Silk And Steel: The Skeleton King Part 21

"We've crossed the great ocean at your summoning, but our tridents long for blood and our Miral seeks fresh plunder."

"You shall have both." The Mordant raised his voice, his words meant for the crowd as well as the sea folk. "I have returned to lead the Pentacle to war. The southern kingdoms are fat with peace. The southern coast will provide rich pickings for the Trident, especially the seaside kingdom of Navarre."

The MerChanter grinned like a sea wolf. "Then the tides run true for us both."

"The tides of blood and plunder." The Mordant descended the dais. "Come, let us seal our alliance with a feast, for we have much to discuss." He strode down the long colonnade, the sea folk marching behind like an honor guard. The mult.i.tude fell prostrate as he pa.s.sed, like wheat bent before the scythe. The Mordant smiled. Now that he had the Dark Citadel in hand, he could turn his attention to conquest. A thousand years of destiny yearned for fulfillment, calling to him like a siren, the rapture of power pulsing through his veins. Soon the southern kingdoms would cower beneath his boot heel, setting all of Erdhe beneath his dominion, an undisputed G.o.d-king ruling for all eternity.

26.

Katherine Bear and Boar stayed two steps behind, a pair of shadows Kath could not shake. Surly and taciturn, the guards followed her everywhere, speaking only when something was forbidden, refusing all conversations, not even offering their names. Kath had taken to calling them by their tattoos. If either man minded, they did not say. Undaunted by her silent shadows, Kath spent the better part of her days exploring the caves, seeking clues to the riddle of her captors, searching for a bridge across a chasm of differences.

The den proved to be a maze of chambers, galleries, and tunneled pa.s.sageways, an easy place to get lost. Animal paintings dominated most chambers. A celebration of life danced on the rough rock walls, raced across the vaulted ceilings, and peered from the faces of young and old. Bears, foxes, badgers, owls, boars, and at least one eagle, stared back at her, etched with blue ink on the faces of men and women alike. A melding of human and animal that suggested a feral power. And all of them carried a weapon of some sort, a dagger, a sword, a mace, a battle-axe, more proof they lived in the Mordant's shadow.

The tattooed people seemed as strange and daunting as the caves in which they lived, but Kath knew they'd make valuable allies against the Mordant. The Painted Warriors were a riddle waiting to be solved...if only she could find the key to their trust. She shivered, missing the monk's wisdom and Duncan's instincts. Somehow she'd have to find a way to turn her captors into allies. Feeling their hostile stares, she wondered if it could be done.

Kath persisted in exploring the caves. Her wanderings had yielded at least one secret. The caves were best traversed by following a single animal. Today she followed the white-tailed deer, eager to discover where they might lead. Ocher deer pranced across the rough rock walls, leading her through a series of twists and turns. Bold strokes of color gave the deer a sense of motion, as if they might leap off the walls and race down the rocky corridors. The artistry never failed to amaze her. Startling in their intensity, the chalk drawings transformed the caves into a cathedral, evoking a reverence for life, a vibrant celebration of freedom. If the drawings mirrored their makers, then the Painted Warriors would make stout allies of the Light...if only she could win their trust.

The corridor twisted left and then forked into three separate pa.s.sageways, including one that was little more than a three-foot wide crack. Curiosity drew her to the narrow cleft. Saber-toothed lions lurked in the shadows, slinking across the rocks, teeth bared in a snarl of rage, as if they protected the narrow entranceway. A shiver of antic.i.p.ation raced down her spine. She'd been searching for lions, trying to understand the importance of the Painted Warrior who'd died in Castlegard, but so far she'd had little luck. Lions seemed to be rare in the caves...perhaps this narrow pa.s.sage held the insights she so desperately needed. Kath stepped towards the cleft.

"Not that way." Bear's gravelly voice tugged like a leash.

Hating to be caged, she dared another step.

"Not that way."

She whirled, confronting her shadows. "Why not?" Boar spoke even less than Bear, so she turned her anger on the blond giant. "What's down there? What are you hiding? What's so special about the lions?"

"Not that way."

Anger boiled within her. "Give me a reason."

But the bear of a man just stared at her, his face impa.s.sive, his hand on his sword hilt.

It was like talking to a rock, a pair of rocks. Tall, barrel-chested, and blond, Bear had the flattened nose of a brawler. In contrast, Boar was dark and stocky, with an ugly scar that ran along his tattooed tusk, as if the boar had ripped through the man's face trying to break free. She wondered which came first, the scar or the tattoo. "Tell me about your tattoos. Why do you wear them? What do they mean?"

Neither man offered any response; they just stared, their hands on their weapons.

Grinding her teeth, Kath considered sprinting for the narrow pa.s.sage, certain she could outrun her guards, but trespa.s.sing on forbidden ground was not the best way to win friends. Swallowing her frustration, she decided to try a different tactic. "You won't return my weapons. You won't show me the way out. You won't tell me about the caves. You won't talk about this so-called Ancestor. And you won't even give me your names." She dropped her voice to a whisper. "Then tell me about the Mordant."

Boar's dark eyes widened, his gaze flicking to Bear...but neither man answered.

