The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga) (39 page)

48

Danya

Danya sat cross-legged on the steppes,
stretching her feelings like a whisper borne on the wind. Gripping the silver
cuff on her left arm, she drew on the magic. Tentative at first, but once
summoned the ancient power coursed through her veins like liquid fire. Questing
outward, she sent her power hurtling across the steppes.
Horse, I am horse, swift and beautiful and proud.
Manes streaming
in the wind, hooves churning the steppes, the smell of trampled grass in their
nostrils, she sought the proud swiftness that defined the pure essence of wild
horse
. Stretched thin, she leaned
forward, reaching, hoping, questing, but she found…nothing.

Danya gasped with effort, her
spirit snapping like a bowstring. Back within her own body, she shivered
beneath the sheepskin cloak, cold and bone-tired. Magic took its toll, yet she
could not afford to fail.

Bryx chuffed in agreement.
Stretched beside her, the great mountain wolf yawned, revealing a mouth full of
sharp teeth.

Danya sighed in frustration. “I
know. I’m trying.” She wasn’t even sure she was doing it right. Three days and
she’d had no luck. Perhaps she needed to go further into the steppes, but time
was running thin. She shivered against the cold; sitting huddled beneath the
thick sheepskins.

So much had changed since they’d
come north. The magic was with her all the time now, singing through the silver
cuff, demanding to be released. Her fingers absently traced the outlines of incised
animals, wolf and eagle, horse and lion. But magic was not the only thing that
had changed.

She flicked a glance over her right
shoulder. Ten painted warriors sat at her back, keeping watch a discrete
distance away, swords and slings at the ready. She’d grown accustomed to their
blue tattooed faces…especially the one.
Neven,
his name whispered
through her mind, evoking a smile. She’d known he was the one as soon as she
saw him. His smile caught her heart, yet it was more than that. She’d found a
deep recognition in his dark brown eyes, as if it was always meant to be. Their
first kiss had proven the promise in his eyes. She loved everything about him, the
rough stubble on his chin, his dark hair cascading in waves to his shoulders,
and especially his tattoo, the blue wolf staring back at her with the eyes of a
man.

Danya pulled up her right sleeve,
needing to know it was real. A blue tattoo graced her right arm, the paw print
of a wolf, her first step toward joining the painted people. A thrill of pride
rushed through her. She’d finally found a place she belonged, where her magic
and her love for animals was respected, even revered, instead of being cursed.

Bryx chuffed in agreement.

Smiling, she hugged the wolf, her
fingers running through his thick black fur, loving his musky scent. “We
finally found a home.”

The wolf licked her face.

But she hadn’t come to the steppes
to daydream. She owed Kath and Duncan a great debt, and the monks too. A cold
wind whistled across the grasslands, the promise of snow hanging in the clouds.
The steppes looked peaceful enough but she knew it was a lie. The painted people
lived in the very shadow of the Mordant. They’d never be safe unless the
Darkness was defeated. Danya took a deep breath. For the past and the future,
she needed to succeed.

The ravens would be easy enough to
persuade. A bribe of fresh entrails and the greedy birds would agree to carry
the message carved in sling stones. Intelligent and curious, the ravens would see
her request as a game, but the mountain sheep were another matter, a stubborn
breed. And then there were the horses.

Nightmares crowded her mind. Danya
shuddered remembering the battle in the steppes.
Never again,
she’d sworn it over and over, half a thousand times.
She would not use her magic to compel; yet magic was her only weapon.

Hunched beneath the sheepskin, she
took a deep breath and tried again. Closing her eyes, she dreamt of horses. In
her mind she galloped across the steppes, the wind tugging on her mane, her hooves
churning the soil, pounding a wild beat of freedom. Danya reveled in the glory
of
horse.
Over and over again, she dreamt
the dream. And then she felt them, answering her call.

Hoof beats thundered on the horizon.
A hundred or more horses galloped toward her. Wild and proud, their manes
rippled in the wind like battle banners. Danya reached out to them, reveling in
their freedom, their speed, and their sheer joy of the run.

Behind her, she heard the painted people
whoop in triumph, but they kept their distance, staying back.

The herd slowed, stopping a spear’s
throw away. Cautious, they milled in a circle, chestnut and black, dappled and
white, proud eyes staring at her. One came forward, a stallion, sixteen-hands
high. Scars of triumph marked his flanks, a dark mane crowning a winter coat of
dappled gray. He had a noble head and a proud curve to his neck, a king among
his kind.

Danya stood and bowed low. “Thank
you for coming.” She filled her thoughts with warmth, reinforcing her words. “I
ask for your help against a common enemy.” Recalling the details from their
long ride across the steppes, she showed the stallion the trail of dead horses.
Ridden to death, still saddled, left for
carrion
.

