The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga) (13 page)

Someone called her name. Hands
gripped her shoulders, shaking her back to wakefulness. She stared up at Blaine, surprised by the
lines of worry on his face. He brushed the hair out of her eyes, a cool hand
against her forehead. “You’re on fire!”

She shook her head, trying to
think. “The wolf is hurt.”
 

“He’s not the only one.” Blaine held a water skin
to her lips, a cool trickle soothing her throat. She grabbed the skin, greedy
for more, drinking till her thirst slaked. Gasping for breath, she tried to
explain. “Bryx is hurt, raked by a hellhound’s claws.”
  

“A wound from a hellhound?” He drew
his dagger, worry scrawled across his face.

She nodded, confused.

He cut the blanket strips binding
her thigh, releasing a sudden flair of pain.

She sat up, trying to see.

He pulled the strips away and she
screamed. Clenching her jaw against the pain, she stared at her thigh. Five
claw marks oozed black pus.

Her vision swam.
“No!”
She shook her head in denial. “Duncan cleaned the wound!”
Kath struggled to understand, darkness nipping at her mind. She gripped Blaine’s arm, a shudder of
fear. “
Poison!”

A cold shiver raced through her.
She struggled to think, like swimming through molasses. And all the while the
skull from the steppes kept laughing at her. “We need help.” It couldn’t end
like this, not without meaning, lost in the god-cursed steppes, poisoned by a
hellhound. Her fingers dug into Blaine’s
arm, desperate for an anchor.
“Duncan!”
Darkness
pulled her under, a fog of poison, a dreamless haze of pain.

14

Duncan

Running by night, snatching sleep
by day, Duncan
followed the trail north, closing the distance on his prey. He paused to check
the tracks, his haste tempered by the need to be sure the deserters did not divide.
If even one escaped, then the hunt failed. The truth of the battlefield must
never reach the Mordant.

A spray of stars stretched across
the midnight sky. He took comfort in the familiar patterns, the Knight pointing
the way north, the Great Dragon spanning the sky with his wings. But in the
east, the red comet cut a bloody gash through the Big Ladle, an ugly reminder
of why they’d come north.

Duncan loped along the trail, alert for
details in the dark. The second group proved smarter than the first, keeping
within the grasses trampled by a hundred horses. Hoof prints galloped south,
footprints ran north, a mad confusion of tracks taxing his skills. But among
the crisscrossing prints, his golden eye found subtle signs. Seven sets of boot
prints ran north, carrying a deadly secret. The steady distance between
footprints told him they kept to a ground-eating jog. One man bled, scattering fresh
blood, yet he managed to keep pace with the others, proving he’d still be a
threat in a fight. A discarded water flask and wrappings that smelled of salted
pork littered the trail, but never any armor or weapons. Every detail added to
his knowledge, but the most telling signs were the depressions in the grass
where they’d slept. Five depressions for seven men, two of them always standing
guard. The details told a grim tale. Disciplined in their retreat, the
deserters set a fast pace into the north, keeping their armor and their weapons
ready. He’d have a tough fight on his hands.

A cold wind blew across the
steppes, bitter against his face. He flexed his fingers as he ran, needing to
keep them nimble. Tall grasses rustled in the wind. Silvered by moonlight, they
stretched in all directions, a soul-numbing sameness. He missed the shelter of
the forest, the hum of the great trees, but the choice of battlefield was not
his. Cursing the openness, he could do nothing but follow.

Clouds reclaimed the sky, shrouding
the stars as the moon set in the west, and still he ran. He covered the leagues
with a loping stride, his boots proving a boon to the long run. Fashioned from
a rare swamp lizard, the boots were a Midwinter gift from Jordan. Recalling her ghost pale
face in the healery, Duncan
wondered how she fared, another debt he owed the Mordant.

A blast of wind carried the faint
scent of fresh urine, men waking to the dawn. Duncan scanned the trail, his golden eye catching
the first glimpse of his prey. Seven soldiers clustered in a group, just out of
bowshot. But beyond the soldiers, the dawn revealed a chilling sight. A great
gray wall snaked across the north, only a day’s run away. His stomach clenched into
a knot, knowing he needed to catch them before they reached the wall…or the
hunter would become the hunted. Overhead, darkness faded to dawn, stealing his
best advantage. Time was against him, he could not wait for the dark.
Tightening his grip on his longbow, he vowed to succeed.

Leaving the trail, he plunged into
the waist-high grass, keeping the last of the darkness at his back. Racing
through the grass, he threw darting glances toward the soldiers, knowing a hard
stare might ruin his chance for an ambush.

