The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga) (43 page)

54

Blaine

Strung out in a line, they shambled
across the steppes, a shrinking column of weary warriors. For five nights
they’d fought the hell hounds, a grim battle of attrition, and each morning
they ran, needing to get clear of the dead lest the feasting ravens betray
them.

Blaine forced himself to keep running. Every breath
froze to a ragged plume of white, his boots pounding the ground in a jagged
rhythm. Speed bled from his stride, dragged down by the weight of his armor. He
fell behind the others, sorely tempted to shuck his chainmail…were it not for
the hell hounds. The burnished links had saved his life more times than he
cared to count…but he paid a price for the added weight. Gritting his teeth, he
fought to keep running, waging a constant battle against the gnawing ache
savaging his side.

Torven raised his hand, signaling a
halt.

Gasping, Blaine slowed but he did not stop, needing to
know how Kath fared. Bear and Boar carried her litter. Where they found the
strength, Blaine
did not know.

He found them near the front of the
column. “Is she?”

Bear shook his shaggy head.

Nodding, Blaine crumpled to the ground, desperate for
sleep. He spread his bedroll and crawled inside, chewing on a piece of dried
horsemeat. No one spoke. No one had the strength to spare. The battle with the
hell hounds had its own unique rhythm. Starting at first dark, the men formed a
circle, a bristle of weapons surrounding Kath, waiting for the hounds to come
calling. Sometimes they stood for hours, a weary vigil. Just when sleep
threatened to claim them, the beasts attacked. Screams and howls filled the
night, a series of short battles separated by long stretches of quiet. Nerves
grew as taut as bowstrings, always listening for the next ambush. Dawn brought
the only relief, revealing the cost of the night. Each morning, they tallied
their dead and gathered their wounded. Poison made even minor wounds a
deathblow. Anyone who couldn’t keep up was given a merciful end. They left the
dead behind, food for ravens, and started running, needing to escape the
battlefield.

Bone-weary, Blaine stared up at the afternoon sun,
wondering how much more they could endure. Eighty men whittled down to
forty-three. They waged a valiant fight, but the cursed hounds kept coming. At
least they hadn’t yet attacked in daylight. Pulling his cloak over his head, he
fell dead asleep, expecting another fight at nightfall.

Someone shook him.

Blaine startled awake, reaching for his
sword.

“It’s all right.”

Confused, he blinked up at Torven.
The sun hadn’t yet set, too soon to fight. “What?”

Torven leaned close, his words a
low whisper. “We need to change tactics. We can’t keep this up.”

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Blaine struggled to wake. He’d
puzzled the problem on their long runs, but he’d never found a solution. “A
ring of fire might hold the beasts at bay but it would also signal the enemy.”
He scowled, knowing they couldn’t afford a fire, trapped by their own need for
secrecy. “We should retreat and wait for the army.”

Torven glared at him, the tattooed
eagle fierce on his face. “The Svala said we should scout the citadel.”

“To what end? Kath’s not even
awake!”

“We obey the Svala.”

The painted warriors had become
fanatical when it came to Kath, as if their common sense was scattered to the
four winds. Frustrated, Blaine
growled, “We’re losing more men every night.”

“True.” Torven frowned “I’ve never
seen such a large pack. Unless we defeat them, they’ll ruin the Svala’s battle
plan. Best if we fight them before the others cross the gate.”

“Each night they kill more of us
than we kill of them. The night is their element and the bastards use it to
their advantage.”

“That’s why we need to change
tactics.”

Something about the other man’s
voice bothered Blaine.
“So what do you have in mind?”

“I’ve spoken with the other scouts
and they all agree, the gore hounds avoid their own dead, as if they can’t
stand the stench.”

“So?”

“So tonight, seven warriors will
wait outside the ring of defense, hiding beneath the skins of dead gore hounds.
When the beasts come hunting, the seven will rise up and attack from the rear.”

“I wondered why you had the mangy
beasts skinned.”

