The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga) (44 page)

56

Blaine

It took the better part of the day
for Kath to recover. She asked a torrent of questions, while ravenously
devouring their meager stores. “Tell me again about the hellhounds.”

So Blaine told her everything while Bear and
Boar sat nearby, urging her to eat. He told her a tale of running during the
mornings, sleeping in the afternoon, and then fighting all night. The hardest
part was explaining the hounds’ fiendish cleverness, how they always waited
till the men were bone weary and how they used diversions, hunting as a pack.
And then he told her about Torven’s idea to use the dead hides to ambush the
hounds and about the battle in the moonlight.

Kath listened hard to every word.
When he finished, her face was thoughtful. “I never thought they’d be so many.”
She looked at him, a trace of fear in her eyes. “I wonder what other surprises
the Mordant has in store?”

It was a question none of them
could answer.

“Do you think there are more hounds
out there?”

Bear answered. “Most likely.”

Kath nodded. “Then the battle’s not
over.”

“Svala, we have a gift for you.”
Blushing red beneath his blue tattoos, Bear nudged a large leather pack toward
Kath, a pack he’d carried all the way from the Ghost Hills.

“A gift?” Kath smiled, her face a
mixture of surprise and pleasure.

Bear nodded, gesturing to Boar. “We
traded for it. We thought it might be yours.”

“Mine?” Kath pulled the pack toward
her, fumbling with the buckles.

The other warriors crowded close,
come to watch Kath.

She opened the pack and gasped,
pulling out a small octagonal shield, the same shield she’d borne from Cragnoth
Keep, the one they’d abandoned after the battle on the steppes. “
My shield!”
Blaine
marveled how her face lit up, as if someone had given her the moon.

Bear said, “It was badly battered,
but Gren has a way with fixing shields.”

She ran her hands across the
polished wood. “My thanks.”

The big man blushed. “There’s more,
Svala.”

Kath reached into the pack and
removed a chainmail shirt. The tightly woven links flashed silvery bright in
the morning light, a small shirt, suited to a squire or a girl. “My mail shirt!
I never thought to see this again.”

Blaine gaped in surprise, amazed that the big
warrior had carried the extra weight all the way from the Ghost Hills.

Bear nodded, his face solemn. “It
was scavenged from a battlefield where more than a hundred of the enemy lay
slain.” He dipped his head toward her. “The same battlefield that brought you
to us.”

Kath shrugged the chainmail over
her head. It fit like a tailored shirt, a bright gleam of silver.

Blaine’s breath caught. He’d seen her in mail
before but somehow this was different. In the depths of the Mordant’s domain,
she suddenly seemed like a warrior princess touched by the gods. But then the
clouds dimmed the sun and the spell was broken.

Kath ambushed Bear with a hug. The
big blond warrior flamed bright red. And then she did the same to Boar,
settling a quick kiss on his tattooed cheek. “You both have my thanks.”

The others hooted and laughed,
making good-natured sport of the two men.

Bear and Boar looked away, their faces
crimson, but then Bear said, “There’s one more thing.”

“Something else?” Kath reached into
the pack and then her face turned solemn, tinged with sadness. She pulled forth
a knight’s maroon cloak. “This is not mine, never mine.”

“But Svala, is not maroon the color
of Castlegard? And are you not born of the great castle?”

She smoothed her hand along the
cloak’s soft wool, a wistful look on her face. “Yes, but a maroon cloak must be
earned. It is a high honor, a mark of knighthood.” Her voice caught. “And never
meant for the likes of me.”

Blaine watched how she fingered the
cloak, the look of longing etched on her face, and he thought of the many times
she’d stood against the enemy, daring to come north while so many knights
stayed safe behind stone walls. He found himself standing, taking the cloak
from her hands. “Rise, Katherine of Castlegard.”

She stared up at him, a look of
wonder on her face, and then she stood, her lower lip trembling.

