The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga) (18 page)

22

Duncan

Shackles bound his wrists…chains on
his legs. Duncan’s
head throbbed…his whole body ached. A loud creaking sound split his skull, like
a knife stabbing his mind. Lying face down, his cheek pressed to cold iron, he
stared through squinted eyes, struggling to understand. A pair of hob-nailed
boots stood in front of his face, but beyond, the world…
moved.

The last thing he remembered was standing
in a ring of spears. He should be dead instead of captured…a groan escaped his
lips.

A hand gripped his hair, yanking
his head up. “So it’s true.” A bearded soldier in black leather armor leered
into his face, his breath rank with sour ale. “What the hell are you? The Pit’s
spawned many a freak, but never a man with a cat’s eye. Do you have a tail to
go with it?”

Duncan tried to swallow, his words a weak
croak. “Water?”

“Water!” The soldier barked a cruel
laugh. “You’ll be lapping puddles of piss before the day’s done.” He released Duncan’s hair, letting his
head thump against the iron floor. A swift kick followed, a solid blow to the
ribs.

Grunting in pain, Duncan rolled away but he could not go far.
His back hit iron bars.

His guard laughed, but no more
blows followed.

Curled on the floor, Duncan struggled to
understand. Iron bars…they’d put him in a cage. But beyond the bars, the world
moved
. He shook his head, fighting for
clarity. Understanding slowly dawned. The metal cage descended along a sheer cliff,
hence the creaking noise. But the passing cliff-face was like none he’d ever
seen. Gray stone fused smooth as glass, dark planes reflecting light…almost as
if the stone had been
melted
. He
craned his neck for a better view, pressing his face to the bars. A gasp
escaped him. Not a cliff, but a great pit. As if an angry god had punched his
fist straight down into the earth, boring a hole half a league to hell.

A nameless fear gripped him. He was
trussed in chains, a captive being lowered into a hellish hole. Duncan’s mind shuddered,
desperate for a way to escape. His gaze skittered across the pit. Like a hungry
maw, it gaped wide, more than three leagues across…all the walls as slick as
glass, no sign of any road or stairs…a sheer descent to the underworld. A dark
brown cloud obscured the bottom…
if there
was a bottom
. All his senses screamed in warning,
abomination.
Horror-struck, Duncan
struggled against his chains, sensing the pit was an offense against the land,
a fathomless evil.

A horn sounded from below, three
short blasts, so perhaps there was a bottom.

Shackled and caged…his mind shied
away from guessing what horrors might lay beneath the dark cloud. Whatever his
captors had planned for him, Duncan swore to die rather than reveal the secret.

Chains clanked beyond his cage.

An arm-span away, another cage went
up. Crowded with men in dirty rags, they peered through the bars, desperation
etched on all their faces.

His guard chuckled, a mean-spirited
sound. “Take a good look, berk. They’re the lucky ones. It’s always better to
go up than down.”

Duncan craned his neck, watching the ascent.
Metal structures leered over the pit top like great praying mantises, chains
dangling from their pointed heads. More cages jerked up and down the cliff
walls, some of them crowded with soldiers, others with ragged prisoners.

Chains rattled and creaked
overhead, marking the endless descent. His cage entered the brown cloud. A
harsh tang of burnt manure and smoldering grease assaulted his nostrils. Duncan gagged. He pressed
his face to his sleeve, wondering how anyone could breathe such a stench. The
cloud thinned and he got his first glimpse of the bottom. A city sprawled
below, a vast slum of mud huts and stone hovels, teaming with people, like
beetles on a dung heap. Everything was dirt brown or stone gray, dingy and
depressing, not a speck of living green. His soul shuddered. A prison modeled
on hell, stocked with an army of slaves, the north proved worse than any
nightmare. Kath had no idea what she faced. How could the gods let such evil
exist?

The cage rattled and shook, slowly
shuddering to a stop.

The guard prodded him with the toe
of his boot. “On your feet, berk.”

Duncan struggled to stand, clinging to the
bars as the world spun, willing his vision to clear.

The door of the cage swung open.
More guards waited outside, all of them wearing black leather armor.

“Out.” The guard shoved Duncan, sending him
staggering from the cage. His chains clanked as he struggled to keep his
balance. The ground proved soft, clay trampled to mud, his boots sinking deep
in the muck. He glanced up but the brown cloud hid the sky, as if he’d passed
into a netherworld, beyond the sun’s warming touch.

