The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga) (48 page)

“Who’s there?” A shout rang from
the ramparts, followed by a scream.

A crossbow bolt whistled into the
courtyard, but it struck only stone.

“
Hurry!”
Kath stood in a
crouch, holding her blade at the ready, searching the shadows for enemies.

Boar grunted, struggling to lift
the massive beam.

Shouts rang from the ramparts. A
man screamed and a body tumbled from the walls, landing with a thud on the
cobblestones. Kath flicked a glance toward the corpse, relieved to see a
stranger’s face.
“Hurry!”

A door crashed open and more guards
poured out.

“They’re coming!”
Kath
tensed, tightening her grip on her sword and shield.

A troop of guards raced towards
her, their weapons bared.
 

Behind her, the massive beam
crashed to the cobblestones. The gates creaked open.

“They’re coming!”
And then
the fight was upon her. She parried the nearest sword thrust. Steel clanged met
with a fearsome clash. The brutal blow shuddered down her sword arm. Kath pivoted
away, slashing toward her opponent’s knees. A second sword flashed towards her
neck. Spying the blow from the corner of her eye, she pulled away at the last
moment. Sweat erupted beneath her chainmail. Badly outnumbered, she lurched
backward, keeping her shield raised, too many to fight. Slash and turn, she
gave ground, trying to blunt their attack.

And then the others came. With a
wild howl, her painted warriors poured through the open gate. They roared into
the guards, pushing them back, leaving a trail of death in their wake.

The battle swept past Kath.
Sheathing her sword, she ran to nearest torch. Wresting it from its bracket, she
leaped towards the gate. Standing in the open mouth, she waved the torch back
and forth, once, twice, thrice.

A howl erupted from the steppes.
Her army was coming. Tossing the torch aside, she unsheathed her sword and ran
to join the others. “
For Castlegard and the Light!”
She raced up the
cobblestone street, torchlight glinting on arms and armor. The battle for the
Dark Citadel was begun.

62

Katherine

The night became a confusion of
swords, a running battle fought in the streets. The cobblestones ran slick with
gore. Kath fought in the vanguard, struggling to push the guards up hill. One
step at a time, they claimed the street, a bloody clash of steel.

A sword stroke rushed towards her
face. Kath took the blow on her shield and then lunged forward. Her sword found
an opening, severing a guard’s hand. Another guard leaped to take his place.
All around her, swords rang to a furious beat. Men in sheepskins battled men in
armor. Her rag-tag band of painted warriors fought like demons, pushing the
soldiers back, their fury defeating discipline. But Kath knew fury was
fleeting. She urged her warriors forward, desperate to break the guards.

Beside her, a painted warrior slumped
to the cobblestones, a feathered bolt lodged in his back. More bolts rained
down. The street became a deathtrap. “
Push them back!”
She redoubled her
effort. They needed to get away from the gate.

Feathered bolts hissed among them.
More warriors fell. Some clutched arms and legs but there was no time for the
wounded. Once begun, the battle was to the death.

The fighting was fierce, a desperate struggle on both sides. Men yelled
and screamed. Wounded crawled away, trailing slicks of blood. Horns blared,
adding to the confusion. Kath screamed her battle cry,
“
For the Light!
” Bear and Boar fought beside her, a sword
on her right a spiked mace on her left. The big men dodged in front, taking a
blow aimed at Kath. Fighting like lions, they forced the guards to give ground,
but not fast enough. Crossbow bolts hissed from the wall, bleeding their ranks
from behind.

Somehow Blaine
found her. Screaming his battle cry,
“For
the Octagon!”
he pushed his way to
the front, cleaving a path through the enemy. His blue sword cut like a scythe,
driving the enemy back, but still the guards did not break.

Footsteps thundered from behind. Painted warriors poured through the
gates, joining the fray, their tattooed faces savage in the torchlight. Like a
relentless tide they pounded up the street, adding their numbers to the
vanguard, a battering ram pushing from behind. The line surged forward, trampling
the wounded. The guards gave ground…and then they broke and ran.

“For
the Light!”
Kath led the charge.

Her painted warriors gave chase, howling like banshees.

The cobblestone street curved upward, taking them beyond the reach of
the deadly crossbows. Houses crowded close, creating a canyon of stone.
Doors
slammed shut all along the street. Grim faces peered from half-shuttered
windows. The people of the citadel neither hindered nor helped. A smoldering
rage erupted in Kath. She longed to drag the watchers from their homes and
convince them to fight, but she dared not stop. The tides of battle were
fickle. The advantage had swung to her side and she needed to ride the wave all
the way to the top.

