The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga) (26 page)

“Just around the bend.”

“Remember, hand me the crossbows
and then run.” He did not wait for an answer. Rounding the bend, he heard
voices, men laughing at a ribald joke. The door to the guardroom gaped open. He
crept toward the door and then stared at the girl. She eased the bows off her
shoulders and nodded, her face set in stone. He gripped his crossbows, his
thumbs near the ticklers. Taking a deep breath, he raised both bows and stepped
into the doorway.

Five men and a Taal sat at a
table…the big Taal had his back to the door.

Surprise lit their faces.

Duncan
eased the tickler, sending the first bolt at the Taal’s
broad back.
Thunk!
The second crossbow kicked high, taking a man in the
throat. A gurgled scream filled the room. Empty crossbows clattered to the
floor. Shouts erupted from the guards as they pushed back from the table,
scrambling for their swords. Mara was ready, handing him another crossbow.
Thunk,
he got the shot off and grabbed the last bow. Three guards rushed the
doorway, their swords glinting in the torchlight. The crossbow bucked, taking
the closest man in the face.
Thunk,
the force of the blow flung the body
backwards into the remaining two guards. Brains and blood splattered the room. Duncan hurled the empty
crossbow at the guards and unsheathed his sword, charging the tangle of men. He
hacked at an arm, releasing a fountain of blood…but his sword stuck in bone,
refusing to move.
 

A blade slashed towards his face.

Unarmed, Duncan ducked sideways, but the sword chased
his face. Raising his arm to block the blow, he braced for pain but the sword
clanged against iron;
the chain of the
shackle saved his life.
Twisting away, he reached for a dropped sword,
aiming a slashing cut at his opponent’s legs, but the guard was too quick,
parrying the blow. Steel clashed against steel. The guard drove him back into a
corner. Hack and slash, Duncan
retreated, taking cuts to his arm and across his chest, paying for his lack of
skill. The guard laughed like a berserker, wielding his sword with brutal strength.
Duncan parried
a stroke to his face…but the sword twisted out of his hands, clattering across
the floor.

Disarmed, he scrambled backwards,
drawing a dagger from his belt.
 

Laughing, the guard pressed the
attack, poised for the killing stroke…but then he staggered to a stop, his eyes
wide with shock. Roaring in pain, he turned away, as if seeking a different
threat. Duncan
lunged forward, skewering the guard under his left armpit. The dagger bit deep,
thrust all the way to the hilt. Shuddering, the guard groaned and slid to the
floor.

Mara stood over him, holding a bloody
dagger. She fell on the guard; hacking and slashing, blood coating her hands
like gloves, her face contorted in a fit of rage.
 

Duncan gripped her arm, taking the dagger
from her hand. “He’s dead.”

She shuddered, her eyes glazed with
hatred. “He deserves more than death.”

He wiped the blood from her face,
wishing he could ease the hatred in her eyes. “He’s dead, you’ve killed him…and
you saved my life.”

Mara gazed up at him, her face
solemn.
 

Just for a moment, she looked like
Kath. “There’s strength behind your eyes…like another woman I know.” He helped
her to her feet, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Like a hidden dagger
poised at the Mordant’s back, you women find a way to tip the balance.” He
reversed the dagger and handed it back to her. “Keep your blade sharp.”

She accepted the dagger and smiled,
a mixture of pride and determination.

“We’ve won a small victory but we
dare not tarry. Close the door and bring the crossbows to me.” She sprang to
life, rushing to the door. The room was awash in carnage, the smell of blood
thick in the air. Duncan
sheathed his sword and reached for the nearest crossbow. He cocked the string
and loaded a quarrel, arming all four bows. Handing two to Mara, he crossed the
room to the table. The big Taal lay slumped in
a pool of blood, a fist-sized hole punched through his back. Even a Taal could not survive such a wound. He rolled the body
from the chair and took the ring of keys from the belt. Holding the keys aloft,
he flashed a smile at Mara. “Time to gain some allies.”

Mara returned his smile, her left
hand sketching a strange sign.

Armed with two crossbows, he eased
the door open. The corridor stood empty, but a loud clamor echoed from the
direction of the winch chamber. Perhaps the guards fought the fire. He flicked
a glance at Mara. “Hurry.” They raced down the corridor, passing one door and
stopping at the next. He kicked the door open, holding a crossbow in each fist.
A single guard sat on a stool.
Thunk,
the quarrel took him the chest, a
look of surprise frozen on his face.

