken shackles ensured a cruel death at the hands of
the torturers. Brock met his gaze. “Once your chains are struck there’s no
turning back.”

Duncan shrugged. “Tell Grack I died in a
cave-in.”

“You’re certain?”

Duncan nodded. “I’ll need both hands to climb
the bucket-chain.” He knelt and stretched the shackles across a boulder.
“Strike true.”

The big man grunted, hefting the
hammer while Clovis
held the wedge between two links. It took five swings to break the iron.

The chain snapped, the sound
echoing in the tunnel.

Duncan stretched his arms wide, savoring the
freedom.

Clovis
tore strips from his tunic and bound the loose chains to the outside of Duncan’s forearms.
“Clanking chains would betray you.”

“Just so.” He flexed his arms,
adjusting the knots. “The shackles can serve as bracers. An armor of chains against
our enemies.” He grinned at the two men. “And so it begins. Strike hard and
fast. Kill Grack and free the others. Time is our enemy and numbers our best
hope.” He offered his hand to each man. “We’ll meet with our jailors crushed
between us.”

Brock thumped his shoulder. “Fight
hard, cat-man.”

Clovis gripped his arm. “The gods go with
you.”

“Keep your gods, I’ll settle for
luck.” He took his leave of the two men and crawled back out the tunnel. Torchlight
flickered along the main gallery, like fires lighting the halls of hell.
Hammer-blows pounded a rhythm of drudgery from the side tunnels, the others
working to meet the quota. Duncan
tucked the metal wedge in his belt, his only weapon, and moved along the gallery.
The fearsome clatter and clang of the bucket-chain soon eclipsed the hammer
blows. Duncan
flashed a feral grin. His shackles were sundered, the die was cast, he was done
being a slave.

31

Katherine

Raven-faced healers fluttered
around Zith like birds to a cornfield, but Kath finally got a moment alone with
the monk. Leaving her guards at the entrance, she sat cross-legged next to his
pallet. Light from the glow crystal fell across his face. She stifled a gasp.
Pale and wane, he looked one step away from the grave. His eyes were sunken pits,
his cheeks hollow, his skin gray, the stump of his left arm swathed in
bandages.

His eyes flashed open. “Not dead
yet.”

Startled, Kath jerked backward, but
then she gave him a rueful grin. “I’m glad.”

“Help me sit up.”

Taking his arm, she helped him up,
easing a rolled blanket between his back and the rough rock wall.

“Better.”

His left arm was bandaged, just a
stump, severed below the elbow. He looked lopsided, like a wounded bird, broken
and unable to fly. “Are you well enough to talk?”

He quirked a grin, “It’s all
they’ll let me do.” His face sobered. He looked down at his lap, his right hand
worrying the frayed edge of his blanket, his voice dropping to a hush. “I
failed you.”

“Failed how?”

“I wasn’t fast enough, too old to
wield a quarterstaff. And now I’m a cripple, a burden.”

“No!” Kath shook her head, willing
him to understand. “It was never your sword arm we needed.” But he would not
meet her gaze. She reached for his right hand, slowly turning his palm up to
the light. The Seeing Eye glared back at them. “This is why we need you, now
more than ever.”

“Even a cripple?” His gaze burned
into her, as if seeking the truth.

She met his stare. “More than
ever.”

His right hand grabbed her wrist, a
surprisingly strong grip. “Swear you won’t leave me behind.” His stare drilled
into her.

“By Valin, I swear.”

Releasing her, he slumped back
against the wall, a wash of relief flooding across his face. “For my son, you
see.” He stared at her though hooded eyes. “I can’t let him down, can’t let him
be kept as a slave to a harlequin.”

Another reason to stop the Mordant,
she’d almost forgotten.

His gaze turned shrewd, a hint of
color returning to his face. “Something troubles you. More than just an old
man’s missing arm.” He studied her face. “Duncan?”

She gasped in surprise, a worry
she’d kept locked in her heart. It was her turn to look away. “After the
battle, he left to track down the survivors, making sure no word would reach
the Mordant. I keep hoping he’ll catch up to us.” She shrugged. “The painted
people have seen no sign of him.”

