The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga) (42 page)

52

Blaine

Kath took two steps and crumpled to the ground.
Blaine leaped forward but
he wasn’t quick enough. Still as death, she lay sprawled amongst the shattered
gargoyles, dwarfed by the broken monsters. He crouched beside her, calling her
name. “
Kath!”
Ghost pale, her eyes
were sunken and her skin cool to the touch. His breath caught with sudden fear.
He grabbed her wrist, frantic for a heartbeat. “Don’t leave me.” A faint beat
quelled his fears.

The others pounded across the
roadway, a horde of blue faced warriors bristling with swords and spears. Bear
and Boar led the pack, surprisingly fleet for such big men. Bear arrived first,
scooping Kath into his massive arms. “The Svala is hurt!”

Blaine was quick to put him right. “She lives
but the gargoyles took their toll.”

Bear pressed his hand to her neck
and nodded. “She pays a price for her victory but the Svala will prevail.”

Blaine sneered in disdain. Such blind
devotion was just what he expected from a barbarian.

A raven faced healer pushed his way
through the pack. “Let me see.” He knelt, examining Kath, holding a sprig of
crushed leaves beneath her nose, but she did not stir.

“Just like Danya.”

The healer turned to stare at him.
“What do you know of this?”

Blaine shrugged. “I’ve seen it before, only
not with Kath. It seems magic is a two-edged sword. Such power exacts a price.
She’ll sleep like the dead but when she wakes she’ll be fine.”

“Sleep for how long?”

Blaine shrugged. “Hard to say.”

Torven, the eagle-faced warrior
took charge. “We dare not linger. Feldon and Brent, we need a litter. Tingold
pick ten men and do a sweep on this side of the gate. We must be away.”

Tattooed men leaped to their
orders, quiet and efficient. A pair of badger faced warriors used spears and
blankets to build a litter.

Blaine sidled close to Torven. “Kath said to
send the signal, to call the army.”

Torven flashed a fierce grin,
looking more like an eagle than a man. “The Svala has gained a great triumph.
None will doubt her now.” He turned to the others, barking a brisk command.
“Grenfir, send the signal. Let the council know of the Svala’s victory.”

An owl faced warrior sped toward
the nearest pedestal. Climbing to the top, he stood perched among the fractured
legs of a ruined gargoyle. A small square of polished silver flashed in his
hands, sending a coded signal back toward the Ghost Hills.

Torven clapped Blaine on the back. “There’ll be much
rejoicing in the caves tonight. It was a good day when you brought the Svala
north.”

That strange name again, bandied
about like a title. Blaine
cast a sideways glance at the eagle faced warrior. “What does that mean,
Svala?”

“It is an old word, an ancient
hope, a legend from another time. One of our first Taishans foresaw the coming
of a woman warrior, a champion to end the slavery of our people.” He stared at Blaine, his face
thoughtful. “In your words, a queen of swords.”

A queen of swords!
He’d
heard those words before, from Sir Tyrone when he spoke of the fortuneteller on
the Isle of Souls. Blaine
shook his head; it was all just superstition, they needed to survive the
steppes. “How long before a patrol comes?”

“Hard to say. This gate is the
farthest north and the least used. We might have more than a fortnight or
merely hours.” Torven studied the sky. “The clouds are low. We best hope for
snow to cover our tracks.”

“How many in a patrol?”

“At least a hundred spears on
horseback.”

A hundred was way too many,
especially mounted. “Then we best be away.”

“Aye, we must move fast and be
twice as vigilant. The lands of the Mordant are fraught with danger.” Torven
moved among the men, urging them to their tasks.

It did not take long before Kath
was tucked into the litter, wrapped snug in sheepskins. Bear and Boar claimed
the right to carry her, snarling at anyone who offered to share the burden.

