The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga) (29 page)

Shivering, Kath nodded, caught by
the old woman’s stare.

“You wished for something when the
earth settled on your shoulders…what was it?”

The words whispered out of her. “A
sword.”

“And something else?”

“Duncan.”

“War and love, an unlikely
pairing.” The old woman rocked back and forth, eyes closed, humming a wordless
tune.

Lulled by the scents of sage and
burning sod, Kath leaned toward the fire’s warmth, listening to the old woman’s
wordless song, thoughts of Duncan
tumbling through her mind.

Dark eyes snapped open, a piercing
gaze. “Why did you come north?”

“To fight the Mordant.”

The old woman reached beneath her
blankets…unsheathing a dagger. “With this?”

Kath gasped;
the crystal dagger.

A hand as frail as a bird’s claw
held the dagger aloft, firelight dancing along the milk-white crystal. “An
ancient weapon, a dagger of Light, formed by the powers of earth and magic…a
weapon that evokes the oldest of memories.” The old one blinked, slow like an
owl, her eyes pools of mystery. “The tall knight carried it…but it is not his
to wield.”

“No.”

“How did it come to your hand?”

Kath yearned to hold the dagger, a
burning need that welled inside of her. “I found it in a ruined tower, deep in
the heart of Wyeth.”

“And it’s purpose?”

“To slay the Mordant, so he can
never be re-born.”

The old woman nodded. “A
soul-slayer, a powerful weapon of the Light…borne by an unexpected champion.”
More herbs were thrown on the fire, creating a blaze of sparks. “Only an old
soul can wield such a blade.” The old woman pointed the dagger at Kath. “Tell
me, youngling, what memories do you harbor in your soul?”

Kath shivered, remembering the Star Tower.
“A broken tower, deep in the forests of Wyeth…I saw it whole and at the peak of
its glory. I wore armor, a great sword belted to my side…and there was a man,
another knight, his face more familiar than my own…” Kath shook her head. “A
fragment of a dream…I don’t understand.”

“I think you do. Some destinies are
stamped on our very souls.”

A rush of cold air belched out of
the great crack. The fire guttered against the Dark assault, but flames held. A
snap of red sparks danced across the domed ceiling, like fireflies trapped
within the earth.

Kath made the hand sign against
evil, moving closer to the fire, her voice a hushed whisper. “So you’re saying
my vision was true?”

“A memory from another life, seeping
beneath a closed door.”

Kath struggled to understand. “So we’re
destined to repeat the past?”

“No.”
The old woman made a cutting gesture with the dagger. “Not repeat, never that,
repetition breeds stagnation. We learn from the past, always driven by a
greater destiny.” A handful of herbs renewed the fire, sparks of red and blue
dancing among the golden flames. “The dagger of Light appears only when it is
most needed.” The old woman leaned forward, her eyes pools of ancient wisdom.
“Are you the one to wield it? Are you the queen of swords?”

Memories shivered within Kath. Her
voice dropped to a hushed whisper. “Only a pawn can become a queen.”

The old woman chuckled. “A pawn is the
least expected piece. Easily overlooked, it slips past the other players,
strength hidden beneath weakness, an irony of the gods.” Another handful of
herbs ignited in the fire. “But who taught you the purpose of the crystal
blade?”

Kath hesitated, but she saw no
reason not to answer. “The Kiralynn monks.”

“The Eye in the Hand.”

She nodded, surprised by the old
woman’s knowledge.

“Long have they remained
hidden…since the time of the sundering.”

Dizzy from the strange blue smoke,
Kath shook her head, trying to think. “The sundering of the world?”

“No, the sundering of civilization,
broken by the War of Wizards, when magic was lost and women became chattel.”

Kath held her breath. “How old
are
you?”

“My memories are beyond age.” The
old woman fingered the crystal dagger, her expression hidden by a mass of
wrinkles. “My great granddaughter tells me that you met a lost son of the
painted people, one who wore the face of a mountain lion.”

A mountain lion again, Kath tried
to concentrate. “Yes, in Castlegard, over two years ago.”

