The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga) (30 page)

37

Duncan

Chains on his ankles, shackles on
his wrists, Duncan
knelt on the cavern floor. Pain blazed in every part of his body, a prisoner
once more.

Whips cracked and handlers yelled,
moving up and down the ragged line. One of a hundred, he knelt in a long line
of rebels, all of them shackled and chained. Most bore wounds; bloody badges of
honor, but all of them wore nasty red welts crosshatched on their skin, badges
of defeat. The sticky webs were gone, and so were their weapons, stacked in a
mound like an offering to a god. Fresh air wafted through the chamber like a
taunt, so close to victory it hurt. Krell’s body lay crumpled near the entrance,
a spear rampant in his chest. A fallen hero, Duncan envied the big man his
fate.

A whip cracked close to Duncan’s face. “Don’t wish
for death, maggot.” A leather-clad handler sneered down at him. “Your life is
not your own.”

Duncan lowered his gaze, smoldering with hate.

A flourish of drumbeats came from
the entrance, accompanied by the rhythmic tramp of hobnailed boots. Soldiers
marched into the cavern, a disciplined gleam of gold and black.
Soldiers
…not mine guards, they formed a
line opposite the prisoners, presenting a solid wall of shields.
 

A trumpet echoed through the
cavern, a haughty blare. The shield wall parted to reveal eight slaves struggling
to carry a gilded chair perched atop a raised platform. A single man sprawled
in the sedan. Big and baldheaded, with muscles gone to fat, he wore robes of
green wool, gold rings on his fingers, a cat-o-nine tails in his hands. The
slaves lowered the chair. An entourage of guards and scribes hovered around like
flies buzzing to carrion.

The handlers bowed deep and the
soldiers snapped to attention.

The lordling rose from his gilded
chair, using the height of the sedan to survey the prisoners. Flexing the
cat-o-nine tails between his hands, his voice filled the cavern. “Nothing in
the Mordant’s domain is ever wasted.
Nothing.
Not even your pitiful
lives. But punishment is owed…and the debt will be paid.” The lord flashed a
sleepy smile. “Your leaders will serve by example…while the rest return to work
in the mine. Lest you think to rebel again, each of you will be marked with a
special brand. If the iron ore does not flow within a day, then every tenth man
will pay a tithe to the Mordant. The tithe will be nothing important, nothing
to hinder your work in the mine, just a small payment of useless flesh…
just your manhood
.”

A shudder passed through the
prisoners.

Duncan’s mouth went dry.

“But first I’ll have your leaders.”
The lord gestured and a blond-haired courtier emerged from his entourage.

Something familiar snagged Duncan’s stare. And then
he saw it, the distinctive gleam of polished gray leather.
The courtier wore his boots,
his Midwinter gift from Jordan.
Like a bauble tossed to a fawning servant, this courtier dared wear his boots!
Outrage flooded all reason. Duncan
surged to his feet, his hands balled into fists.

A whip cracked.

Fire lashed across his back. Duncan staggered forward.

A handler appeared, pressing a
dagger to his throat. “On your knees, maggot.”

Duncan snarled but he had no choice. His
chains clanked as he knelt, but his stare never left the courtier. Tall and
clean-shaven, with close-cropped blond hair, the man strode toward the kneeling
prisoners. One at a time, he moved down the line, studying each rebel. He
paused before Seth and gestured. “This one.” A pair of handlers dragged Seth to
his feet. The courtier continued down the line.

Something about the blond-haired
dandy scratched at the back of Duncan’s
mind, but it was not until he drew near that understanding struck.
Bruce!
The man he’d saved from the cave-in…the filthy, god-rotting
traitor
.
Rage boiled through Duncan,
but the dagger at his throat held him in check.

Duncan
watched as Clovis
was chosen, then Brock…and then Marcos, and then the traitor stood before him. Their
stares locked like crossed swords…till a smug smile appeared on the traitor’s
face. “This one, definitely this one.”

“We
saved your life!”
Hands gripped Duncan’s
arms, dragging him to his feet, but he kept his gaze fixed on the traitor.

Bruce shrugged, “Your mistake,” and
moved to the next prisoner.

Duncan lunged but the handlers held him firm.
He hawked a wad of spit at Bruce’s back. “There’s a special hell for traitors.”