“A desperate gamble.” Torven’s gaze
went to the hilt of Blaine’s
blue sword. “You’ve killed more beasts than any other.”

Blaine’s mouth went dry. “And if your scouts
are wrong?”

“Then each man will fight on his
own.”

A
death sentence,
a lone warrior outside the ring would not stand a chance,
but Blaine
refused to shirk a fight. “I accept.”
 

Torven clasped his arm, warrior to
warrior. “I knew you’d take the risk. Despite your unmarked face, you have the
heart of a painted warrior. You’d make a good eagle.” He raised his voice to
the others. “Grenfir, bring the knight a gore-hound skin.”

Blaine accepted the bundle without a word,
appalled by the stench of the uncured hide.
 

“Best choose your spot before
darkness falls.”

Taking only weapons and armor, Blaine moved out into the
steppes, choosing an untrammeled stretch of grass. The raw hide stank of
corruption, far worse than rotting flesh, yet he slung it across his shoulders,
knotting the forelegs around his neck like a gruesome cape. At least the poisonous
claws had been hacked off, too dangerous to handle. Unsheathing his blue sword,
he lay in the deep grass, huddled beneath the skin, waiting for the dark,
wondering if this would be his last sunset.

Twilight lingered, the red sun
fading to purple. Thick clouds scudded across the sky, promising another dark
night, another advantage for the beasts. Lying prone under the gore-hound skin,
Blaine scanned
the steppes for movement. Night fell like a hammer, the moon a faint smudge
hidden by thick clouds.

Darkness prevailed, the time when
the beasts held sway.

Blaine gripped his sword, lying in the tall grass,
a knight turned hunter, or was he merely bait? Hairs prickled at the back of
his neck, nothing to protect him but the stink of a dead gore-hound. Cold
seeped up from the frozen ground, a threat of another sort. Despite his
weariness, despite the freezing cold, Blaine
thrummed with tension, straining his senses.
Kill or be killed,
it seemed the only law of the god-cursed
steppes.

Movement
in front of him,
but it was only the others. The soft chink of arms and
armor, proved the painted warriors moved into position, preparing for battle. Hidden
by the dark, yet he knew they stood in a circle, weapons held at the ready,
waiting for the first sign of ambush.

The night proved still as death,
not a whisper of wind.

A searing cold seeped up from the
ground. Blaine
fought not to shiver. Darkness pressed close, making it hard to wait, and harder
to lie still. His own breathing sounded loud in his ears, every rustle of grass
a threat. Time held no meaning, an eternity of darkness.

The wind picked up, whispering
across the steppes. Blaine
cursed the change, knowing the subtle sound would aid the beasts.

And then he heard it,
a soft chuffing
.

So close, just a few paces to his
left.

Blaine froze, not daring to breathe.

A low growl to his right,
the beasts were all around him!
He lay
exposed, the back of his neck unprotected, yet he dared not move. Sweat
trickled down his spine. Lying statue still beneath the gore-hound hide, Blaine gripped his sword,
praying the beasts would pass him by.

He felt them circling, snuffing the
air. One padded close…close enough to hear its harsh breath. Blaine gripped his sword, frozen beneath the
hide. The beast chuffed, a low snorting sound, and was gone, a soft rustle of
frozen grass.

Blaine breathed again, a brief reprieve.

A scream broke the night. The
battle was begun.

Blaine stood, his sword held at the ready. He
padded forward, searching the dark. Sensing movement, he leaped forward,
slashing with his blade. Steel connected with flesh, a howl of pain. Even
wounded, the beast whirled, lashing at Blaine’s
chest. Claws raked across his surcoat but his chainmail held. He parried the
beast, slicing through sinew and bone, severing the paw. The hellhound howled,
an unearthly sound, but still it came, fangs snarling in hate. Blaine staggered backward
and then whirled to the left, trying to flank the creature. Sensing an opening,
he put all his strength into an overhand blow. His sword bit deep, crunching
into bone, a lethal stroke.