Dark eyes stared back at her like
fathomless wells. “It seems many destinies are entwined in you.” The old woman
hefted the crystal dagger. “The gods make their choices known.” Leaning
forward, she held the dagger over the flames, extending the hilt toward Kath.
“Use it well.”

Kath reached for the dagger…but the
old woman held on. Bathed in smoke and the heat of the flames, their stares
locked across the fire, their hands joined by the dagger. Light leaped along
the crystal, creating a bridge of magic. Kath felt a relentless pull in the
depths of her soul. She fell into the old one’s stare, plummeting through the
ages, tossed and turned by thousand questions;
Who are you? Will you be
true? Why are you here?
Questions beat against her mind like the wings of
ravens…till a single word was spoken.
Remember!
Like the pure note of a
gong, the command shivered through her mind. Kath gasped, feeling as if a
forgotten doorway suddenly burst open.

The old woman released the dagger.

Kath rocked backwards, clutching
the blade. Coughing on a lungful of smoke, she shook her head, a tumult of
thoughts. “I don’t understand.”

“A consequence of youth.”

Anger pulsed through Kath. “Will
you help us against the Mordant?”

“Help is here…if you know where to look.”
The fire snapped and crackled, sending curls of blue smoke wafting to the
ceiling. “Mother Earth has the longest memories. In such a place, it is
difficult to lie…even to yourself.” She smiled, a mass of wrinkles, amusement
glinting in her dark eyes. “Memories of the past, visions of the future, the
Womb of the World holds them all, waiting to be born. Breathe deep and open the
doors of your mind.” The old one leaned toward the blaze, gently fanning the
smoke toward Kath.

A cloud of blue wafted her way.
Kath coughed, but the coughing only made her swallow more. Smoke surrounded
her. The domed chamber seemed to spin. A distant chime sounded…and then her
mind exploded in visions. She knew things she never could have known. Images of
the past, of that shining time before the War of Wizards, when knowledge and
honor held sway. She wore a sword belted to her side, and on her shield, an
eight-pointed star.
A Star Knight!
The great sword felt right in her
hands, as if it was meant to be. But all too soon, the scene shifted and she
saw the Star Tower betrayed, the knights murdered in their sleep, the tower
desecrated, the great library burnt…even the stones were pulled down, as if the
dark ones sought to destroy the very memory of the Star Knights. But a few who
lived remembered. In the darkest of times, the shield was re-drawn. Lines
connected the eight points of the star…to create an
Octagon!
The symbol
blazed in her mind…but then the world was spinning, and she knew time skipped
forward, leaping by centuries. She saw her father, King Ursus, standing on a
rampart, his blue sword drawn for battle. The scene shifted and she glimpsed
his foe. Her soul quailed, shaken by the multitude. A sea of enemies stretched
to the horizon, as if the very gates of hell had disgorged all the armies of
the past. And above the vast horde flew the Darkflamme, the war banner of the
Mordant. She quailed at the sight, fearing for the Octagon. Once more, the
scene shifted, this time to a cavern deep in the earth, red stalactites dripping
like blood from the ceiling. A foul taste filled her mouth, reeking of evil.
She wanted to flee but there was something here she needed to see. Beneath the
stalactites, Darkness clutched a man, chained to the symbol of the pentagram
like a dark offering…and then she saw his face…
Duncan
!

“
No!”
Kath stood, the
crystal dagger clutched in her fist, poised to strike. Reality returned in a
rush. She lurched forward, gasping for breath. Seeking an anchor, her stare
roamed the chamber, from the dark to the light, coming to rest on the old
woman’s face. “What did I see?”

“In the Womb of the World…old souls
are gifted with images of the past.” Dark eyes glittered beneath the mound of
sheepskins.

“It wasn’t just the past.”

Her face was hard to read, a mass
of wrinkles, a muddle of blue tattoos, but her voice held no surprise. “Tell
me.”

Kath explained about the dark
horde…and about the man trapped in a cavern of weeping stone…but she did not
yield his name.

“Mother Earth knows of this cavern,
a place of the foulest magic…it lies at the heart of the Mordant’s
kingdom…beneath the Dark Citadel.”

Kath shuddered. “But is it the
future? Or can it be changed?”

