The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga) (38 page)

46

Katherine

They did not believe her. It was written
upon their faces. Kath balled her hands into fists, wondering what it would
take to win their trust. Thirty-six council leaders sat cross-legged on the
floor of the small oval cavern, glow crystals casting shadows against the rough
rock walls. Tattooed faces stared back at her. Eagle, bear, boar, fox, owl,
mountain lion, a pantheon of predators listened to her plan for war. The
Ancestor sat on the far side of the cavern, a mass of wrinkles peering from a
mound of sheepskins. The Old One’s face proved hard to read but it was the
others Kath needed to convince. Her stare circled the chamber, willing the
council to believe. “It’s a rare chance to strike a dire blow at the Mordant.
But the opportunity is fleeting. Are you with me?”

Her words collided with dead
silence.

The quiet proved unsettling. Half
the council stared at her with faces grim as stone, while the other half
sneered in open disbelief.

Hands on hips, she met their
stares, a brazen show of confidence. She wore the War Helm, a not-so-subtle reminder
of her status, but even that did not seem to help.

An eagle faced warrior broke the
silence. “You call
that
a
plan
?” He snorted, his face full of
loathing. “Sounds more like the ravings of a drunken bard.”

A storm of protests followed. “You’ll
get us all killed.”

“It will never work.”

“This is what comes from letting a
woman wear the War Helm.”

“Never trust a barefaced stranger.”

Kath shouted over their insults,
desperate to make them believe. “Don’t you see? You dare not fight a
conventional war. You’re out-numbered, and out-trained, and under armed. In a
straight attack, you’ll lose every time.” Hostile faces glared at her, insulted
by the truth, yet it needed to be said. Taking a deep breath, Kath plunged on.
“Deception, guile, and daring, these are your best weapons! This plan gives
you, gives
us
, the best chance to strike at the Mordant.”

A fox faced man leaned forward, a
sneer riding his face. “Perhaps you seek your missing archer. Risking us all in
a bid to get him back?”

Duncan
.
For half a heartbeat,
Kath swayed on her feet.
Where was he?
Did he still live?
Her nightmares were getting worse. Desperate to see him
again, she longed to prove he still lived, but this was about more than one
man. She took a steadying breath, her voice as hard as stone. “We fight to
defeat the Mordant, to strike a blow at the Dark.”

The fox leader scowled. “So you
say, but words are cheap.”

The Old One intervened. “A Taishan
of the painted people foresaw her coming. She bears the crystal dagger and sees
the world differently. Her words are worth considering.”

A few of the leaders nodded, the
Old One’s words held sway.

Kath seized the advantage, pressing
her argument. “Your scouts report a great war host marched south. The Mordant
empties the north in a bid to conquer Erdhe. This is our chance to strike at
the citadel, to cripple the Dark. The odds will never be better.”

“But the steppes are cruel in
winter.”

Kath nodded. “The Mordant chooses
the time for battle.
Now
is the time
to strike no matter the weather.”

Royce, the lion-faced leader with a
mane of auburn hair, nodded encouragement. “Tell us more.”

She gave him a grateful smile. “Timing
is critical. We attack the citadel at the dark of the moon. Danya’s deception
will draw their forces to the south gate, while we attack the north gate. We
strike hard and fast under the cloak of confusion.”

The fox faced leader barked a rude laugh.
“You’ll never take the gates. And when morning comes, the truth of your
deception will be revealed, fading away with the dawn light.” His stare circled
the chamber. “We’ll all die, paying for
her
folly.”

Kath stood her ground, drilling him
with her stare. “It’s not a folly. I’ll open the gates myself.”

“
You!”
His voice roared with
ridicule. “By yourself? Now that makes all the difference. This slip of a girl
will open the gates of the citadel? Might as well claim she can open the gates
of
hell!
”

More than a few smirked in
agreement.

So they didn’t believe her. Words
were never enough. They needed proof, they needed a miracle. “Watch and I’ll prove
it.” Reaching beneath her leather jerkin, she gripped her gargoyle. Nodding to
the Ancestor, she strode to the wall and put her back to the rough rock. For
half a heartbeat, she hesitated. Walls were easy but a mountain of stone was
something else, something to fear. “Watch and believe.” Taking a deep breath,
she called the magic, and stepped back into the rock wall.

Stone embraced her. Strong and
permanent, the mountain called to her. Whispering promises of forever, the
stone invited her to become one with the ancient rock, locked in an eternal
embrace. Kath resisted the call, thinking of sunlight and green leaves and Duncan.
Duncan
!
Her concentration
faltered. Gripping her gargoyle, she stilled her mind and stepped forward,
praying she hadn’t lost her bearings.

Sound and light returned in a rush.
Kath stepped back into the cavern.

A chorus of gasps echoed the
chamber.

A few made the hand sign against
evil.

She gave the council a small smile.
“Stone walls will not stop me.”

Nods of agreement met her words.
Kath did a quick count. She’d gained half their number. But half was not
enough. Kath met the stares of the doubters and filled her voice with
confidence. “The plan is bold and daring, and decidedly different, I’ll grant
you that, but it
will
work.” She gripped the hilt of the crystal dagger.
“My friends and I make better allies than you know.”

