The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga) (17 page)

“How so?”

The marshal struggled to grasp
thoughts that seemed just out of reach. “Perhaps Darkness has betrayed itself.”
His hand found his pocket, fondling the crystalline shard. “The demon proves we
fight for more than just land and swords. The Dark Lord sent his minion against
us…proving he
fears
the Octagon!” His
thoughts gathered strength, like a stone rolling down a hill. “More than ever,
the Octagon has a reason to fight. For we stand against pure evil.”
 

The king straightened, as if
hearing a battle call, but a nagging tic dogged his left eye, as if his reclaimed
sanity was a fragile thing. “You words ring true, Osbourne. But will it be
enough to wean the men from fear?”

The marshal fingered the crystal,
wondering if he dared remind the king of the monk. Deciding to risk all, he
removed the shard from his pocket. “There might be a way. Fight magic with
magic.”

The king’s eyes widened, his hand
sketching the sign against evil.

“Lothar found this in the fire
grate, lost in the confusion. But it might prove a boon.” Holding the crystal
aloft, he pressed the king with a flurry of words. “Claim the crystal as your
own. Have it worked into the pommel of your sword. Let every man renew their
oath by laying hands on the hilt of the king’s sword. Let the men see for
themselves that there are no demons among us.”

“Magic worked into my sword?”
Shaking his head, the king paced the chamber like a cornered bear. “I like it
not.”

“Dire times call for dire methods.”

The king stilled, his face a snarl.
“I’ll think on it.”

“As you wish.” The marshal moved to
the fireplace, setting the crystal upon the mantle, a constant reminder. “And
the men?”

The king sighed. “The men need
their king.” He glanced down at himself, like a man waking from a long slumber.
“But not like this. Where’s my squire?”

“And Ulrich?” The marshal pressed
the question, needing to be sure. “Shall I send for the prince, recalling him
from Cragnoth Keep?”

“Only one son left,” a tic worried
the king’s left eye like a threat. He shuddered as if throwing off a shroud.
“Ulrich needs to earn his pride, to lead his own command to victory. I still
believe the enemy will strike at the Crag. The Mordant dearly loves deceit.”
His face hardened, etched with grief, but the tic remained. “A lesson I’ve
learned too well.” His voice firmed with the ring of command. “Let Ulrich stay
at Cragnoth and earn the right to wear the crown.”

 
“As you command. Shall I summon your squire?”

“Yes.” The king flicked a glance to
the ruined table. “And you best find me a new table. Seems you’ve slayed this
one.”

The marshal could have wept with
joy. His king was back. Perhaps they had a chance against the Dark.

20

Blaine

Blaine made the rounds, checking his stricken
companions, praying one would wake.
Poison
,
an enemy he did not know how to fight. He railed against the gods, but they
offered no help. The sun’s last rays succumbed, abandoning him to darkness.

Cold and desolate, he bundled Kath
in blankets and dribbled water on her lips, praying for a change but he saw
none. His gaze was drawn to the crystal dagger. It seemed wrong to let it lie
in the grass, unprotected. Hesitating, he whispered a promise, “Only till you
wake.” He switched daggers, sheathing the crystal blade at his belt. Holding
his breath, he listened to the night, half expecting the gods to protest…but
there was no sound except the wind.

Chiding himself for silly
superstitions, he unsheathed his blue steel sword and stood with his feet
braced wide in a stubborn stance. He’d stand guard, keeping vigil against the
predators of the night. Turning slowly, he surveyed the steppes, staring out
into the darkness, hoping for friends, expecting foes.

A howl came from the south, a
chorus of wolves…or hellhounds. Shivering, he tightened his grip on his sword,
telling himself it was just wolves feasting on the dead.

Staring south, he tried to pierce
the darkness, wishing Bryx would wake, wishing the archer would return. He kept
a lonely vigil, without even the stars for company. Time seemed to crawl, a
dull sameness, tempting him to sleep.

