The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga) (32 page)

“Are you saying the priesthood
cannot control the mob?”

Gavis blanched, his eyes like
daggers.

More than one general smirked.

The Mordant caught their mood. Like
a pack of jackals, they yearned to see the priesthood cast low, but Gavis still
had a role to play. He turned on his generals, barking a command. “You have
your orders. Within a fortnight, the army marches to war.” He strode toward the
double doors. “Lord Gavis attend me. I will sup with you tonight.”

A pair of guards rushed to open the
doors. The Mordant left the map room, striding through the marble corridors.
Braziers lit the long hallways, dispelling the winter chill. Gavis kept two
paces behind, a silent shadow at his back.

Golden doors marked the entrance to
the royal chambers. A pair of blond beauties rushed to attend him. He stood
with his arms spread wide as they worked to divest his armor. The Mordant kept
his gaze fixed on his high priest. “Why do you object?”

Gavis avoided his gaze, watching
the women instead. “My only concern is for the safety of your citadel.”

“Yes,
my
citadel.” Freed
from the armor, he waved the women away. “And it is the priesthood’s duty to
keep the rabble in check.” The Mordant strode to an adjoining chamber. A round
table was set for two, a pair of silver plates and goblets hewn from chunks of
crystal, the scent of roast pork teasing the air. He waved his high priest
toward the table. “Join me.”

Gavis took a seat as a servant
hastened to pour goblets of fine red wine.

The Mordant swirled the goblet, his
stare piercing his high priest. “I am not pleased.”

“But my Lord, the lower tiers
already riot for more food. The guards are needed to keep order in the citadel.”

“
Fear
keeps order in the citadel.”
His voice dropped to a dangerous hiss. “For nigh on a thousand years, the
people of the citadel have submitted to the rule of tiers. Trapped within the
station of their birth, they are trained only to serve, expecting nothing more
than what they are born to. It is their lot in life, like oxen forever yoked to
the plow. And now you dare tell me the priesthood cannot control the citadel?”

“No my Lord, that is not what I’m
saying.” Gavis reached for a goblet, the tremble of his hand betraying the
steadiness of his voice. “I am merely preaching caution. Take the guards from
the Pit but leave the citadel untouched.”

“Has decadence eroded the power of
my priesthood?”

“Not while I hold the staff.”

“Good, else I would need to look
elsewhere for a new high priest.” The Mordant clapped his hands. “Perhaps a
hearty meal will strengthen your convictions.

Rich scents of cinnamon apples and
roast pork swirled through the chamber. A pair of servants presented a silver
domed platter. Candlelight reflected against the dome, casting a distorted
view, a pair of misshapen monsters sitting at the table.

“Replenish the wine and then leave
us.”

Servants rushed to obey.

The Mordant eased back in his chair,
studying his high priest. “Those who serve the Dark Lord are continually
tested. Fail and damnation is assured. Succeed and the rewards are beyond
measure.” He fingered the crystal goblet, swirling the wine like blood in a
chalice. “The time of testing is upon you, Gavis. This war is a holy calling, a
dictate of the Dark Lord. The whole of the citadel must make sacrifices for the
sake of victory, including the priesthood.” He lifted the goblet, tasting the
wine. “The pulpit is yours to use, the power of the priesthood at your command.
Curse the people, bless the people, damn them to hell. Do whatever you must,
but keep them in their place.” He set the goblet down, a drop of wine running
down the side, like a stain of blood on the tabletop. “Hold the citadel and it
will be yours to rule at the war’s end.”

Gavis gasped, sitting forward in
his chair. “Mine to rule?”

The Mordant chuckled. “Yes, I told
you, rewards beyond measure.”
 

“But the citadel has ever belonged
to the Mordant, the high priest nothing more than a steward?”

“And so shall it ever be. Succeed
and you shall rule as my vassal, a king in everything but name.”

“And all this will be mine?” His
gaze wandered the luxuries of the royal chamber, a cautious look on his face.
“And where will you reside, my Lord?”

“In the heart of Erdhe. I will
claim the queen’s castle, making Lanverness the new seat of my power.”

Gavis nodded, a gleam of avarice in
his dark eyes. “The citadel is too far from the south.”

“Exactly.” The Mordant lifted his
goblet in salute. “Do we have an understanding?”

“Yes, my Lord, we do.”

“Then serve the meal and let us sup
together to seal our agreement.”

Gavis rose from his chair, tall and
elegant in his robes of silk. Rounding the table, he lifted the domed lid,
releasing the scent of roast pork. Gavis gagged, a hand pressed to his face. He
staggered backward, the silver dome clattering to the floor. Bishop Siff’s head
stared from the platter, an apple stuffed in his mouth, surrounded by a garnish
of greens.

The Mordant chuckled. “A reminder
of the cost of failure.”