Someone howled like a wolf and the
others took up the cry, as if a rabid pack stalked the citadel. Stone walls
echoed the sound, multiplying their numbers. Tattooed faces leered in the
torchlight, hungry for vengeance.

Their savagery had the intended
effect. All resistance melted away.

The guards fled, disappearing into
side alleyways. Kath kept her men together, refusing to be lured into rabbit
warrens. Weapons held at the ready, they pounded up the main street, a
relentless army of savage-faced warriors grinding their way toward the top.

The street curved around a bend,
spilling into a second courtyard. Another gate blocked the way, a gleam of
armored soldiers on the ramparts. But the torchlight revealed an obstacle of a
different sort. Brown-robed citizens clogged the courtyard. A frightened mob
pounded on the gates, demanding sanctuary. A black-robed priest stood atop the
barbican, exhorting the people to fight. “Stay within your tier! Protect your
homes! Take up arms and fight! Kill the invaders and your reward shall be
great!”

Kath’s army slowed to a crawl,
crowding the mob from behind. She leaned toward Bear. “Can you reach the priest
with your sling?”

“Yes.”

“Then wait for my word.” Kath
raised her voice to the crowd. “Why do you listen to the priests, when they are
your true enemy?”

The crowd milled in confusion,
frightened faces staring back at her.

“We’ve come to save you not to
fight you! Join us! Kill the priests and take the citadel!”

The priest’s face twisted into a
mask of rage. “Kill the invaders!”

Kath hissed, “Now!”

Bear’s sling whirled.

Crossbow bolts hissed from the
walls, striking warriors and citizens alike. Kath took a bolt on her shield,
staggering under the blow. A woman shrieked and children wept. Screams erupted
through the courtyard, a massacre in the making.

Bear’s aim struck true.

The priest tumbled from the wall, a
flutter of dark robes landing on the cobblestones. The mob surged forward,
attacking the priest and the gate.

More sling stones whirled through
the air, striking the guards atop the wall.

Crossbows answered with a rain of
death.

The courtyard became a deathtrap. Kath
had to break the stalemate. Choosing a handful of warriors, she led them into a
side alley. “We need to open the gate!” Left and then right, she made her way
toward the wall. Bear and Blaine
kept pace at her side. She gripped their arms, and they ran for the wall.
“Don’t stop!”

They leaped into stone. Darkness
clawed at Kath but she barreled forward, never breaking stride. The inner walls
were not as thick as the outer. They stumbled into air…and found themselves in
a bedroom. A woman shrieked, clutching sheets pulled to her chin. Beside her, a
naked man blustered.

“We mean you no harm.” Kath made
for the doorway, Bear and Blaine
pounding behind. They tumbled through a kitchen and then another door, before
reaching the street.
 

The sounds of battle drew them
toward the gate.

Torches lined the barbican, a halo
of light against the crenelated battlement. Soldiers crowded the walls, but
they stared the other way, loosing bolts at the mob. Only four guards barred
their path to the gates.

Surprise was their best ally. Quiet
as death, they raced toward the gate. Kath hurled her twin axes at the nearest
guards. Blaine
leaped forward, his blue sword held high. One guard fell, an axe embedded in
his throat. Another staggered backward, taking an axe in his shoulder. Before
they could raise an alarm, Blaine
reached the two remaining guards, attacking with a head-high swing. Blue steel
keened a deadly whistle, cleaving straight through flesh and bone, taking two
heads with a single blow. Bear dispatched the wounded guard and Kath retrieved her
axes. “
Hurry!”

The two men ran to the gate while
Kath stood guard. Putting shoulders to the crossbar, they struggled to lift the
massive log.

“Hurry!”

 
Groaning, they heaved the log from the braces.
The massive beam crashed to the cobblestones and the gates creaked open. Shouts
rang from the barbican but it was too late to stem the tide.

Kath and the two men retreated back
up the street. Ducking into a side alley, they crouched in the dark.

The gates swung wide and the mob
poured through.

Peering from the alley, Kath
studied the people they’d come to save. Small and slight, they seemed stunted
and malformed. Dirty and dressed in drab rags, they looked like a pack of
starving urchins, yet the rage on their faces was fearsome to behold. Fists
raised, the mob raced up the street, howling like a pack of harpies loosed from
hell. One carried a spear impaled with the priest’s severed head. The grisly
trophy waved back and forth like a battle banner, spattering the crowd with
blood. The mob cheered, seething with hate. Kath wondered what type of
whirlwind she’d unleashed.

