Silk And Steel: The Skeleton King Part 12

Anger spiked through her. "Since when does the Octagon give up?"

Growling like a baited bear, he stood and unsheathed his great sword, a flash of sapphire-blue steel. "What would you have me do?" He brandished his sword at the heavens. "Tilt at the ravens?"

"Steel is not the only way to fight." A cold anger seeped into her. "I can't carry them by myself."

He stared at her, as if slapped from a trance. "You're right. I just..." He shook his head. "When none of you woke, it seemed hopeless." He sheathed his sword. "What can I do?"

She nodded, relieved to have him back. "We'll build a pair of travois. We've got a windfall of supplies," she gestured to the battlefield. "Two spears can serve as the shafts, with blankets fastened between them. And tack from the horses can serve as a harness to ease the weight."

Blaine nodded, "I'll gather the supplies." He strode towards the battlefield, her swordmaster and her friend.

Kath unclenched her fist, staring at the Duncan's warrior's ring. She missed him, yet he was barely gone. Sighing, she clutched the ring. Her hair had always been too fine to hold a ring, so she cut a leather strip from a saddlebag, threaded it through and tied it in a loop, placing it around her neck. Tucking the ring under her tunic, she let it fall between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and then pressed it to her heart, praying they both survived.

Dark wings fluttered close. A raven settled on her discarded blanket. Its dark eye stared up at her. "Caw! Caw!"

She aimed a kick at the raven, angry at the bird's betrayal. The bird squawked and fluttered to the nearest horse bloated with death.

Pale morning light revealed a horror of corpses. Ravens squawked among the dead, a feeding frenzy of dark wings. Kath walked in the opposite direction from Blaine. Squatting behind a dead horse, she winced at the stabbing pain her thigh. Cursing the h.e.l.lhounds, she made a quick toilet.

The amber pyramid called to her, a tug at the back of her mind. The compulsion pulled her through the maze of corpses. More than forty horses lay strewn across the field yet she knew the right one. Squatting, she tried the mouth but rigor had set in. The dead did not give up their secrets easily. She drew her dagger and tried prying the teeth apart, but death's bite was too strong. Anxious to regain the pyramid, she cut into the horse's jaw, a grisly task. Three cuts later and the corpse relinquished the hidden treasure. The amber pyramid nestled in her palm, a hope and a threat.

Returning to the fire, she used a full water skin desperate to wash away the stench. Kath wasn't hungry, but she forced down a fistful of dried meat. She tried to wake Danya, but the brown-haired girl remained pale and insensate. Her magic had saved them, but now it seemed she paid a steep price. Kath gripped her sword hilt in frustration; realizing magic was both a boon and a curse.

Blaine returned, dropping an armload of pilfered gear by the fire. "I tested the spears. These four seem st.u.r.dy enough."

Feeling the need to be away, they worked quickly. Laying the spears on the ground, they stretched blankets between them. Using a knife as an auger, they lashed the blankets to the spears with strips of leather. Kath doubled the knots while Blaine fashioned a harness from bits of tack.

A winged shadow pa.s.sed overhead. A raven landed on the travois, dark eyes inspecting her work. Kath swiped at the bird, a squawk of feathers, wishing she could scare the whole murder away. "Time is running out."

Blaine's face tensed. "I know."

They made a last check of the bindings and then set the first travois next to Danya. Shifting the wolf-girl, Kath winced at the sharp pain lancing her thigh.

"Are you hurt?"

She shrugged. "The cursed h.e.l.lhound clawed my leg."

Blaine stared at the torn strips of blanket wrapping her thigh. "Should I check that?"

"No time."

They shifted the monk onto the second travois and covered him with a blanket. Zith moaned, a sheen of sweat coating his forehead, but he did not wake. Kath hoped he survived. She wove a length of rope around his chest and under his arms, securing him to the travois while Blaine did the same for Danya.

A low growl came from behind. Kath whirled, unsheathing her sword but it was only Bryx. The wolf loped from the tall gra.s.s, snapping and snarling at the ravens.

Blaine said, "He doesn't like the ravens."

"He's not the only one." She shivered, feeling the need to be away.

"We still need supplies."

"And I can't leave without my axes." She found her leather harness lying next to her shirt of chainmail, a puddle of steel links gleaming in the sunlight. The chainmail had saved her life more than once. She was reluctant to leave it but she couldn't afford the weight. Her octagonal shield would have to be left behind as well, another loss.

Shrugging the leather harness over her shoulders, Kath hurried in search of her axes. Retracing the battle, she eventually found the soldier felled by her throw. He'd seemed a towering brute, but now he was only a crumpled corpse, diminished by death, food for ravens. She whispered a prayer to Valin, knowing how close they'd come to death. Wiping her blades on the dead man's cloak, she returned to the campfire.

Blaine had loaded the monk's travois with supplies, but Danya's remained unburdened. He gave her a wary look, as if he expecting a rebuke, but Kath did not complain. Stepping between the shafts, she settled the leather harness across her shoulders and lifted. The weight seemed bearable, but the day was young.

She scanned the horizon for a gleam of black armor, but there was none...yet. She prayed to Valin for time to escape.

Blaine lifted the monk's travois. "Which way?"

The question surprised her. "Into the north."

He stared at her, as if considering her reply. For a moment, she thought he would argue, but then he shrugged. "You don't give up, do you?"

"We won a battle, not the war."

"Did we win? This doesn't feel like victory."

"We're alive. They're not."