The moon traversed a cloud choked
sky, a pale smudge of light. Blaine
jerked awake, catching himself before he fell. Swearing, he gripped his sword,
and pivoted, staring into the night, angry for drowsing. Weariness assailed
him, yet he refused to succumb.

The moon disappeared, swallowed by
the west, but darkness still gripped the sky. The wolves had fallen silent.
Nothing moved save the tall grass rippling in the wind. The steppes seemed
peaceful enough, slumbering through the night. Blaine stretched his aching muscles, waiting
for the dawn.

“We see you, knight.”
Words
whispered from the north.

Snapping his sword up, Blaine pivoted toward the
voice, a chill shivering down his back. Grasses rustled around him, driven by
the wind…but he saw no one.
 

“Who do you serve?”

He whipped around, keeping his
sword raised, the back of his neck prickling in warning.

A different voice from the left,
“Who do you serve?”

A shiver raced down Blaine’s back. He’d heard
that question before…in the Guardian Mist.

“Answer the question.”

But this was a man’s voice, a real
voice, and it came from a different direction. Surrounded and outnumbered…but
surely the Mordant’s men would attack rather than talk. “I serve the Light.” He
kept his sword raised, pivoting, wary of an ambush.

“Then why are you here?”

The question made no sense, but he
was desperate for help. “My companions need a healer.”

“Everything has its price.”

Anger coursed through him, he tired
of their games. “Time is my enemy. Three of my companions are stricken with
poison from a hellhound’s claws. Do you have a cure?”

Whispers came from every direction,
yet he saw no one. Icy fingers shivered down his back. Surrounded, with so many
against him, he had no hope of fighting free. Blaine struggled to keep his voice calm.
“Will you help?”

“Will you pay the price?”

Another voice hissed,
“Anton,
they fought our enemy!”

“I command here!”

A shiver of hope raced through Blaine.

“Will you pay the price?”

He had no idea what they wanted or
why…but he had to save Kath and the others. “What do you want?”

“
We value steel. Your blue sword
for safe conduct to our healers.”

Blaine staggered backwards. They asked for
everything. A knight’s weapon held his very soul. He was nothing without his
blue steel sword…but then he remembered the crystal dagger.
 

“We trade lives for steel. Will
you pay the price?”

“Can you cure them?”

“If the poison is not too far
gone. You risk their lives by waiting.”

He’d sworn an oath to Kath; he owed
her his allegiance…even if it meant his blue steel sword. Honor was a hard
taskmaster. He reversed the blade and extended the hilt. “Then take my sword
and save them…or there’ll be hell to pay.”

Figures melted out of the grass,
more than thirty. Hands on swords, they surrounded him. One drew close, moving
with a lithe grace, claiming the offered sword. “The price is paid, the bargain
accepted.”

Blaine clenched his fists, naked without his
blue blade. “Then help them.” He pointed at Kath, his voice a low growl. “Help
her first.”

The clouds chose that moment to
part, a flash of moonlight revealing his captors. Blaine gasped, retreating a step. Blue
tattoos transformed their faces. Intricate designs of animals melded with human
features, an eerie blending that created a wild, feral look. Fox, wolf, bear
and eagle, they seemed otherworldly. Savage and fierce and illusive as legends,
he stood surrounded by a pack of Painted Warriors.

Relief warred with unease. Blaine stepped forward,
offering his hand. “Well met. I had not hoped to find allies of the Octagon so
deep into the steppes.”

The fox-faced leader barked a harsh
laugh. “What allies? There’s only a common enemy…or so we thought.”

Warnings pricked the back of Blaine’s neck. “What are
you saying?”

“Tige, see to the wounded. I want
to be gone before the dawn. And don’t leave any of their belongings.”

The fox-faced leader turned away,
but Blaine
grabbed his arm. “I want an answer.”

“An answer!” The leader whirled,
the tip of the blue steel sword poised at Blaine’s
throat. “Why are you here, knight? What brings you so deep into the steppes?
Are you a deserter seeking the Mordant’s service? Are you a spy? Or just a
coward?”