Something struck him from behind.
Powerful as a battering ram, it knocked him to the ground. He lost his grip on
his sword. Turning, he got his left arm up. Saber-fangs lunged for his face, a
snarl of hate. He forced his arm deep into the beast’s mouth, holding the fangs
at bay. Teeth clamped down in a painful grip but his chainmail held. The beast
snarled, a rage of hot drool dripping into Blaine’s face. Desperate for a weapon, he
struggled to reach the dagger at his belt. The beast shook him like a rag doll.
Groping blind, Blaine
found the dagger, plunging it deep into the beast’s belly.

The hound snarled but the jaws
refused to release. Once, twice, three times he stabbed the beast before he
found the heart. Blood spurted over him, a gush of warm gore. The creature
shuddered and then lay still, pinning Blaine
to the ground.

Gasping for breath, he pushed the
beast away, trying to avoid the fearsome claws. He checked his arm. His fingers
still worked but his arm ached horribly, too dark to see if the chainmail was
broken.

Screams split the night, proof the
battle still raged.

Someone wailed in pain, “
It’s
eating me! Get it off!”

Nightmares lurked in the dark. Blaine knelt in the grass,
frantic for his sword.

Something moved to his right, but
he only had a dagger. Drenched in sweat he searched the grass. And then his hand
touched steel. He gripped his sword and rose to a crouch. Guided by sounds, he
eased to the right, hoping to take a hellhound from behind. Sensing movement,
he swung his blade to the left, but his sword found only air. The beasts were
too clever by half.

A low growl came from his right…and
another to his left. They had him surrounded, taunting him with snarls, playing
with their food. Drenched in sweat, Blaine
pivoted left and then right, but the darkness favored the beasts. He cursed the
night. Staying in a crouch, he waited for the first attack, vowing to take at
least one with him.

But then the gods lent a hand. The
wind picked up. A cold blast from the north, opened a swath in the
cloud-shrouded sky. Moonlight bathed the steppes in a silvery light. And then
he saw them. Black and brown, the beasts stood out against the silvery grass. A
shout of triumph rose from the other men. Slings whirled, a whisper of death
hurled into the night.

Blaine leaped forward, charging the nearest
gore-hound.

The beast whirled, a snarl of fangs
as sharp as sabers, but Blaine
had the advantage of reach. The great blue sword swept forward like vengeance
unleashed. Steel struck the beast’s head, sundering the skull in two. He
wrenched the blade loose and turned to find another. But the battle was already
won.

Dead gore hounds littered the
trampled grass.

Moonlight brought their first
triumph.

Raising their fists and howling to
the moon, the painted warriors celebrated a primal victory. Blaine joined them, sharing a flagon of mead.
Bathed in moonlight, they danced and clapped and sang, raising their weapons to
the heavens. And in the midst of the revelry, Kath woke.

Perhaps the gods had not abandoned
them after all.

55

The Knight Marshal

The sun rose in a blaze of golds,
too glorious a morning for such a grim day. The marshal watched it rise,
wondering if it would be his last.

All along the Whore, the men took
their positions, waiting for the horde to come calling. A lone battle banner
flew overhead, the king’s blazon, maroon silk embroidered with a golden crown.
Saved by Baldwin in the mad dash from the
second wall, the banner was tied to a broken lance. The lone standard snapped
proud in the cold morning wind, like a mailed fist defying the terrible odds.

The king stood beside his banner,
his crowned helm and silver breastplate polished bright, his great blue sword
looming over his right shoulder. A single sunbeam broke from the clouds,
anointing the king. Gleaming like a star set in a long line of maroon, he stood
tall and indomitable, a fabled hero clad in sun-kissed armor. The sunbeam
seemed a sign, like a blessing of the gods. A cheer roared from the wall, a
burst of pride from the men.

Clouds blew in from the north,
shrouding the sun.