And then they were away, running
faster than before. Blaine
caught the urgency of the others, feeling the need to get far from the ruined
gate. West and then south, they ran at a blistering pace, changing directions
for no reason Blaine
could see. He settled into a rhythm, the cold searing his lungs with every
breath. Hard to believe they ran on land claimed by the Mordant. A spark of
pride warmed him; Blaine
doubted there was another knight alive who could make such a claim. Yet the
land looked the same as the rest of the steppes, frozen grasslands stretching
in all directions, a frigid hell.

The sun set in a blaze of reds and
still they ran. Blaine
struggled for breath, falling behind, running at the back of the pack. Sweat
ran in rivulets down his back, his chainmail adding a crushing weight. He
wondered how long the others could keep pace.

A painted warrior veered toward
him. “Keep up or die.” The gruff voice held no rancor, only a warning not a
threat.

Blaine redoubled his efforts, ignoring the savage
ache clawing his side.

Twilight vanished in the blink of
an eye. Darkness descended like a war hammer and still they ran. Blaine sucked air through
his mouth, fighting both the cold and the pain, nearly numb to both. It wasn’t
until he ran into another man that he realized they’d stopped. He bent double,
desperate to catch his wind.

A hand gripped his shoulder. “You
did well for a plain face.”

Blaine didn’t have the breath to respond.

“We’ll make camp here.” He
recognized Torven’s voice. “Bringold, Seigen and Tarly take the first watch.
The rest of you eat and then into your bedrolls. Tomorrow will be a long day.”

Blaine was too tired to eat. He picked his way
through the others till he found Kath’s litter. “Has she woken?”

“Not yet.” Bear’s gruff voice
answered. “We’ll keep watch over the Svala.”

“As will I.” Annoyed, Blaine found a spot nearby
and dropped his bedroll. Shrugging his harness from his shoulders, he set his
sword close to hand. He tugged off his boots but was too weary to remove his
chainmail shirt. When the flagon of mead came his way, he took a long drink but
he could not be bothered to eat. Desperate for rest, he curled within his
bedroll, pulling his cloak up over his head. Sleep claimed him before he’d even
shut his eyes.

A scream split the night.

Blaine bolted awake, reaching for his sword.

All around him, men scrambled from
bedrolls, reaching for weapons and armor.

Low clouds shrouded the sky,
obscuring the moon, too little light to see by. Blaine stood with his back to another
warrior, his sword held at the ready, straining to find the threat.

“Where did it come from?”

“To the left.”

Blaine peered into the dark, unable to tell
friend from foe.

Another gut-wrenching scream, this
time to the right, but there was no clash of steel. It seemed the perfect
ambush.

Someone yelled, “A bloody gore
hound! A gore hound’s got Seigen!”

Fear spread like lightning.
The
beast hunted them.
The thought shivered through Blaine’s mind. He shuffled backward, needing
to feel another man at his back.

A lone howl ripped the night,
evoking terror in the dark.

“
Stay!”
The man at his back
whispered a command. “It’s just a diversion.”

A diversion!
“You mean those
things
think?
”

“They think and they hate. Gore hounds
hunt for the thrill of it, playing with their food before they eat. And they
always hunt in packs.”

And we’re the bloody food.
Blaine gripped his sword,
straining for a glimpse of the beast.

The attack came without warning. A
man screamed to his left, a bloody gurgle full of death. Blaine spun, just in time to meet a rush of
fangs. He parried the fangs with a warding slash from left to right. Fear lent
strength to the cut. Blue steel bit deep, a snarl of pain. Hot blood splashed across
Blaine’s face.
A claw raked his sleeve but his chainmail held true. Blaine twisted his sword and the thing fell
dead at his feet.

He wrenched his sword free and
moved to a crouch, standing at the other man’s back, poised for the next
attack.

Terror stalked the night.

Blaine strained to see in the dark, every
sense on edge.

Somewhere to the left, a man
whimpered in pain.
“It hurts! It hurts!”

Torven yelled, “Form a circle
around the Svala!”

Someone lit a glow crystal, a pale
beacon of light. “This way!”

Blaine shuffled toward the light, his sword
at the ready. They formed a circle around Kath’s litter, weapons bristling
outward, a desperate defense against the beasts.

