The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga) (8 page)

She nodded; relieved her throw had
been in time. Sheathing her sword, she checked to make sure the amber pyramid
and the gargoyle were both safe, and then grabbed her saddlebag and a water
skin and began tending the monk. “What were those things?”

Zith grimaced as she cleaned the
wounds on his chest. “Abominations.”

“I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“
Soul magic
,” The monk spat the words, making the hand sign against
evil. “The Mordant plies the worst sort of magic.”

Quick as a dagger stroke, a
squealing horse fell silent.

Zith hissed in pain as Kath poured
a measure of brandy on his wounds. “Do you have another robe?”

He nodded, gritting his teeth.

“Good, because this one’s slashed
to rags.” Kath tore strips from his robe, using them to bind his wounds.

A third horse fell silent. Duncan returned, striding
through the long grass, silent as a shadow. He helped Zith to his feet. The
monk leaned on his quarterstaff. They limped back to the others.

They found Blaine cleaning blood from his blue steel
blade. The blond-haired knight seemed unscathed. He prodded a dead hellhound
with his boot. “They’re ugly but they die like any other beast.”

Danya looked up, tears streaking
her face. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help.” She shook her head, her voice breaking.
“But those things clawed at my mind.” She shuddered, hugging the wolf, her dark
gaze full of sorrow. “The poor horses, they did not deserve such pain.”

“Duncan gave them mercy.” Kath handed Danya
the water skin and then knelt, studying one of the dead beasts. Larger than a
wolf, the shaggy fur was an ugly motley of tan and black, but the true horror
was the head. Snout of a wolf, the curved teeth of a sabercat, and the cruel
yellow eyes of a bird of prey, all combined into a single nightmare. She clutched
the crystal dagger, her words a whisper. “By the nine hells, what are they?”

Danya answered, her voice grim. “It
felt unclean, like something corrupted, twisted beyond the touch of nature.”

Zith said, “Abomination.”

Kath nodded, her voice full of dread.
“It didn’t fight like a beast. It knew to avoid the easy meat and go for the
lead rider…almost as if it could
think
.”
She shivered. “Truly a hound loosed from hell.” Kath realized it was the second
time she’d been hunted by the Mordant’s creatures. First the magic-sniffing
goblin man and now the hellhounds, she did not like being prey.

Blaine sheathed his blue steel sword. “We
haven’t even reached the Mordant’s domain and we’ve already lost most of the
horses. Five riders, two horses, it will be a long walk either way. And Valin
only knows what other nasty surprises await.” He stared at Kath, a question in
his gaze.

The horses were a major loss but
they could not give up. “We bind our wounds and retrieve what we can from the
horses.” Unease pricked the back of her neck. “We’ll head north. But we best
leave before the scavengers come, before the ravens betray us.”

Duncan stared north. “Too late.”

His words froze her. “What?”

He pointed north. “Hunters follow
the hounds.”

Kath stared at the horizon, a cold
hand gripping her stomach. A line of riders approached at a gallop, a hundred
spears bristling against the sky. Their armor gleamed black and gold in the
waning sunlight,
soldiers of the Mordant.
A horn blared, a call to arms. Death rode towards them.

8

The Mordant

The Dark Citadel thrust up from the land like a mailed fist. Built around
a massive rock, the citadel’s dark ramparts dominated the steppes. Black
granite walls spiraled nine times around the central monolith, creating eight
tiers of city streets crowned by the royal palace, a stone beehive swarming
with slaves, servants, soldiers, and priests, all awaiting their rightful
lord.
 

The Mordant smiled, surveying the seat of his power. Thousands had
perished raising the tiered city, a marvel of human toil, but the true wonder
lay in the foundation, in the secret heart of the monolithic rock. Buried in
the ancient depths, a doorway opened to Darkness. Even leagues away, he could
feel the Dark Lord’s summons, a hungry pulse tugging at his soul, the same
summons that had first drawn him to the monolith so many lifetimes ago.

Keen to reclaim his destiny, the Mordant urged his stallion to a gallop.
Surging ahead of his entourage, he gloried in his youth and his vigor. A cold
breeze blew from the west, a tang of sea salt heavy in the air. Seagulls roiled
overhead, their forlorn cries heralding his return. Nearly invisible from the
farmland, the ocean pounded against cliffs three hundred foot high, eating away
at the land, an abrupt end to the northern steppes. The jagged coastline came
within a few hundred feet of the Dark Citadel, the rocky cove providing access
to the Western Ocean, a source of power and intrigue.

Five leagues to the east lay another wellspring of power, a triumph of an
earlier lifetime. Wooden towers reared into the sky, perched on the edge of the
pit like giant praying mantises. A remnant from the War of Wizards, the pit had
proved an unexpected boon, providing a fertile breeding ground for a twisted
army.

Centuries of toil and achievements surrounded him, his great grand design
finally coming to fruition. The Mordant spurred his horse, a feeling of triumph
simmering in his soul.

His gaze snapped to the citadel. The dark heart of the north called him
home. He galloped across the remaining leagues, his long black cape streaming
behind, the cold wind raking his blond hair.