“Keep moving, berk.” His guard
herded him along the cliff wall, past half a dozen cages. A troop of ten
soldiers piled out of one cage, smiles on their faces, trading bawdy jokes,
while a line of shackled slaves waited to load. A whip cracked and the slaves
shuffled forward, heads bowed. Duncan
risked a glance at the taskmaster and staggered to a stop.
An ogre!
 
Like a nightmare sprung to life, the ogre
towered over mere men. Tall and barrel-chested, it had a sloping forehead, a
chinless jaw, and protruding ridges for eyebrows, a monster clad in leather
armor. Duncan
traced the hand sign against evil, wondering what other horrors served the
Mordant.

“Hurry up, berk!”
 

Something hard prodded him in the
back. Duncan
struggled to keep pace, stepping to the limit of his shackles. He shuffled past
the line of cages, eventually reaching a raised stone platform, a crude dais
set high above the sea of mud. Soldiers in black armor flanked the platform
while a scribe sat halfway up the stairs, scribbling on a roll of parchment. A
massive stone chair carved of gray rock dominated the dais. A fleshy man in
dark blue robes reclined in the chair like a king on a throne. Bald-headed and
smooth shaven, he caressed a cat-o-nine tails while passing judgment on a
kneeling slave.

Duncan joined the line of captives, standing
behind a skinny man stripped naked except for a soiled loincloth, iron shackles
on his wrists and feet. The man reeked of sweat and fear, the perfume of the
Mordant’s subjects.

A guard at the top of the stairs
pounded his iron-shod spear against the stone platform. “Next!”

The line shuffled forward. A burly
guard forced an auburn-haired woman to kneel. “My Lord, a woman of the fifth
tier found guilty of trying to sell her newborn child to a third tier family.
The priests have condemned her to the pit brothel as penance for her sins.”

“Lift her face.”

The guard forced the woman’s head
back.

“Hmmm.”
 
Leaning forward, the bald-headed lord smiled
like a cat about to eat a bird. “Too pretty a flower for the brothels. Clean
her up and send her to my residence. I’ll see to it she atones for her sins.”

The guard saluted fist to chest,
“Yes, m’Lord,” and ushered the sobbing woman back down the stairs.

One at a time, the prisoners
climbed the stairs to learn their fate. Duncan
stood with his head bowed, stealing glances at his surroundings. The litany of
crimes made little sense. He’d expected to be questioned and tortured, but it
seems they’d put him with common criminals. Perhaps there was a chance he could
live to escape while keeping the secret safe.

The line of prisoners shuffled
forward till only two were left.

Guards dragged the skinny dark haired
man to kneel before the throne. Trembling, he bowed low, sweat glistening on
his pale white skin. “A priest, m’Lord, condemned to the iron mines.”

“A bloody
priest!
” The lord scowled. “What did this one do?”

The guard shook his head. “The bishop
did not say, only that the man was to serve the remainder of his life in the
iron mines.”

“Priests and their dark damned
secrets,” the lord’s voice dropped to a growl, “the bloody priesthood never
lets anyone peek up their robes.” He gestured toward the kneeling man. “Probably
sent to spy on me.”

The guard answered, “No, m’Lord,
they took his tongue.”

“His tongue, eh?” The lord leaned
forward, a flicker of interest on his face. “That’s one way of keeping secrets
safe. I wonder what he knows.” He stared at the prisoner as if considering
other possibilities, but then he shook his head, resignation in his voice.
“Priests are dangerous, even with their tongues cut out. Send him to the mine’s
deepest level. From the looks of him, he won’t last long.”

The condemned man wailed in
protest, a guttural sound. The guard cuffed him across the side of the face,
dragging him down the steps.

Duncan’s guard gave him a prod. “Your turn,
berk.” He climbed the steps and knelt, keeping his head and his gaze lowered.

The lord spoke first. “What’ve you
got this time, Cribb?”

“A runner. A gate patrol found him
in the farmland.” The guard poked Duncan
in the ribs. “They say he killed a half dozen gore hounds before they captured
him.”

“Ha!” The lord barked a cruel
laugh. “A bald-faced lie. More likely the lazy buggers are spreading rumors,
trying to gain a posting to the citadel.” He gestured with the cat-o-nine
tails. “Let’s see his markings.”

Another guard grabbed Duncan’s shackles, pulling
his left arm straight. It was only then that he noticed his left sleeve had
been slashed open, a cut running from elbow to wrist but there was no wound to
match the slice. The guard peeled back the black leather, revealing his forearm.
“No markings. A rune-less bastard.”

