Silk And Steel: The Skeleton King Part 17

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 p.r.i.c.ked 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 gra.s.ses.

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 a.s.sessing 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 h.e.l.lhounds and tattooed warriors, the north was plagued with unexpected traps, worse than any nightmare. Cursing his ill fate and the indifference of the G.o.ds, Blaine ran through the tall gra.s.s, 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 G.o.d.

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 G.o.d.*

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 h.e.l.l.

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 stalact.i.tes 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 h.e.l.l, an eternal glow quenched only by the Dark G.o.d'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. Br.i.m.m.i.n.g 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 stalact.i.tes...the breath of a G.o.d.

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 antic.i.p.ation. 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 p.a.w.ns...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 G.o.d, 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 G.o.dly 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.

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 h.e.l.l are you? The Pit's sp.a.w.ned 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 p.i.s.s 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 pa.s.sing cliff-face was like none he'd ever seen. Gray stone fused smooth as gla.s.s, 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 G.o.d had punched his fist straight down into the earth, boring a hole half a league to h.e.l.l.

A nameless fear gripped him. He was trussed in chains, a captive being lowered into a h.e.l.lish 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 gla.s.s, 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 a.s.saulted 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 h.e.l.l, stocked with an army of slaves, the north proved worse than any nightmare. Kath had no idea what she faced. How could the G.o.ds 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 pa.s.sed 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 ma.s.sive 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 pa.s.sing judgment on a kneeling slave.