A delegation of black-robed priests stood in the citadel’s shadow.
Keepers of ritual, the priests of the pentacle administered his city, as well
as the Trials of Return. Reining his stallion to a halt, the Mordant studied
their faces, all of them strangers, too young to remember his last lifetime.

His guards arrived in a thunder of hooves. Stern faces under dark helms,
they formed a crescent of steel at his back. The Darkflamme snapped overhead, a
forked banner of black silk writhing in the wind.

The Mordant eased his stallion forward, his words conforming to ancient
ritual. “Death has once more been defeated. The Mordant returns to claim his
throne.”

A bearded bishop met his gaze. Leaning on a wooden staff tipped with a
golden pentacle, he stared up at the Mordant, his face wary, his words full of
ritual. “The Trials of Return will prove your claim…or see you
dead
.” He waved his hand, summoning a
priest holding a velvet pillow, a simple iron circlet nestled on velvet. “Dare
to wear the na-Mordant’s crown and your life will be forfeit if you fail.”

The priest approached, holding the pillow like a holy offering.

The Mordant claimed the iron crown. Raising the circlet with both hands,
he made his voice loud enough for all to hear. “
I am the Mordant reborn
.” He crowned himself, settling the circlet
on his brow. “By deeds and words I will prove my claim ere the sun sets this
day.”

The bishop raised his staff in benediction. “Let the Dark Lord’s will be
done.”

The ritual completed, the Mordant flashed the cleric a confident smile.
“Is everything prepared?”

“All according to ritual.”

“And High Priest Gavis?”

“Awaits you on the top tier.”

“Good.” The Mordant wheeled his stallion toward the citadel. “Then let
the Trials be finished.” He spurred the stallion to a canter, hooves clattering
on the long stone ramp. The citadel towered above, black banners streaming from
crenelated ramparts. A square gatehouse straddled the ramp; the ironbound doors
thrown open wide like the maw of a hungry beast. Soldiers crowded the ramparts,
straining for a view.
 

The Mordant slowed his stallion to a stately prance, passing beneath the
stone arch. Emerging from the gate’s shadow, he entered the citadel to a
triumphant roar. Trumpets blared and people cheered. Young and old lined the
cobblestone street, black-armored soldiers holding back the crush. In the
center of the street, stood four young pages burdened with baskets of fresh
baked bread and pouches bulging with coins. By long-standing tradition, the
Mordant’s largess summoned the people to the Trial of Return.

Burdened with bread, the pages preceded the Mordant, tossing small loaves
and copper coins to the waiting crowd. People surged forward, hands
outstretched, grasping at the bounty. Spear-wielding soldiers held the crowd in
check, keeping the street open.

The Mordant kept his stallion to walk, studying his people. Faces lean
with hunger stared up at him, fighting for crusts of bread and copper coins. Most
looked half-starved, their clothing threadbare. Little had changed in the ninth
tier. By design, the citadel’s lowest level held society’s dregs. Barely more
than slaves yet they clung to their positions with a rabid ferocity. Stewed in
their own misery, they fought to survive, fermenting the feral qualities the
Mordant prized in his assassins. He nodded in approval, pleased that nothing
had changed, all part of his grand dark design.

People cheered as he passed, reaching for the Mordant’s bounty. Dancing
in the street, they held loaves of bread aloft. A frenzied, festive feeling
prevailed. The Mordant smothered a smile. By beginning each reign with a veneer
of benevolence, he gave his people a leader to revere, a hope for a better
life, a grand delusion that ensnared their loyalty. And all the while they
blamed their misery on the priesthood, the ruthless administrators of the citadel’s
harsh laws, the cruel taskmasters who separated the people from their god-monarch.
The Mordant laughed, enjoying the beauty of the delusion. Mortals were so
easily deceived.

A young boy ducked between two solders, his gaze fixed on a fallen round
of bread. Oblivious to the Mordant’s warhorse, he darted toward the crusty loaf.
Startled, the warhorse reared, lashing out with ironshod hooves. The boy
tripped and fell, cowering beneath the rearing horse. The Mordant yanked on the
reins, forcing the stallion to settle, turning the horse away from the boy.

A guard grabbed the boy, slapping him across the face with a gauntleted
hand.

“No!” The Mordant stayed the guard. “Give him a loaf of bread and return
him to his mother. See that he is not harmed.”

Saluting, the guard leaped to obey.

A roar of approval echoed through the street.

The Mordant smiled, another delusion of benevolence.

The procession resumed its stately march, slowly spiraling toward the
upper tiers. Gatehouses divided each tier, but on this day, all the gates were
thrown wide open. As the street spiraled upward, the Mordant rode from poverty
into prosperity. Dirt and grime gave way to gleaming polish. Colors appeared in
the crowd, crimson and sapphire and malachite, bright silks and warm furs replacing
drab wools. Each tier had its purpose, from the lowly rabble, to the servants,
the craftsmen, the soldiers, the armorers, the acolytes, the officers, and the
priests, each according to their worth.
B
y its very nature, the tiered city enforced a soul-numbing stagnation
designed to feed the Dark Lord. Sons were condemned to the trade of their
fathers and daughters were raised to bear more sons. The rare few who advanced
beyond their birth station, did so by climbing on the backs of others. And
above all, everyone sought the intercession of the Mordant, seeking a chance to
vault above their station.

