Silk And Steel: The Skeleton King Part 31

The king turned his gaze to the marshal. "Send a message across the Domain under my seal. Warn the others of this ploy, though I doubt it will be repeated." The king studied his captains. "We've had our warning. Now the Mordant will come in force."

Ulrich looked indignant. "That's it? You make light of the attack."

"I make light of nothing." The king's words struck like a slap. "The council is dismissed. Remind your men of the lesson of Cragnoth, especially the sentries. See that they remember the runes. Now go, for I would speak with my son."

The king's anger rippled through the chamber. The captains rose from their seats and left without speaking. The marshal moved to follow but the king raised his hand. "Not you, Osbourne."

The marshal resumed his post, his back to the blazing fire.

The chamber emptied and the door closed. Pine logs snapped and crackled in the hearth. The king glared at his only remaining son, but he did not speak. The prince broke first, words erupting in anger. "I did what you ordered. I held the Crag and defeated the enemy. The men celebrate my victory."

"You opened the gates for the enemy." The king's voice simmered with rage. "You were warned of treachery yet you never looked past their cloaks."

The prince flamed red. "They're dead, what does it matter?"

"Did you even remember the runes?"

Ulrich looked away.

"No." The word fell like an axe. "I'll wager a veteran told you after the battle."

The truth was writ large across the prince's face, yet he tried to cover his shame with bl.u.s.ter. "I gained a victory for the Octagon. What else matters?"

The king's voice dropped to a deadly hiss. "The crown matters. A king needs to know his enemies, to always out-think them." Disdain filled his voice, "Yet you did neither."

Outrage claimed the prince. "I slew more enemies than any of my men!"

"It's not your sword that's in question." The king glared at his son. "Strategy is stronger than steel. It is the first and best weapon of any king." His voice dropped to a deadly growl. "Lionel would never have made your mistake."

Ulrich's head snapped back as if slapped...but then his eyes hardened to chips of flint. "Lionel's dead, isn't he? Clever enough to get himself killed...and now I'm your only remaining son."

The marshal caught his breath.

The king stared, his face stone hard...but the tic in his left eye had returned with a vengeance, an ominous sign.

Ulrich glared. "You never see my worth."

"I've seen more than enough." Disgust filled the king's voice. "Get out of my sight."

Ulrich stood, his face a deadly grimace. "You wrong me, father. I'm not just a sword looking for a fight."

"Then prove it."

Stares clashed across the table, but it was the prince who flinched first. "As you command." The prince strode from the chamber.

The door slammed shut but the king remained seated. He leaned back in the chair, his face creased with worry. "The G.o.ds mock me, Osbourne. First Tristan, then Lionel, then G.o.dfrey and Griffin. They steal the best of my sons and leave me a hollow sword. Ulrich should have remembered the runes. My squire would have known better." He shook his head, a mane of silver. "I fear for the Octagon." The tic at the king's left eye beat a fierce rhythm.

The marshal worried for his lord. "Perhaps the prince will grow into his role. Give him time."

"Time is already late." He shook his head like an angry bear. "How many good men died because Ulrich opened the gate to the enemy?"

The marshal had no answer.

"The Octagon cannot afford such mistakes. We fight with our wits as well as our swords."

"Given the right advisor, Ulrich may learn to avoid such mistakes."

The king sighed. "Then you'd best outlive me, Osbourne."

The words shivered like a doom, sc.r.a.pping against the marshal's nerves. He shook his head in defiance. "We'll defeat the Mordant together and then worry about the throne."

The king's face turned hard as stone. "Yes, the Mordant. I've a fearsome blood debt to collect." Grim as death, the king strode from the chamber. The marshal followed, but he could not shake the feeling of dread. He wondered how much time they had left.

37.

Duncan Chains on his ankles, shackles on his wrists, Duncan knelt on the cavern floor. Pain blazed in every part of his body, a prisoner once more.

Whips cracked and handlers yelled, moving up and down the ragged line. One of a hundred, he knelt in a long line of rebels, all of them shackled and chained. Most bore wounds; b.l.o.o.d.y badges of honor, but all of them wore nasty red welts crosshatched on their skin, badges of defeat. The sticky webs were gone, and so were their weapons, stacked in a mound like an offering to a G.o.d. Fresh air wafted through the chamber like a taunt, so close to victory it hurt. Krell's body lay crumpled near the entrance, a spear rampant in his chest. A fallen hero, Duncan envied the big man his fate.