Another scream, more proof the hounds
remained on the hunt.
 

“
It’s eating me!”
A man’s
voice screeched in the darkness.
“Help me!”
The voice shrieked in terror. “
Kill me!”

The screams preyed on Blaine’s
mind. “We can’t just let him die!”

“Hold your ground!” Torven shouted
over the shrieks, holding his men to their positions.

Blood-curdling screams turned to
pitiful wails. The victims took forever to die. Snarls filled the night, the
sounds of bones being crunched and men being eaten alive.

Sweat trickled down Blaine’s back. Every
scream conjured a fresh horror. The night seemed to last forever. Silence
eventually prevailed, but the men refused to be fooled. Holding their swords at
the ready, they kept their position. The vigil sapped their strength and
strained their nerves, but the painted warriors held their ground, as brave as
any sworn knights. The dawn light saved them. A glimmer of gold streaked the
sky, giving proof that the beasts were gone.

Most of the men dropped to their
knees in weariness and thanks, but Blaine
staggered forward, needing to know the cost of the fight. Torven joined him,
giving names to the dead. Seven men killed, one of them half eaten from the
boots up. Blaine
looked away, a horrible way to die.

Torven knelt, closing the eyes of
the mangled corpse. “Sebold was my friend.” He eased a dagger from the dead
man’s hand. “Such torture is deliberate. The cursed gore hounds are nothing but
pure hate.”

Blood spattered the trampled grass,
most of it human. Amongst the slain they found only two gore hounds. The
creatures reeked of evil. Everything about them was wrong. Snout like a wolf
and teeth like a saber cat, the cursed hounds were the size of a small horse.
Strong and vicious, the twisted beasts were clearly designed to kill. Kicking
one with his boot, Blaine
made the hand sign against evil.

“I heard you killed one.”

Blaine nodded.

“Good fighting for a bare face.”
Torven moved on, scouting the battlefield, Blaine a shadow by his side. The eagle faced
warrior knelt among the trampled grass. “Too many paw prints. We’ve caught the
attention of a hunting pack.” His face turned grim. “They’ll be back.”

“What about the dead?”

“Food for ravens.”

Blaine’s disapproval must have shown from his
face.

Torven scowled. “It’s our way.”

Others were already moving among
the dead, scavenging weapons and food.

“So how do we fight them?”

“With steel and with guile. These
are no ordinary beasts.” Torven raised his voice to a shout. “Tarly and Pren,
skin the hounds. We’ll rest an hour and then move out.”

No one argued. The two painted warriors
set to work skinning the beasts. Blaine
sat huddled with the others, gnawing on a strip of dried horsemeat. No one talked.
Their faces said it all. Streaked with weariness and grim determination, they’d
pit swords against the terrors of the night. He wondered how many would
survive. The battle for the north had begun, but instead of soldiers they
fought nightmares that prowled on four legs, making meals of men. Blaine shuddered, thankful
for his blue steel sword.

53

Duncan

Darkness swirled overhead, shadows
darting among the stalactites. Chained to the floor, Duncan drifted in a haze of agony. Knives
studded his body, a hundred stabs of silver. So much pain, it seemed as if his
body was nothing but hurt. He begged the gods for death, or perhaps he’d
already died, dead and gone to hell, trapped in an eternal nightmare, the
torment of the damned.
 

A sibilant voice whispered at the
back of his mind, the voice of the Mordant. Fear struck like lightning. Duncan raised his head and
searched the chamber, but only the shadows remained.

A foul oily taste crept into his
mouth and then he remembered. He was alone yet it was happening again. A shout
sprang to his lips, “
No! I won’t let you use me!”
Braziers erupted in
flames, tongues of fire licking the stalactites. A thrum of power filled the
cavern.

“Not again!” Duncan shrank into the floor, trying to seal
his mind.

Tentacles of darkness descended
from the ceiling, as if searching for his warmth. Cold as midnight, they
slithered across his skin, seeking out his wounds.