“
A deserter!”
Outrage flamed through Blaine. He clenched his fists, fighting to
swallow his rage. “We came to
slay
the Mordant.”

“Hah! With two girls and an old
man!” The leader’s voice filled with scorn. “The Mordant must be trembling.”

Rage erupted within Blaine, they had no idea
what his companions were capable of. “You must have seen the battlefield just
south of here?”

The fox-faced man gave a terse nod.

“That victory was
ours
.”

Murmurs rippled through the Painted
Warriors.

The leader’s face twisted to a
sneer. “
Liar!”

Blaine ducked past the raised sword and
lunged, but another man stepped between them. “Stop this!”

Blaine hissed, “I do not lie.”

Tattooed with a bear’s face, the
big man seemed unnaturally strong. “You asked for our help, do you still want
it?”

Need dampened Blaine’s anger. “Yes.”

The fox-faced leader growled, “Let
him go, Bearant. I’ll spit this liar with his own sword.”

The big man shook his head. “No. A
bargain was made. The price was paid.” He turned towards the leader, his voice
dropping to a hushed whisper. “There is some riddle here, Anton. This is a
matter for the Old One.”

The leader snarled. “So be it.” He
glared at Blaine.
“But if you prove false,” he raised the blue sword in threat, “then your life
and all of your possessions will be forfeit.” He spat onto the ground as if
sealing a bargain and then stalked away.

Blaine tightened his fists, staring at the
leader’s back, fighting his anger.

The bear-faced man leaned close,
his voice a whisper. “Do not give him a reason to kill you.”

 
Blaine
struggled to sheath his rage, watching as two of the Painted Warriors wrapped
Kath into a type of carryall. “Can you heal them?”

“Our healers are skilled but we
must reach the den to give them succor.”

“Your den?”

“Our home.”

 
The words held a world of pride. “Where is
this den?”

“Do not get curious, knight. You’ll
be blindfolded long before we reach the den.”

Blaine stiffened.

The man’s voice held a placating
tone. “It is not an insult but a matter of survival. The Mordant’s forces far
outnumber us. No outsider can know our secret paths.” He gestured toward the
northeast. “Come, we must be away. The dawn is our enemy.”

The Painted Warriors gathered up
his companions, including the wolf, and set off at a ground-eating pace. Silent
and sure, they ran like a hunting pack, slipping through the tall grasses.

Weary and worried, Blaine struggled to keep pace.
Feeling like an ox herded by wolves, he felt their dark stares tracking him,
watching him, judging him, predators assessing prey. Cursing his lot, he longed
for his sword, for the feel of blue steel in his hands.
A knight without a sword,
he gripped the crystal dagger at his
belt. At least he’d kept that weapon safe…
so
far
, but all would be for naught if the others died. Poison and hellhounds
and tattooed warriors, the north was plagued with unexpected traps, worse than
any nightmare. Cursing his ill fate and the indifference of the gods, Blaine ran through the
tall grass, wondering if he’d bargained with friends or foes.

21

The Mordant

Darkness beckoned, a pulsing power
in the dead of night. The Mordant snapped awake. Throwing off the silken
sheets, he freed his arm from the concubine’s embrace, ignoring her soft
murmur. Drawing on a loose robe of black silk, he reached for the Staff of
Pain, never far from his hand. Pulled by the summons, the Mordant strode
through the palace, his bare feet silent on the cold marble floor, answering
the call of his god.

The hallways were empty; the palace
slumbered, but never the Dark Lord. He reached the marbled entranceway,
surprising a pair of guards leaning on their spears. Snapping a salute, they
scrambled to throw open the outer doors. A cold wind blew in, threatening the
torchlight. He paused in the doorway, surveying the outer courtyard. Glinting
with moonlight, the granite pavement shimmered like an arcane sea. Runes
spiraled around the yard, black marble inlaid in granite, a ripple of spells
circling the ancient boulder. Thrust up like a dark island in a sea of runes,
the top of the great monolith pierced the courtyard, the bedrock of the citadel.
The ancient stone throbbed with power, the summons emanating from a boulder’s
shadowy cleft. Drawn to Darkness, the Mordant crossed the runes till the
monolith loomed overhead, a primordial darkness blotting out the stars.