Quick as an adder, a handler buried
his fist in Duncan’s
groin. Doubled with pain, he gasped for breath. Hanging between two handlers,
he speared Bruce with his stare, but the traitor seemed impervious as stone.

Six men were chosen. Two of them
were only followers not leaders, but their desperate pleas went unheeded. Lord
Sleghorn gestured and the six were herded together without question or trial,
condemned by a traitor’s word. “Bring them.”

A drum roll filled the cavern and
the slaves hoisted the sedan chair onto their shoulders. Leather clad handlers
closed in on the six. Duncan and the other five were driven behind the lord’s
chair, prodded with clubs, herded like cattle to the slaughter. The cavern
narrowed to a long corridor. Duncan sidled next
to Clovis,
trying to catch his friend’s gaze. Chains clanked with each step, accompanied
by the tramp of hobnailed boots. The handlers moved close, gripping Duncan’s arms as if he
might bolt…and then he noticed the floor slanted
up
. The tunnel opened to daylight.

Duncan shuffled from the mine, blinded by
sunlight. He stumbled and almost fell, tears crowding his eyes. Taking a deep
breath, he nearly swooned. After the stench of the mine, the air smelled fresh.
Teaming with scents, the first breath swamped him with the mingled smells of
dung fires, pan baked bread, roasting grease, and the crowded stink of too many
people. Duncan
gulped the air like a drowning man, drunk on scent.

The handlers kept him moving. Poked
and prodded, he shuffled forward. With each step his senses adjusted to the
deluge. Reason returned like a slap. Duncan
strained against his shackles, desperate to escape. Chained and surrounded by
guards, he struggled to bide his time.

The lord and his entourage led the
procession. Borne aloft on the shoulders of slaves, the gilded sedan gleamed
like a beacon, at odds with the muddy lane. Dirty faces peered from a slum of
mud huts and thatched hovels. A gaggle of raggedy children capered alongside,
grinning as if they watched a troupe of mummers, but the adults were
stone-faced and wary. A crowd swelled behind, chirping like birds following a
trail of breadcrumbs.

Duncan slipped and almost fell. A handler
caught him, shoving him forward. The pit seemed an endless sea of mud huts and
bedraggled people, a vast city of slaves. So many people, enough for an army,
he wondered if any of them still had the will to fight.

The long walk became a difficult trudge.
Dread began to dog his steps. Duncan
stared up, hoping for a glimpse of the sky, but the brown cloud hovered close,
sealing the pit like a lid on a cauldron. At least he’d gotten out of the
depths. Out of the mine and into the cauldron…just another layer of hell.

Trumpets blared and the muddy lane
widened into a common area, like the spoke of a wheel joining a central hub,
but even here there was no grass, no speck of green, just a cluster of enormous
boulders. Thrice the height of a tall man, the boulders formed a crude circle,
as if frozen in a strange dance. Tall and majestic, the gray stones cast an
aura of strength and serenity…till he saw how they’d been defaced. Meat hooks
protruded from their tops, rust stains marring the stones like open sores. Duncan looked away,
shuddering at the obscenity.

Slaves settled the lord’s sedan
chair in the heart of the boulders. The prisoners were herded to the side,
surrounded by handlers. A pair of Taals emerged to stand at the base of each
boulder. Around the stones, a crush of people crowded close, an army of
witnesses come to view the pageant.

Lord Sleghorn rose from his chair.
Standing atop the sedan’s gilded platform, he addressed the crowd. “The Stones
of Agony serve their purpose.” The lord flashed a serpent’s smile. “Gather
close and witness the price of rebellion.”

Duncan scanned the crowd, desperate for a
weapon or a way out…but he found neither, just a sea of faces staring back at
him. Time tightened like a noose around his neck. Luck and the gods had both
deserted him. Taking a deep breath, he sidled close to Clovis, his words a hushed whisper. “I’m
sorry. I never thought it would end like this.”

The older man met his gaze, but
instead of recrimination his eyes held a strange sense of peace. “Some endings
are but beginnings.”

Duncan stared at his friend, wondering if
he’d slipped the bonds of reason.

Clovis gave him a soft smile. “I’m glad to
have met you, Duncan Treloch. You brought Light to the depths of darkness.”