He thrashed against his bonds but
he was held tight, shackled to the floor, an unwilling sacrifice.

Darkness seeped into him, like acid
in his veins. A scream roared out of him, too much to contain. Magic thrummed
through him, dark and terrible. Words shuddered through his mind, whispered in
the voice of the Mordant, spoken in a language long dead. The words held no
meaning yet they rushed to be born, erupting from his mouth like vomit. He
thrashed and bucked, caught in the grip of evil. Something answered. Shadows
crawled across his skin. A relentless darkness pressed down on him like a
smothering hand. It poured into him, forcing its way down his mouth. He choked
and gagged and still it came. Just when he thought he would drown in darkness, a
roaring filled his ears. A single clap of thunder and the darkness was gone.

Duncan lay naked on the stone floor, gasping
for breath, like a drowned man tossed on a stormy shore. Exhausted, he opened
his eyes, half afraid to look. The shadows were gone, retreated back amongst
the stalactites, waiting for another chance to pounce. The cavern stank of fear
and piss, his fear, his piss. Shuddering against his fate, he closed his eyes,
desperate to sleep, but all his dreams held nightmares.

Something poked his side.

Groaning, he opened his eyes. A
pair of black robed priests hovered near like hungry vultures. At first he
thought he was dreaming, but then one of the priests knelt and forced a thin
reed into his mouth. A spurt of warm liquid gushed down his throat, a revolting
taste of boiled blood and herbs. He gagged but the foul flood kept coming. He
swallowed more than he wanted, gasping for breath when the reed was withdrawn.

Priests knelt on either side of
him, sponging him clean, tending him like a babe.

“Just let me die.” But they ignored
his words.

“Why? Tell me why?”

Finished with their work, they
turned and strode from the cavern. The copper door shuddered closed, sealing
him in with the shadows.

Duncan lay chained to the floor, a single
tear running down his cheek. “Why?” The word was a whisper, a question for the
Light. “Why did you let this happen to me? What have I done to deserve this?”
He stared at the nearest brazier, willing an answer from the light, but it
never came, not even the hint of an echo. A deadly silence reigned in the
cavern. He heard his heartbeat and willed it to stop but even that prayer went
unanswered.

Cursed and forsaken, he closed his
eyes, enduring the pain, waiting for the next assault.

He must have dozed, or else succumbed
to a haze of misery, he couldn’t tell the difference anymore, but then he heard
the voice, a faint whisper scratching at his mind.

*Listen to me!*

Duncan jerked awake, afraid the Mordant had
returned. He cringed against the stone floor, his heartbeat thudding loud in
his ears.

*You must listen, I’ve little
time.*

The voice came again, a subtle
whisper, small and naked, without the frightening power of the Dark. Duncan struggled to
understand. “Who are you?” His own voice echoed against the stalactites, “
you…you…you.”

*I’m a prisoner like you.*

Duncan raised his head, staring into the
gloom. Perhaps it was a ghost, the shade of another prisoner come to taunt
him…or perhaps the pain had finally forced him to madness.
 

*No, I’m trapped inside the Mordant.*

A bolt of fear struck Duncan. “You’ve come to
trick me.” He shrank inside of himself, bracing for the next assault.

*No, don’t close your mind to
me. You must listen.*

Duncan waited for the tendrils of darkness to
attack but they never came. He risked a thought aimed at the other voice.
*Can
you hear me?*

*
Yes,*
 
a whisper at the back of his mind. *
My
name is Bryce. I was studying to become a Kiralynn monk when the Mordant took
me. He stole my body and trapped my soul. Like you, I’m a prisoner of the
Mordant.*

Shock and surprise rippled through Duncan’s mind, but he was
afraid to trust. *
I don’t believe you.*

*Trust your own senses. Do I
feel like Darkness?*

The question made him think. He
fought his own pain, questing within his mind, but he felt none of the oily
corruption that came with the Mordant.
*How is this possible?*
 
 

“Magic, a boon of the Light,
call it what you will, but when the Mordant sleeps he lowers his guard. Somehow
I found my way to you, like sneaking beneath a locked door. But we must be
quick. I’ve eavesdropped on the Mordant. I know his plans to conquer Erdhe. The
southern kingdoms are in grave danger. You must get my words to the others.”