Gavis dropped to his knees, his
face pale. “I swear I will not fail you.”

“Succeed or be damned.” The Mordant
hardened his voice. “Now be gone, before I have you made into the second
course.”

Gavis scurried from the chamber,
his face ash-white.

The Mordant sipped his wine. It was
good to rule, to make other men fear. Power was a heady elixir, better than the
finest wine, a dish fit for a king. And soon, very soon, all of Erdhe would be
his to rule, a dish of a different sort. Gifted with immortality, he would
crown himself the first and last Emperor of Erdhe, and every mortal would
tremble beneath his boot heel.

39

Duncan

Surrendering his body to death’s sure
grip, Duncan’s
thoughts fled to Kath. Moonlight shimmered through the trees as he lifted her
in his arms, carrying her to their marriage bower. Naked in the silvery light,
she quivered beneath his touch. Bud-tight breasts and a slender waist, his lips
and hands played across her, exploring all the tender places, slowly rousing
her passion. A blazing heat built between them till the wanting became
unbearable. Moist and open, she waited beneath him.
Beloved!
He entered her with a rush of ecstasy.

Rough hands on his body…they
grasped his arms, pulling him down. A thunderous pain roared through him,
racking his back and arms, a terrible torture…but then the weights were gone. No
weights, no chains, no endless pull, was this death? Was this heaven? Confused,
his mind hung in a daze. Water at his lips…but he wanted to stay in the silvery
forest, to stay with Kath. He reached for her, struggling to find his way back.

Rough hands held his face, prying
his eyelids open. Light spiked his eyes. Duncan
tried to flinch away, but they held him fast. A centurion’s face leaned close,
staring down. A man’s harsh voice beat against him, slaying the silvery dream.
“A golden cat-eye, just as they said. You’re lucky he still lives.”

No!!!
Duncan howled in his mind…so close to
heaven…one more step and he’d be there…but instead, they snatched him back,
pulling him down into hell.

“Clean him up. This one’s for the
Mordant.”

40

Katherine

Like spirits escaping the netherworld,
they climbed from the depths, leaving the Womb of the World. The lion-faced man
carried the Old One, while Kath walked a step behind, clutching a lighted
candle. Smoke clung to her hair and clothes, a cloud of scent evoking
half-formed memories. So many twists and turns, yet the lion-faced man took
them in stride, never hesitating. Kath walked behind in a daze, her mind a tumult
of thoughts. Her right hand clutched the crystal dagger sheathed at her belt,
making sure it was more than a dream.

The candle guttered and nearly went
out, a slender light against the labyrinth of darkness. Shielding the flame,
she rushed to keep up, relieved when they finally passed through the
lightning-bolt crack.

Crude handprints gave way to
galloping horses. They returned to the occupied caverns, the clean smell of
rock giving way to the jumbled scents of habitation. Kath began to recognize
the drawings, a splendor of ocher, umber, and charcoal decorating familiar
ceilings. Painted people emerged from the side passages. Thera was the first,
the raven faced healer falling into step behind Kath. The Old One gained a
following as they made their way through the cave dwellings. Men in jerkins of
pale white leather embroidered with fine beadwork and women in sheepskin
cloaks, carrying wooden staves adorned with small brass bells. All of them bore
the tattoo of the raven or the snarling mountain lion. A soft chime of bells
marked their steps, like a secret sect summoned to ritual.

Kath walked among them, keeping a
step behind the Old One, caught up in something she did not understand. A
shiver ran down her back. She gripped the crystal dagger, knowing the ordeal of
the depths was not yet over.

A murmur of voices filled the
passage. Like the rush of a mighty river, the voices pulled the procession
forward. The passageway spilled into an enormous cavern, unlike anything Kath
had ever seen. Glow crystals lined the walls, revealing magnificent drawings.
Three beasts of mythical proportion rampaged along the far wall, huge curved
tusks and flared ears raised in warning, like mighty war beasts drawn from
legend. A vast migration of animals galloped across the vaulted ceiling, a wild
celebration of life, so lifelike Kath could almost hear the thunder of their
hooves. The magnificent murals transformed the cavern into a stone cathedral. Beneath
the drawings sat a river of people. A great host crowded together, men and
women, young and old, all of them marked with blue tattoos.

Startled, Kath stared at the
assembly, ambushed by the numbers.

Thousands of tattooed faces turned
to stare. The river of voices stilled to a reverent hush. Like a pebble dropped
in a pond, a path opened for the procession. The lion faced man led the way,
holding the Old One cradled in his arms, his pale leather jerkin startlingly
white against the dull browns of the crowd. A rain of soft chimes marked each
step like a blessing. Kath stayed close to the lion faced man, held in the grip
of the procession. Solemn and slow, they walked the length of the cavern,
through a crush of tattooed faces. Buffeted by an avalanche of stares, Kath
endured a gauntlet of hostility, struggling to make sense of the gathering.