“Most knights earn their maroon
cloaks in the Octagon Trials,” Blaine
did not know where the words came from but they felt right, “but you’ve earned
yours in true combat. There can be no better way to earn a maroon cloak.”
Swirling the cloak, he settled it across her shoulders. “Wear it well.”

Pride shown from her sea-green
eyes, pride and astonishment.

And then Blaine knelt. “Katherine of Castlegard.”

All around, the painted warriors
knelt, their voices raised to a shout. “Svala! Lead us to victory!”

She stared at them, as if
memorizing every face, and then she unsheathed her sword and raised it to the
heavens. “For the Light!”

“For the Light!”
The men
echoed her cry. Weapons raised, they danced around her as if victory was
assured.

Laughing, Kath moved among them,
offering a word and a smile. And just for a moment, she reminded Blaine of the king.

But then her laughter changed and
she looked at him, an impish grin on her face. “It’s too long!” She lifted the
cloak and pivoted. More than a foot of maroon dragged on the ground.

Blaine shared her laughter. “Let me.” He cut
a notch in the wool and then tore a wide swath from the bottom. He handed it to
her. “Better?”

“Better.” But then her face
changed, like quicksilver, suddenly growing solemn. She stared at the men
around her and they caught her mood, becoming quiet.

A hush settled over the warriors, a
gleam of expectation in their eyes.

“You’ve all shown your valor, daring
to fight the hellhounds instead of retreating, keeping me safe while the magic
claimed me.”
Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Will you share my pride and wear my colors?”

A resounding,
“Yes!”
echoed
from every man.

They crowded close, watching as
Kath cut thin strips from the cloak’s remnant. Bear was first. The big man
insisted that Kath tie the maroon strip around the bulging muscles of his right
arm. Boar and Torven came next. One at a time, they accepted the strips of wool
as if they were symbols of valor…or holy talismans.

Blaine stood aside, watching their faces.
With a strip of cloth, Kath claimed them for her own, a troop of warriors who’d
fight to the death, no matter the odds. And he marveled again at what a mere
girl could do.

57

Blaine

Running, always running, they
pressed on, into the steppes. For five grueling nights they played cat and
mouse with the gore hounds. On moonlit nights, they became the cat, hunting the
hounds. On cloud-shrouded nights, they stayed in a defensive hedgehog, fending
off the beasts. But even on cloudy nights, they fought back, for the mice had
gained fangs. Kath changed their tactics, putting the slingers inside a ring of
swords. When the hounds came hunting, the slingers cast stones at any sound,
confident they’d not strike a companion. After five nights of fighting, the
hounds came no more.

“Do you think we’ve finished them?”
Kath nudged a dead hound with her boot, pulling her throwing axe from the
beast’s ugly maw.

Blaine shrugged, his sword held at the ready.
“Either they’re all dead or they’ve learned to fear us.”

“Let’s hope they’re dead, else
Danya and the others will have a tough time of it.” She stared up at the waning
crescent. “Three more nights till the dark of the moon,” she gave him a wolfish
grin, yet he could see her worry in every line of her body. “It’s past time we
caught a glimpse of the Dark Citadel.”

The Dark Citadel,
the name alone
conjured nightmares, a bastion of evil. Blaine
wiped the gore from his sword and sheathed it. “When we came north I never truly
believed we’d attack the Mordant’s lair.”

“Nor I, but we’ve gained allies,
just as the monks said.”

“But will it be enough?”

She stared at him and he saw the
nightmares crowding her eyes. “It has to be.”

“You think Duncan is there.”

Kath made the barest of nods, but
then she looked away, her voice a whisper. “He has to be there…else he’s dead.”

He wanted to say something reassuring
but the words eluded him.

Torven found them, keen eyes
staring from an eagle’s face. “Time to leave before the ravens find us. Shall
we head for the citadel?”

Kath nodded. “It’s time.”