Blaine and Bear stayed close, their weapons
held at the ready. They hid in the alley while the mob thundered passed.

Moments later the army followed.
Howling like wolves, the painted warriors ran through the street like a pack
loosed to the wild hunt.

Kath stepped from the alley,
standing within a ring of torchlight. The painted warriors raised a great
cheer. “
Svala!”
Their shout shook the citadel. “
Svala!”
She drew
her sword and led them forward, feeling the weight of destiny at her back.

63

The Knight Marshal

The marshal pushed his horse to a
frothing gallop. The wagon proved too easy to follow. Twin ruts carved a path
into snow, an easy signpost for friends or foes. Their best defense was
confusion. With the maroon in retreat, the marshal hoped they’d leave too many
trails for the enemy to follow, a scattering of thousands disappearing into the
foothills, like mice scurrying to countless boltholes.

Horns echoed up from the valley, a
desperate blare repeating the retreat, but his only care was for the king. He
gained the hilltop and skirted a stand of cedar, deep green against a forest of
winter branches, a crust of snow covering the ground. The hillside dipped into
a hidden valley, a small hollow nestled among the pines. Somewhere in the
heights an owl hooted, a lonely sound. He spurred his horse forward, praying he
wasn’t too late.

The wagon stood at the heart of the
hollow, horses lathered and blowing, hobbled within in their traces. A massive
oak loomed overhead like a marker, bare branches stark against a winter sky.
Shadows crowded the hollow, the first touch of twilight. The marshal shivered,
pulling his maroon cloak close, too many portents of death.

Three champions guarded the king,
their weapons unsheathed. Sir Rannock, Sir Blaze, and Sir Abrax stood sentry around
the wagon, grim-faced veterans, alert and wary, but they lowered their weapons
when he rode into sight.

The marshal swung down from the
saddle before the horse even came to a stop. His gaze sought out Sir Rannock.
“Is he still?”

Sir Rannock nodded, his face tense.
“Just.”

Sir Abrax growled, “Did you see his
face? A traitor hiding beneath the Mordant’s armor,” he hawked and spat,
“treachery and treason combined.”

Sir Rannock said, “If the arrogant
bastard hadn’t lifted his visor we might have honored the terms.”

But the marshal had no time for
idle banter. “You three stand guard at the top of the rise. The wagon paints
too clear a trail. We dare not be surprised.”

The men saw through his words but
they obeyed, mounting their horses with a swirl of maroon.

“And take Baldwin
with you. I must speak with the king.”

Dazed with shock, the red-haired
squire obeyed. He swung up behind Sir Blaze, gripping the knight’s maroon
cloak.

Sir Rannock saluted. The horses
whirled, a clatter of hooves on stone.

But the marshal was already focused
on the king. Drawn like iron to a lodestone, he strode toward the wagon. The
king lay sprawled across the flatbed, his face pale, his silver hair matted
with sweat, his breastplate skewered by the dark sword. They’d removed most of
his armor, but not the breastplate. The hilt of the blade jutted up from the
king’s chest, dark and obscene, proof of treachery and treason.

The marshal flicked a questioning
glance to the healer. “Still alive?” The words were nearly a sob but the healer
gave the barest of nods.

The marshal forced out the other
question. “Can you?”

Quintus shook his head, his face
lined with sadness. “He is beyond my skill.” The brown-robed healer knelt by
the king, gently easing a poultice under the breastplate.

“Osbourne…is that you?” The king’s
hand reached out.

The marshal climbed into the wagon.
Kneeling, he gripped the outstretched hand, so cold the king seemed already dead,
one hand reaching from the grave. “Stay with me, my liege.”

“Blue steel…failed.”

The marshal rushed to reassure his
lord. “It wasn’t the fault of the sword, or the wielder.” Pride leached into
his voice. “You fought like a legend, sire. But the dark blade is surely cursed,
another trick of the Mordant. At least the traitor is dead, I promise you
that.”

Pain ripped across the king’s face.
“It burns, Osbourne. It sucks the life from me. Pull it out.”

He yearned to rip the cursed blade
from his king’s body yet his gaze sought the healer.

Quintus whispered a warning.
“Remove it and he dies all the quicker.”

He gripped the king’s hand, willing
him to live. “My lord, there is something I need ask.”