The soldiers lingered, probably
sharing a meal. Sunlight glinted on armor, tempting targets against the red
light of dawn. Pressing for speed, he closed the distance, stopping within
reach of his longbow. Setting the string to his bow, he took a steadying
breath, gauging the distance to his targets. Standing at the extreme edge of
his range, the accuracy of his shots would depend on luck as much as skill, but
he dared not move closer till he culled their numbers, swordsmen were ever the
bane of archers. He chose six of his best arrows and impaled them upright in
the ground. Selecting a seventh, he nocked his bow. Taking a deep breath, he
called on the full power of the great yew. Drawing the bow to its maximum
curve, his muscles burned with strain. He held the draw for half a heartbeat,
adjusting for the wind, and then released, a thrum of death. As the first arrow
leaped skyward, he reached for the second. Moving with blistering speed, he
sent six more arrows arching into the pale morning sky. As soon as the seventh
left his bow, he ran ten paces to the north and dove headfirst into the long
grass.

Lying still, he waited, his
heartbeat counting time.

A scream split the morning. A
flurry of curses followed.

Duncan hugged the ground, hiding, letting the
enemy wonder how many archers lay in ambush. Straining his senses, he listened
but no sounds of attack came his way. Nocking an arrow, he knelt, peering over
the tall grass.

The steppes seemed empty, golden
grasses waving in the morning light.

Alerted to the threat, the hunt had
become a game of cat and mouse.

Duncan stayed on his knee, studying the
grassland. Sunlight gleamed on metal. At least one soldier fled north, hunched
over, staying below the waist-high grass. He wondered how many survived.

Needing to be certain, he crept
forward, an arrow nocked to his bow. It took forever to traverse the distance,
his senses alert to ambush. The mingled scents of blood and urine grew stronger.
He paused to listen but heard only the wind and the rustle of the dry grass.
Drawing his bow, he stepped to the edge of the trail.
  

Two bodies lay sprawled in the
trail. One man lay on his side, shot through the neck, his face frozen in a
grimace of surprise. The other lay on his stomach, a feathered-shaft impaled in
his armored back.

Duncan scanned the trail, wary of an ambush,
but nothing moved.

The first man was clearly dead…but
a sixth sense screamed of danger.

Keeping his bow taut, Duncan moved forward. He
kicked the man’s foot. No reaction. He nudged his boot under the body and
rolled it over. The face was slack with death, the arrowhead protruding from
the chest.

A rush of movement from the side.

Duncan whirled.
 

A soldier charged from the tall
grass, a round shield held to the front, a short sword raised in attack.

Duncan lowered his aim, loosed the arrow, and
then dodged to the right.

The soldier staggered backward,
grunting in pain, an arrow protruding from his thigh. “Damn you to the seven
hells!” He lowered his shield and charged.

Duncan danced away. Releasing the bowstring,
he wielded the yew like a staff, poking blows at the soldier’s face, trying to
keep the swordsman at bay.

A gray-haired veteran, the soldier
circled the archer, his shield up, his sword flashing in the morning light. His
voice was a low growl. “Stand and fight.”

Duncan jabbed at the soldier’s eyes and backed
away, desperate for some advantage.

Steel cut the air, a vicious chop
at the yew wood. Duncan
yanked the bow away, narrowly avoiding the blade. Sweat beaded his brow, he
needed to defeat the swordsman without harming his bow.

The swordsman launched a furious
attack, slashing toward the archer’s face.

Duncan stayed a hair’s breath away, a
shifting shadow in black leathers.

“Fight, damn you.” The swordsman
hawked and spat, “Bloody archers are nothing but cowards.” Lowering his shield,
he charged. Duncan
leaped aside, thrusting his bow into the soldier’s feet. Entangled, the
swordsman tripped and fell, sprawling face first. Duncan pounced, grappling for the sword. The
two rolled across the bloody trail, knees gouging for groins, muscles
straining. Slick with sweat, both men fought for the sword. An elbow slammed
into Duncan’s
jaw, snapping his head back, but he never let go. Tasting blood, he rolled on
top, wrestling for control. The soldier waged a mighty struggle, but the
longbow had made Duncan
strong. The sword’s edge slowly turned toward the soldier’s throat. Wide-eyed,
he bucked and kicked, struggling to slow the blade’s descent but his fate was
sealed. Duncan
finished the fight, burying the blade in the soldier’s throat.

Rolling clear of the spurting blood,
Duncan lay
sprawled on the trampled grass. Every muscle ached. His head throbbed and his
jaw hurt. His right arm bled, a deep gash from the sword. The fight had been close,
too close. Only luck had kept a second swordsman from the ambush. He shook his
head, knowing luck was a fickle mistress, but he’d trust to his bow.

His bow!