A terrible reek rose from two iron
grates set in the floor, the stench of unwashed bodies and overflowing
piss-buckets. Duncan
gagged. He shuddered, wondering how he’d ever grown accustomed to the stench of
captivity.

Dropping the crossbows, he knelt by
the first grate, trying the keys from the ring. The third key worked. Ripping
the grate open, he yelled into the hold, “Rise up and fight, you’re free men!”
He thrust a ladder down and then raced to the next grate. By the time the
second grate clanged open, men were staggering up out of the first hold. Filthy
and bedraggled, they milled around the chamber as if dazed. Most looked
defeated, lash-marks striping their backs, but a few still had the spark of
anger in their eyes.

Duncan leaped onto a wooden stool and raised
his voice to a shout. “
Hear me!”
A hundred faces turned his way. He
raised his arms, displaying his broken shackles like trophies of war. “Chains
can be broken. Guards can be killed.
The men of the mines are rising!
This is your chance. Find weapons, kill the guards, and release every prisoner.
We take the mine and then the Pit.”

A few men cheered but most gawked
as if he’d grown a second head.

Unsheathing his sword, he raised it
high, the steel blade glittering in the torchlight. “This is your chance. Claim
a sword and be men once more!”

A dozen roared their approval,
pumping their fists in agreement, but the others just stared, cowed by
captivity.

Duncan pointed to a big man in front, a giant
with a wild shock of flaming-red hair. The mark of the Pit dominated his face,
a third eye in the middle of his forehead. “You, what’s your name?”

“Krell Three-eye.”

“Will you fight with me, Krell?”

“Aye, with my bare hands if needs
be!”

Others began to shout, “I’ll fight!
Give me a sword!”

Duncan kept his gaze on Krell. “Pick a dozen
of the best fighters.” As the big man began choosing, Duncan tried once more to rouse the others,
raising his voice above the murmur of talk. “Time is against us. We have this
one chance to escape the doom of the mine. The choice is simple. Fight to live
or cower and die.” Too many hung their heads like whipped curs, their souls
shriveled by slavery, but Duncan
had no more patience for the timid and the meek.

Turning his back on the others, he
joined Krell and his men. The big man grinned a gap-toothed smile. “I’ve got
your dozen.” Raising fists as big as hammers, Krell cracked his knuckles, a
ruthless grin on his freckled face. “We’re ready to break heads.”

Duncan grinned, liking the big man’s bravado.
“I’ve friends rising in the depths of the mine. I need men willing to go deep,
to take the guards from behind and crush them between us.” He stared at the
men, noting the anger smoldering behind their eyes. “Are you with me?”

A chorus of ‘ayes’ answered his
question. Krell had chosen well.

“First we get weapons, then we
fight.” Duncan
handed a crossbow to one of the men. “Follow me.”

Mara waited by the door, her back
to the wall, clutching a crossbow as if she wasn’t sure who to trust.

Duncan gripped her arm, flashing a reassuring
smile. “We’ve gained allies.” He eased the extra crossbow from her shoulder and
gave it to one of the men. “Come.”

The corridor rang with distant
shouts. Duncan’s
senses pricked with warning. Gripping the crossbow, he set off at a run,
leading the men back to the guardroom. Shouldering the door open, he was
relieved to find the bloody carnage undisturbed. “Choose your weapons.” The men
poured into the room, pillaging the dead for swords, daggers, and whips. A few struggled
to strip boots and leather jerkins from the corpses. Krell wrestled the boots
from the Taal, grinning when they fit.

Duncan kept watch at the door, anxious to be
gone. “Krell, which of these men do you trust with your life?”

Krell pointed to a dark-skinned man
with scars crisscrossing his face. “Naga is a good man. I’d trust my back to
him.”

Duncan nodded. “Naga, to me.”

The dark-skinned man belted a sword
to his waist and then joined Duncan,
bowing his head in deference. “M’Lord.”

“I’m not a lord.”

Naga gave him a broad smile. “A man
who frees other men from the heart of evil must truly be a lord.”

Duncan shook his head, impatient with the
banter. He gestured to Mara. “This is Mara. Every man here owes his freedom to
her. Guard her close and see that she escapes unharmed.”

Naga grinned, thumping his chest
with his fist.

Mara gasped. “You’re leaving me?”

He gave her a soft smile. “You’ve
already saved my life once. I won’t have your blood on my hands.”

