The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga) (46 page)

The council retreated to their
chambers and the crowd began to thin. Most shuffled away with their heads bent,
yoked once more to the will of the overlords, but a few knots of discontent
remained.

Rebellions grew in the shadow of
misery. Mara smiled, gripping the pebble in her fist. She’d seen the raven and
she understood the message. Perhaps a pretty face could sway others to the
truth. She tucked her blond hair behind her ears and moved toward the nearest
knot of conspirators. Three days to make a difference, she swore to the gods
she’d not be counted among the sheep.

59

The Knight Marshal

Three hours to prepare for mortal
combat, yet the king seemed at ease, passing the time with his captains. The
marshal sat at the king’s right hand, sharing meat and mead by the fire’s
warmth. They supped on a light meal of roast ham, hard biscuits, and bread
pudding, the best their meager stores could provide. Baldwin
fussed over the king’s armor, making sure every belt and buckle was secure, but
there was no need to sharpen the king’s sword, for blue steel never dulled.

King Ursus was in high spirits,
regaling the men with tales of heroes from the Octagon’s past. All the heroes
triumphed, vanquishing their foes with keen swords and dauntless courage. The
marshal listened but he could not share the revelry. A feeling of doom pressed
down upon him, obsessed with the riddle of the Mordant’s challenge. He stared
into the fire but found no answers.

The healer came begging a word, but
the king dismissed him and the marshal ignored him. Neither man could stomach
more words of warning.

All too soon, the time was gone.
The marshal claimed the honor of armoring the king. Greaves and gauntlets,
breastplate and bracers, he made sure each piece was tightened and secure,
everything polished to a silvery glow. On the king’s head he placed a crowned
helm, and for his left arm, a massive octagonal shield made of stout oak and
beaten metal. Few men could wield a great sword and a shield, but the king did
it with ease, a boon of blue steel.

Last of all, the marshal reached
for the king’s great sword,
Honor’s Edge.
F
ive feet of peerless blue steel, the monk’s crystal freshly set
in the pommel; it was a mighty blade, a king’s sword, forever honed to a
silk-cutting edge.

“Not that sword.” The king’s voice
was a low growl. “I’ll take my revenge with Ulrich’s sword,
Mordbane.”
His
voice softened. “The name always seemed a son’s conceit but now it proves
prophetic.” His voice hardened. “I’ll wield
Mordbane,
the perfect sword to claim a blood debt from the Mordant.”

A shiver of foreboding raced down
the marshal’s back. “But Sire, for such a fight, you should use your own blade,
the sword that best knows your hands.”

“Give me
Mordbane,
for I’ll
use no other.”

The king’s voice was implacable.
Bowing, the marshal unsheathed
Honor’s Edge
, handing the great sword to Baldwin for safe keeping. Retrieving Ulrich’s blue blade,
he sheathed the sword and settled the harness across the king’s shoulders.

Finished, the marshal bowed to his
lord. “May Valin guide your blade.”

The king smiled and gripped the
marshal’s arm, brothers-in-war once more. “Osbourne, guard my back.”

It was the highest praise one
warrior could give another. The marshal’s voice caught. “Always, Sire.”

A troop of knights brought the
king’s warhorse, Snowmantle, freshly curried and caparisoned in maroon and
silver. Such splendid finery was unexpected. The men had clearly scavenged
among the other mounts to outfit the stallion in the best the maroon had to
offer, a gift for their king.

King Ursus openly admired the
stallion and then he swung into the saddle like a man half his age. Unsheathing
Mordbane
, he raised the sapphire sword
to the heavens. “For Honor and the Octagon!”

The men answered with a thunderous
roar. “
Honor and the Octagon!”
They drew their weapons and beat their
shields, giving the king a warrior’s acclaim.

