The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga) (35 page)

The crowd stirred but they did not
cheer.

Blaine kept his gaze fixed on Kath.

Movement
on the dais,
Shagrith raced towards Kath, a dagger poised to strike at her
back.

The crowd gasped.

Blaine screamed, “
Behind you!”

Kath whirled. Swift as lightning,
she parried the blow and then lunged forward.
Strike of the dragon,
so fluid it was like nothing he’d ever seen.
Her sword struck deep, taking the assassin in the chest, a killing blow
straight to the heart.

Impaled, the eagle sagged dead on
her sword, surprise scrawled across his face.

Kath shook her head and pulled her
sword loose, blood dripping from the blade.

Blaine vaulted onto the dais and stood at her
back, his fists clenched, his voice a hoarse whisper. “I’ve got your back.”

She nodded, her sword held in a
warrior’s stance.

A chime of bells filled the cavern,
like the sound of soft rain.

The Old One was carried onto the
dais, followed by a procession of lion faced men in pale white jerkins and raven
faced women in sheepskin cloaks. They stepped around the slain eagle and nodded
to Kath, taking positions around the dais.

Royce, the big man with the wild
mane of auburn hair, the one Blaine
thought of as the leader of the lions, was the last to climb the steps. Solemn
with dignity, he carried a swath of sheepskin. Nestled on the sheepskin sat a
helmet, a simple conical half-helm with a cruciform nose guard. Made of
ordinary steel, the helm was burnished bright. Despite the polish, it had an
ancient look about it, a relic of the past. Blaine was tempted to dismiss it, till he saw
the detail on the nose guard. Cunningly wrought in gold, a pantheon of predators
decorated the helm, wolves, badgers, foxes, and owls, too many to count, and on
the crest reared a roaring lion, a single paw outstretched in victory. Something
about the helm stirred Blaine’s
blood, a call to battle. “
The War Helm!”
The words whispered out of him,
a touch of envy in his voice.

Royce turned towards the crowd, his
voice echoing to the far reaches of the cavern. “The gods have spoken. The War
Helm is fairly won!”

The crowd sat stunned, thousands of
faces staring at the dais.

Royce carried the helm to the Old
One, leaning down for her approval.

The Old One raised her arms,
gnarled hands hovering above the gleaming helm like a benediction. “The will of
the gods has prevailed. May the Light lead us to victory.”

The crowd remained silent, the
weight of judgment hanging in the air.

Blaine stood behind Kath, his hands balled
into fists.

Royce walked towards Kath, offering
her the helm. “Great change is upon us. Never before has a woman, let alone a
barefaced stranger, won the War Helm. Yet the gods have spoken. Your claim is
proven in front of all the people. Predicted by the vision of a Taishan and
sealed by the test of combat, it is yours by right. Lead us well.”

Blaine whispered, “Take it.”

Kath hesitated.

Royce smiled, his voice dropping to
a whisper. “By tradition, the war leader places the helm upon his…
her
head…in front of all the people.”

Still Kath hesitated. “And there
are no words to speak? No oath of fealty?”

His smile deepened. “Your deeds
speak louder than any words.” He proffered the helm toward her, his voice
dropping to a whisper. “The Old One had it lined with sheepskin to ensure a
better fit.”

Blaine glared at the old woman. So the
wrinkled witch had foreseen the outcome, yet she’d made Kath risk her life. The
painted people were hard to understand and harder to trust.

Royce said, “Will you accept the
War Helm?”

Kath reached out with both hands, gently
lifting the helm. Turning to face the people, she raised the helm into the air.
“By the Light, I swear to value every sword among you.” She slowly settled the
helm on her head, burnished steel set over long blond hair. “By the Light, I’ll
find a way to victory!”

Blaine’s vision blurred…and for a heartbeat
he saw a crown upon her head.

A chime of bells shimmered through
the cavern.

“Victory!”
The people
erupted in a jubilant shout, the single word echoing against the cavern.
The
yell became a chant, breaking across the dais like a wave.
 

The crowd converged on Kath,
smiling faces full of congratulations, sweeping her away in a rush of words.

Blaine watched, bemused by the sudden change
in fortune…but in the pit of his stomach he felt left behind, like flotsam
spurned by the tide of fate.

As if Kath read his mind, she
turned and fought her way back to his side. “Your sword.”

His sword!
The words
shivered through his mind.
What was a knight without his sword!
He
strode to the rock pillar. An awesome sight awaited him. The sword had cleaved
halfway through the stone pillar, a prodigious feat even for blue steel, a feat
worthy of legends. The sight deepened his hunger for the sapphire blade. Blaine stepped to the
pillar and gripped the hilt, a hilt made especially for his hands. Taking a
deep breath, he pulled…but the sword did not move. He twisted, he shoved, and
he strained with all his might …but the sword remained locked in stone.
“By Valin!”
Sweat beaded his brow; he
refused to abandon his sword to the pillar.