One of the guards gasped in
surprise.

“That ain’t all.” The guard from
the cage gripped Duncan’s
hair, yanking his head back. “Take a good look at his eye.”

“
Spawn of the Pit!”
The lord
leaned forward. “Bring him closer.”

Duncan began to rise, but the guard held a
dagger to his throat. “On your knees, berk.”

Goaded by a sword at his back, Duncan was compelled to
shuffle forward, the stone dais hard beneath his knees. He reached the base of
the throne and stopped, struggling to smother his rage.

The lord leaned close, his breath
like bad cheese. “An eye like a cat, that’s a new one for the Pit. The breeders
might be interested in him. Might even be a reward for such a big healthy
berk.” Avarice gleamed in his dark gaze. “I’ll alert the priests but in the
meantime he’ll serve the mine. A turn in the iron mine will take the fight out
of him.” He sat back, caressing the handle of the cat-o-nine tails. “See that
he’s branded and fitted for a collar.”

His guard nodded, a grin on his
face. “I’ll see to it.” He gave Duncan
a shove. “On your feet, berk, let’s go.”

“Cribb, aren’t you forgetting
something?” The lord’s voice was smooth as velvet.

His guard turned. “What?”

“His boots, Cribb. To the Master of
the Pit go the spoils.”

“As you say, Lord Sleghorn.” He
snarled at Duncan,
his voice laced with frustration. “Take’em off, berk.”

They treated him like cattle…but
humiliation was better than torture. Duncan
worked around his chains, struggling to remove his boots, struggling to control
his anger. One at a time, the boots came off, a Midwinter gift from Jordan…at
least he’d left his silver warrior’s ring with Kath. Another guard grabbed the boots
and threw them in a basket overflowing with plundered trinkets…the spoils of
the damned.

His guard pricked him with a sword.
“On your feet, berk.”

They never even asked his name.
Perhaps names did not matter in hell. He got to his feet and started down the
stairs.

“And Cribb,” the lord’s voice cut
like a knife, “don’t even think of trying to collect the deformity bounty on
him. This one’s mine.”

His guard gave a curt bow. “As you
wish, Lord.”
 
He gave Duncan an angry shove, nearly toppling him
down the steps.

Duncan’s bare feet sank deep into the mud. Cold
and clammy, it felt loathsome. Everything about the pit was loathsome and
disgusting. He strained against his chains, struggling to keep pace with his
guard, trying not to fall. He’d expected torture…but instead he found himself
chained and shackled to the living damned, one among a multitude of slaves,
condemned to work a prison pit. Duncan
stifled a laugh, wondering if it was the onset of madness. His captors had
brought him to the heart of the Mordant’s domain yet he was essentially
invisible, lost among so much misery. Perhaps hell was as good a place as any
to keep a secret safe.

23

Katherine

Horses running, manes caught by the
wind, a whole herd racing across the ceiling.
Across the ceiling,
the thought jarred her awake. Groggy with
sleep, Kath struggled to make sense of her surroundings. Chalk drawings covered
the cavern walls, but instead of being flat and lifeless, the horses flowed
with vibrancy across the walls. Contours in the rock gave the horses an added dimension,
a wild gallop of ocher, umber, and charcoal. Cunningly drawn, she half expected
to hear hoofbeats. But why was she in a cave and who made the drawings?

The last thing she remembered…
poison!
Bolting awake, she sat up, the sheepskin cover slipping down to reveal her
nakedness. Grabbing the cover, she scanned the small cave, relieved to be
alone. Stretching, she tested her leg, expecting agony. The skin of her left thigh
pulled taut with only a twinge of pain. She picked at the bandage, needing to
see. Five claw marks scored her left thigh, but the wounds were scabbed over,
free of the poison’s black taint. Shivering with relief, she stretched muscles
stiff with disuse but otherwise well. Even the blisters on her left hand had
healed to calluses, becoming a match for her sword hand. Naked, she touched Duncan’s warrior ring,
letting the ring and the small stone gargoyle dangle between her breasts,
comforted by their presence, glad to be alive.

She found her clothes folded in a
neat pile next to the bedroll, her green wool cloak on top of her leather
jerkin…but where were her weapons? A chill shivered down her spine. Attacking
the pile, she ransacked the clothes, but her sword belt and axes were
missing…and so was the crystal dagger. Fear sliced through her, without the
dagger she had no hope of defeating the Mordant…and the absence of weapons
meant she was a prisoner. But whose? And where were the others? A flood of
questions assaulted her.