And then it began to snow. A flurry
of snowflakes pelted down, turning the land sepulcher white. Winter had come,
the ally the king had hoped for…but too late to save the maroon.

The marshal pulled his cloak close.
Turning his back on the winter wind, he walked the wall, trading words with the
men. A few muttered prayers, others bantered jokes, but most were stoic,
minding to their armor and weapons. The grim truth shown from their eyes, yet he
knew they would not waiver. Without archers, the battle would be a bloody. The
ancient wall offered little protection. Short and stubby, the Whore would blunt
the enemy’s charge, but at a height of only twelve feet he expected the ogres
to scale it in a single bound. And only the gods knew what other foul magic the
Mordant hid in his arsenal. But one thing was certain; the courage of the
knights would not falter. Pride swelled through him. He wondered if a bard
would ever sing the tale, so few standing against so many. But bard’s songs
went to the victors. The marshal scowled, all his thoughts full of ashes. He
drew his great sword, Sir Tyrone’s sword, comforted by the feel of cold steel.
 

The waiting proved hard; always the
worst part of any battle. The sun climbed the sky and still they did not come.
Not until midday did they hear the drums, the steady beat of doom.

Men tensed along the wall, readying
their weapons. They strained to see the horde.

When the enemy finally came, it was
only six riders. Bedecked in plumed helms and dark armor emblazoned with gold
pentacles, they sat on their horses and waited fifty yards from the wall.

The marshal joined the king.
“Perhaps they offer terms.”

The king scowled. “The Octagon
never surrenders.”

“True, but perhaps we should hear
them out.”

The king agreed, so they called for
their horses.

Six men waited so six rode out from
the wall. The king led, resplendent on his white war stallion. The marshal rode
on the king’s right. Baldwin rode on his left,
bearing the king’s banner. Two champions and a captain came close behind: Sir
Abrax, Sir Rannock, and Sir Lothar.

They stopped two spear lengths from
the enemy. The king’s white stallion snorted and pawed the frozen ground, as if
eager for a fight. The maroon battle banner snapped overhead, a subtle reply.

The marshal studied the enemy. Four
were mere soldiers, muscles bulging beneath armor, but the other two were
older, their armor more elaborate, embellished with gold. He judged them to be
generals, come with the Mordant’s terms.

The center general, the one with
the most gold on his armor, spoke first. “My name is General Haith, and I speak
for my lord, the Mordant.” His horse shied left and he quelled it with a tug of
the reins. “Your men fought bravely but they were outmatched. Against our
numbers, against our magic, none in the south can stand. Yet the Mordant does
not wish to spend his men needlessly. He offers terms.”

The king’s voice was a low growl.
“The Octagon does not surrender.”

“But will you fight?” The general
lifted a mailed hand, forestalling the king’s reply. “The Mordant offers to
settle this contest by single combat.”

“Single combat?” Flummoxed, the
king shook his head, sunlight glinting on his armor.

Sir Abrax muscled forward. “
I
will
fight for the Octagon! Give me the honor, Sire!”

Sensing a trick, the marshal
interposed. “What are the terms?”

General Haith nodded, his gaze
fixed on the marshal. “Single combat to determine the outcome of this battle.
The loser retreats with his army, ceding Raven Pass
to the victor.”

Sir Abrax gasped, but the marshal
stilled him with a glance. It was a fantastical offer, especially given the
enemy’s numbers, yet it reeked of lies. The marshal pressed for details. “If
the Octagon wins, you’ll take your army back to the north and leave the
southern kingdoms in peace?”

“Hardly,” the general’s voice
dripped with disdain. “If the Octagon wins, our army will retreat and find
another way south. Raven Pass is not the only gap in the Dragon Spine
Mountains.”

“And how do we know you’ll hold to
the terms?”

“You have the word of the Mordant.”

It was a measure of discipline that
none of them scoffed.

“I need your answer.”

The king seemed to consider.
“Single combat?”