“He’s a fierce warrior. If anyone
can survive the steppes, Duncan
will.”

Kath nodded, storing his words away
like hope.

“And the others?”

“Blaine smolders over the loss of his sword.”
Puzzlement filled his face, so she hurried to explain. “The Painted Warriors
found us in the steppes, laid low by the poison of the hell hounds. They
demanded Blaine’s
blue sword as the price of their aid.”

 
The monk nodded. “So they value steel.”

“And now Blaine resents the loss.”

“And Danya?”

Kath chose her words with care.
“The horror of the battlefield struck her hard. I don’t think she ever expected
it would be like that.”

“So much power,” his words held a
touch of awe, “a Beastmaster unleashed.” He flashed a wolfish grin. “The
Mordant will not expect a Beastmaster on his doorstep.”

“If she dares the power again.”

“But she must! Every advantage is
needed against the Mordant.”

Kath shook her head, weariness
hitting her like a club. “So many
musts
, we are all burdened by them.”

Zith reached out but this time
there was sympathy in his touch. “Forgive me for prattling. You came with
questions and I have not answered a single one.”

“Time is running short. I need your
help.” She struggled to explain. “In three days the painted people will hold
some type of conclave. I fear much will decided at this conclave yet their ways
remain a mystery.” Kath shook her head, trying to explain. “We’re not treated
as enemies, yet we’re not trusted. We’re permitted to roam the den, yet our
weapons are not returned and guards shadow our every move.” She lowered his
voice to a whisper. “And we’re always watched, always being judged, it’s as if
we must pass some test yet I don’t know the rules.” She stared at Zith,
desperate for answers. “We need the painted people as allies. Yet I’m stymied
how to do it.”

He nodded, his face thoughtful.
“Living in the shadow of the Mordant, they’d make formidable allies. And their
desire for steel proves they’re warriors.”

“But how do we gain their trust?
What do you know of them?”

“Little enough. They’re an ancient
people, forgotten by most of Erdhe. If the Kiralynn Order had anything to do
with them, it was long ago.” He tugged on his beard, a straggle of silver. “But
I’ve gleaned a bit from their healers. They’re a society of escaped slaves and
runaway soldiers, so they know the cruelty of the Mordant more than most. And
their freedom is hard won.” His gaze sharpened. “Prickly with pride, you must
tread lightly. You dare not break their customs or cross their taboos.”

“Easier said than done.” She stared
at the floor, fingering the top of her boot, getting up the courage to tell him
the rest. “They took all our weapons…including the crystal dagger.”

“
Nooo!”
The word was a groan.
“You must get it back or we have no chance of freeing my son.”

“I know.” She gave him a sideways
glance, keeping her voice to a whisper. “A crystal dagger is a rare thing. Will
they recognize it?”

He sagged back against the rock
wall. “They might. The dagger has a lore of its own. But the gods meant it for
your hand.”

“But how do I get it back?” Her
voice betrayed her desperation. “Should I ask for it, or just pretend it’s
another weapon?”

“If they learn what it is, then
they might keep it for themselves. The Mordant is a fearsome enemy.” His breath
hissed in warning. “The amber pyramid?”

“I have it. And my gargoyle. They
only took our weapons.” She reached into her pocket, making sure the pyramid
was safe. “Why do you fear for it so?”

He sighed. “There’s so much you
need to know.” He shook his head. “So much you should have learned before ever
leaving the monastery.”

“That’s why we have you.”

Gratitude flashed across this face.
“Thank you. I just hope I know enough.” Zith settled back against the wall, his
voice falling into the pedantic rhythm she’d come to expect in the monastery.
“The pyramid is a Quickner, very rare and very powerful. It creates and
strengthens the bonds between a focus and the wielder. In essence, it quickens
magic. But what makes it a higher power, is the way it spans all types of
magic.”

“Types of magic?”

He nodded. “The power of each focus
follows a single element. Your gargoyle allows you to walk through stone, so
your gargoyle is keyed to the element of earth. Since magic depends on a
connection between the focus and the wielder, something in the earth calls to
you, connects with your inner spirit, allowing you to awaken the magic of your
gargoyle. So if you found other focuses, you’d most likely be able to wield the
ones keyed to the element of earth. But with a Quickner, you should be able to
wield
any
focus, keyed to
any
element.”