At the cavern’s heart they reached
a raised platform, a natural dais of rust red rock, a raised island of stone in
a sea of faces. The lion-faced man climbed the steps and settled the Old One on
a mound of sheepskins. One at a time, the members of the procession mounted the
dais and nodded to the Ancestor.
They nodded but they did not bow
…that
told Kath a lot. The Old One was respected, even revered, but she did not rule,
not like a queen. The painted people displayed a fierce pride, jealously
guarding their freedom. They’d make fine allies if she could just win their
trust. Wary of making a mistake, she watched as the others sat cross-legged in
a solemn circle around the dais, a ring of ravens and snarling mountain lions staring
back at her.

Kath was the last one standing.
Clutching the lighted candle, she waited at the edge of the dais, unsure what
was expected of her.

The Old One gestured. “Come, child,
set your candle on the pillar.”

A single pillar of rust colored rock
thrust up from the heart of the dais. Five foot tall, the pillar was sheathed
in a thick shroud of white wax, as if thousands candles had wept upon the rock.
Approaching the pillar, Kath tilted her candle, letting droplets of warm wax
puddle before crowning the stone with her lighted candle.

An angry murmur swept through the
crowd.

A shiver of foreboding raced down
Kath’s back. She needed to gain the trust of the painted people but a chasm of
differences gaped between them.

One of the lion faced men strode to
her side. A tall man with dark hair, he faced the crowd, his voice echoing
across the cavern. “Strangers have come among us. Without runes, without
brands…without any marks of enslavement…without proof they understand the cost
of freedom. They bear no tattoos yet they seek our help.
Our help
, when so for so long none have come to
our aid
.”

The crowd stirred.

“I say, they are not worthy.”

Kath remained statue still,
swallowing her unease.

The lion faced man resumed his seat
and Thera rose to take his place. The raven faced healer turned toward the
crowd, her voice rising to fill the cavern. “A handful of barefaced strangers
have come where armies fear to tread. They claim to oppose the Mordant, and
they ask for our aid, but they also bring word of one of our own. Over two long
years ago, Valdur, a Taishan of the mountain lions, was lost on a vision quest.
Lost but never forgotten. Now a barefaced stranger comes to bring us word of
his fate.” She gestured to Kath, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Turn and
face the people.”
 

Kath slowly turned, impaled by a
thousand stares. So many tattooed faces, most of them full of smoldering
outrage, as if she’d defiled a sacred ritual. Bears, boars, badgers and wolves,
hawks, eagles, and owls, a press of predators stared back at her, studying
their prey, waiting to pounce at the first sign of weakness. Kath fought the
urge to flee, and then she saw them. Her companions sat at the base of the
dais. Blaine in
his silver surcoat, looking lost without his sword. Zith in his robes of
midnight-blue, his face haggard from his ordeal, his ruined arm held in a
sling. And Danya, looking strangely confident, her right hand buried in the
wolf’s dark fur. A rush of gratitude filled her; she was not alone.

Another lion faced man strode to
the heart of the dais. A wild mane of auburn hair gave him a feral look. His
voice boomed through the cavern, pulling Kath back to the proceedings. “We meet
in the Great Hall to bear witness to the fate of every Taishan. Listen and hear
the fate of Valdur, a Taishan of the mountain lions.” He sketched a strange
sign with his hand, as if drawing a rune in the air. “May the gods grant us the
wisdom to defeat the Dark.”

“Show us the Light.”
The
words rippled like ritual through the crowd.

He gestured for Kath to step
forward. “Tell us what you know.” He sent her a piercing glare and then took a
seat with the others.

Kath stood alone at the heart of
the dais, surrounded by thousands of hostile stares.

A chime of bells shivered through
the cavern.

Kath shuddered, feeling the crushing
weight of destiny. Somehow this lost man of the mountain lions was of great
importance…but it was an importance she did not understand, a riddle mired in
the mysticism of a fiercely proud people. Yet instinctively she knew her fate
was bound to his, tied by destiny to a dead man she did not even know. Kath
felt as if she walked along a cliff edge, where a single wrong word would send
her plummeting to the depths.