Bolting to his feet, he searched
for the yew wood, finding it flung to the far side of the trail. He snatched it
up, running anxious fingers along the length, checking for nicks and cracks. A
single fault would ruin the bow, snapping under the strain of the draw. He
sighed, relieved to find it whole and undamaged. His hands caressed the yew,
giving thanks to the gods. The bowstring was lost but he had another. Bending
the bow, he set the second string, once more an archer.

He swayed on his feet, hammered
with weariness. Blood dripped from his right arm, and his side ached from a
nasty punch, yet he had to keep going. A strip of cloth torn from a dead man’s
cloak served as a bandage. He bound his arm, using his teeth to tie the knot.
Searching the dead, he found a flask half full of water and a single biscuit of
hard bread. The biscuit went in his pouch, but he drained the flask, slaking a
viscous thirst. Discarding the flask, he knew he needed rest, just an hour of
sleep.

His gaze was drawn toward the
north, to the long gray wall. It slashed across the horizon, dividing north
from south, a chilling reminder of the Mordant’s power. But it was still a
day’s run away. He needed to catch the remaining deserters…but he also needed
the strength to prevail. Taking the dead man’s sword, he moved off the trail
and into the tall grass. Weary and sore, he pulled his black wool cloak close
and laid down to rest.

Duncan woke with a start, dreams of ambush in
his mind. Reaching for his bow, he nocked an arrow and knelt. Golden grasses
stretched in every direction, no sign of the enemy…but the sky was full of
threats. Dark clouds churned overhead, obscuring the midday sun. “
Darkness
be damned.”
He’d slept too long, giving his prey too much of a lead…but the
storm clouds posed a bigger threat. Rain would negate his bow. Even the best
archer could not shoot with a wet bowstring. Lady luck had turned against
him.
 

Gambling that his prey would make a
dash for the wall, he wasted no time searching for tracks. Intent on speed, he
flew across the grasslands.

The wall loomed large with every
passing league. He scanned the trail, praying for a glimpse of the deserters.
Overhead the storm clouds thickened, a brooding menace but no rain fell.
Perhaps the hunt still had a chance.

At twilight, he saw them; a gleam
of armor clustered on the trail ahead, four soldiers jogging toward a break in
the wall. Time had almost run out.

Deciding to attack from the east, Duncan moved into the tall
grass. A final sprint put the enemy within reach of his longbow. He nocked an
arrow and he paused, fighting to slow his breathing. With the wall looming
close, he needed to make every arrow count. Judging the wind and the distance,
he raised the longbow. His muscles strained against the mighty yew, drawing the
bow to a curve. A fat raindrop slapped his face, speeding his pulse. Ignoring
the threat, he focused on his prey. He loosed the bowstring, sending an arrow
into the sky. As if pierced, the clouds broke, releasing a sudden downpour.
Seven more arrows soared into the crying sky, defying the rain.

Cursing the weather, he unstrung
the bow, putting the bowstring deep in an inner pocket, next to his heart.
Wiping the length of yew with a soft cloth, he slipped a leather cover over the
bow, tying the end tight, desperate to keep the wood dry.

A scream split the twilight sky; at
least one arrow had found its mark.

Lightning forked the dark clouds
unleashing a torrent of rain, as if the gods had turned against him.

Duncan jerked canvas covers over his quivers
and reached for the captured sword, hefting its weight. The short sword felt
awkward in his hand but it was the only weapon left to him. He ran toward his
prey, determined to finish the hunt.

Rain beat against his face, soaking
his wool cloak, muting his senses, another advantage lost. His boots squelched
in puddles but they kept his feet dry. Tightening his grip on the sword, he
raced through the downpour. Wary of an ambush, he slowed as he reached the edge
of the trail.

Only three!
The words
pounded through his mind, a warning and a curse.

One man lay dead, while a second
writhed in pain. A third soldier knelt to tend the second, his back to Duncan…
but where was
the fourth?

Risking ambush, Duncan lowered his bow to the ground and
crept toward the third soldier, the captured sword poised to strike.

Lightning cracked the sky.

The soldier whirled as if warned,
his sword rising to meet the attack.

Steel met steel, a mighty clang
that competed with the thunder. The soldier glared over the crossed blades, his
eyes full of hate. “I’ll have your head!” He disengaged and lunged, releasing a
flurry of blows.

Duncan danced away, using the captured sword
as a shield, doing his best to parry the rain of blows.

“Fight, you cat-eyed bastard!” The
soldier sent a slashing blow toward Duncan’s
face.

Duncan twisted away, narrowly avoiding the
blade. Stroke and parry, slash and dodge, the archer evaded the sword but he
had no attack, he was no swordsman trained to the cut and parry. Sweat trickled
down his face as he strove to avoid the soldier’s blade. A sword stroke
whispered close to his chest, slashing at his leathers, drawing a thin trickle
of blood. Duncan
danced back, desperate for a way to take the soldier’s skill out of the fight.