“Nothing is written in stone. Every
one has the chance to write his own destiny. And a rare few have the chance to
change the course of the world.”

Kath gripped the crystal dagger.
“Then I have the chance to change my vision?”

“Perhaps.” The old woman nodded.
“Or perhaps you are given a choice, to take the crystal blade south to the
Octagon or to go north to the Dark Citadel.”

Kath shuddered, the taste of ashes
in her mouth.

The old woman stirred beneath her
sheepskins. “There is a thing you should know. Our scouts keep watch on the
Mordant’s domain. The Dark Citadel prepares for war.”

“The horde of my dream.”

The old woman nodded. “Your dreams
are powerful, they rush to be born.” She clapped her hands and a man stepped
from a side passage. Tall and brawny, clad in pale white leathers, he bore a
snarling mountain lion on his face. He nodded to the old woman and then
gathered her into his arms, carrying her as easily as a small child.

Cradled in sheepskins, the Old One
lost none of her dignity. “Come, child, the painted people are already
gathered. It is time to hear the truth of my great grandson.” She gave Kath a
piercing stare. “Time for destinies to collide.”

36

The Knight Marshal

A horn sounded in the courtyard, a
trill of notes full of triumph.

The marshal strode to the
battlement and gazed down into the muddy courtyard.

Thirty knights galloped into the
yard, maroon battle banners fluttering from lances, arms and armor gleaming in
the sunlight. They rode with their heads held high, as if fresh from victory.

King Ursus joined him at the
battlement. “Ulrich returns from Cragnoth Keep.”

The marshal saw that the king had
the truth of it. The lead rider had the same bearish build, golden hair beneath
a burnished half helm, a blue sword strapped to his back. Perhaps the prince
was just the tonic the king needed.

Turning from the battlement, the
king called for his squire. “Baldwin, summon
the other captains. I’ll meet the prince in my council chambers.”

A lanky red-haired lad snapped a
salute and then sped away.

The king strode the length of the
battlement, the marshal at his side. They reached the drum tower and clattered
down the stairs. A pair of guards saluted as they entered the king’s chambers.

“Ulrich’s return can only mean one
thing.” The king stood in front of the cold hearth. Ever the warrior, the hilt
of his great blue sword loomed over his right shoulder, the monk’s crystal
glinting in the pommel. “The Mordant must have struck at Cragnoth Keep, hoping
to claim treachery’s wages. Rebuffed at the Crag he’ll soon come calling at Raven Pass.
I’ll wager we’ll see his army before winter ends.”

“He’ll dare the steppes in winter?”

The king nodded. “A goad to his
army.”

“A cruel ploy, befitting a foul
lord.” The marshal set a lit taper to the kindling. Fire erupted in the hearth,
a welcome blaze of heat.

The king paced in front of the fire.
“A doom stalks us, Osbourne, I can feel it in my bones. The Mordant will send a
slavering horde against us, the likes of which none has ever seen.”

The marshal had long ago learned to
trust the king’s battle sense. “We’re as ready as we can be. We’ve pulled men
from all across the Domain, leaving skeletal forces in the other towers. There
are none left to answer the summons.” He did not raise the specter of magic,
that nightmare he kept to himself. “In times past, allies would have marched from
the southern kingdoms, to stand shoulder to shoulder with the Octagon, fighting
to hold back the Dark.”

“Peace has blunted the swords of
the south. They’ve forgotten what lurks on their northern borders. We’ll have
no help from the south,” the king scowled, “and we have not done enough to
prepare.”

“What more can we do?”

“Catapults. We need catapults or
trebuchets mounted on every tower
of Raven Pass.”

“A long haul from Castlegard.”

“Then build them. There’s plenty of
trees further down the pass. I believe Sir Hunter has the plans. And get the
healer involved, he’s a scrollish man.”

“The healer building catapults?”

The king glared. “We need to find
advantages, Osbourne, for we shall not have the numbers.”

The words fell like a sword stroke.
The marshal stared at his king.