“Let me.” Kath stood behind him,
holding her gargoyle in the palm of her hand.

A crowd formed around them,
watching.
 

Reluctantly, Blaine stepped aside.

Kath gripped the gargoyle in her
left and reached for the sword with her right. With the barest of tugs, she eased
the sword from the stone, as easy as butter.

An awed hush rippled through the
crowd, their faces full of wonder.

Like a vision from legend, Kath
held the sword aloft. Light gleamed along the sapphire steel, the war helm on her
head. For half a heartbeat, Blaine
feared he’d lost his sword. But then she turned, and offered the sapphire blade
to him, a soft smile on her face. “The sword of a knight.”

His hands closed over the hilt,
hungry for the great blade.

Cheering, the crowd bore Kath away,
carried on the shoulders of lion-faced men.

Blaine watched them go, gripping his sword,
overcome by a tidal wave of emotions. She’d won the challenge. She’d regained
his sword…and an army of allies. He should have been elated…but in the depths
of his heart a shadow of resentment grew. Blaine
wondered if she’d leave any glory for him.

43

Duncan

Shadows skittered among the
stalactites, too many to count. Duncan
watched through hooded eyes, trying to tell if they were real or imagined. Sometimes
the shadows took forms, horns, and tails, and ebony eyes staring back at him,
full of malice. Duncan
rattled his chains, bound too tight to move. Naked, he lay sprawled across the
cold stone floor like an offering, nothing for company but shadows. Smells
assaulted his senses; the lingering stench of blood and pain mingled with the
raw stink of sulphur, the residue of other men’s nightmares. Writhing against
his chains, Duncan
yelled in defiance, needing to hear a human voice. “
My name is Duncan Treloch
and I still live!”

“
live…live…live,”
the words
echoed back at him like a mockery.

Five braziers erupted in flame,
bathing him in light. Sometimes bright, sometimes dim, the flames moved to a
pulse he did not understand. Time had no measure in the cavern, but the waiting
proved hard, time enough for nightmares to take hold. Horrors stalked his
thoughts, a promise of things to come. Taunted by shadows, his imagination ran
wild. Duncan
closed his eyes, forcing his mind to recall the rich scent of a cedar tree, the
lush green of a summer forest, the hint of a smile on Kath’s face. But when he
opened his eyes again, he was still chained to the floor, a god-forsaken
prisoner bound in this infernal place.

If evil had a smell, the cavern
reeked of it. Duncan
had never really believed in the gods, but if the Dark God was real then the
Lords of Light had to exist, else mankind was doomed to eternal Darkness. Faced
with the truth, he prayed like he’d never prayed before.

Footsteps echoed against the cavern
walls. He raised his head, surprised to find it wasn’t an illusion. A
black-robed priest strode toward him, red runes embroidered on the hem of his
robe. A soldier walked two paces behind, carrying a small ironbound chest.

Perhaps the waiting was finally
over. Duncan’s
mouth went dry, parched as a desert, suddenly desperate for more time.

The priest stared down at him, a
pinched look on his narrow face. “Put it there, just beyond the sacrifice.”

Anger blazed in Duncan. “I’m no sacrifice. What do you want?”
But the priest ignored him.

The soldier set the ironbound chest
on the floor, just beyond Duncan’s
left hand. Retreating a pace, he darted nervous glances at the ceiling, his
right hand on his sword hilt.

The priest knelt, holding the tip
of a wineskin to Duncan’s
lips. “Drink.”

Duncan jerked away. “What is it?”

“The only drink you’ll get.”

He was tempted to refuse but thirst
won out. The priest shoved the tip deep, a sudden gush of tepid liquid. Duncan almost gagged, but
then he swallowed rather than drown, a flood of watered wine and a hint of something
else, something bitter. He struggled to keep pace, a gush of liquid down his
throat. The flood came to a sudden stop. The priest yanked the wineskin away,
leaving Duncan
gasping for breath, a trickle of wine on the side of his mouth.

The priest stood, disdain on his
face, and turned and walked away, the soldier staying two paces behind.

Duncan watched them go. “That’s it? You’re
leaving me?” But his only answer was a mocking echo, “
me…me…me?”

The copper door shuddered close.

Silence descended like a pall.
They’d left him alone to stew on his torture. Curiosity preyed on his mind. His
stare kept returning to the ironbound chest, wondering what horrors lurked
within. He should have died on the steppes, a warrior’s death, anything but
this. Something broke inside his mind. Raging against his chains, he strained
with all his might, but he was bound tight, held spread-eagle against the cold
stone floor. Defeated, his head lulled back, his eyes closed. He felt like a
soul trapped in a bottle. Condemned to a nightmare he’d never dreamed, he dared
not guess how it would end.