As if in reply, a rumble of drums
announced the enemy. A dark line appeared on the horizon. A thicket of spears
and shields clogged the snow-cloaked valley, yet the horde kept their distance.
As before, only six riders approached the Whore, but one was the Mordant. Distinctive
in his skeleton armor, he rode a massive black stallion caparisoned in gold. Overhead,
the Darkflamme fluttered and snapped like a serpent slithering in the wind,
announcing his presence.

The marshal shivered with foreboding,
but it was too late for words.

The king rode out to meet them. The
marshal and four champions rode at his back, a keen set of weapons protecting
their liege, the one precaution the king had agreed to. They stopped fifty
yards beyond the wall, waiting for the enemy.

Six men rode toward them...led by
the Skeleton King.

His armor glistened with a baleful
light. Helm and breastplate, greaves and gauntlets, the silvery armor was
patterned to resemble a lich king. The breastplate showed a skeleton’s ribs,
the helmet fashioned into a fearsome skull. A whisper of terror spiked the
marshal, his gaze shying from the Mordant’s armor. It reeked of wrongness, as
if evil were somehow annealed into steel. A sudden queasiness gripped his
stomach. A part of him wanted to rip the helm away and judge the enemy by his
eyes, but another part expected a red-eyed ghoul to stare from the helm, a
living dead encased in armor, a nightmare sprung from the pits of hell. Doubt
gnawed at the marshal, as if the king faced an invincible foe. He shuddered and
looked away. “Sire, you cannot fight that.”

“I gave my word.” The king swung
down from his warhorse, a blaze of silver and maroon.

The marshal’s horse stamped and
shied, fighting the bit as the enemy drew near.

Six riders stopped a bowshot away,
the Darkflamme snapping overhead. The Mordant dismounted and walked forward
alone.

The marshal swung down from his
horse and gripped the reins, studying the enemy with veteran eyes. The skeleton
helm hid the Mordant’s face but he was most likely the younger man. Quickness
and perhaps stamina would be to the Mordant’s advantage, but the king had a lifetime
of experience, a seasoned warrior, a master at the sword. And the king stood
slightly taller and heftier than the Mordant, giving him the advantage of reach
and strength. The Mordant carried no shield, but that was to be expected. Only
blue steel allowed a great sword to be wielded in one hand, another advantage
to the king. But the skeleton armor proved hard to look at, as if some dark
magic ensorcelled it with an aura of dread.
Steel
against magic,
he liked it not. The marshal made the hand sign against
evil, sending a desperate prayer to Valin.

The king met the Mordant halfway.
Whatever words were exchanged, the marshal could not hear. The combatants moved
apart, putting two spear lengths of snowy ground between them.

King Ursus drew his blue sword, a
gleam of sapphire in the afternoon light. “
For Honor and the Octagon!”

The Mordant remained silent, slowly
drawing his sword. The great sword had the same length as the king’s, but
t
he
blade was black!
Dark as sin, it seemed to swallow the light.

“What sorcery is this?” The
marshal’s words were a hiss.

Beside him, Sir Rannock growled,
“We swore not to interfere.”

The marshal ground his teeth,
“Sorcery was not part of the bargain!” but the battle was already joined. The
king sprang forward, attacking with an overhand cut. The sapphire sword sliced
down with a deadly whistle, a mighty overhand cleave, but the Mordant glided
sideways, evading the blue sword. Pivoting, the king chased his opponent with a
powerful diagonal cut, but once again the Mordant slipped away, almost as if he
anticipated the king’s moves. Attack and evade, the battle fell into a
maddening rhythm.

“He’s toying with him, trying to
wear the king down.”

“But look at his footwork, the bastard
glides like a veteran.”

And it was true, the Mordant fought
like a seasoned knight. The marshal’s mind screamed a warning, yet he could
only watch.

Stroke and evade, they circled like
a pair of scorpions wary of each other’s sting. The king’s footwork began to
slow, and the Mordant leaped to the attack. The black blade slashed down in an
overhand cut. The king was quick to parry. For the first time, the two blades
met in a fearsome clash…but the sound was wrong. Instead of a metallic clang,
the swords loosed an ear-shattering screech.