“To the death.”

“Our champion against yours?”

General Haith flashed a grim smile.
“No, you misunderstood. Our
king
against yours.”

A premonition of dread flashed
through the marshal. “Sire, it’s a trick! You cannot do this.”

The king’s voice cracked with anger.
“Osbourne, hold your tongue. This is a
king’s
decision.”

The marshal bit back his words,
fearing a disaster.

The king stared at the general. “So
the Mordant will fight?”

The general gave a terse nod. “This
afternoon, in three turns of an hourglass, midway between our two armies.”

“No, it will be here, within sight
of the third wall, where all my men can bear witness.”

The general hesitated but then he
agreed. “As you wish.”

“And the weapons will be swords.”

“Agreed.”

“And we’ll fight afoot.”

“As you say.”

The king nodded, his face solemn.
“Then I call upon the gods to witness this agreement. For the sake of the
Octagon, I will meet the Mordant in battle.”

The general smiled. “So be it.” He
began to turn his horse but then stopped. “Oh, the Mordant bade me to give you
this.” One of his escorts threw a long bundle wrapped in bloodstained maroon to
the ground. “In three turns of the hourglass, the Mordant will meet you in
mortal combat. To the victor goes the spoils.” The general turned his horse and
put spurs to flanks.

They watched as the enemy galloped
into the north.

“Sir Abrax, the package.”

The king turned his mount and they
galloped back to the wall. The other captains waited near the campfire. The men
pressed close, yearning for news.
 

Sir Odis, the champion of the
lance, broached the question. “What news, my Lord?”

But the king ignored him. “Sir
Abrax, the package.”

The king sat by the fire, using a
dagger to cut the bindings. The bloodstained cloak fell away revealing a gleam
of sapphire blue. The king’s breath caught. “My son’s sword.” He lifted the
great sword, “Mordbane!” a sheen of blood still coated the blade.

A hushed silence fell on the men.

The marshal took a deep breath. “Sire,
the sword is a weapon aimed at your heart. More proof of the Mordant’s
treachery.”

Rage smoldered in the king’s green
eyes. “He mocks me by returning Ulrich’s sword. As if it has no value.”

“Sire, he seeks to cloud your
judgment. By returning the sword he goads you to battle.
 
He goads you to rage. I implore you, for the
sake of the Octagon, do not accept these terms.”

“For the sake of the Octagon, what
else am I to do?” The king rounded on the marshal, a spray of spittle flying
from his mouth. “Would you have me hide behind my men, letting his army
slaughter us to a man? Or should I take this chance, this
one
chance, to
wrest victory from the Mordant?” The king glared, his mailed hands balled into
fists. “It’s not just the fate of the Octagon at stake. Nay, the fate of the
entire southern kingdoms lies at risk. You’re the knight marshal of the
Octagon. Can you see another way to victory? Can you?”

The marshal had no answer.

“This is an offer I
cannot
refuse. Not and keep my honor.” The king’s voice turned winter cold. “Or do you
doubt my skill at arms?”

Aghast, the marshal shook his head,
“Sire, no, never that.”

“The Mordant is not trained as a
knight, nor does he wield a blue sword. He will not stand against me.”

“Not in a fair fight, no.” The marshal
struggled to put his fear into words. “Sire, I cannot believe the Mordant will take
the risk. Since when does the Dark Deceiver fight from the front?”

The king’s gaze narrowed.

The marshal pressed the attack.
“Sire, there’s some trick here that we do not understand.”

“Enough!” The king’s voice carried
a cold rage. “It is done. I’ve given my word. In three hours time, I will meet
the Mordant in single combat.” A gasp of awe rippled through the men. “As the
gods are my witness, I shall slay the Mordant, claiming victory for the Octagon
and vengeance for my sons. So help me, Valin.”

The marshal bowed before the king’s
will. “May the gods make it so,” but in his heart, he feared the Mordant’s
treachery.