The stallion reared, massive hooves
pounding the turf. He snorted and bellowed, full of outrage.

“Yes, my friends and I seek the one
who did this. We will avenge their deaths. Will you help?” She showed him her
need for two horses, one to bear herself and the other for Zith. In her mind’s
eyes she concentrated on Zith’s missing arm, underscoring his need for a gentle
mount.

The stallion shook his head and
neighed.

Danya felt his hatred for saddles
and bits. “I understand. They will not be used.”

The stallion dipped his head,
tossing his mane, and then he stamped and whinnied.

A chestnut mare emerged from the
herd. She came forward, her neck questing toward Danya, her liquid eyes warm
and full of intelligence. Danya offered a hand, palm up, and waited. The mare
came to her, agreeing to be touched. Smiling, Danya ran a soothing hand along
the mare’s silky shoulder…and then she saw the brand, and her breath caught, a
horse of the octagon. The mare whinnied and nodded as if in agreement.

Danya turned back toward the
stallion. “I thank you for the mare, but can we have the help of one other?”

The stallion reared, massive hooves
churning the air. He bellowed a call and the herd turned and ran, galloping
toward the south. Shaking his dark mane,
the stallion
came toward her, his head held proud.

So the king offered himself.
Danya’s breath caught. If only more men were half as noble. She gave him a
heartfelt bow. “Thank you, my lord. Perhaps together we can end this Dark
blight on the land.”

The stallion stamped and whinnied
and Danya knew she’d gained an ally against the Dark.

49

The Knight Marshal

King Ursus joined the marshal on
the battlement. “So the Darkflamme has come to fight. Now we know why they’ve
stayed their hand.” He turned to the trumpeters. “Sound the alert. I want every
man ready for battle.”

A dozen horns blew a frantic call.
Knights, soldiers, and archers answered, flocking to the two walls, yet the
attack did not come. Twilight faded to dark, a spray of stars across the sky.
Most of the men remained at their posts. Huddled beneath maroon cloaks, they
leaned against the battlement, snatching a few hours of sleep, twitching awake
at the slightest sound. The king and the marshal took turns walking the walls,
offering words of encouragement, keeping vigil with the men.

Dawn revealed a new day. The enemy
stood arrayed for battle, a long line of black shields bristling with spears,
but this time, a host of cavalry waited near the front. One among them caught
the marshal’s gaze. Mounted on a magnificent black stallion, he wore silver
armor embossed with black. His helmet was fashioned in the guise of a crowned
skull, his breastplate like the ribcage of a skeleton. Even from a distance,
the armor cast a fearful pall.
 

The marshal leaned toward the king.
“Sire, do you see that one there? In the armor fashioned like a skeleton?”

The king nodded, his face grim.
“The Mordant comes in the guise of the Skeleton King.” His mailed hands balled
into fists. “I’ve long thought the tales nothing more than a bard’s drunken
yarn. Yet it seems a legend has come to fight. Myth so often holds a kernel of
truth.” King Ursus took a deep breath, a glint of fire in his eyes. “By the
gods, he’ll learn the Octagon is equal to any legend.” Reaching back, he drew
his great blue sword, a gleam of sapphire raised against the dawn’s light. “For
Honor and the Octagon!”

The men took up the king’s war cry.
“
Honor and the Octagon!”
The very mountains rang with the shout, echoing
the cry a thousand fold.

But the enemy was undaunted. War
drums answered, pounding a furious beat. Battle
banners snapped above the long dark line. And above them all, rode the
Darkflamme, twelve feet of dark silk snaking against the steel-gray sky,
flicking back and forth like a serpent’s tongue.

A shout rose from the enemy. So
many swords were drawn at once that the hiss of steel against leather could be
heard on the walls.

The marshal raised his voice to a
shout. “
Wait for it!”

All along the dark line, swords
pounded against shields, echoing the rhythm of the drums. The front ranks
parted, revealing a massive battering ram, unlike anything they’d seen before.
Made from a gigantic tree trunk, it was tapered to a point and capped with
black iron shaped like a fist. But even more fearsome, were the soldiers
carrying it…for they were not men.

The marshal stared. “What
are
they?”

But the king had no answer.

Great hulking brutes with lantern
jaws and bulging muscles, they dwarfed the men around them. They hefted the ram
with uncanny ease. Clothed in chainmail and wolf skin cloaks, they looked like
ogres, another nightmare sprung to life.

“
Monsters at the gate!”
The marshal reached for his sword, needing
to feel cold steel in his hands. So these were the monsters the healer had
warned of. The nightmare had come at last.