Brock leaned close. “It was a good
fight, cat-man. At least we’re free of the god-cursed mine”

Such
friends
, Duncan shook his head, their words proving a balm to his soul.
“Then let’s show them how brave men die.” Duncan
gripped each man’s forearm, fiercely wishing for a different ending…but time
had run out. Silence tightened around them. The lord’s speech was over…and the
Taals came for them.

They took Marcus first.

“No! I didn’t do anything.”
He squirmed in the Taals’ grip, digging his heels in the mud, but the Taals
were not deterred. They carried him like a broken doll to the largest boulder.
Using a hook on a long spear, they hoisted Marcus into the air by his shackles.
The small man screamed and writhed like a fish on a line but it made no
difference. The chains of his shackles slid onto the meat hook atop the
boulder. Marcus sobbed as iron weights were hung from his feet, stretching him
along the boulder’s face, a slab of meat dangling from a hook.

Duncan shuddered and looked away, knowing it
would be a slow and painful death. The stones of agony were aptly named.

The Taals returned, claiming
another victim.

Brock was next. The big man
remained silent as they hoisted him onto the hook. One at a time, Duncan watched as the
others met their fate with stoic courage. Clovis
was the hardest to watch; the older man deserved a better end. And then it was
his turn.

Part of him wanted to fight, to
grab a weapon and claim a warrior’s death, but he could not degrade the courage
of his friends. Shaking off the Taals, he walked to an empty boulder between Clovis and Brock. “This
will do.” He fixed his stare on the lord, contempt on his face as the Taals
hooked the spear through his shackles. “Better men than you die this day.” And
then he was dangling in air, leveraged onto the hook. Weights were hung from
his feet, heavy as lead. He felt the stretch along his spine, the tightening of
his chest muscles and the harsh strain in his shoulders. Duncan shuddered, gulping for air.

Lord Sleghorn glared up at him.
“Mock all you want, but you’ll soon be begging for release.” His face twisted
into a cruel smile, his voice a command. “Let the rebels hang till they’re
carrion, nothing but spoiled meat rotting on the hook.” Making a curt gestured,
he leaned back in the gilded chair. Slaves struggled to lift the sedan. The
lord and his entourage slowly marched from the circle. Most of the soldiers
followed…but the people remained.

Duncan smeared his bare feet against the
stone, looking for purchase. His left foot found a slight bulge, taking some
strain from his shoulders. Even now, he could not give up.

Seeking distraction from the aching
pain, he studied the crowd, wondering if they stayed out of cruelty or merely
curiosity, but their faces proved hard to read. Cold and wary, they kept watch,
as if the stage was set for some larger drama.

Marcus whimpered and moaned,
pleading for mercy, but the others bore their pain in silence. A dozen soldiers
patrolled the inner circle, spears gripped in their hands, their faces closed. Duncan licked his lips,
fighting a raging thirst, desperate to keep his footing. Twice he slipped,
sending a rush of pain through his chest and shoulders. Regaining his perch, he
kept still, wondering if he could somehow climb the boulder and win free of the
hook.

A lazy sun crawled across the
shrouded sky, marking a slow agony of time. Nothing changed except the shadows.
The guards made their rounds, the people kept vigil, and the prisoners suffered
in silence; a stalemate waiting for death.

And then Clovis began to speak. His words were hushed
at first, but then his voice gathered strength. “
You have the numbers!
A handful of guards against a thousand, the
numbers are the same everywhere in the Pit!”

Duncan
stared at Clovis,
startled to hear the echo of his own argument.

“Look around you. Your numbers give
you strength, a chance for freedom, but you must work together. Dare to be
free! Rise up and take the Pit!”

The guards gripped their spears,
darting nervous glances at the crowd.

Duncan watched the people, wondering if
they’d listen.

“
Hear me!
For I am Clovis
Farsight, born of the Pit, gifted with the third eye, the inner sight of
prophecy. I have seen the victories that can be yours!” Clovis coughed, struggling for breath, but he
would not stop. “You have the numbers! Sleghorn can only rule if you let him.
You sin against the Light by doing nothing, by wallowing in slavery. Freedom is
worth fighting for, worth dying for! A sign will fall from the sky, written in
stone. Do not miss your chance! Heed the words of the gods. Walk in the Light
and dare to be free!”