The Old One chuckled, dark eyes
twinkling in a map of wrinkles. Few besides Kath seemed to notice.

Brant, the leader of the boars, shook
his head, his face stubborn. “But even if we gain the citadel, we’re still out
numbered. We’ll never hold it.”

She’d thought of that. “The citadel
teems with slaves and servants. Given a chance, won’t they rise against their captors?”

The boar leader looked troubled.
“They might, and then again they might not. Slavery is bred into their bones.
Few ever escape to gain the tattoos of free people.”

Royce intervened. “They might rise,
if they knew we were coming.”

The fox faced man barked a laugh.
“What? Now we’re sending heralds. So much for surprise.”

Kath paced the chamber, her mind
chewing the problem. Frustrated, she pushed her hands deep into her pockets,
and found the answer lurking at the bottom. “There might be a way.” She held
the small pebble aloft, the sling stone given to her by Bear. “We could send
them a message carried by ravens.” She tossed the stone to the fox faced man.

He glared at the markings carved on
the pebble. “
Ouch!
That’s your
message?”

A few council leaders chuckled,
while others looked annoyed.

“No. We’ll send a simple message
writ in the symbols of slaves. Something cryptic like fight at the dark moon.”

Brant nodded, his face thoughtful.
“In the right hands, such a message might lend courage to a few.”

“Or lead to betrayal.”

Kath ignored the fox and seized the
boar’s words. “A few can become many. Even a small rebellion will bring
confusion to the enemy.”

Royce nodded. “It might work.”
Others echoed his agreement.

Kath figured she’d won two-thirds
of the council. She began to hope they’d agree.

An owl faced woman blinked up at
her. “But your plan requires stealth and surprise. How will you sneak an army
through the gargoyle gates?”

The question struck like an
ambushing dagger. Kath struggled to keep her face still. It was the one problem
she hadn’t solved. The gargoyle gates scared her. Even Zith described them as
an abomination. She forced herself to meet the owl woman’s stare. “I need to
see them before I’ll know how to defeat them.”

“
Defeat them!”
The fox faced
man spat the words in her face. “The gargoyle gates have stood for a thousand
years and you’re just going to walk up and
defeat
them?”

Kath was beginning to hate the
narrow-faced man, but she kept her voice level. “I’ll lead a small scouting
party to the gates. If I can’t find a way for an army to pass then the plan is
defeated before it ever begins.”

“
You’ll
lead them?” The question came from Brant, the boar faced
man. “And if you can’t defeat the gargoyles then the army does not march?”

She made her words a promise. “Just
so.”

Brant nodded, his grin twisting the
blue tusks tattooed on his face. “That’s good enough for me.”

Others shouted their agreement.
“Let the gargoyles prove her worth.”

“The gargoyle gates will be her
true trial.”

More
proof,
Kath wondered if a woman’s word was ever enough.

Royce, the leader of the lions,
stood, “It is time to decide. A show of hands for peace, and the army stays at
home. A show of daggers for war, and we follow the War Leader’s plan.” Royce
went first. Pulling a dagger from his belt, he lifted it high.

Around the chamber, the leaders
declared their choice. A few hesitated until the Old One pulled a dagger from
beneath her sheepskins. In the end, even the fox lifted his dagger for war, a
grudging look on his face.

Royce came towards her, beaming a
smile. “The victory is yours. The painted people prepare for war.”

A
victory of words,
Kath smiled, but it felt hollow. The real fighting had
not even begun, yet she already felt tired, as if she’d run for leagues. She
gave Royce a small smile. “There’s much to be done before the dark of the
moon.”

Royce seemed to understand, his
face turning solemn. “We’re a proud people and we love a good argument, but
once a thing is decided, you’ll find us swift to act.” He leaned towards her,
his voice dropping to a whisper. “But can you truly defeat the gargoyle gates?”

The question pierced her to the
core. She didn’t know the answer but she put on a brave face. “I’ll do my
best.” In truth, it was the only thing she could say. She prayed to Valin it
would be good enough.

47

The Knight Marshal

The battle for Raven Pass
became a weary blur. The marshal lost count of the number of assaults they’d
repulsed. Tide lines of corpses littered the steppes, marking the waves of
attack, but the walls held strong and defiant. Corpses piled like cordwood near
the gate, many of them blackened and burned, raising a horrible stench, yet the
horde never dwindled. The Octagon remained triumphant, vigilant atop their
walls, yet the marshal could not shake the impending sense of doom.

A cold wind blew out of the north,
a harbinger of snow. From the height of the second wall, the one dubbed
Swordbreaker, the marshal had a clear view of the enemy.
A pity the living so outnumber the slain.

Lothar joined him, a shield on his
left arm, his battleaxe strapped to his side. “What are they waiting for?”

The marshal shrugged, “Perhaps
they’re conjuring a nightmare.”

“I like it not.” Lothar shot him a
grim look.

A flight of black-fletched arrows
leaped from the enemy lines. Soaring over the thirty-foot outer wall, they
arched skyward, reaching for the second.