The ogres loosed a ululating howl
and then they lurched forward, twenty monsters bearing the ram toward the outer
gate.

“
Wait for it!”

All along the wall, archers drew
their bows to a crescent.

“Wait for it!”
He let the
monsters lumber five paces from the enemy lines and then he gave the order. “
Now!”
Trumpets blared and a volley of
arrows hissed skyward.

The ogres churned forward, powering the ram toward the outer gate.

Arrows struck with a vengeance, a hail of feathered shafts falling on
the ram. More than a few struck true, sinking into flesh and leather, but the
ram did not falter.

“Again!”
Trumpets repeated the order,
loosing a storm of arrows.

“Stop
the ram!”
The marshal watched it
come, rushing toward the gate like an impending doom.
“Stop it!”

Arrows struck the ogres, a bristle of feathered shafts. Three of the
beasts fell, but the others kept coming. The ram never faltered.
 

“Fire arrows!”
The oil was
long gone; exhausted on other assaults, but perhaps flaming arrows would stop
the beasts. Trumpets relayed the command and the air swarmed with flames. A
frenzy of feathered comets streaked toward the enemy. The marshal watched,
willing the ram to falter. “
Stop them!”
Fire
arrows thudded into the ogres, yet the ram lumbered forward. Ten feet, five
feet, the great ram closed the distance to the outer gate.

And then it struck.
Kaboom!
 

A giant thunderclap rocked the
world.

Atop the second wall, the marshal
staggered backward as if punched by a giant fist. Knocked on his back, he
struggled to stand, desperate to know if the gates still stood. Gripping a
merlon, he stared below.

Wood and stone flexed and groaned.
Men atop the first wall screamed a warning. For half a heartbeat the gates
stood…and then they disappeared, consumed by a cloud of black. When the dust
cleared, the gates were gone.
They were gone!
A great hole gaped in the
outer wall. Nothing remained within the gap, not rubble, not even the bodies of
the ogres and their fearsome ram. Stone and wood and iron had disappeared,
swallowed by a single thunderclap.

“
Magic!”
The marshal stared,
struggling to understand. So this was the power of magic. But how could swords
fight such a power?

Beside him, a young squire
whimpered, a pitiful sound, like an animal caught in a trap. All along the
wall, men stood frozen in fear, gaping at the missing gate. He had to do
something.

A shout of triumph rose from the
enemy.

The marshal gripped his sword and
forced himself to think. The outer gates were gone. Without the walls they’d be
overrun in less than a day. They needed the walls to survive…but the gate was
gone.
But not the walls!
 
And then
it came to him. “Sound the attack!”

But nothing happened. No trumpet
obeyed his command.

He ran to the nearest trumpeter, a
young lad with sandy blond hair. “Sound the attack!”

But the young man just gave him a
befuddled look.

The marshal shot a glance at the
king, relieved to see he understood.

The king towered over the young
trumpeter, sunlight gleaming on his crowned helm. “You heard the Lord Marshal,
sound the attack!” And the trumpeter obeyed. Other trumpets added their throats
to the call. A trill of notes summoned the maroon to war.

The marshal grabbed the nearest
squire, shaking the lad till the daze left his face. “Run and find Sir Mallory.
Have him lead a charge of horse out through the gate. We need to hold the gap
in the wall.” He shook the lad again. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sir!”

“Then run like the devil’s after
you.”

The squire sped away. The marshal
turned and strode toward the rampart, desperate to learn the state of the
battle. Out in the steppes, the enemy prepared to charge, while down in the
narrow three hundred foot lane that separated the two walls, chaos reigned. Men
in maroon abandoned the outer wall. Some of them blackened and burned, some
without weapons, others unharmed, they fled the first wall scrambling for the
gates of the second. All discipline was gone. To the marshal, it looked like a
rout, the death knell of the maroon. Leaning on the rampart, he shouted down to
them, “Heed the trumpets! Stand and fight!” but it was like yelling into the
wind.
 

But then, in the middle of the
muddy lane, a single knight stood firm. Blackened with soot, his helmet and
shield lost to the fray, he raised his sapphire sword to the heavens and
commanded the men to attack.
And they did!
Men, who’d been fleeing a
moment before, stopped and stood with their prince. At Ulrich’s command, they
formed a bulwark across the gap, a ragged line of men with swords, and spears,
and axes, plugging the hole in the outer wall.

The thin defense was just in
time…for the enemy charged.

Like a nightmare unleashed, the
horde rushed forward, a dark tide racing toward the sundered gate.

The defenders braced for the
attack.