Blue
steel screamed in pain!
The sound scrapped across the marshal’s soul.

The king staggered backwards, but
then he recovered, aiming a fury of blows at the Mordant’s head. The black
blade parried each blow…and each time the steel screamed.

The combatants broke apart, slowly
circling, testing with a series of feints. Fatigue slowed their footsteps, but
both kept their swords raised. It seemed as if both men waited for an opening,
but then the king did something unexpected. He hurled his shield at the
Mordant, making him stumble. Leaping forward, the king attacked with a mighty
two-handed blow, a great overhand cleave. Keening a deadly whistle, the
sapphire sword descended like righteous vengeance. The blow should have cut the
Mordant in two, but somehow the Skeleton King raised his dark sword. Black
steel parried the blue blade, releasing a deafening screech.

And then the king’s blade broke.

Blue steel sheared in half!
Ulrich’s sword failed!

The marshal gaped in horror.
“Impossible!”

The king staggered to a stop,
staring at his broken sword, little more than a hilt in his hands.

The Mordant attacked, sending a
vicious cut to the king’s head.

Weaponless, the king jerked
backward, trying to avoid the blow…and then he tripped and fell. The Mordant
leaped forward. Placing his boot on the king’s chest, he held him at sword
point. The Mordant removed his helm. “Behold the man who claims the life of a
king! Vengeance is mine this day!”

The marshal gasped for he knew the
face. Not a ghoul, not a lich, but a man with broken octagons branded deep into
his cheeks, Raymond, the traitor-knight of Castlegard.
The marshal’s great sword leaped to his hand as if it belonged there.
Rage drove him forward, a scream of defiance on his lips.
“No!”

The traitor lifted the black sword
in a two-handed grip, the tip held poised above the king’s chest.

The marshal redoubled his speed,
desperate to save the king.

The black blade plunged down. An
unstoppable force, it sliced through steel and leather, flesh and bone. The
king screamed as if burnt.

“
NO!”
Two strides and the marshal
swung. His great sword took the traitor at his throat, cleaving the head from
the body. Blood gushed from the severed throat. Headless, the skeleton
staggered for two steps and then crumpled to a bloody heap.

The marshal glared at the Mordant’s
guards and they chose to flee rather than fight, running for the enemy’s lines.

A great shout rose from both
armies, but the marshal did not care. He knelt by his king, grief struck. “My
lord!”

The king still lived, clutching the
dark blade embedded in his chest, but it was a mortal blow, and they both knew
it.

A sob broke from the marshal. “My
lord, they lied, it was not the Mordant.”

The king’s eyes locked on his.
“Sound…retreat.”

Chaos erupted around him. The other
champions surrounded the king with a ring of steel. And then a wagon rumbled
near. The healer held the horses to a tight turn. Baldwin
crouched in the wagon bed, his face chalk white. Quintus pulled the wagon to a
stop. “Put him here!” They bent to lift the king.

The healer shouted a warning.
“Remove the sword and he’ll die!”

They lay the king in the wagon bed,
the dark sword still protruding from his chest. Baldwin
cradled the king’s head, crying a river of tears. The healer cracked the reins.
The wagon jerked forward, the horses lashed to a gallop.
 

The marshal grabbed the reins of
his stallion and vaulted into the saddle. He threw a glance toward the far end
of the valley. The enemy roiled in a froth of confusion. Putting spurs to his
stallion, the marshal galloped back toward the Whore. “Sound the retreat!”
Standing in his stirrups, he yelled above the din.
“Sound the retreat!”

A single trumpeter obeyed, but it
was enough. The call stirred the maroon to action. Like angry hornets flung
from the nest they scrambled beyond the third wall, seeking mounts and
supplies.