“Come, let us hear what Ulrich has
to report.” The king swept out of the solar, the marshal a half step behind. A
pair of guards snapped a salute as they entered the council chamber. A dozen
captains sat waiting at the round table. They stood at the king’s entrance, big
men in leather and chainmail, the smells of sweat and horse clinging to their
maroon cloaks. The king greeted them by name, making his way to the high-backed
chair. The king took his chair and the council began. Captains made their
reports on men, weapons, and stores, the steady preparation for war.

The marshal listened to their tone
as much as their words. Circling the table, he stood with his back to the
roaring fire. Confidence ran high among the captains, perhaps bolstered by the
king’s presence, yet it was in this very room that two princes had died,
impaled on a single sword. The others seemed to have forgotten, or perhaps they
hid it better. Red eyes of the demon still haunted the marshal, a threat and a
warning. He wondered if swords alone would be enough to win the coming battle.

Lothar sent him a questioning
glance.

The marshal stilled his face and
gave his friend the smallest of nods.

The door opened and Ulrich and two
of his captains clattered into the room, mud and sweat staining their riding
cloaks. A big bear of a man, with his father’s broad shoulders and deep voice,
the prince seemed to crowd the chamber. “I’ve come as you commanded, father.
Cragnoth Keep remains safe in the hands of the Octagon.”

A cheer filled the chamber.
 

The king rose and greeted his heir,
clasping him close.

The marshal watched from the warmth
of the fireplace. Ulrich seemed a younger version of the king, a big-boned man,
a fierce warrior, yet there was something unfinished about the prince,
something lacking, a pale imitation of the king. Perhaps the prince would grow
into his role, given time.

The prince took a seat opposite the
king, accepting a goblet of mead.

“Yours is the first true battle of
this war.” The king gestured to his son. “I would hear your report.”

Ulrich nodded. “I bring word of
victory…and treachery.”

His words sobered the room.

“More treachery!” The outburst came
from Sir Dalt. “The Crag is truly cursed.”

“Enough!”
The king made a cutting gesture with his sword hand. “I’ll have no more rumors
started at this table. Let the prince make his report.”

Ulrich fingered his beard, his face
troubled. “They came at sunset, thirty knights returning from a northern patrol.
Sentries spotted them long before they reached the keep, a long maroon line
riding up the switchbacks. Their horses were hard ridden, streaked with sweat.
Their captain’s name was Sir Lavor. He claimed they’d spied the vanguard of a
vast army marching south across the steppes.”

Surprised by the mistake, the
marshal flicked a glance to the king.

The king’s face hardened to stone,
yet the prince did not seem to notice.

The marshal asked the question.
“How did you learn his name?”

“I questioned him myself. He
claimed Lionel sent them on patrol.”

The twitch in the king’s eye quickened.
“So how did you spot their treachery?”

The prince paled but he did not
balk at the question. “A small thing, really. They did not stable their own
horses.”

“Betrayed by arrogance,” the
marshal nodded. “And then?”

“I pressed them with questions and
they answered with steel. The battle was bitter but we outnumbered them.”
Ulrich nodded to the king. “Treachery came to Cragnoth, just as you foretold.”

“Yet you let them in.” Anger rode
the king’s words.

The prince glared at his father.
“They spoke of Lionel and other knights of the Crag.” He reached behind to one
of his captains. “And their cloaks and surcoats were without fault.” From a
saddlebag he pulled a maroon cloak and a silver surcoat, tossing both onto the
table. Blood stained, the surcoat was pierced by many sword strokes.

Sir Dalt hissed, fingering the wool
cloak. “So now the enemy wears our own colors.”

Lothar scowled. “Another way to
divide us.”

Ulrich leaned forward, his fist on
the table. “Yes, but now we’re forewarned.”

The king’s gaze narrowed. “What of
the survivors?”

Rebuffed, the prince scowled. “They
fought like demons, refusing to surrender. But two of the wounded talked before
they died.” His gaze circled the table. “It seems they expected traitors to man
the gates. Barring that, they planned to slit our throats in the dead of the
night.”

“And after that?”

“They did not say.”

The king’s face was rife with
displeasure. “Then you bring but half a warning.”

Anger stormed across Ulrich’s face
but the marshal intervened. “Did you check their left arms?”

“Yes. Later. After the fighting.”

“And?”

Ulrich blanched. “They all bore the
marks, black runes tattooed on their left forearms.”