Encouraged, Kath pressed the attack "Tell me about the Dark Citadel. What weaknesses does it have? There must be a secret way out, an escape route that could be used for an attack? And what about the gates that guard the long wall? How do you get past the magic?" Hands on her hips, she glared at the two men, daring them to answer.

Bear met her gaze, while Boar fingered his mace, staring at the ground.

"You're both warriors. You know the enemy." She stepped close, invading their s.p.a.ce. "My companions and I came north to fight the Mordant." Her words stabbed like a sword. "Don't send us into battle blind."

Boar gasped and retreated a step, but Bear just stared.

Seeking to keep them off-balance, Kath pivoted and started to walk away...but Boar's gruff voice raised a stubborn challenge. "Women don't fight."

She'd found a c.h.i.n.k in their armor. Slowly turning, she fought to keep her face neutral. "Why not? Every woman in the den carries a weapon, so why don't they fight?"

"To defend the den, yes, but not in the open steppes."

She drilled Boar with her stare, demanding an answer. "Why not in the steppes?"

"Because..." he stammered, "men can endure." Blood rushed to his face. "Far better for a woman to die than to be taken prisoner."

"Why?"

"Because..." Boar's face flushed red.

Kath's stare intensified. "I need to know."

His voice dropped to a strangled rasp. "Because captured women are sent to the breeding pens."

A chill gripped Kath. "The breeding pens?"

Boar nodded. "In the Pit."

The more she learned about the Mordant's domain, the more she hated it...but she needed to understand the enemy. "So you've been in the Dark Citadel?"

"A slave of the ninth tier."

Bear scowled, his voice like a thunderclap. "Enough!"

Boar looked away, his face flaming red, his fist gripping his mace.

But the words were said...explaining much. Kath waited, hoping for more, but the stony silence returned. Pivoting, she strode down the widest pa.s.sage, setting a fast pace, forcing her guards to rush to catch up. Boar's words shivered in her mind, breeding pens, such a revolting thought, another reason to defeat the Mordant. She wondered how many of the Painted Warriors had once lived within the Dark Citadel. Their knowledge would be invaluable, if only they'd help, but their frosty silence was proving hard to crack. Whoever ruled the tattooed people did so with an iron fist.

Kath followed the deer, lost in thought, hoping Blaine was having better luck. They'd split up, trying to cover more of the caves; perhaps the knight would discover the meaning behind the lions.

The pa.s.sage widened, spilling into one of the many long galleries. Half a dozen pa.s.sageways emptied into the chamber, white-tailed deer mingling with aurochs, horses, and wolves across the vaulted ceiling. A crowd filled the gallery, young and old standing in a circle, straining to see, as if watching a juggler or a mummer. Men cheered and women made a strange humming sound. Surprised, Kath drew close. She'd seen large galleries where the tattooed people gathered to card wool, weave cloth, cook meals, or repair chainmail, but she'd yet to see any form of merriment or revelry. Curious, she joined the crowd, threading her way to the front. Gaining a clear view, she gasped in surprise.

Blaine's blue steel sword!

A fox-faced man gave an exhibition of sword work, blue steel slicing through imaginary foes. Pivoting and leaping, he slashed and hacked, fighting a mock battle. The man proved agile and quick but the sword strokes were crude and clumsy, a self-taught brawler wielding a hero's sword. The coa.r.s.e display sickened her, a waste of blue steel. The great sword deserved better, yet the painted people did not seem to know it.

Kath studied the crowd, tattooed faces eagerly following the sapphire sword, cheering with appreciation. If they only knew what an Octagon knight could do with such a blade.

Blaine! As if conjured from thought, the blond-haired knight stood on the far side of the crowd...but one glimpse of his face warned her of trouble. Like a starving lion, the knight's hungry stare followed the blue sword. His hands were balled into fists, his mouth curled into an ugly smile, his eyes burning with a devil-may-care att.i.tude, all the telltale signs of a berserker on the brink of battle...yet he had no weapon. Kath feared that he might get hurt, feared that he might ruin any chance for an alliance.

Desperate to stop him, she pushed through the crowd. A smother of people blocked the way. Dodging the press, she fought her way forward, straining to reach him in time. She lunged, grabbing his sleeve. "Blaine!"

He whirled, his eyes smoldering with rage, his face on the verge of a berserker's madness, no recognition in his stare.

Pounding his chest, she tried to get through to him. "Stop it, Blaine."

Snarling, he batted her away, turning back toward the sword.

She grabbed his arm, but he shook her off.

Thwarted by his strength, she reached for her father's voice, a battle leader using the voice of command. "Sir Blaine, attend me!"

He staggered back a step, his gaze snapping toward her.

She seized the chance. Laying a hand against the stubble of his cheek, she held his gaze, appealing to the man instead of the battle-crazed warrior. "I can't lose you."

He swayed on his feet, his gaze uncertain.

Kath persisted, her voice a hushed command. "By the Octagon, do not risk our victory."

He came back to her then, the anger in his eyes dampened to a sullen bitterness. "I need my sword." The battle madness left him in a rush, his shoulders slumping forward, a defeated, hangdog look souring his face.