Shadows lengthened, cloaking the citadel in shade. The streets became
steep, slowly spiraling to the palace. With each passing tier, the Mordant’s
largess changed. By the time he reached the top, the four pages threw coins of
silver and gold. Even in the upper tiers, the people pushed and shoved,
scrambling for every coin. Greed remained pervasive in the citadel, a mortal
trait the Mordant encouraged.

Rounding the final bend, he found the way forward blocked by immense
doors clad in gold reliefs, the gatehouse to the first tier. A flurry of
trumpets announced his arrival. An honor guard snapped to attention, black
banners fluttering in the wind. The Mordant nudged his horse toward the final
gate.

Four times the height of a tall man, the golden doors displayed triumphs
from his past lives. The cataclysm of Azreal, the creation of the Pit, the
destruction of the Star Knights, the battle at Breanth, the raising of the Dark
Citadel, the completion of the Gargoyle Gates. Victories, betrayals, feats of
dark magic, the gates displayed the legacy of his past lives, all done for the
glory of the Dark Lord. The Mordant smiled, knowing this lifetime promised to
eclipse them all, the final culmination of age-old plans. Eager to begin, he
made his voice a command.
“The Mordant has
returned. Open the god gate.”

A pair of black-robed priest slowly pushed the great doors open,
revealing the wonders of the first tier.

Behind him, the crowd jostled for a view.

Dismounting, he threw the reins to a waiting page and strode beneath the
shadowed archway.

An ambush of crossbowmen stepped from the shadows, their loaded weapons
trained on his chest.

The Mordant stared at the soldiers, his arms held wide. The soldiers
lowered their crossbows and sank to their knees. Had he dared defy the laws of
the citadel by riding a horse through the golden gates, they would have
skewered him with quarrels, proof of an imposter, another deadly test.

Walking past the soldiers, he strode to the heart of the first tier, to the
great circular courtyard. Fashioned from silvery granite, the stones of the
courtyard were inlayed with runes carved from black marble. Written in a
language long forgotten, the runes spiraled out from the center, imbuing the citadel
with dark cantrips of endurance and strength. At the very heart of the runic
spiral, the peak of the monolith thrust up to the sky, revealing the dark
doorway to below.

The Mordant stared at the shadowy doorway, breathing deep, feeling the
rush of Dark power, the age old summons. He bowed low, his words hushed, “Soon,
my Lord” and then he turned and strode across the courtyard.

The royal palace dominated the far side, a crescent shaped edifice made
of gilded columns and black marble. Burnished bright by the fading sunlight,
the twisted columns glowed golden.

Arrayed in all of their finery, the citadel’s elite stood on the palace
steps, a bejeweled spectacle of bright silks and polished armor. High priests,
generals, and stewards, the mortals who risked the most by his ascension, stood
ready to witness the Trials. Most yearned to watch an imposter die a horrible
death, remaining secure in their borrowed power. Staring down at him, they kept
their faces stone-closed, their eyes wary, but they could not hide their souls.
Darkness rolled down the steps in waves. The Mordant breathed deep, sorting
through the tangled scents. Most reeked of boundless ambition, ruthless
cruelty, and cold-blooded murder, the common tools of statecraft in the citadel…but
underneath the petty acts of Darkness, he caught a hint of rarer fare, the
taint of treachery…and a tantalizing thread of fear. Only a rare few had the
wisdom to fear, mostly the graybeards, the ones who remembered.

The Mordant hid his smile. Fear was useful; it led to obedience. He
searched the faces of the elite, making note of those he’d known in his last
lifetime. Old and gray, the few who survived were ravaged by time. So many more
were missing, conquered by death or the ambitions of younger men; the politics
of the Dark Citadel were not for the faint of heart.
 

He breathed deep, taking their measure. Of all the flavors of Darkness,
treachery spiked the Mordant’s attention like no other. He smelled it now,
staining the steps of the palace. More than a few souls carried the taint…but
it swirled the strongest around one man, the High Priest, the keeper of rituals,
the administrator of the citadel, the one man who ruled in the Mordant’s
absence. Dressed in rich robes of the blackest velvet, High Priest Gavis wore a
tall conical hat, a golden chain of linked pentacles around his neck, a staff
encrusted with black diamonds held in his right hand. A robust man in his
mid-fifties, he had long auburn hair, a hawksbill nose, and a majestic beard.
Gavis had done well for himself. At the time of the Mordant’s last death, he’d
been nothing more than a freshly sworn acolyte, newly dedicated to the priesthood.
Wielding a sin dark soul full of boundless ambition, Gavis had climbed far and fast,
but now he teetered on the knife-edge of treason.

The Mordant studied the elite, sensing the swirling undercurrents of
threats and possibilities. Clearly the young needed a lesson in fear, a
demonstration of his power, another reason for the Trials of Return. The
Mordant turned a cold stare to the High Priest, his voice ringing with
challenge. “I am the Mordant re-born. I come before you to complete the Trials
of Return and claim the Ebony Throne.”