The marshal watched them come. “
Shields!”
He swung his own shield up, bracing for impact. Arrows thudded down,
striking oak, and stone, and flesh. A single arrow thunked deep into his shield
while another clipped his maroon cloak, tearing a jagged hole. “Damn.” He rubbed
his shoulder, thankful for his chainmail, and plucked the offending arrow from
his shield. The marshal surveyed the wall. Only two wounded, Valin’s luck
favored them this time. “Get the wounded to the healery!” A detail of soldiers
scurried to obey.

He’d ordered a rotation on the
walls, keeping the archers on the battlements while the knights waited below,
easily summoned by a trumpet’s call. For the thousandth time, he gave thanks
for the stout walls of Raven
Pass. The builders had
wrought well.

A trebuchet shuddered and groaned,
hurling another boulder skyward. The monstrous wooden beasts worked day and
night, heaving stones against the horde. The massive boulder tumbled out over
the enemy. Sailing deep behind enemy lines, it fell with a bone-crushing thud,
raising a cloud of dirt and blood.

“Thirty with one stone!” Lothar
shook his head in amazement. “An ugly way to kill but I wish we had twice as
many of the wooden beasts.”

“Aye, but even then they’d make
little difference.” The marshal leaned against the rampart, staring out at the
enemy. So many, they eclipsed the steppes with their black armor, like a shadow
cursing the land. “How many do you think we’ve killed?”

“I’d wager nigh on two thousand.”

“Yet it changes nothing. We’re
still outnumbered twenty to one.”

Lothar grunted, “Or more.”

“Yet their tactics trouble me more
than their numbers.” A squire drew near, a wicker basket slung over his right
shoulder. The lad stooped to collect the enemy’s spent arrows, inspecting the
shaft before adding it to his basket. Their own stores were running dangerously
low.

The marshal forestalled his friend
with a glance, waiting till the lad was well out of earshot. “We need no ill
rumors.”

Lothar grunted. “So what troubles
you about their tactics?”

“What doesn’t?” He shrugged,
fingering a dagger at his belt. “After the monk’s warning, I half expected
monsters and magic, yet we’ve seen neither.”

“Perhaps we haven’t looked hard
enough.”

“Or perhaps they’re waiting for
something.” The marshal shook his head, trying to dispel the feeling of dread.
“Their tactics make no sense. I keep expecting grappling hooks in the dead of
the night, or a thicket of ladders raised against the outer wall, but they seem
content to fight with spears, and arrows, and battering rams.” He tightened his
grip on his shield. “Something’s not right.”

Lothar shrugged. “Thank Valin for
small favors.”

But the marshal did not think it
was the war god’s doing.

“Lord Marshal!”

A gray-cloaked squire ran toward
him. “I’ve a message from Prince Ulrich.”

He recognized the lad; a pug nose
and a tousle of curly black locks, the personal squire to the prince. “What is
it, Brock?”

“The prince says to tell you that
he’s down to just three urns of oil.”

The marshal flicked a warning
glance to Lothar. “Tell him to be sparing with the oil, for there’s none left
in the stores. Have him dump a barrel of caltrops in front of the gates. If we
can’t stop them with fire, we might at least slow them down with spikes.”

“Yes, Sir!” The squire saluted,
fist to his chest, and sped away.

Someone yelled, “
Shields!”

The marshal spun and lifted his
shield. Arrows rained down, but this time they missed him entirely. Lowering
his shield, he gave the nearest archer a wry grin. “Their aim’s getting worse.”

Laughter rippled along the wall,
part unease, part relief, but laughter nonetheless. Pride rushed through him.
Despite the odds there’d not been a single desertion. “Loose a volley and show
them how it’s done.”

Archers raised their bows.
Bowstrings thrummed and three hundred feathered shafts took flight. Like a
cloud of angry hornets they fell on the enemy. Screams rose from the steppes
but it was never enough.

Back and forth the arrows passed, a
slow war of attrition, yet the Octagon held the high ground, secure atop the
walls, killing more than they lost.

“How long can they keep this up?”
Lothar growled the question but the marshal had no reply.

The answer came near sunset. Lothar
saw them first. “Look to the north.” He stabbed a finger toward the dark host. A
cavalcade thundered south, their armor tinted red by the setting sun, black
battle banners flying overhead. “Must be nigh on five thousand, curse the lot
of them.” But then Lothar flashed a deadly grin. “Do you see it? They bring no
siege engines! By Valin, our walls will hold!”

The marshal watched them come, a cold
dread growing in the pit of his stomach. “No siege engines but they bring
something far worse.”

“What?”

“Do you see the battle banner flying
at the front?” A long snake of black silk ending in two tails of bright red
flecked with gold, the forked banner snapped like a serpent’s tongue, creating
the illusion of darkness on fire.

Lothar shrugged but his voice was
uneasy. “What of it?”

“It’s called the Darkflamme, the
battle standard of the Mordant. Now we know what they’d been waiting for.” The
marshal turned to summon a squire. “You there, alert the king. For the true
battle is upon us.”