The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga) (36 page)

“What?” The Mordant paused, another
dagger in his hand.

“For all your vaunted powers, you
didn’t see a cat-eyed man sneaking into the north.”

“But I have you now.”

“Yes, but what else have you
missed? You’re weaker than you think.” He forced contempt into his voice,
striving to hide his own fear. “A thousand years of evil and you’re still
playing with knives?”

The Mordant reared up like an angry
cobra. “Mock me at your peril.”

“Or what, you’ll kill me?”

The Mordant stood, his face a swirl
of anger. “Mortal, you’ve no idea whom you deal with.” He threw his head back
and shouted a command, his hands reaching toward the vaulted ceiling. “
Sabilanth
Tarant Har!”

A clap of thunder shook the cavern.
Darkness boiled overhead, a swirling cauldron of shadows.

“Imlanth Tahra!”

Duncan stared wide-eyed, trying to disbelieve
his eyes.

Shadows coalesced, thickening to
pure black. A swirling storm cloud descended from the stalactites like a
suffocating hand.

The Mordant dropped to the stone
floor, lying next to Duncan.

Above, the shadows kept coming, a
roiling cloud pressing down, a mere hand’s width above the Mordant’s head.

Duncan tried to shrink into the cold stone
floor. Drenched in sweat, he stank of his own fear. A primal terror gripped him,
the age-old fear of the Dark. Wide-eyed, he turned his head, taking short sharp
breaths, afraid the evil would get inside him.

“Witness the power of Darkness.”
The Mordant’s voice dripped with malice. He reached upward, extending a silver blade
into the dark cloud. Twirling the blade, he drew it down. “Now you’ll pay.” A
thread of inky darkness bound the blade to the hovering cloud like a tentacle
of evil. “Now you’ll scream.”

The blade plunged into Duncan’s side, a flaming
agony. A scream roared out of him. He convulsed against his bonds, skewered by
agony.

“Yes, the Darkness burns like acid
in your blood.” The Mordant raised another knife, gathering another thread of
shadow. “Now tell me about the crystal dagger.”

“I
don’t know!”
Pain exploded in his shoulder. He screamed a babble of words.
Chained to the floor, his mind fled, his world dissolving into a nightmare of
screams.

44

Katherine

Kath squinted against the blinding
sun. After so long in the caves, the dazzling brightness hurt yet she yearned
to feel warm sunlight on her face. She followed Bear through the narrow
crevice, squeezing past a thorny bush to stand on a rocky outcrop. A cold wind
beat against her face but it was the view that took her breath away. “So these
are the Ghost Hills.”

Bear nodded, a man of little words.

As a child, Kath had heard tales of
the Ghost Hills, how the spirits of slain warriors were forever imprisoned in
stone, waiting to be summoned for a final battle. Intrigued, she’d pestered the
knights for details but none had ever seen the hills. Most considered them
nothing more than a minstrel’s fable, but no minstrel’s ballad had ever
captured the wild strangeness spread before her. Staring at the land, she drank
in the sights, as if imbibing pure myth.

Smooth and sculptured, the wind hewed
hills took fantastic shapes. Giant beehives of yellowish-orange rock dominated
the land, like the dream of a drunken god obsessed with honey mead. Amongst the
beehives sat massive cones and twisted towers, each more astonishing than the
next. Majestic curves and towering beehives carved in sun burnt colors, a
stunning display of ocher, oranges, and reds. Jumbled together the sculpted
hills formed an ancient and mystical landscape. Strangely spiritual, the hills
evoked a sense of wonder…and peril, as if the gods drew near. Kath shivered, feeling
a sense of awe.

Bear broke the spell. “This way.”

Halfway up the side of a massive
beehive, they followed a narrow track, little more than a goat path. Bear led
the way, his hand on his sword, with Boar following close behind Kath. The two
men had gained great status by her victory, becoming sworn bodyguards of the
new War Lord. Vigilant and stubborn, they took their oaths seriously, staying
close by her side, a pair of brooding shadows bristling with weapons.

The track spiraled upward, around
the steep sided beehive. Hungry for fresh air, Kath breathed deep, savoring the
clean scent of sage. After winning the War Helm she’d met with the council of
leaders. For three days and three nights she’d listened to arguments and
petitions, mired in the politics of competing factions. The lions wanted war
while the boars counseled caution and the eagles acted like vultures, waiting
to pick apart any plan. In the end, they’d all turned to her, expecting a
decision, but Kath sensed it was another test, another trap. Too many faces
were filled with hostility, waiting for her to fail. So she’d delayed, saying
she needed a chance to plan, she needed fresh air to think and the council
demurred to her wishes. Having gained a short reprieve, she escaped to the
outdoors. She took Bear and Boar with her because they seemed loyal and quietly
competent and she liked them. Solid soldiers, dependable as steel, they served
as guides and bodyguards, but more importantly, they gave her answers that
weren’t mired in politics. “Tell me again about the warriors of the painted people.”