Old and full of secrets, the cleft
gaped with shadows, a deep gash in the side of the stone. He slipped inside;
his footfalls smothered by a cold silence, as if he’d entered a tomb. Stairs
spiraled down, worn with age, leading to a secret buried in the heart of the
great rock. Shadows gave way to torchlight, the smell of soot hanging in the
cold, damp air. Descending into the depths, the Mordant summoned the monk.
*Attend
me, for tonight you shall meet a god.*

Inside his mind, the monk gibbered
in fear, hiding behind a litany of prayers.

*
You feel it, don’t you monk,
the call of the Dark Lord.*

*I walk in the Light. I walk in
the Light.*

Amused by the feeble defense, the
Mordant laughed. His laughter echoed in the well of stone. Twisted by the
depths, it became an eerie chortle, like a ghost leading him downward, a deep
delving into the earth. Carved from solid rock, the steps were old and
treacherous, footprints worn deep into the ancient stone. Six hundred and
sixteen steps, the number of steps to power, the number of steps to hell.

The Dark summons tugged at his soul,
offering promise of power. The same song had lured him to the heart of the
monolith…twelve lifetimes and over a thousand years ago. So many victories, so
much dark glory, but this lifetime would exceed them all. His footsteps
quickened. Infused with the vigor of youth, he returned to the source of his
power.

The long descent ended in an
antechamber of dancing torchlight. Two guards in black and gold armor stood at
attention before the great copper Door. He stared at the guards. “Do you know
your Lord, the Mordant re-born?”

They fell to the floor in
prostration, a clatter of armor on stone.

The Mordant strode toward the great
Door, ancient runes inscribed in the gleaming copper. He made his voice a
command.
“Sion rasmathus!”

As if drawn by invisible hands, the
great Door slowly swung open. Cold air laden with the stench of sulfur flowed
out, a breath of Darkness calling him forward.

The Mordant crossed the threshold,
his bare feet silent on the cold floor. Ancient beyond telling, the cavernous
chamber brimmed with Darkness. Red stalactites dripped from the ceiling as if
the stones wept blood, a testament to so many sacrifices. Beneath the vaulted
ceiling, a golden pentacle stretched across the marble floor. Five braziers
glowed at the points, flames fueled by the fires of Hell, an eternal glow quenched
only by the Dark God’s will.

Power pulsed in the shadows, a
promise and a threat. The Mordant breathed deep, reveling in the Darkness.

Bowing low, he began the ritual of
opening. Slowly circling the Dark Lord’s symbol, his body swayed to the arcane
dance, his bare feet beating a rhythm of runes into the cold stone floor. Words
of power whispered from his lips. Round and round, the tempo increased to an
exultant frenzy. Infused with youth and vigor, the chant roared out of him, a
herald of Darkness. His black robes rippled behind like a windblown wraith, yet
there was no wind. Power crackled along his skin, aching to be unleashed. Dark
magic hummed through him, an ecstasy and an agony, too much to contain.
Brimming with power, the Mordant threw back his head and screamed,
“Alamat
anak an!”
The braziers flared bright. Flames roared to the ceiling,
releasing plumes of red sparks that fell like glowing embers. A thunderclap
shook the chamber, a burnt smell hanging in the air.

Darkness roiled across the ceiling,
obscuring the stalactites…the breath of a god.

Slick with sweat, the Mordant bowed
low. “I have returned, Lord, eager to begin the work of this lifetime.”

But every summons required a
sacrifice.