A hard stare drilled into her back. Whirling, she locked eyes with the raven-faced healer. So, they were being watched, judged by standards she didn't understand, all the more reason to get Blaine away.

Kath gripped his arm, drawing him away from the tattooed stares. "Come." Blaine kept pace, his face sullen, but at least he did not argue. Four guards followed, Bear and Boar and the two that shadowed Blaine. Irritated by the nagging shadows, Kath tried to ignore them. Retracing her steps, she followed the chalk horses, leading Blaine back to the privacy of their sleeping chamber.

Ducking low, she entered the small side cave; thankful the guards remained outside, stationed at the only entrance. Their sleeping chamber was L-shaped, more horses cantering across the low vaulted ceiling. A large glow crystal sat on a central boulder, casting a soft white light. Bedrolls lay spread across the floor, the rear of the chamber reserved for the chamber pot. Danya sat on her bedroll, hugging the wolf, her face buried in his thick black ruff, but at least the wolf-girl had stopped her m.u.f.fled crying. Bryx chuffed a greeting but the girl did not stir.

Blaine sprawled on his bedroll, his voice sullen. "Prisoners returned to their cage."

Kath did not like his tone, especially after the incident in the gallery. "They've given us the freedom to explore the caves, a chance to change our fate."

He shook his head. "We're still prisoners."

Kath's anger snapped. "That's the trick," she glared down at him, "turning captors into allies."

He glowered, looking away.

"You were supposed to befriend them, explore the caves and try to win their trust, not start a fight and get yourself killed." She stubbed her boot hard against the sole of his foot. "What were you going to do? Fight him with your bare hands?"

He sprang to his feet, a coil of anger. "Allies shouldn't demand payment for help."

"Exactly."

"What?" He stared at her, confusion muting his anger.

"We need these people for allies." She drilled him with her stare. "They live in the very shadow of the Mordant. They know his ways. They know the Dark Citadel." She lowered her voice to a whisper. "And they have the crystal dagger."

Blaine glowered. "I tried to keep it from them...but they took it with the rest of our weapons."

She willed him to understand. "Win their trust and we'll regain our weapons."

"I want my sword back."

"To get it, you must first understand them."

His gaze burned into her.

"Trade stories with their warriors. Find out how they fight the enemy, discover how they make decisions, how they divide the spoils of war. Learn about them and find a way to regain your sword without raising their ire."

Blaine scowled. "Just that simple."

"There's nothing simple about it." She had to make him understand. "It's up to us to find the common ground, to forge an alliance. We're being watched. Every move we make is being judged. Don't you see that?"

"What I see is my sword in another's hands." His voice dropped to a growl. "A knight is nothing without his sword."

Her anger boiled over. "No! A knight is honor." She jabbed the maroon octagon emblazoned on his surcoat. "You are honor, never forget that." She glared up at him. "And you are sworn to me. I'll not have you risk your life needlessly."

He stared at her, wide-eyed, caught in an ambush of words.

"But you still want your sword."

"Yes." His mouth hardened to a stubborn slash.

"Then go and talk to them. Time is running out." She waved him toward the exit. "See what you can learn...but don't pick a fight."

He grabbed his maroon cloak, twirled it around his shoulders and then left, ducking through the exit without looking back.

Weary from arguing, she threw herself on her bedroll. Her frustration gradually subsided and she found herself running her hand through the bedroll's thick fleece. Sheep seemed to be the main staple of the painted people. The evidence was everywhere, from sheepskin bedrolls, jerkins, and cloaks, to haunches of lamb for supper, and chunks of mutton in the midday stew. The painted people depended on sheep. It was the one obvious truth about their captors...while so much else remained a riddle.

Closing her eyes, Kath sank back into the fleece, weary of so many problems. Reaching beneath her jerkin, she gripped the silver warrior's ring and thought about Duncan, praying for Valin to keep him safe. She missed him so much, she ached.

A wet rasp licked her face.

Startled, Kath sat up.

Green eyes stared at back her, a soft whine.

"What do you want, Bryx?" Sometimes the wolf seemed half human.

He chuffed and whined and slunk back to Danya, his tail between his legs. Settling next to the brown-haired girl, he stared back at Kath, reproach in his gaze.

Kath sighed, another problem. She'd tried talking with Danya, tried pulling the wolf-girl out of her grief, but words seemed to have little effect. The brown-haired girl remained listless, eating little and saying less, clutching the wolf as she rocked back and forth, locked within her own remorse. Still, the wolf was right, Kath could not give up.

Her bedroll was too far away. She moved it closer, sitting across from Danya with the wolf lying between them. Reaching out, she stroked the thick, dark fur. The wolf rumbled in pleasure, rolling onto his side.

"Danya, talk with me." Kath kept her voice soft, cajoling, inviting a response. "You grieve too much." She shook her head, recalling the horrors of the battlefield. "You saved us all. If not for you, we'd all be dead, or worse, prisoners of the Mordant."

But the brown-haired girl made no reply. She sat hugging the wolf, her face buried in the black fur.