“But I can help…”

“…by leaving the mine.” He met her
gaze. “If we take the mine then we must also take the Pit. It’s all or nothing,
victory or death.” Her face paled but her stare never wavered. “If you want to
help, then seek out the leaders of the Pit and tell them what we do here. If we
win the mine, we’ll need their help.”

“Spread the Light.” She nodded, her
face solemn. “I can do that.”

“Then hurry, before the jaws of
death snap shut around us.” He stared at Naga. “Go.”

They burst out of the guardroom,
swords at the ready. The clangor of fighting echoed down the hallway, but the
corridor remained empty. Naga shepherded the girl away, setting off at a run. Duncan watched till they
rounded the bend, “The luck of the gods go with you,” then he turned and led
his men into the depths of the mine.

33

Bryce

Bryce crouched in the gray void of
his prison, peering through the keyhole of light. He watched as the Mordant
took the woman. A tumble of long blond hair framed a heart-shaped face, so
achingly beautiful. His gaze roved across her, feasting on every detail. Her
blue eyes looked eager, her curves tantalizing beneath diaphanous silk. She
leaned forward, her silken shoulder straps giving way. The woman laughed, her
nipples swelling to his touch.
His touch!
Yet Bryce felt nothing, locked
within his prison, reduced to a voyeur of his own body.

“Come, my Lord.” She tugged at the
Mordant’s hand, pulling him toward a massive bed. “Let me please you.”

Her words came to Bryce like an
echo through a tunnel.

A sheath of pale silk slipped from
her hips. Naked in the candlelight, she offered a beguiling glimpse of ecstasy.
“Come to bed, my Lord, and together we shall make a son.”

The Mordant laughed, a throaty
rumble. “Is that what you think I want?”

She rubbed against him like a cat, marking
him with her scent, pulling him down onto a sea of pillows. “Of course, my
Lord, for a son is a man’s immortality.”

He rolled on top, pinning her
beneath his weight. “Children are the weakness of mortals.”

She gave him a playful pout. “But
all kings need a son.”

“I need no sons.” He caught her wrists,
pinning them to the bed. “But I’ll take your pleasures.” And then he took her,
hard and triumphant, reveling in each thrust. “
I
am my own legacy.” He
pounded each phrase home. “
My
own
past…
my
own present…
my
own future.”

Shuddering, Bryce pulled away;
tortured by an intimacy he could only watch. Writhing within his prison, he
felt both repelled and attracted to the keyhole. The
narrow glimpse of life let him eavesdrop on the Mordant, but it was a
sterile view, without taste or smell, or touch. How he longed for a single
touch, a single caress. The keyhole kept him sane, a gift from the gods, yet
sometimes it seemed a cruel curse, leaving him parched for life.
Nights
were the worst, a torture to endure. The Mordant kept a harem of lovers, a bevy
of concubines, taking a different one every night, yet Bryce had never known a
woman. Closing the keyhole, he succumbed to the gray void, a ball of misery
locked away from the world.

Later, much later, he felt the
Mordant stir. He’d grown attuned to the moods of his jailor. Sensing a keen
interest, something much more than sexual, Bryce dared a glimpse of the world.

Night cloaked the royal bedchamber,
the candles melted to stubs. Naked, the woman lay sprawled across the bed, lost
to sleep, her blond hair tussled across the pillow. The Mordant shrugged a
black robe over his shoulders. Barefoot, he prowled the marble corridors.

Bryce kept vigil, spying through
the keyhole. There had to be a reason the gods gifted him with this view, some
way he could make a difference. Perhaps the Mordant hid a weakness, a key to unlock
the harlequin’s ruin. Bryce clung to the hope, desperate to give meaning to his
cruel existence.
  

Monsters filled the keyhole.

Bryce stifled a gasp and then took
another look. Candlelight revealed a torment of fangs and claws…but the
monsters were all frozen in stone. So lifelike, Bryce shuddered, wondering if
they were more than carved rock. After the gargoyle gates he’d learned to
distrust stone.

Demons of every description leered
from the walls. Winged harpies flew across the ceiling, while snarling balrogs
and horned devils cavorted along the hallway. Shifting shadows gave the illusion
of life. A seamless nightmare carved into the walls, every inch riddled with
details.

Bryce craned for a better view.
He’d never seen this hallway before, never seen anything like it. He kept
watch, desperate to understand.