A second fear stuck like lightning.
She grabbed the leather jerkin, plunging her hand into the deepest pocket,
relieved to find the amber pyramid. They’d taken all her weapons, including the
dagger hidden in her boot, but perhaps her captors did not recognize magic, a
definite advantage. Clutching the pyramid, she pulled on her clothes, surprised
to find them washed and mended. A neatly stitched patch repaired her leather
pants. Why would her captors mend her clothes? Another mystery.

She tried standing, slowly easing
weight onto her left leg. The leg held with only a slight twinge of pain, one
less worry.

Kath searched the cave, looking for
weapons, looking for clues to her captors. The narrow chamber ended in a rough
rock wall, the floor worn smooth by use. A clay chamber pot sat behind a
boulder, but otherwise the cave was empty, except for the chalk drawings.
Horses pranced along one wall and up across the ceiling, more beautiful than
any castle tapestry. Rich with color and movement, the horses ran wild and
free, a vibrant celebration of life. Surely whoever made these drawings could
not serve the Mordant. Perhaps there was hope.

Retreating from the dead end, she
walked beneath the mural, seeking a way out. It struck her that the cave was
well lit; yet there were no torches or any scent of fire. Light came from the
far side of a boulder, perhaps a way out. Feeling the need for a weapon, Kath hefted
a fist-sized rock, a poor substitute for steel. Sticking to the shadows, she
rounded the boulder…and stared slack-jawed. Light streamed from a foot-tall
crystal embedded in the floor, enough radiance to light the cave. Perhaps her
captors had magic after all. Extending a hand, she slowly moved toward the
crystal, surprised to feel no heat. Kath wondered if she dared touch it.

Soft footfalls came from behind.
“Don’t touch that.”

Kath whirled to confront a
middle-aged woman, dark hair framing a tattooed face. “
The Painted Warriors!”

“So you know of us.” The woman had
a disarming smile. “I came to tend your wounds but it seems you’re healed.”

“Who are you? Where are we?” Kath
staggered under an avalanche of questions. “Where are my friends? My weapons?”
She stared at the blue tattoos, a raven etched on the woman’s face, giving her
an eldritch look. “How did you find us?”

She laughed, a light-hearted sound.
“So many questions.” Flicking her dark hair behind her ears, she settled
gracefully to the floor and sat cross-legged, holding a stoppered jug in her
lap. “Sit, Kath of Castlegard, and I’ll do my best to answer your questions.”

“You know my name?”

Another laugh. “The tall blond
knight, Sir Blaine, is a plague of questions, always pestering the healers for
word of you.”

“Then Blaine is safe.” Relief washed through her.
“But what of the others? Is Danya awake? And what about the monk? And Duncan…” A cold fist
gripped her heart.

“Will you not sit and join me?”

Kath bridled her questions and sank
to the earthen floor, studying the raven-faced woman. Except for the elaborate
tattoos, she seemed ordinary enough, clad in a sheepskin jerkin with leather
pants tucked into knee-high boots. But it was the dagger sheathed at the
woman’s belt that caught Kath’s attention. Her voice dropped to a steely
whisper. “Am I a prisoner?”

The woman sighed. “Will you give me
a chance to explain?”

Kath nodded, hiding the rock in her
fist, unsure if it was needed.

“My name is Thera, a healer, a
mother of three, and a follower of the Raven.” She set the clay jug aside. “And
you are lucky to have escaped the poison of the gore hounds.”

“
Gore
hounds?”

“Aye, for that is their true name.
Abominations created by the Mordant, made with the darkest magic.” The healer’s
voice dropped to a whisper. “It is said that the souls of men are bound within the
hounds, the reason they hunt with unnatural cunning and ferocity.”

Kath reeled backwards, remembering
the uncanny attack, stunned by the horror behind the woman’s words. “Valin’s
sword.” Shuddering, she made the hand sign against evil, dispelling the
nightmare. “But how did you find us?”

“The ravens. Their dark wings
blackened the sky, too many to merely be a trap.”

“A trap?”

“We value steel but cannot make it,
for the Ghost Hills provide no iron ore. So our men follow the ravens,
scavenging the battlefields of the steppes. Such a huge cloud of ravens
signaled a rich find of steel, a tempting prize.” Her voice hardened. “But the
soldiers of the Mordant know of our need. Sometimes they butcher a few slaves
to draw the ravens, setting a trap for our men.” The healer looked away. “My
husband died in just such a trap.”

“My sorrow for your loss.” Kath considered
what she’d learned. “So if we’d stayed at the battlefield, your men would have
found us?”