Steel clashed against steel, a
mighty crash. But the outer walls still served their purpose, blunting the enemy’s
charge, forcing a horde of thousands to funnel down to a narrow spear of men.

The fighting in the gap was fierce.
Hand to hand, men fought and died, turning the muddy gap to a churn of blood,
but the maroon did not give ground.

“
Loose another volley!”
The
marshal screamed the command and the trumpeters echoed his order.

All along the second wall, archers
loosed volley after volley. Like a swarm of angry hornets, the arrows struck
the attackers at the gate. But it was not enough. For every enemy that fell,
two more leaped to fill the gap. Tens of thousands pressed forward, like grains
of sand rushing toward the neck of an hourglass. The maroon was running out of
time, the marshal needed a different plan.

“The Mordant is the key.” The
realization struck like lightning. The marshal raced along the wall, looking
for Hadrian, the master archer for the maroon. He found him on the crown of the
second drum tower, a tall blond-haired man with broad shoulders and muscled
arms, an eight-foot longbow in his hands.

“Hadrian, we need to kill the
Mordant.”

The master archer loosed an arrow,
his motions smooth as silk, and then he turned piercing green eyes on the
marshal. “We need more arrows!”

“And more men, but we’re not like
to get either. Yet if we kill the Mordant, we may yet turn the tide of battle.”

The archer grunted, gesturing to
the enemy. “Which one is he?”

The marshal searched the teeming horde.
“See there to the left? That battle standard, black with forked tails that look
like darkness on fire? It is the Darkflamme, the battle standard of the
Mordant.”

“I see it.”

“And nearby, mounted on a black
stallion, he wears the armor of a Skeleton King.”

Hadrian made the warding sign
against evil. “I see him, but he’s beyond the reach of my bow.”

“And if you stood atop the outer
wall?”

The archer gave the marshal a slow,
measured look. Both men knew the risks. Hadrian nodded. “With luck and a
favorable wind, I might reach him from the outer wall.”

He heard acceptance in the other
man’s voice. Even the archers fought with the courage of knights. “Then the
Light be with you.”

The archer saluted and called for
two of his men.

The marshal returned to the outer
rampart, taking his place by the king.
  

“Ulrich holds them!” Pride filled
the king’s voice.

Below, the defenders still held the
gap. Prince Ulrich fought in the center. Like a blond-haired hero of old, he
roared in defiance, his blue sword cleaving a swath through the enemy. Bodies
littered the gap, five black cloaks for every maroon, but the marshal knew it
was only a matter of time.

The gates of the inner wall swung
open and a troop of mounted knights surged toward the gap. Sunlight glinted on
arms and armor, maroon cloaks streaming in the wind. Horns sounded the charge.
The proud blare echoed between the two walls.

Led by Ulrich, the defenders melted
away from the gap. The knights lowered their lances and charged. Hooves
thundered forward, driving a maroon wedge deep into enemy lines. A cheer rose
from the ramparts, a mixture of hope and defiance.

Lances couched, the knights
attacked. Their charge trampled the dead and pounded into the living. Skewering
the enemy, they opened a space beyond the wall. Like a maroon arrow aimed at
the heart of darkness, they formed a wedge riding deep into enemy ranks. Lances
shattered and broke and the charge ground to a halt. Abandoning their lances,
the knights drew their weapons, swords and maces, axes and morning stars. A
horn sounded, a note of pure defiance. Sir Mallory led them to the left,
leading his men toward the battle standard of the Mordant. The knights fought
like heroes, hacking left and right, cutting a fearsome swath through the dark
horde. But just as they neared the Darkflamme, the resistance stiffened and the
enemy brought their numbers to bear. They swarmed the knights. Fifty to one the
black surrounded the maroon. A mob of hands reached up. They pulled the knights
from their saddles, trampling them into a bloody gore. Sir Mallory was the last
to fall, just two spears lengths from the Mordant.

The knights disappeared under a
tidal wave of black. Even the horses were pulled down and slaughtered in a terrible
frenzy of bloodlust.

The marshal stared in disbelief.
Three hundred knights consumed by the horde, he saw no way to stop them.

Prince Ulrich rallied his men,
setting a wall of shields along the gap.

But the horde had gained a taste
for blood. They fell on the defenders, hacking and slashing, charging like
berserkers.

“
Sound the retreat!”
The
king gave the order. “
Open the gates for the prince!”

The marshal knew it was the
defenders only chance, for they could not stand against the onslaught.

Locking shields, the prince and his
men slowly retreated. They held the line while others ran for the inner gate.
Anchoring the defense, the prince held the center, his sapphire blue sword
moving in a blur of death. Attackers lurched away from the blue sword,
streaming left and right, bowing the line around the prince.