He must have dozed. Perhaps it was
the wine, but when he woke, he found he was not alone. A tall man, dressed all
in black, stood statue still, staring down at him, like a crow studying
carrion. A nobleman’s face, young and fair, with blond shoulder length hair and
a neatly trimmed beard, but it was the eyes that captured Duncan’s attention. Ice blue and piercing,
full of patient malice.

“Who are you?” Duncan’s voice sounded hoarse in his ears.

The tall man smiled. “Can’t you
guess? I’m the Lord of the citadel.”

The Mordant!
It took all of
his control not to shudder. Balling his hands into fists, Ducnan forced himself
to meet the ice-blue stare.

The Mordant leaned forward. “That’s
it, meet my stare.”

Something slammed into him,
something dark and oily, trying to worm its way inside. Clawing at the edge of
his mind, it pried at the hinges of Duncan’s
soul. But Duncan
fought back, refusing entry. Like a knight in a beleaguered castle, he locked
the doors of his mind and stood his ground, refusing to yield. The assault
turned ugly, a black battering ram at the gates, the weight of centuries
pounding against him. His walls crumbled under the onslaught. Battered and
bruised, Duncan
retreated inward, curling into a ball. Darkness followed, a relentless,
smothering wave of corruption. Thick and oily, it pressed against him, seeking
entrance, searching for any crack or crevice. Just when he thought he would
succumb, he found a light blazing deep within his soul. Bright as a torch at
midnight, it held the best of him. Radiating confidence, the light echoed his
own words back to him, words he’d spoken in the depths of the Mordant’s iron
mine.
Instead of dying like slaves…live like men. Take a chance and fight.
Buoyed by the light, Duncan
fought back, pushing outward, wielding memories like a sword. He thought of the
Deep Green, mighty redwoods towering overhead, the soul soaring beauty of a
leaf-green cathedral. He thought of the Treespeaker, and the endless wisdom in
her golden eyes. And then he thought of Kath. Suddenly, the darkness retreated,
routed by a blazing light.

The Mordant jerked back as if
burnt. “So, an honest soul,” his face twisted into a sneer, “a soldier of the
Light.” He circled like a hungry wolf, boot heels clicking on stone, an angry
swirl of his black cape. “I cannot touch your soul…not…yet…but your pain will
serve. Believe me, your pain will serve.”

Duncan struggled against his chains. “Kill me
and be done with it.”

The Mordant smiled. “Not so hasty.”
He stopped pacing and stood, staring down at Duncan, as if studying a bug beneath his
boot. “Tell me about your eye.”

It was always about his eye, a man
could never escape his heritage. “It sees.”

“A stubborn one, but you’ll soon
tell me everything.” The Mordant cocked his head as if listening to another
voice. “I know about the Deep Green.”

Duncan remembered the fire, blackened trees
and murdered clansmen, a cowardly attack against his homeland, another reason
the Mordant had to die.

“I breed abominations, a specialty
of the Pit. Yet I’ve never seen a man with a golden cat eye.” The Mordant began
to pace a slow circle, his face thoughtful. “With most abominations, the form
tends to follow the purpose. A golden cat eye, the eye of a cat.” He stopped in
mid stride, a shrewd smile on his face. “You can see in the dark.”

It was the most obvious advantage
of his heritage. Better to admit one and keep the others hidden. Duncan made his voice reluctant.
“Yes.”

“A strong advantage for any
warrior. You’ve just saved the lives of your kinswomen. When my army conquers
Erdhe, I’ll have them spare the young women of your forest. They’ll make good
breeders. Imagine an army of Taals that can see in the dark, a formidable force
for an emperor.”

Rage claimed Duncan. “
No!”
He bucked against his chains. “The Light strike you dead!”

“
…dead…dead…dead…”
his words echoed back like a mockery.

The Mordant grinned. “Plenty of
fight left in you, that’s good. Now tell me why a half breed of the Deep Green
comes north?”

Duncan felt the Mordant’s stare dissecting
his face for answers

“No need to be stubborn.” The
Mordant’s voice sounded so reasonable. “I know about the crystal dagger.”

Chilled to the core, Duncan willed his face to
stone, desperate to hide his secret.

“The blue robed monks sent a party
of champions chasing after me. Sent on a fool’s errand, sent to their deaths,
but that never bothers the monks, a gaggle of old men hiding safe behind their mage-stone
walls.” The Mordant stopped pacing and stared down at him. “Are you one of
their champions?”

Afraid to give anything away, Duncan kept silent,
watching the Mordant through hooded eyes. Breathing deep, he tasted the air.
Beneath the lingering stench of blood and pain, he caught the Mordant’s scent,
so elusive it was hard to read, but then he understood. The Mordant reeked of
the subtle stink of half-truths. “You know nothing.”