He gave her a half-smile. "Live to fight another day."

"Just so."

The wolf chuffed, disappearing into the gra.s.s.

"The wolf has the truth of it. We best be away."

Blaine took the lead, breaking a trail into the north. Kath leaned into the harness, taking up her friend's weight. She lurched forward, the wound in her thigh screaming with agony. Ignoring the pain, she focused on taking one step at a time, trying to keep pace with the blond-haired knight.

Ravens circled overhead, like an omen of doom. Cursing the birds, she struggled against the traces, desperate to be away. Ten steps became twenty, a test of strength, a test of endurance. Lowering her head, she trudged forward, full of sympathy for beasts of burden. Fifty steps became sixty, a monotony of pain. She glanced back, dismayed to find the pillar of ravens alarmingly close, a beacon for the Mordant's soldiers. Staring up at the sky, she dared the G.o.ds to help, but there was no reply.

Kath chose a spot on the horizon, determined to reach it without stopping. She leaned into the traces, taking one step at a time, straining to gain some distance on the ravens.

Morning bled into late afternoon, a long haze of torment. Drenched in sweat, Kath struggled against the weight, pain ripping across her back and down her arms. Every step was a victory...or a testament to torture. Right foot and then the left, an endless shuffle forward. Pain lanced through her thigh and across her shoulders. Her left hand was rubbed raw, a ma.s.s of welts, yet she refused to loosen her grip. Sweat trickled down her face despite the chill wind. She licked her lips, a crust of salt, and kept moving.

Caught in a fog of hurt, she lost count of the number of steps. Too tired to think, she looked past Blaine, her stare fixed on the north, a golden line of gra.s.s that never seemed end, another trick of the steppes.

The blond knight forged ahead, breaking a trail through the gra.s.s, the poles of his travois marking a path. He turned now and then to offer encouragement, waiting for her to catch up. "Let's rest for a bit."

"No, keep going." Shame flooded through her. "If I stop, I may not start again."

"You need to rest."

She shook her head. "We're not far enough."

He shot her a stubborn glare full of protest but then turned back to his own burden.

She struggled to keep pace, shamed by her weakness, knowing she put them all at risk. The travois pulled like an anchor, the harness biting into her shoulders, a dead weight tethering her to the ground. She took another step, cursing the vastness of the steppes, cursing the north, but at least the ravens had long since fallen silent.

Darkness began to claim the sky, a b.l.o.o.d.y glow in the west. Kath yearned for the night, knowing she could lay down her burden and rest. She wondered if she'd ever get up again.

Something caught at her foot. She tripped and almost fell. A half-buried skull stared up her. Picked clean by predators and weathered by age, it gave her a mocking grin. Her vision blurred, and the skull laughed, a cruel, mocking sound, an omen of death. Tightening her hold on the travois, she used the pain to cling to reality. Death was everywhere in the steppes. The golden gra.s.sland looked benign, but it was really a clever snare, an endless, relentless trap, a kind of h.e.l.l. Shivering, she bent to the traces, taking up her burden, refusing to give up.

The weight seemed to have multiplied. Kath cursed the skull, deciding it must have been one of the Mordant's men, a ghost from an ancient battle sent to plague her. Refusing to be beaten, she put one foot in front of another, trudging into the north.

A low whine brought her to a staggering stop. The wolf emerged from the gra.s.s, weaving like a rum-soaked drunk. Tongue lolling, he flopped at her feet, a dull whine of pain.

"Keep moving, Bryx." Her words were a dry croak.

The wolf whined, sprawling on the gra.s.s, blocking her way.

Sighing in frustration, she sank to her knees, every muscle aching. "What's wrong?"

The wolf rolled on his side, panting for breath.

"We're all tired." She stroked the wolf, surprised to find his dark fur wet...yet it hadn't rained. Groggy with exhaustion, she struggled to think.

Bryx whined and licked his flank. It was only then that she noticed the claw marks raking his side. Five deep cuts oozed dark pus, the festering marks of a h.e.l.lhound's claws. Shame flooded through her; the wolf had fought like a warrior yet no one had thought to tend his wounds. "You need help."

The wolf chuffed and licked her hand.

All the supplies were with Blaine. Kath struggled to stand, shocked to find that the knight had lengthened his lead. Too weary to chase him, she called his name, "Blaine!" but her voice was a weak croak.

He kept walking, the fading sunlight glinting on his silver surcoat.

She had to get help for the wolf. Shrugging out of the harness, she left the travois and followed. Freed from the weight, she walked light as air, a strange floating sensation. Kath tired to run, but her legs buckled. Drenched in sweat, she sank to her knees, her voice a harsh cry. "Blaine!"

He turned.

"Help!" Exhaustion pulled her down. She slumped to the gra.s.s, longing to rest.

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 h.e.l.lhound's claws."

"A wound from a h.e.l.lhound?" 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 mola.s.ses. 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 G.o.d-cursed steppes, poisoned by a h.e.l.lhound. 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, s.n.a.t.c.hing 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 gra.s.ses 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 gra.s.s 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 gra.s.ses 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 cl.u.s.tered 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 gra.s.s, keeping the last of the darkness at his back. Racing through the gra.s.s, 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 gra.s.s.

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 gra.s.s.

The steppes seemed empty, golden gra.s.ses 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 gra.s.sland. Sunlight gleamed on metal. At least one soldier fled north, hunched over, staying below the waist-high gra.s.s. 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 gra.s.s. 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.