The Mordant claimed a candle from a
wall sconce and knelt to inspect a devil’s grin. Sculpted of gray marble, the
carving bore a long pointed face with curved horns, the face frozen in a
perpetual wink, as if the imp kept a secret. Covering the devil’s left horn
with his thumb, the Mordant pushed.
The
horn slid into the wall
, a soft grating sound.

The Mordant chuckled, his voice a
soft whisper, “The devil’s in the details.”

Startled, Bryce froze, expecting
pain…but his jailor seemed preoccupied with the carvings.

Moving through the hallway, the
Mordant stopped at specific demons…and all the while, Bryce watched.

Eye of varg and claw of balrog,
tongue of ghoul and skull of lich, a code of details slid into the wall, a
rhyme of monsters carved in stone. A hidden doorway eased open. A lich king glared
from the darkness, ruby eyes glinting in the candlelight. The Mordant stepped
into the narrow passage. He pressed the lich king’s left eye and the outer door
swung shut.

Cobwebs choked the inner passage,
decades of dust on the stairs, proving the passage was long forgotten. The single
candle guttered, casting a feeble light. The Mordant made his way down a short
spiral staircase. A profound darkness lurked at the bottom, a crypt carved from
solid rock. He paused at the entrance and turned a tap protruding from the
wall. A dark liquid gushed into stone runnels. The Mordant set the candle flame
to the liquid.

Light leaped to the oil. Flames
rushed along the runnels, drawing a line of light along the walls. Fire spewed
from the mouths of demons filling basins carved from stone. Braziers erupted
with flames, belching sparks to the ceiling. The walls of the crypt glowed
bright, revealing a glittering treasure.

Bryce gasped, dazzled by the glow.
Gold gleamed along the back wall, chests brimming with emeralds and rubies the
size of a large man’s fist. Jewels and coins spilled careless from caskets, the
fortune of many kingdoms strewn across the floor. Bryce gaped at the
unimaginable wealth. Other treasures sat nestled amongst the gold, stacks of
cedar chests and baskets brimming with scrolls. Amongst faded battle banners, a
suit of armor stood proud upon a rack. The armor trapped Bryce’s gaze. Fearsome
to behold, the breastplate showed the ribs of a skeleton etched in silver, the
helmet fashioned into a grinning skull, a legend thought lost to time. Even
coated with dust, the armor radiated fear, evil annealed into steel. Bryce
trembled, knowing he beheld the ancient armor of the Skeleton King. The monks
had thought the armor long lost, succumbed to legend, yet here it was, hidden
amongst the Mordant’s treasures, a powerful relic of war. Bryce pulled his gaze
from the horror.

Everywhere he looked, treasure lay
strewn across the floor, a king’s crown tumbled next to a silver goblet, a
hoard of wealth mingled with history, but one thing did not belong. An elegant
throne sat in the center. Sculpted into silver wings, encrusted with sapphires
and yellow diamonds, it glowed like captured starlight, like hope chained in
the darkness. A feast for the soul, Bryce fixed his gaze on the throne.

Coins scattered underfoot. The
Mordant moved through the chamber, touching his treasures. He caressed a faded
battle banner and then lingered over a stone reliquary. For the longest time,
he stood in front of the Skeleton armor, but then he turned to face the throne.
The details became clear. An eight-pointed star adorned the winged seat, a
legend proved true. Bryce wept when he saw it, how could the gods be so
cruel?
   

*Come, monk, attend me.*

Terror rushed through him. Bryce slammed
the keyhole shut just as a relentless force snatched him up. The hand of his
jailor drew Bryce into the eyes of the Mordant. The unfettered view struck him
like a hammer blow, treasure in every direction.

*A triumph of spoils,*
the
Mordant spread his arms wide, his gaze circling the crypt. *
A thousand years
of pillage gathered from across the ages. Wealth and weapons, magic and spell
lore, treasures that time has forgot. Like the Dark Lord, I take the long view,
waiting for the right lifetime.*
He crossed the chamber and pulled a shroud
from an altar stone, revealing a great sword. Black as sin, the folded steel
rippled with evil, dragons forged into the crossguard.
*A triumph of my
fifth lifetime. A sapphire blue sword corrupted to black, made stronger for its
dedication to the Dark Lord, a surprise for the Octagon Knights.*
He moved
to a small cedar chest and opened the clasps. Three dull-iron statues shaped
into the form of crude fists sat nestled in black velvet. *
And these rare
beauties, three Wizard’s Knocks, the last of an ancient magic. Power enough to
topple the strongest walls.*
He caressed the iron fists, like a miser
counting his treasure.
*Behold the treasures of my past! Enough secrets to
fell all my enemies…even your precious monks.*
His gaze came to rest on the
silver throne. *
But one secret still eludes me.*
His tone darkened. *
Do you know
it, monk?*