Anger sparked in the Mordant’s ice blue
eyes. “Oppose me at your peril.” He turned, a swirl of black, and strode to the
ironbound chest. Kneeling beside it, he trailed a hand across the top, almost a
lover’s caress.

Sickened, Duncan tried to look away but he couldn’t.

The Mordant turned toward Duncan, his face congenial
once more. “Perhaps you’ve wondered at your fate?”

A shiver of dread ran down Duncan’s back.

Pale hands flicked open the latches
of the chest. The Mordant reached inside and withdrew a slender dagger cast in
silver, runes etched along the blade. “There’s a hundred more just like this
one.” Long and slender like a silver thorn, it gleamed wicked keen in the
flickering light. “A thousand years is not nearly long enough, but it’s given
me time to master many things. Time enough to learn how to sculpt flesh and
twist souls, but first, one must master the way of blood and sinew and bone,
the things that bind a man to the mortal coil.” He lifted the dagger up to the
light. “These knives were crafted to my own design. They’ll make a man suffer unspeakable
pain without dying, teetering on the very brink of hell.” The Mordant smiled.
“You’ll beg for death long before I’m done.”

Sweat erupted from Duncan’s skin, betraying a
rush of fear. He strained against his bonds, desperate to escape, but his voice
was full of bravado. “I’ll tell you nothing.”

“You’ll tell me everything.” The
Mordant eased to the floor. Stretching out his long legs, he lay beside Duncan, his head cocked at
an angle, his right hand toying with the silver dagger…close enough to be a
lover.

Repulsed, Duncan flinched away, but the chains held him
fast.

The Mordant smiled. “Torture is a
very intimate act.”

Duncan stomach roiled. He stared at the
Mordant, his mouth desert dry.

The dagger point traced a trail
down his chest, the metal as cold as sin. His skin seemed to shrink away,
desperate to retreat. The dagger paused at his manhood. Duncan stared at the knife-edge, taking short
shallow breaths, afraid to move.

“Aren’t you going to plead for your
manhood?”

Duncan clamped his mouth shut, a scream
growing in the pit of his stomach.

“Torture is a rare art. It takes a
master to evoke pain without killing.” The Mordant chuckled, moving the
knife-edge back up toward Duncan’s
throat. “So many points of pain, it took me a lifetime to find them all, to
perfect the craft. Take this point for example,” the dagger moved along his
left arm, “so easy to slip the dagger between muscle and bone.”

Pain stabbed into his left arm. The
Mordant pressed down, forcing the point all the way through. The tip emerged on
the other side, skewering his arm with silver. Duncan bit his lip, stifling a groan.

“No need to be stoic. I’ll enjoy
your screams.”

Duncan stared at his tormentor, seeing him
with fresh eyes. The Mordant was a monster. Little wonder the monks sought to
destroy him. “Just kill me and be done with it.”

“Oh there will be no killing, but
the pain will be exquisite.” The Mordant reached for another dagger. “You see
the Dark God requires an offering before granting a boon. But one of the many
advantages of serving Darkness is that the sacrifice need not be my own.” The
Mordant flashed a malicious smile. “Your pain will provide a bridge to the Dark
Lord, a continual feast of agony, the perfect offering. A single drop of your
blood in a scrying bowl and I’ll be able to reach the Dark Lord no matter how
far I travel. As long as you live, I’ll have my link to the Dark God…and all
his power.” The dagger traced a line along Duncan’s left forearm, pausing at a point
near his wrist. “Your pain is my offering.”

Silver stabbed into his wrist, a
blaze of agony. Duncan
turned his head away, biting his lip, but the scream broke free.

“That’s it, embrace the pain. Let
the suffering roll out of you.”

“I won’t…serve you.”

The Mordant chuckled. “You already
do.” He held a glass vial to Duncan’s
wrist, catching drops of blood. When the vial was full, he reached for another
dagger. “Now tell me, who wields the crystal dagger?”

“I don’t know.”
 

A dagger plunged into his side. Duncan shrieked in pain.

“Some spots hurt more than others.
I can be merciful in my choices.” The Mordant smiled, his voice a whisper. “Beg
me to be merciful.” A dagger pricked his left thigh. “But first I need know
about the wielder of the crystal dagger.”

“I don’t know!”

“I think you do.”

The dagger plunged deep. So painful,
Duncan nearly
swooned.

“Tell me.” The Mordant whispered in
his ear like a lover.

Duncan flinched away. Swallowing his pain, he
struggled to think. A quick death was his only hope. He needed to goad the
Mordant to a killing rage. Turning towards his tormentor, he breathed deep,
tasting the air for weakness, searching for a scent masked by his own fear. So
much fear, so much pain, the scents were tangled, too muddled to read, yet he
found his answer in the Mordant’s cocky smile. Duncan forced himself to laugh, a low
chuckle. “You didn’t expect me.”