Her breath caught.

“With a Quickner you might achieve
the powers of the wizards of old.”

Kath stared at the amber pyramid cupped
in her palm, so much power in such a small thing.

“Never let the pyramid fall into
the hands of the Mordant…or any other harlequin.”

Kath nodded, clenching her fist.
“So what are the other elements of magic? Fire, water, and air?”

Zith nodded. “Those and one more.
The fifth and most powerful element.”

“What?”

“Soul magic.”

“
Soul magic!”
Kath hissed, making the hand sign against evil.

“You do well to fear it.” Zith nodded, his face grim. “In the hands of
the Dark it is the most fearsome of magics, allowing men and beasts to be
twisted together, creating abominations like those dread hell hounds.” He shook
his head, “Corrupted by the Dark, soul magic is a most foul curse, a bane
against the world. Great wars were once fought over it.”

“But how can the gods allow such a thing to exist? The mere thought is
loathsome.”

“Oh, it is not always evil. Wielded by Darkness, it becomes a terrible
blight, the worst nightmare visited upon mankind, but used by the Light it
becomes a true blessing. Souls are the gods’ own element, their most wondrous
creation. The wellspring of love and courage, the source of hope and compassion,
the essence of an indomitable spirit, souls hold a power beyond all other
elements. The best healers make use of soul magic. By coaxing and guiding the soul,
they enable the sick and injured to heal themselves. As a Beastmaster, Danya
wields soul magic, communicating with the spirits of animals. Soul magic is the
most powerful of all the elements, for it embodies the power to create and the
power to destroy, the best and the worst of us.”

Kath shook her head. “I can’t imagine wielding such a power.”

“Oh but you do.”

Startled, she stared at him, almost dreading the answer.

“Do you know what the crystal
dagger truly does?”

She held his gaze, waiting.

“It slays
souls
.”

Stunned, Kath gaped at the
revelation.

“The crystal dagger is the only
soul magic ever crafted into a weapon of the Light.” His gaze pierced her, “And
it is yours to wield.”

“By the gods.”

Zith nodded. “Just so.”
 
He leaned back against the rock wall, a stern
look on his face. “And if we are to reach the Dark Citadel, there is one other
type of soul magic you must face and defeat.”

“What?”

“The gargoyle gates.”

Memories of childhood tales reared
like nightmares in Kath’s mind. She shuddered at the thought.

“So you’ve heard of them?”

“Some of the veteran knights told
tales of the north…but I did not believe them.”

“Such tales often hold a kernel of
truth.” He tugged on his beard. “I’d like to hear these tales. I suspect the
north holds more nightmares than any of us know.” Zith fell silent, his face
locked in thought.

“But what of the gargoyle gates?”

“Oh, yes.” He nodded, his gaze
refocusing on her. “From what I’ve gleaned, the gargoyle gates are a true
horror. Souls of men and beasts forever locked in stone, they act as sentinels,
coming to life if anyone dares to cross the gates. The painted people fear
them, and rightly so.”

Kath made the hand sign against
evil. “But how is such a thing defeated?”

Zith shook his head. “I do not
know. But if we are to follow the Mordant, we must cross the gates.”

A mountain of worries fell on her
shoulders.

Zith leaned forward, gripping her
arm, his voice a whisper. “And above all else, you must regain the crystal
dagger, or all is lost.”

“Pardon me,” a raven-faced healer
intruded. “There’s been enough talk for one day. Rest is the key to healing.”

Kath clenched her fist, hiding the
pyramid.

A raven-faced healer stared back at
her, a stranger, another watcher, passing judgment. Kath wondered how much she’d
overheard. Slipping the amber pyramid into her pocket, she took her leave of
the monk. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” She left the chamber, her two guards dogging
her heels. Trailing a hand along the rough rock wall, she walked through the
corridors blind, her mind a whirlwind of thoughts, a storm of worries. But
above all else, one thought rang through the chaos.
I must regain the
crystal dagger…or all is lost.