Bryce shuddered, held in the grip
of his jailor.
*I’ve heard legends.*

*And you despair to find it here.*
The Mordant chuckled. “
Despair is good, you please me monk,”
he
stepped toward the throne, *
but do you know its purpose?*

He felt the Mordant hover close,
like a raptor keen to strike. Bryce chose his words with care, never straying
from the truth.
*Only an acolyte, never a full-sworn monk.
 
I’ve heard legends, nothing more.*

*And?*

*And the legends speak of a
winged throne of the Star Knights. A throne dedicated to the Light and endowed
with a greater magic, lost long ago.*

*The legends lie. It was never
lost, but captured by my legions, a spoil of treachery.*
The Mordant paced
a slow circle around the throne, frustration coiling like a whip. *
It reeks
of magic, yet in all my lifetimes it has never served me.*

*And it never will.*

The Mordant hissed in anger.
*What?*

Bryce cowered in his prison.
*I don’t know!*
 
He hid behind a thin shield of truth,
desperate to keep his secret safe.

Darkness loomed like a fist. *
Tell
me.*

*Soul magic!*
He did not
know where the words came from, yet they seemed true.
*The throne is keyed
to the Light of the soul and the depth of the need.*

*And
mine is full of Darkness.*
 
The Mordant stared at the throne, a
coil of cold calculating anger.
*Yet in all my lifetimes, I have never
before worn the face of a monk,*
he circled the silver seat,
*or held a
monk’s soul locked within my own.*
He came to rest in front of the throne,
the silver wings gleaming in the torchlight.
*Perhaps the time has come for old magic to awaken. Will it serve you
monk?*

*Me?*
Bryce quailed in his prison.

*After
all, the monks are kin to the Star Knights.*

*But
I’m not a monk, only an acolyte!*
Bryce
clung to the slender truth, terrified that Mordant might somehow use him to
betray the Light.

*Come,
monk, let’s test the strength of your soul.*
The Mordant dared to sit on the throne.

Bryce huddled in his prison, expecting a thunderbolt.

Nothing happened. The Mordant settled into the throne, his back pressed
against the silver wings, his hands gripping the armrests.

Bryce prayed for the throne to strike, for the silver wings to incinerate
the Darkness.
Take my life, me for
him! Strike now while you have the chance!

The Mordant chuckled.
*Yes,
pray for my demise. But in all my lifetimes, the throne has never struck
against me.*
The Mordant caressed the silver seat. *
Perhaps together we can claim the magic.*

Flames danced along the crypt walls but the throne remained dormant.

*It
will never serve you.*

The Mordant chuckled, a mocking sound tinged with cruelty.

Bryce felt something change within his prison, like a lock slipped from
the chain, or a key turned in the cell door. Gray walls receded, disappearing
like mist in the sunlight. He felt himself unfold, expanding outward, claiming
his body, a man once more. He took a deep breath and stale air filled his
lungs.
His lungs!
He gasped, giddy with life. His hands
clutched the silver armrests, his bare feet pressed against the cold stone of
the crypt.
Cold,
he could feel cold! Hope raged through him
like a river in flood. He dared to flex his fingers, but it was hard, harder
than he ever remembered; like being encased in rusted armor, yet his fingers
began to move.
 

*Call
the magic!*
The Mordant’s command
thundered through his mind.

“I don’t know how.” Bryce said the words,
real
words. His voice
echoed in the hollowed chamber.

The Mordant roiled through his mind, a malignant darkness, tentacles
spreading everywhere. Darkness found a hidden doorway, a shadowy place buried
deep within the monk’s ancestral memory. Assaulted by the Mordant’s will, the
doorway burst open. Knowledge poured out, releasing a sixth sense attuned to
magic, a gift he never knew he had. Guided by the Mordant, tendrils of thought
yearned towards the throne.
*Serve me!*

 
“No!”

*Together we can be great, the
knowledge of the monks serving the Dark Lord. Submit your soul to me, for it is
your destiny.*