They ran across the frozen north,
the morning sun rising at their backs. Kath kept pace beside him, her throwing
axes strapped to her back, the small octagonal shield on her left arm, the
maroon cloak billowing in the cold wind. Blaine
smiled to see the cloak, knowing how much it meant to her. Strange how the
impulse had come over him, but then he scowled, wondering what the other
knights would say. He doubted the king would approve, or the lord marshal, but
such worries were leagues away, as distant as another lifetime.

They settled into a loping run,
boots pounding the frozen ground, each breath a plume of frost. Having grown
accustom to the pace, Blaine
stayed near the front with Torven and the scouts. Of the original eighty men,
the hounds had chewed them down to thirty-four swords. The painted warriors
paid a steep price for their audacity, yet they never faltered. Their ways were
strange, and often unfathomable, but Blaine
had come to trust their courage. Hard fighters, tough and stubborn to the core,
yet they were wild and undisciplined. He wondered how they’d fair in a real
battle against stone walls and trained soldiers. A grim laugh bubbled out of
him. They ran
towards
the citadel. He’d
soon know the answer, for better or worse.
 

Torven led them out of the
grasslands and into fallow fields, a flat crust of snow stretching in every
direction. The fields surprised Blaine.
Somehow he didn’t think of the Mordant as ruling a bunch of farmers, yet he
supposed they had to eat.

Just before noon, Torven called a
halt. Weary from running, they dropped to the ground, spreading bedrolls across
the frozen field. Blaine
stayed close to Kath, chewing strips of dried horsemeat and handfuls of dried
berries. No one bothered to talk. He finished the meager meal and crawled into
his bedroll, falling fast asleep.

All too soon, someone shook him
awake. Blaine
lunged for his sword but a whisper stayed his hand. “Time to run.” Groaning, Blaine stretched and made
his toilet, and then they were running again, across the fields and into the
setting sun.

The crimson sunset drew them west
like an ill omen, and then he saw it. A black fist jutted up into the bloody
sky, rampant and strong, a malevolent fortress bristling with battlements.
The Dark Citadel,
the name thundered
through Blaine’s
mind like a curse. With each stride it loomed larger. Somehow seeing it was far
worse than anything he’d imagined. As much a city as a fortress, tiers of dark
stone wrapped around
a massive monolith.
H
e’d expected a simple walled city guarded by a castle, not this
monstrous beehive of stone.
The citadel’s
dark ramparts defied his worst nightmares.
Blaine shuddered, refusing to think how many
soldiers lurked within its walls. “
We’re going to take that?”
The
question burst out of him, but no one answered.

Torven signaled and they dropped
flat onto the frozen land. “We dare not draw closer. Not till darkness falls.”

Hiding beneath their sheepskin
cloaks, they appeared nothing more than a smudge of cream against the snowy expanse.
Blaine and Kath huddled on either side of Torven, studying the citadel from
afar. Still leagues away, yet the details of the mighty fortress were clear as
daylight. Blaine
counted nine rings of battlements stretching toward the clouds, no telling how
many men walked those dark walls, or what weapons lay in wait, catapults,
trebuchets, and other engines of war. A host of warnings whispered through his
mind, reminding him that this was the lair of the Mordant. Beneath his
sheepskin, he made the hand sign against evil. A fear deeper than swords
gripped him. If the legends proved true, then the Mordant was a master of
magic.
Dark magic
, weapons he
couldn’t even begin to imagine. Back in the caverns, he’d agreed with Kath’s
plan, naming it bold and imaginative, but in the shadow of the citadel it
seemed insane, a vain conceit run amok. Riddled with doubt, he stared at Kath.
“How in the nine hells are we going take that?”

Her voice was calm, not a hint of
fear, but her eyes told another story, shadowed with worry. “It all depends on
how many men the Mordant took south. The fact that we haven’t run across a
patrol is a good sign. He left the gore hounds but I’m betting he took most of the
men south.

“You’re
betting
with our lives.”