The marshal spied Lothar in the
confusion. “Get the men away. Tell them to split up and ride for the hills. If
we leave a thousand trails, the enemy will never bother to follow. We’ll
regroup at the Stonehand in a fortnight.”

Lothar nodded. “And you?”

“I’m with the king.” Heedless of
anything else, the marshal put spurs to his horse and followed the wagon tracks
toward the hillside, desperate to reach his king.

60

Duncan

Pain pierced every part of his
body, a hundred stabs of agony. Chained to the stone floor, lying spread-eagled
beneath the gibbering shadows, madness reached for Duncan yet he fought to keep his sanity. He
needed to remember, he needed to live, holding onto the hope that Kath would
come…yet he feared for her to dare the Mordant’s stronghold.
 

Kath!
Her name alone was
like a balm, yet he tried not to think of her, afraid the shadows would invade
his mind, tricking him into a betrayal. Yet sometimes he could not resist.
Succumbing to daydreams, he clung to her easy smile or a flash of her leaf-green
eyes, imagining all that could have been. Such dreams were sweet but fraught
with danger. So he locked them tight in his heart, longing to know that she was
safe.

On worse days, when nightmares
plagued his mind, he lived in dread of the Mordant’s return. Three times the
Mordant had reached through his pain, using him as a scrying vessel to speak
with the Dark Lord. Always it started with a foul, oily taste in his mouth, a
prelude to agony. Even from afar, the Mordant inflicted torment, flaying his
body with Darkness, using him like a whore, a sacrifice to the Dark Lord. Each
ordeal seemed worse than the last, leaving him shuddering on the cold stone
floor, gagging on the foul taste of Darkness. Duncan wondered how much more he could
endure.

Naked and chained to the cavern
floor, he struggled to survive the slow drip of time, nothing to do but suffer
and wait. But then one day, he perceived a change. High among the stalactites,
the shadows broiled like angry wasps; perhaps something spoiled the plans of
the Dark Lord. Duncan
took it as a sign of hope, watching the shadows through hooded eyes.

Later, much later, he learned the
truth.

A small voice came to him in the
back of his mind. *
Are you there?*

*Yes!*
He grabbed for the
voice like a drowning man lunging for a piece of driftwood.

*Listen to me!*
The voice of
the monk whispered through his mind.
*A great battle has been fought*”

His heartbeat quickened, thinking
of Kath and her sword, but then he forced the image away, striving to listen.

*Raven Pass
has fallen; the Mordant’s hordes sweep south. The Octagon is defeated but not
broken, not humiliated. A traitor was revealed, spoiling the Mordant’s plans.
Ever the Deceiver, the Mordant laid a trap for the knights, hoping to defeat
the Octagon with their own honor. But the knights escaped the trap, scattering
into the mountains. Even in defeat, there is still hope!*

*What about the north?*
He
longed for some word of Kath yet he dare not reveal too much. He still did not
trust Bryce, not with his most precious secret.

*The Mordant’s gaze is fixed on
the south.*
Urgency spiked the monk’s words. *
You must tell the others.
The crystal dagger must come south!*

*
Where are you? Tell me more*

Fear flashed through the whispered
words, *
The Mordant wakes. I dare not
linger.*

And then the monk was gone, like a door closing in the back of his
mind. Duncan
was once more alone, trapped within his own nightmare. He rattled his chains
and glared at the shadows, but within his mind he savored the words of the
monk.
Even in defeat, there is
still hope.
The words gave him
strength, a way to fight back, making him a warrior once more. Laughter bubbled
out of him, a wild berserker’s laugh.
Duncan stared at the shadows and roared his
defiance. “You shall not win!” From the depths of the cavern, his words echoed
back to him, as if a thousand ghosts took up his war cry.
“You shall not
win!”
But the grim chorus could
not shake his conviction.
Even in this desolate hell, Duncan knew there was more to the world than
just darkness.