“The Mordant’s men got there
first.”

Kath’s heart froze.

The healer flashed a triumphant smile.
“But this time it was
our
men who closed the trap. Numbers always win in
the steppes.”

For a heartbeat, the raven’s
fierceness dominated the woman’s features, blue feathers and a sharp beak
accenting the wild gleam in her dark eyes. Kath half expected the woman to
sprout wings and caw. “Why does a healer wear the tattoos of a raven?”

“Ravens know death.” She cocked her
head like a bird. “Know your enemy in order to defeat him.”

And
these people know the Mordant, living in his very shadow.
Fierce warriors, they
could be the very allies she needed. Kath leaned forward, anxious to learn
more, but the healer forestalled her with a question. “How do you know of my
people?”

“I grew up in Castlegard, listening
to tales of the north. The knights tell stories that are almost legends, about
an elusive people who tattoo their faces with images of animals and dare to
ambush the Mordant’s forces.”

“So, we are little more than legends
to you?” The healer’s voice held a bitter edge.

Surprised by the bitterness, Kath
sought to repair the damage. “I met a Painted Warrior once, in the courtyard of
Castlegard.” She remembered the morning when a patrol of knights clattered into
the castle’s inner courtyard, two years and a lifetime ago. “Tattooed like a
mountain lion, he wore a shirt of soft white leather embroidered with small
blue flowers.”

The healer gasped, her face turning
ghost-pale.

Kath studied the woman, trying to
read the emotions swirling beneath the blue tattoos.

The healer fondled a beaded leather
bracelet on her left wrist, avoiding Kath’s stare. “The mountain lion is rare
among our people.”

“And the blue flowers?”

“Maiden’s Tears.” Her voice was
distracted, her gaze fixed on the bracelet. “It is said that Maiden’s Tears
only bloom on the graves of heroes.”

Kath sat statue-still, watching the
healer, trying to avoid pitfalls in a conversation she did not understand.

The healer glanced at Kath, dark
eyes framed by raven’s feathers. “What happened to this man of the mountain
lions?” Her was voice deceptively calm, a subtle warning.

Kath hesitated, feeling as if she
stood on the edge of a cliff…but the woman deserved an answer. “He died…”

“Stop!”
The healer’s hand flew to Kath’s lips. “Do not speak of it!” The raven glared
fierce from the woman’s face. “The truth of such a death must first be told in
the Great Hall, for all to hear and learn and remember.”

Kath nodded, wondering why one man
could matter so much.

“Promise that you will not speak of
it until the appointed time.”

“If you wish.”

“Swear it.” The words were flung
like daggers.

Kath did not understand, but she
nodded, her voice solemn. “I so swear.”

“Good.” The healer raked a hand
through her long hair, her face a mixture of grief and worry, her voice cold.
“Come, I will take you to your friends.” She rose to her feet, turning her back
on Kath.

Trying to bridge the sudden chasm,
Kath gripped the healer’s arm. “I did not mean to offend.”

“No offense was taken.” But her
tone remained cold.

“Are my friends well?”

The healer hesitated. “The girl is
awake but heart-sore, eating little and saying less. The old man,” Thera shook
her head, “the poison of the gore hounds is slow to act but terrible in its
vengeance. With the loss of an arm,” she shrugged, “it remains to be seen if
the old man will defeat the poison.”

“He
must
survive.” The words
hissed out of Kath.

“We do our best, but his life
depends on the gods.”

Thera turned to go, but Kath had
one more question. “My weapons?”

The healer stopped, her face
guarded. “Your throwing axes with their red hawk harness are much admired. Good
steel, excellent craftsmanship.”

No mention of the crystal dagger.
“I need my weapons.”

“They are being held in safe
keeping.”

The meaning behind the words hit
Kath hard. “So we’re prisoners.”

“Not prisoners…guests who are not
yet trusted.”

“But we both fight the Mordant.”

The raven stared back at her, eyes
as cold and hard as ebony chips. “Freedom is hard won.”

Her reply struck like a cold slap. Kath
felt as if she teetered on the edge of a chasm, a division of history and
customs, a great divide sundering potential allies. “How can I win the trust of
your people?”

The raven retreated, letting the
woman return. “The Ancestor will decide.” She raised a hand forestalling any
more questions. “When the old man’s battle is either won or lost, then you will
be tested.” Her voice held a note of finality. “In the presence of the
Ancestor, much will become known.” She turned. “Now come, your friends await.”