“The men?”

“I sounded the retreat and ordered
the men to scatter. We’ll regroup in a fortnight and harry the enemy from the
rear.” Stubborn pride filled his voice. “Be assured, my lord, the Octagon
fights on.”

“Good.” The king sighed, as if a great
weight eased from his shoulders, but then his face twisted in pain. “The sword,
Osbourne! It burns!”
 

 
The marshal dreaded asking the question yet it
needed to be done. “My lord, the Octagon needs a king.”

 
The king stared up at him, a bubble of blood
at the side of his mouth. “Five sons…dead.”

“Yes, my lord.” The marshal could
not imagine another man wearing the octagon crown yet he persisted. “Who will
you name as your successor? One of the champions or a younger captain, someone
who can take the Anvril name and wear the crown? Perhaps Sir Abrax or Sir Blaze
or Sir Ademar?”

The healer intervened. “My lord,
you still have an heir of your body.”

The marshal rebuked the healer with
a sharp stare but Quintus persisted, his voice low and urgent. “Princess
Katherine is the rightful heir to the Octagon.”

The marshal reared back in shock.
“A mere girl?”

“She proved herself at Cragnoth
Keep, defeating Trask and the other traitors. And she lit the signal fires
calling the Octagon to war. And she dared go north when others would not
listen.”

The marshal felt the weight of the
great sword strapped to his back, another man’s sword, taken from the ashes of
the signal tower. “True knights fought at Cragnoth, Sir Tyrone and Sir Blaine,
how dare you ascribe their deeds to a mere girl.”

Anger rode the healer’s words.
“You’re as blind as the others. The gods choose Katherine.
She
is the
true bane of the Mordant.”

“A mere girl cannot wear the
octagon crown.”

“Does…Katherine…still live?”

The king’s question stilled both
men.

The healer answered. “Sire, she
must, else our best hope is lost.” Quintus bent toward the king, conviction in
his voice. “She is your true heir, a warrior and a leader.”

Blood frothed at the king’s mouth.
“Only…a girl.”

Frustration rode the healer’s
words. “Trust to your blood if nothing else. She is the last of your line. An
Anvril, born and bred to the sword!”

“My sons…were born to…lead.”

“And all of them are dead!”

The king gasped for breath, making
a painful gurgle.

The marshal heard death lurking
beneath the sound. “My lord, speak but a name and they will wear the crown.” He
leaned toward the king, desperate for an answer. “Will you have Katherine as
your heir? Or will you name another? One of your champions or a younger
captain?” He held his breath, willing the king to speak.

The king’s stare moved from the
marshal to the healer and then toward the distant heavens. “
My…sons!”
Blood frothed at his mouth…and then his face went slack as death.

“
My lord, no!”
The marshal
gripped the king’s hand, but there was no life left. Sorrow warred with rage. A
scream ripped out of him. “
My king!”
He stood and yanked the cursed
sword from the king’s body…
and the hilt burned his hands!
Like cold fire
eating through mail and leather, it stung him. He hurled the cursed blade into
the woods.
“It burns!”

The others heard his shout and came
riding at a gallop.

He stood in the wagon, consumed by
grief. “The king is dead.”

They milled on their horses,
staring up at him, shock writ large across their faces, yet they waited for a
single name to be proclaimed. But he had nothing to give them. Instead he said,
“Time to honor our king. He earned a hero’s cairn.”

The others bowed their heads in
acceptance.

The marshal shot the healer a
silencing glare.
 

They washed the king and bound his
wounds. One last time, the marshal armored his lord, greaves and gorget,
bracers and helm. They laid him on the crest of the hill, where he could keep
watch over Raven Pass. The marshal arranged the king’s
maroon cloak so it covered the hideous rent in his breastplate. King Ursus
looked as if he slept, his skin as pale as alabaster, yet he would never again
wield a sword or lead the maroon into battle. Grief choked the marshal’s
throat.

They raised a cairn of stones over
him, working late into the night. The healer offered to help but the marshal sent
him away, keeping the honor for the maroon.

Working in silence, they scavenged
stones from the hillside. The marshal set the last stone on the shoulder-high
cairn. A great sadness descended upon him. There should have been trumpets and
drums and a long recitation of honors, but there were only four knights and a
squire attending the grave. The marshal drew his sword in a final salute. A
ring of steel came from the others. He raised his sword to the heavens. “For
Honor and the Octagon!”