A ripple of nods circled the table.

Sir Rannock broke the silence. “The
Mordant marks his own, like brands on cattle.”

Sir Dalt nodded. “Making the enemy
easily identified, no matter the color of their cloaks.”

The king turned his gaze to the
marshal. “Send a message across the Domain under my seal. Warn the others of
this ploy, though I doubt it will be repeated.” The king studied his captains.
“We’ve had our warning. Now the Mordant will come in force.”

Ulrich looked indignant. “That’s
it? You make light of the attack.”

“I make
light
of nothing.”
The king’s words struck like a slap. “The council is dismissed. Remind your men
of the lesson of Cragnoth, especially the sentries. See that they remember the
runes. Now go, for I would speak with my son.”

The king’s anger rippled through
the chamber. The captains rose from their seats and left without speaking. The
marshal moved to follow but the king raised his hand. “Not you, Osbourne.”

The marshal resumed his post, his
back to the blazing fire.

The chamber emptied and the door
closed. Pine logs snapped and crackled in the hearth. The king glared at his
only remaining son, but he did not speak. The prince broke first, words
erupting in anger. “I did what you ordered. I held the Crag and defeated the
enemy. The men celebrate my victory.”

“You opened the gates for the
enemy.” The king’s voice simmered with rage. “You were warned of treachery yet
you never looked past their cloaks.”

The prince flamed red. “They’re
dead, what does it matter?”
 

“Did you even remember the runes?”

Ulrich looked away.

“No.” The word fell like an axe.
“I’ll wager a veteran told you after the battle.”

The truth was writ large across the
prince’s face, yet he tried to cover his shame with bluster. “I gained a
victory for the Octagon. What else matters?”

The king’s voice dropped to a
deadly hiss. “The
crown
matters. A
king needs to know his enemies, to always out-think them.” Disdain filled his
voice, “Yet you did neither.”

Outrage claimed the prince. “I slew
more enemies than any of my men!”

“It’s not your sword that’s in
question.” The king glared at his son. “Strategy is stronger than steel. It is
the first and best weapon of any king.” His voice dropped to a deadly growl.
“Lionel would never have made your mistake.”

Ulrich’s head snapped back as if
slapped…but then his eyes hardened to chips of flint. “Lionel’s dead, isn’t he?
Clever enough to get himself killed…and now
I’m
your only remaining son.”

The marshal caught his breath.

The king stared, his face stone hard…but
the tic in his left eye had returned with a vengeance, an ominous sign.

Ulrich glared. “You never see
my
worth.”

“I’ve seen more than enough.”
Disgust filled the king’s voice. “Get out of my sight.”

Ulrich stood, his face a deadly
grimace. “You wrong me, father. I’m not just a sword looking for a fight.”

“Then prove it.”

Stares clashed across the table, but
it was the prince who flinched first. “As you command.” The prince strode from
the chamber.

The door slammed shut but the king
remained seated. He leaned back in the chair, his face creased with worry. “The
gods mock me, Osbourne. First Tristan, then Lionel, then Godfrey and Griffin. They steal the
best of my sons and leave me a hollow sword. Ulrich should have remembered the
runes. My squire would have known better.” He shook his head, a mane of silver.
“I fear for the Octagon.” The tic at the king’s left eye beat a fierce rhythm.

The marshal worried for his lord.
“Perhaps the prince will grow into his role. Give him time.”

“Time is already late.” He shook
his head like an angry bear. “How many good men died because Ulrich opened the
gate to the enemy?”

The marshal had no answer.

“The Octagon cannot afford such
mistakes. We fight with our wits as well as our swords.”

“Given the right advisor, Ulrich
may learn to avoid such mistakes.”

The king sighed. “Then you’d best
outlive me, Osbourne.”

The words shivered like a doom,
scrapping against the marshal’s nerves. He shook his head in defiance. “We’ll
defeat the Mordant together and then worry about the throne.”
 

The king’s face turned hard as
stone. “Yes,
the Mordant. I’ve a
fearsome blood debt to collect.” Grim as death, the king strode from the
chamber. The marshal followed, but he could not shake the feeling of dread. He
wondered how much time they had left.