“Others?” Duncan barked out loud, an explosion of rage
and frustration. “I’m chained in this god-forsaken place, pierced with a
hundred knives! You’ve picked the wrong messenger!”

The cavern mocked him, “
messenger…messenger.”

But the voice was undaunted,
*And
I’m chained within the Mordant, unable to speak, or touch, or smell, a lost
soul condemned to watch a monster use my body. I’d willingly trade my hell for
yours.*

His reply sobered Duncan like a slap in the face. Perhaps hell
had many levels and he hadn’t yet reached bottom. He took a deep breath,
shuddering against the pain. *
How can I help?*

*
I’m
a prisoner yet I spy on my jailor. I’ve seen his plans. I know what he intends.
You must live and you must get my words to the others, to the champions of the
Kiralynn monks.*

Fear struck Duncan to the core, fear for Kath and the
others. For the thousandth time he wondered what he’d babbled to the Mordant.
Mustering his courage, he dared to ask the question. “
What did I tell the
god cursed Mordant?”

*Your words made little sense,
your mind was swamped by pain.*

The answer came like a balm to his
heart. So he hadn’t betrayed them, he hadn’t betrayed
her
. He clung to
the belief that Kath remained safe. *
Thank you.*

The voice became tentative.
*Will
you tell me who wields the crystal dagger?*

Suspicions rose like a spring tide.
It felt too much like a trap. *
No.*

A sigh of sadness blew through his
mind.
*I understand. Perhaps it is best. The crystal dagger is my only
hope.*
But then the voice changed, a sense of urgency pulsing through his
mind. *
Our time grows short, you must listen, listen and remember.*
A
floodgate opened and images poured into Duncan’s
mind. A map of Erdhe lay spread before him, but it was unlike any map he’d ever
seen. Jeweled castles and ivory walls sat amongst painted fields and forests.
He soared like an eagle across the land, hearing details of the Mordant’s
plans, dire warnings about a place called Raven Pass,
and the Kiralynn monastery, and the Queen of Lanverness. Visions tumbled
through his head, a jumble of thoughts and ideas, each one potent with urgency.
A strange hallway carved with demons of every description. A secret door opened
to reveal a vast hoard of treasure and forgotten magic. His vision blurred and
he was in a courtyard, in the heart of the Dark Citadel, yet he saw a squad of
knights in silver surcoats, false knights wearing the colors of the Octagon,
knights of deception. Another shift and he sat on a dark throne giving orders
to men bearing tridents. An avalanche of thoughts and visions pummeled his
mind. So confusing, they crashed against him, like being tossed in a storm racked
sea. He struggled to make sense of the chaos.
*I have questions, things I
don’t understand.*
But the other voice retreated, leaving a whisper of fear
in his mind. *
You must live. You must remember!*

And then it was gone, snuffed out
like a candle.

Silence struck like a thunderbolt.

Suddenly alone, Duncan shuddered against the stone floor,
gasping for breath. He struggled to understand, wondering if he’d finally gone
mad. Visions swam in his mind, things he’d never seen before, thoughts that
could never have been his own. The Mordant was a monster, a demon in the guise
of a man. And if the visions held true, then south had little chance.

Pain threatened to swamp him, a
constant companion gnawing at his sanity, but the memories of the other voice
assaulted his mind. “
You must live. You must remember!”
Duncan turned his head to
stare up at the nearest brazier, his gaze fastening on the flickering light.
“You used me.” His voice sounded hoarse in his ears. He still wanted to die, still
wanted the pain to end, but he changed his prayer, his voice a low whisper.
“Let Kath come, let her hurry.” He bit back a sob, resolved to endure the pain,
for the secrets of his mind could not die with him.