Silk And Steel: The Skeleton King Part 16

"Me?" Lothar shrugged a bushy eyebrow. "I'll walk you to the bear's den but no farther."

"And you call yourself a knight?"

"Only a lowly captain, not the Lord Marshal."

The marshal grinned, grateful for his friend. "If you won't face the king, then go and spread some rumors, something positive to counter all the doubt."

"A tale or two told over a cup of ale? Now that's a task worthy of a true knight." Lothar flashed a rogue's grin. "What will it be? A story recounting the king's heroism, or do you fancy something new? Something about a crystalline shard?"

"Both. But don't stray too far from the truth."

"Never."

"And no talk of the owl."

Both men sobered. Shapeshifters were an unfathomable evil and magic was an enemy swords couldn't fight. Both would cause doubts...doubts the Octagon could not afford.

The marshal stepped to the door. "I'll see myself to the king." He threw a pointed glare at his friend. "Keep your ear to the ramparts."

"Aye, I'll do that."

He left the council chambers, striding down the hallway and around the corner. A pair of maroon-cloaked guards snapped a half-hearted salute. Both cast wary glances at the marshal, like men uncertain of their orders. Even at the king's door he found doubt. Anger pulsed through him. "Stand straight and show some pride, for you guard our king."

Their eyes widened in surprise, but the men snapped to rigid attention, spear-b.u.t.ts pounding the stone floor.

"Better." The marshal made his voice a command. "Let no one pa.s.s, for any reason." Taking a deep breath, he reached for the door and stepped into winter.

Every window was flung wide and the hearth was choked with dead ashes. A cold chill claimed the chamber, cold and bitter as a tomb. The king sat at the table, oblivious to the chill, a cup in his hand, empty wine flagons strewn across the tabletop. Statue still, the king stared at his empty cup, as if someone else had put it there, perhaps Baldwin. Where was the lad anyway?

The marshal approached but the king did not stir. "My Lord, you'll catch your death of cold." He waited, but there was no reply. Frustrated, the marshal decided to play the squire. Latching the shutters, he knelt to strike a flint to the fireplace, seeking to return warmth to the king's chambers. The spark took and he added pine logs to the grate, a glow of warmth beating back the cold.

As he moved about the chamber, lighting candles to dispel the gloom, he talked as he worked, giving the king a running account of the Octagon. He spoke of morale and supplies, of catapults and horses, all in a soothing voice, like a man calming a skittish horse. Finished with the ch.o.r.es, he turned to study his liege. His silver hair was straggled and unkempt, his beard matted, fresh lines of grief graven deep in his face, but it was the eyes that worried him most, flat and dull, staring at nothing, lacking the spark of fire that so marked his king.

"My Lord, the men need you." He tossed the words out like a fisherman with a baited hook, desperate to lure a strike. But there was no response.

Anger mixed with desperation, the marshal's voice turned hard. Glaring at the king, he recounted the stories whispered on the ramparts. He spared no detail, repeating grim tales of demons and defeat. And all the while, he watched the king's face, hoping to rouse a reply, but there was never a flicker in those cold dead eyes. "So you see, my Lord, the men are rife with doubt. They need their king." He stared at his lord, willing a response.

The king's eyes remained dull, as if focused on some other world, but then he began to speak, his voice hoa.r.s.e from disuse. "Red eyes, demon eyes, glowing in the face of my son. My son taken by a demon, cursed by the Dark, my second-born son." He shook his head, a mane of straggly silver. "Two sons pinned on one sword. Four sons dead, lost to treachery." He stared into his empty goblet. "Five true-born sons, always a surfeit of heirs, and now I have but one. One." He shook his head in denial. "Red eyes, demon eyes, glowing in the face of my son."

The marshal shuddered. He'd heard it all before. A litany of repet.i.tion, the same words said over and over again. As if the king's mind was locked in a terrible loop, reliving the death of his sons, unable to move forward. It hurt him to see the king brought so low. "My Lord, you must break out of this nightmare. Don't you see? You do the demon's work for him! There are more powers at work here than we know. We dare not let the demons win."

"Red eyes, demon eyes, glowing in the face of my son..."

"Sire, this grief ill becomes you. Your son stayed true, offering his life to kill the demon. He died a knight of the Octagon. Don't dishonor his memory this way."

"Two sons pinned on one sword..." The mad mumbling continued like a chant.

Desperation pushed the marshal to anger. "We are the sword and shield of the southern kingdoms. We stand against the Dark tides." But his words made no difference. Without thought, he reached for his sword, the sword of the black knight, five feet of honest steel. Blade in hand, he stared at the king. "Enough!" He swept the sword across the tabletop, hurling flagons and metal goblets across the chamber. "No more!"

The mumbled litany continued. "Two sons pinned on one sword. Four sons dead, lost to treachery. Red eyes, demon eyes, glowing in the face of my son."

Frustration burned to rage. As if the demon stood before him, the marshal raised the great sword in a two-handed grip. With all of his might, he brought it down on the tabletop, a killing blow. Oak cracked in two. The table split in half, crashing to the floor.

The king staggered to his feet, his eyes blazing. "How dare you!"

Relief washed through him. "Sire, you're back."

"What?" Dazed, the king stared about the chamber, as if waking from a spell. He stared at the broken table and tugged on his disheveled beard, sniffing at the sour smell of his clothes. His lower lip curled in disgust. "How long?"

"Nigh on a fortnight, enough for rumors to run rampant."

Groaning, the king rubbed his hands across his face, lines of grief graven deep, as if he'd aged a decade. "So the men have heard the tale?"

"Heard it, re-told it, embellished it, twisted it till they see demons lurking behind every face." The marshal sheathed his sword. "It's as if the G.o.d-cursed demon still lives, wrecking havoc amongst the maroon. Morale is pushed to the breaking point. Defeat threatens before the enemy has even reached the gates."

The king moved to the fireplace, his shoulders hunched as if bracing for a blow. "Will the men still follow me? A king with a demon for a son?"

The marshal's breath caught, never having considered the question. "Sire, they'll follow you to h.e.l.l and back. But they must see you. They need to know you still lead."

"My son a demon...yet I never knew." The king turned to face the marshal, his gaze haggard and haunted. "I never knew."

So it was not just grief that plagued his king, but doubt as well. "Sire, there was no way to know."

The king shook his head. "Four sons lost to treachery."

Fear slashed the marshal, he couldn't let the king retreat into nightmares. "Sire, you still have an heir, your first-born son."

"Yes, Ulrich, the least of my sons."

"And there's still a daughter."

The king turned from the fire, a spark of anger in his eyes. "I rule a kingdom of swords, a kingdom of steel. Of what worth is a daughter?"

The marshal did not press the point, relieved to have the king distracted from grief. "The men need to see you. We need to vanquish the legacy of the demon."

"And how am I to do that?"

The question staggered him; the king was ever in command, a master at morale. He fumbled for an answer. "By doing what you always do." His words gained conviction. "Turn a disadvantage into an advantage."

"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 G.o.ds, but they offered no help. The sun's last rays succ.u.mbed, 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 gra.s.s, 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 G.o.ds to protest...but there was no sound except the wind.

Chiding himself for silly superst.i.tions, 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 h.e.l.lhounds. 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 a.s.sailed him, yet he refused to succ.u.mb.

The moon disappeared, swallowed by the west, but darkness still gripped the sky. The wolves had fallen silent. Nothing moved save the tall gra.s.s 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. Gra.s.ses 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 p.r.i.c.kling 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 h.e.l.lhound'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 h.e.l.l to pay."

Figures melted out of the gra.s.s, 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.