Bear answered as he picked his way
up the narrow path, his voice deep and gruff. “The men number thirty-six hundred
at last count. About half are armed with good quality swords and axes, taken
from our enemies’ hands. Steel is revered, handed down from one generation to
the next, but there is never enough. Swords become brittle with age or are
ruined in battle, so we must always seek more.” He shrugged. “The rest of the
men carry slings and daggers, fighting with whatever they can.”

“What about the women? I’ve seen
armed women in the caves.”

“The last defense. Women protect
the hills and the caves, rarely venturing into the steppes.” He shrugged. “But
for you, they might fight. Women warriors would add another six hundred to the
total, mostly armed with long knives and slings.”

Too few and too poorly armed, she’d
gained a ragtag army, yet somehow the gods expected her to defeat the Mordant.
It seemed a hopeless task. “What about archers?” Her mind skittered to Duncan but she forced that
worry away.

Bear gestured to the barren hills.
“Wood is dearer than steel. Without trees we can’t make bows or even arrows.”
He shook his head, a tangled mass of shaggy blond hair. “Slings are much
better, plenty of stones around. Every child grows up wielding one. Good enough
for killing scrag cats and deterring hungry wolves. Good enough to keep the
sheep safe.”

She’d never considered the sling as
a serious weapon. Stones against steel, the gods must be laughing, but she
couldn’t afford to scoff at any weapon. “Do you carry a sling?”

“Always.”

“Show me.”

He came to an abrupt halt. Kath
almost ran into him. She watched as he removed a four-foot length of braided
rope from his belt-pouch. The rope had a loop at one end and a large knot at
the other, with a leather cradle in the center.

“Pick a target.”

The hills were truly barren;
nothing but sculptured rock, thorny brush, clumps of sage…and sheep. Now that
she looked, there were sheep everywhere, white and shaggy with small curved
horns, scrambling up sheer cliffs, hunting for morsels of scrub. “How many
sheep are there?”

Bear shrugged. “Too many to count.
It’s the children’s task to keep the predators away so the sheep flourish.
Without sheep we could not survive.”

Kath nodded, pulling her borrowed
sheepskin close against the bitter cold, grateful for the added warmth.

Bear stared at her, the sling
hanging from his right hand. “A target?”

“But I don’t know its range.”

He pointed up the path. “See that
small head-sized stone perched on the edge?”

Kath judged it to be about a
hundred yards away, half the range of a longbow. “It will do.”

Bear stepped a few paces away.
Grasping both ends of the sling, he fitted the pouch with a small stone.
Standing at an angle to the target, he whirled the sling overhead, putting his
entire body into the motion. It happened faster than Kath expected. A single
lightning-fast revolution and he released one end of the sling. A loud crack
echoed through the hills. The head-sized stone toppled backwards, clattering
down the side of the beehive. It took forever to fall.

Bear turned and stared at her, his
face impassive.

“Impressive, but it won’t stop a man
in armor.”

“It might. One stone in the head
will kill a sheep, a scrag cat…or a soldier. It’s one of the reasons the
Mordant’s men never follow us into the hills. From the cliffs, a rain of
sling-stones is deadly.”

“Will any stone work?”

“Smooth pebbles fly the farthest.”
He gave her one from his pouch.

She weighed it in her hand.
“There’s something carved on this one.”

Bear cracked a smile. “A message
for the enemy.”

She stared at the symbol but it
meant nothing to her. “What does it say?”

Laughter tugged at the side of his
mouth. “In polite words,
ouch
.”

She laughed, suspecting it meant
something else entirely. Tucking the stone in her belt-pouch for luck, she
gestured for Bear to keep walking, glad she’d asked for the demonstration. The
sling had its advantages, a simple but effective weapon…very much like the
painted people. But it still didn’t solve the problem of numbers.

The trail steepened to a climb. Single
file, they spiraled up the great stone beehive, scrambling over rugged terrain.
Two thirds of the way up, Bear stopped and turned, his eyes glittering.
“Listen.”

At first she heard nothing, but
then the wind picked up. A frigid blast from the north howled through the sculpted
rock. An eerie wailing keened through the hills, like the spirits of slain warriors
roused to a wordless fury. Kath shivered, making the hand sign against evil.
The Ghost Hills were aptly named, worthy of a bard’s ballad.
 

They climbed to the beehive’s
leeward side, protected from the worst of the wind. Bear led them to a smooth
flat perch overlooking a deep gorge. The view was amazing. Every direction
revealed a jumble of wind-sculpted rock, each formation more beautiful than the
next.

“Will this serve?”

She’d asked for a high place with a
good view, a place where she could sit and think. “Better than I could have
imagined.”