Taking a deep breath, she tried to
still her mind…but each breath was laced with smoke from the Womb of the World.
It clung to her clothes, a rich earthy scent of sage and peat and something
else, something mysterious. Memories flooded her mind, as vivid as if they’d
happened yesterday. Kath closed her eyes, shutting out the hostile stares. “It
happened on a crisp spring morning, the first rays of sunlight hitting the
castle ramparts. Late for the healery, I took a shortcut through the great
yard. A cavalcade of mounted knights returned to the castle, their armor
gleaming bright, maroon octagons emblazoned on their shields, a proud
sight…till I saw the horses lathered with sweat. Something was wrong. The
patrol leader called for the healer. Trapped by curiosity, I had to see for
myself. No one noticed as I drew near. And then I saw him.” Shivers feathered
down her spine, as if a ghost reached out to touch her. “He was slumped on the
back of a horse. Pale white leather embroidered with delicate blue flowers
marked him as a stranger. And then I saw his face. Whirls of blue ink
transformed him into a snarling mountain lion. For the first time, I saw a
Painted
Warrior.”
She gripped the crystal dagger, struggling to hold her voice
steady. “But beneath the blue tattoos, he’d turned ashen, one step away from
death’s door. I ran for a water skin. Most of it dribbled down his chin…but
then his eyes flew open, a sky blue stare filled with desperate need. His
bloody hand gripped my tunic.” Kath’s eyes flew open, fleeing the past…but the
present crowded close, trapping her in the grip of a thousand anxious stares.
Strangled by a truth she dare not say, her voice fell to a harsh whisper. “He
died in my arms…in the heart of Castlegard. No one even knew his name.”

The stares of the crowd impaled
her.

“Tell us how he died.” It was the
voice of the Old One…prodding her toward the cliff edge.

Trapped, Kath teetered on the edge
of destiny. Everything she’d learned of the painted people screamed of a
warrior’s pride. And this man of the mountain lions was somehow special, even
revered. How could she tell them the truth? How could she speak of arrows
protruding from his back? That he’d died running…taken by a coward’s death.

“
Tell us
.” The whisper came
from every direction, a cold chant pelting her like hailstones, pushing her
toward the precipice.

Forced to speak, Kath reached for a
sliver of truth, hoping it would be enough. “He was wounded, slain by soldiers
of the Mordant.”

The crowd stirred, anger and
disbelief warring across their faces.

Kath dared a glance to the Old One,
desperate for guidance, but the wrinkled face remained impassive, her voice a
persistent goad. “How did he die?”

The truth was so hurtful, even
damning…but she could not bring herself to lie. If she wanted the painted people’s
trust, she would have to trust in return. Kath nodded to the Old One and then turned
to face the crowd, braced for the backlash. “The truth is…he died from his
wounds…two black and gold fletched arrows skewering his back. He died fleeing
the soldiers of the Mordant.”

A gasp rippled through the cavern.

Kath remained statue-still,
struggling to understand.

“Did he speak before he died?”

The question carried the weight of
destiny.

Kath nodded. As if it had happened
yesterday, the dead man’s words rang through her mind. “
Be prepared! The gods give warning! A great Evil returns!”
Kath
rocked back on her heels, stunned by the strength of her memories.

The Old One prodded. “What else?”

“He grabbed my tunic and pulled me
close…and with his dying breath he said,
Claim
the war helm...yours to use.”

The cavern erupted in chaos. Shouts
rang from every quarter.

“
She lies!”

“The
War Helm cannot be claimed by a woman!”

“Women
don’t fight in the steppes!”

“We’ll
not follow a barefaced intruder!”

Confused, Kath stared at the Old One,
but it was Royce, the lion faced man who came to her rescue.

“
Enough!”
His roar cut through the clamor. “Where is your pride?
Where is your honor?” He gestured to Kath. “This one was tested by the ancient
rites of our people. She braved the depths, facing the trial of souls, her
memories weighed by the Ancestor.” He pointed to the single candle glowing atop
the pillar. “Out of the depths, a Light is brought to us, proof she is worthy
to stand among our leaders.”

A ripple of protest raced through
the crowd.

A tall man with iron gray hair
climbed the steps of the dais, his eagle face set in a defiant scowl. “The test
of the depths earns her a seat at the leader’s council…but she has no right to
wear the War Helm. The eagles have that honor.”

Thera answered, “Will you defy the voice
of the gods?”

The eagle faced man flinched but he
did not retreat. “Valdur is two years dead. His words are lost to the wind.”

“The gods found a way to bring his
words back to us.”

“There’s no proof!”

“The proof is in the manner of his
death.” Thera shook with outrage. “A true son of the mountain lions, Valdur
proved himself worthy of the gods. He kept his oath, running instead of
fighting, forswearing violence while on a vision quest. And despite his wounds,
he found a way to preserve the words of the gods.” She raised her voice to the
crowd. “The Taishan succeeded, sacrificing his life for his vision. His words
come to us from beyond the grave. It is our duty to heed their wisdom.”

The eagle faced man scowled. “I’ll
not listen to lies.”

Royce shook his head, his words a
low growl, “Shagrith, you speak blasphemy.”

“No, I demand proof. The War Helm
will not be won by the lies of a barefaced girl.” He pointed an accusing finger
at Kath. “As leader of the eagle den, I demand proof.” His face curled into a
sneer. “I demand a trial by combat!”