He shrugged the dark robe from his
shoulders, letting the silk puddle to the floor. Naked, he entered the
pentacle. Falling to the floor in prostration, he struggled to still his
eagerness. Turning, he lay spread-eagle, making the sign of the pentacle with
his body, his arms and legs spread wide, his back pressed to the cold stone,
his manhood stiff with anticipation. He stared up at the roiling Darkness, a
perfect offering.

Darkness came for him. A dense
cloud of inky blackness descended, pressing against his chest, bearing down
with all the weight of antiquity.

The Mordant fought to breathe.

Cold and relentless, the Darkness
smothered his face, seeking entrance.

Knowing total submission was the
price of great power, he opened his mouth, fighting hard not to gag.

Darkness took him, pain laced with
power, pouring down his open mouth.

His body convulsed, arms and legs
twitching, a puppet on a string, and still the Darkness came, slamming into
him, filling his mouth, roaring down his throat like a waterfall of sin. He
arched his back, an empty vessel filled to the brim. Pain blurred to unbearable
rapture. Visions flooded his mind, details of the great Dark design. He saw the
map of Erdhe laid out before him, the winds of war sweeping across the land. Advantages
became clear, plots within plots, a weft and weave of possibilities, some of
the threads added centuries ago. Rivals for the Dark Lord’s affection were
revealed, younglings whose ambition outstripped their achievements, tools to be
used and then cast aside. Chess pieces dotted a complicated board, a game long
in play. A series of feints, traps, and sacrifices, all waiting to be triggered
in a colossal conflict. So many pawns…and he was the only true king, the
darkest power on the board. He wondered about the opposing forces, the minions
of Light, but visions of the enemy were denied him…yet the blind spots spoke
volumes, targets for attack. So many opportunities…and all the weapons were his
to wield.

The Dark Lord’s voice boomed in his
mind.
*This is the lifetime when old enemies will be crushed.*

 
Understanding shivered through him, a vision
of victories long awaited.

*The hidden ones have at last
been revealed.*

An image of the amulet stolen from
the monastery filled his mind. Waves of ecstasy washed across him. He longed to
claim the secrets hidden behind midnight blue doors.

*But another enemy rises in the
new heart of Erdhe. A woman dares to sit a throne.*

A tidal wave of revulsion poured
across him. He felt the Dark Lord’s outrage, that a single woman would dare
upset the scales of prejudice. Once more he saw the map of Erdhe, a blind spot
stretching over the kingdom
of Lanverness, a blight
of civilization, a plague of justice. He watched as the Dark Lord’s wrath
poured across the map, a belch of acid scorching the parchment black.

*First we deceive, then we
divide, then we annihilate. This woman threatens to undo the hierarchy of
hatred sewn into the very fabric of Erdhe. She must be brought low, her very
name defiled.*

Visions flooded his mind, ways to
corrupt a single thread, to turn a queen to ruin. The possibilities were
delicious, full of deception, his favorite game of his past lives.
 

*Centuries of planning culminate
in this lifetime. Do not disappoint.*

Power arced through him, striking
like lightning, igniting every nerve in his body. He writhed in the grip of his
god, torn between agony and ecstasy. His mouth stretched wide, plumbed by Darkness,
too much for mortal flesh to contain. Filled with Dark power, his back arched, his
manhood spewing in triumph. Once, twice, thrice, he shuddered with agony, he
shuddered with delight, enduring pain and pleasure on an godly scale. Just when
he thought he could bear it no longer, the Darkness withdrew.

Drenched in sweat, aching and sore,
the Mordant lay gasping on the cold stone floor, flushed with triumph. The
immortal touch was gone, but Darkness was forever branded on his soul, leaving
him throbbing with power. Such euphoria, such sweet pain, the Mordant struggled
for breath, exalted with power. Lying spread-eagle, he strained to remember
every detail, so many seeds of victory, so many triumphs to come. A sound
intruded. In the back of his mind, the monk wept…a shattered sob. The Mordant
laughed, for none could stand in the face of the Dark Lord.