The others echoed his cry.
“Honor
and the Octagon!”

The marshal stood at the head of
the cairn, remembering his king. “Here lies Ursus Anvril, a valiant king, a
staunch warrior, a man of honor, he gave his life defending the southern
kingdoms, the last great king of the Octagon.”

He felt the other’s stares but he
had no more words to give. One at a time, they sheathed their weapons and bowed
toward the cairn and then they drifted away, but the marshal kept vigil with
his lord. Twining his gloved hands around his sword hilt, he stood guard over
the cairn, watching the stars span the winter sky. The world seemed a lonely
place, impossibly empty without his king.

Something white glided through the
trees. Silent as a ghost, it came to rest just beyond the cairn. “
Whoooo?”
A
giant frost owl stared up at him, golden eyes glowing in the faint starlight.
The owl seemed to ripple and stretch and then a blue-robed monk stood in its
place.

The marshal staggered back a step.
“So it’s true!” The monk looked older, dark rings beneath his eyes, more than a
touch of gray feathering his long hair.

“My sorrow for your loss.” The monk
gestured to the cairn. “It seems I’ve come too late. But perhaps all is not
lost.” Aeroth raised his right hand, palm held outward, revealing the blue
tattoo of a Seeing Eye. “For the third time, I come bearing warnings to the
Octagon. The king has fallen and shadows threaten all of Erdhe. Time grows
short. Will you listen?”

The marshal gripped his sword,
suddenly realizing all the decisions were now his to bear. “Speak your words.”

“A great king dies without naming
an heir.”

The marshal gasped, the meddling
monks knew too much.

But Aeroth gave him no time to
respond. “It is best if the Octagon remains headless.”

“Why?”

“So that the Mordant’s gaze is kept
elsewhere, away from the rightful heir.”

His mind seemed to be stuffed with
wool. “The rightful heir?”

The monk gave him a piercing stare.
“Katherine of Castlegard.”

He gaped to hear the name. “Just a
girl.” But sometimes he wondered, ever since the battle at Cragnoth Keep, but
it could not be, it went against everything he believed. “Just a girl.”

“The king’s trueborn daughter, born
and bred to the sword, yet she is far more than just a warrior.”

A
girl wielding a sword,
the image was unsettling. “Why does the octagon
crown matter to you?”

“It matters to Erdhe.”

Anger boiled within him. “So now
the truth is revealed. Your Order is nothing but a bunch of bloody kingmakers.”

The monk shrugged, but the
intensity of his gaze never lessened. “We’ve been called worse.” He gestured to
the cairn. “One age is ended but another begins. Born of blood and deceit, the
new age threatens to be full of Darkness unless a few dare to make a
difference.” The monk stared at him, as if peering into his very soul. “Will
you dare to be among the few?”

“I’ll hear your words but I’ll make
no promises”

“My Order takes the long view.
Unlike the king, you know our warnings are worth heeding.”

The marshal waited, unwilling to
answer.

“Name no heir, at least for now.”

He could have laughed, or cried,
for he had no heir to name. For the thousandth time this night, he wished the
king had spoken a name, just one name, any name, taking the awful weight from
his shoulders. “I’ll wait…for now.”

The monk nodded, his face solemn.
“And be wary of the dark sword, for it is not meant for the hands of men.” And
then the monk was shifting, blurring, changing, till a giant frost owl took
wing into the night.

“Wait! I have questions.” But the
owl was already gone, soaring over the treetops.

The marshal swayed on his feet,
suddenly struck with a profound weariness. Too much had happened this day, too
much loss, too much pain. The night tightened around him, dark and cold and
quiet…and full of loneliness.

Torchlight glimmered in the valley
below. A river of torches moved south, too many to count. The enemy rallied,
claiming Raven Pass. The way was open to the south,
nothing to stop the Mordant’s hordes. The Octagon had failed.

Defeat,
the word tasted sour in his mind. Weary and disheartened, the marshal
leaned on his sword, standing guard over the cairn. His king was gone and the
world had changed. His soul rang with sadness. Perhaps the monk had the truth
of it. Perhaps it was a new age, full of magic and darkness, full of tricks and
deceit, but for the sake of his king, he would not give up. He raised his sword
to the night sky and made his pledge before the king’s cairn. “For Honor and
the Octagon!” And it seemed the mountains echoed his cry, as if the gods
accepted his word. Perhaps honor and valor still mattered in a world turned
dark. The marshal clung to the hope, for it was all he had left.