Bear gave her a rare smile while
Boar swept his sheepskin cloak from his shoulders, spreading it across the
rocky ledge with a gallant flourish. The unexpected chivalry ambushed Kath, her
face flaming bright red. Flustered, she stole a glance at the two men but they
turned away, their faces stony and their fists clenched…as if they feared she
might refuse. Such big, rough men, their faces etched with fierce tattoos, yet
they’d shown her more courtesy than most knights in her father’s service. Their
gallantry could not be ignored. She settled on the sheepskin, her words
heartfelt. “Thank you.”

Bear grinned and Boar flushed
beet-red. They set a water skin and a small packet of dried meat on the ledge.
“In case you get hungry.”

Kath hadn’t thought about bringing
food. She hadn’t considered how long it might take.

Bear gestured back down the path.
“We’ll keep watch. No one will disturb you.”

Boar nodded. “May the gods grant
you a true vision.” And then they were gone, retreating down the path, far
enough away to be unobtrusive but close enough to keep watch.

May the gods grant you a true
vision.
The words rang in her mind like a bell. Perhaps Boar had the truth
of it. She needed a vision, a solution to an impossible problem. If the gods
cared about Erdhe it was past time they showed their hand. Her fingers wove
through the sheepskin, absently tugging on soft tufts.
Or perhaps the gods
already had.
Surely the War Helm was a gift from the gods, an unforeseen
boon, but what was she supposed to do with it? She’d gained a ragtag army,
proud and fierce, but their numbers were too few. In the north, numbers always
held sway. The god-cursed steppes negated the elements of surprise and
strategy. Any battle always came down to the harsh reality of numbers, crush or
be crushed. Against the hordes of the Mordant, the painted people would be
slaughtered to a man…and she couldn’t let that happen, she couldn’t betray
their trust. The gods had set her an impossible task.

Kath closed her eyes, and stared
inward. Visions from the Womb of the World filled her mind. Once more she saw the
Mordant’s army, a vast horde marching south, an endless sea of enemies
stretching to the horizon. How could the Octagon hope to hold against so many?
Who would come to their aid? She could lead her small army south and attack
from the rear, but the problem of the steppes remained. Her army would be
crushed, swatted like an annoying flea, their deaths making no difference to
the Octagon’s fate. The taste of ashes filled her mouth. Why had the gods shown
her such a vile vision if there was nothing she could do about it?

And then there was Duncan. With every passing
day, a fear grew in her heart. She’d badgered the scouts but none had seen any
sign of the leather clad archer. He must have been captured…
or worse
. Her mind shied away from the
thought. In depths of her heart, she believed he still lived, waiting for her
to come…but how?

Shivering, she took a deep breath,
trying to quell her rising panic. Sitting cross-legged, her chin in her hands,
she huddled under her sheepskin cloak, seeking refuge in the wild beauty of the
wind-swept hills. Sunlight played across the sculpted stone, accentuating the
giant beehives. She wondered how long it had taken the wind to shape the stone.
Surely the gods took the long view.

The thought spurred something in
her mind.
The gods take the long view.
Perhaps the solution lay in the
past. The gods had sent the Taishan of the mountain lions to Castlegard more
than two years ago, before she’d even found the crystal dagger. Perhaps it was
all connected. She’d needed to journey south before she could come north. But
what had she learned? She’d gained the crystal dagger and learned to master her
gargoyle; surely both were needed in the north. And then there was the
monastery. Master Rizel had said she’d find help in unexpected places. His
words had surely come to pass. She’d found an army hiding in the Ghost
Hills…but a ragtag army was not enough. What else did she have?
A
Beastmaster always fights alongside the Star Knights.
Danya was a newly
awakened Beastmaster, full of potent magic, clearly an important part of the
puzzle. The wolf-girl had already saved their lives once, but the trick with
the horses would not be repeated. There must be something else Danya could do,
something subtle…something that would make a great difference.

Thunder rumbled on the horizon, a
flash of lightning cracking the distant sky.

The lightning served as a goad to
her thoughts.
There had to be
something else
, something Master Rizel had said. She pictured the
blue-robed master in the garden of contemplation; warm sunlight shining through
the glass ceiling, the lush smell of green…and then the words came back to her.
You must understand the true nature of evil in order to be victorious.
Perhaps
she was meant to turn the enemy’s tactics back against him. But how did the
Mordant wage war? There hadn’t been any major battles fought in her lifetime,
only a series of tricks and traps. That got her thinking. They’d followed the
Mordant north, but what had they learned from their prey? In Wyeth they’d been
chased by frightened peasants and bloodthirsty mercenaries…all because of
Zith’s tattooed hand. In the Deep Green they’d endured suspicion and hatred
because of the burnt forest. And in Cragnoth Keep they’d discovered a bitter
betrayal. They followed a trail of evil, a series of tricks and traps…but what
was the underlying principle? And then she saw it, as clear as a lighting
flash.
First he deceives, then he divides, and then he conquers.
She
shivered with understanding, so simple yet so effective.