“I know, but it’s our best chance.”
She met his gaze. “Remember, no matter the numbers, we’re counting on deception
and surprise to win the day. Danya will provide the deception, and this,” she
pulled her stone gargoyle from beneath her chainmail shirt, “will provide the
surprise.”

Blaine’s frustration boiled over. “But your
plan is all sleight of hand, a house of straw! Once we’re inside those walls,
we could face a hundred thousand men or more! The odds are staggering!”

“We take the north gate…and then we
hope the people rise and fight.” She stared at him, as if willing him to
believe. “We seek surrender not a bloodbath.”

 
Surrender!
He nearly spat the word.
Surrender was the wet dream of every
commander who’d ever lived, yet it seemed to Blaine that it rarely happened, especially
when the enemy held the walls. And
these
walls were formidable. He bit
his lip and kept his doubt to himself. “What are those things over there?” Five
leagues to the east of the citadel, a series of wooden towers reared into the
sky like malformed dragons.

Torven answered. “That’s the lip of the Pit.”

“The Pit?”

Torven scowled. “It’s the worst of the Mordant’s domain, worse than any
dungeon. Those wooden structures lower cages down into the Pit, the only way in
or out.” He pointed to the left of the towers. “And over there are the soldiers’
barracks, for the Pit guards, and next to them, the stables.” His voice
deepened, revealing a touch of pride.
 
“Come the dark, Fanggold will lead a war party against the barracks when
Danya brings the others.”

Blaine
prayed the wolf-faced leader brought enough
men to take the barracks, else they’d have swords at their back as well as in
front. One mistake and Kath’s plan would turn into a deadly trap. His gaze was
drawn to the citadel. He brooded on the tiers of dark battlements, ramparts
nested within ramparts. Like a Castlegard of the north, it seemed a daunting
task, nigh on impossible. His stare slid toward Kath. “Still time to change
your mind?”

She shook her head, a stubborn look on her face. “This is our best hope,
our one chance to strike a blow against the Dark. It must be done now, while
the Mordant marches south.”

Conviction filled her voice, yet it did not ease his doubts. It seemed to
Blaine that too
much depended on luck and magic. He’d rather put his trust in good solid steel.

“Look over there!” It was Bear, pointing toward the east. A dark smudge flew
through the twilight. Like an errant storm cloud, it flew straight for the Pit.

“Danya’s done it.” Kath’s voice rang with a mixture of relief and pride.
“She’s called the ravens!”

A flock of ten thousand ravens bore down on the Pit. Blaine shivered beneath his cloak. “It’s
unnatural.” He couldn’t help sketching the hand sign against evil. The dark
cloud circled overhead and dove into the Pit.

The painted warriors shared a grin, laughing and pointing toward the
ravens, but Blaine
could not share their joy. To him, the ravens had always been an omen of death,
the scavengers of the battlefield. “Ravens are the heralds of death. Now the
enemy knows we’re coming.”

Kath glared at him, steel in her green gaze. “Only if they know the symbols
of slaves. This message is for our friends.”

“Friends?” Blaine
barked a laugh. “Depend on the swords you know.”

Kath did not answer. They kept watch on the Pit. The cloud of ravens eventually
remerged. Soaring out of the Pit, they circled the citadel. Round and round,
they rode the wind, releasing a chorus of caws, and then they turned east,
departing in one massive cloud.

Blaine
shivered. “No one could ever see that as
natural.”

Kath gave him a barbed stare. “Then perhaps they see it as an omen of defeat.”

Blaine
looked away.

It took forever for the sun to set. Huddled beneath sheepskins, they
shared a scant meal of dried horsemeat and honeyed mead, keeping watch on the
citadel.
The sun sank in a blaze of colors, gold and red streaking across
a winter sky, but the glorious display was fleeting. Darkness descended like an
executioner’s axe. Torches appeared on the dark walls.
Too many torches,
proof the walls were not abandoned. Blaine took the first
watch, but doubt gnawed at his mind. In three nights they’d storm the citadel.
He couldn’t help but think they were destined for doom.