A whip cracked close to Duncan's face. "Don't wish for death, maggot." A leather-clad handler sneered down at him. "Your life is not your own."

Duncan lowered his gaze, smoldering with hate.

A flourish of drumbeats came from the entrance, accompanied by the rhythmic tramp of hobnailed boots. Soldiers marched into the cavern, a disciplined gleam of gold and black. Soldiers...not mine guards, they formed a line opposite the prisoners, presenting a solid wall of shields.

A trumpet echoed through the cavern, a haughty blare. The shield wall parted to reveal eight slaves struggling to carry a gilded chair perched atop a raised platform. A single man sprawled in the sedan. Big and baldheaded, with muscles gone to fat, he wore robes of green wool, gold rings on his fingers, a cat-o-nine tails in his hands. The slaves lowered the chair. An entourage of guards and scribes hovered around like flies buzzing to carrion.

The handlers bowed deep and the soldiers snapped to attention.

The lordling rose from his gilded chair, using the height of the sedan to survey the prisoners. Flexing the cat-o-nine tails between his hands, his voice filled the cavern. "Nothing in the Mordant's domain is ever wasted. Nothing. Not even your pitiful lives. But punishment is owed...and the debt will be paid." The lord flashed a sleepy smile. "Your leaders will serve by example...while the rest return to work in the mine. Lest you think to rebel again, each of you will be marked with a special brand. If the iron ore does not flow within a day, then every tenth man will pay a t.i.the to the Mordant. The t.i.the will be nothing important, nothing to hinder your work in the mine, just a small payment of useless flesh...just your manhood."

A shudder pa.s.sed through the prisoners.

Duncan's mouth went dry.

"But first I'll have your leaders." The lord gestured and a blond-haired courtier emerged from his entourage.

Something familiar snagged Duncan's stare. And then he saw it, the distinctive gleam of polished gray leather. The courtier wore his boots, his Midwinter gift from Jordan. Like a bauble tossed to a fawning servant, this courtier dared wear his boots! Outrage flooded all reason. Duncan surged to his feet, his hands balled into fists.

A whip cracked.

Fire lashed across his back. Duncan staggered forward.

A handler appeared, pressing a dagger to his throat. "On your knees, maggot."

Duncan snarled but he had no choice. His chains clanked as he knelt, but his stare never left the courtier. Tall and clean-shaven, with close-cropped blond hair, the man strode toward the kneeling prisoners. One at a time, he moved down the line, studying each rebel. He paused before Seth and gestured. "This one." A pair of handlers dragged Seth to his feet. The courtier continued down the line.

Something about the blond-haired dandy scratched at the back of Duncan's mind, but it was not until he drew near that understanding struck. Bruce! The man he'd saved from the cave-in...the filthy, G.o.d-rotting traitor. Rage boiled through Duncan, but the dagger at his throat held him in check.

Duncan watched as Clovis was chosen, then Brock...and then Marcos, and then the traitor stood before him. Their stares locked like crossed swords...till a smug smile appeared on the traitor's face. "This one, definitely this one."

"We saved your life!" Hands gripped Duncan's arms, dragging him to his feet, but he kept his gaze fixed on the traitor.

Bruce shrugged, "Your mistake," and moved to the next prisoner.

Duncan lunged but the handlers held him firm. He hawked a wad of spit at Bruce's back. "There's a special h.e.l.l for traitors."

Quick as an adder, a handler buried his fist in Duncan's groin. Doubled with pain, he gasped for breath. Hanging between two handlers, he speared Bruce with his stare, but the traitor seemed impervious as stone.

Six men were chosen. Two of them were only followers not leaders, but their desperate pleas went unheeded. Lord Sleghorn gestured and the six were herded together without question or trial, condemned by a traitor's word. "Bring them."

A drum roll filled the cavern and the slaves hoisted the sedan chair onto their shoulders. Leather clad handlers closed in on the six. Duncan and the other five were driven behind the lord's chair, prodded with clubs, herded like cattle to the slaughter. The cavern narrowed to a long corridor. Duncan sidled next to Clovis, trying to catch his friend's gaze. Chains clanked with each step, accompanied by the tramp of hobnailed boots. The handlers moved close, gripping Duncan's arms as if he might bolt...and then he noticed the floor slanted up. The tunnel opened to daylight.

Duncan shuffled from the mine, blinded by sunlight. He stumbled and almost fell, tears crowding his eyes. Taking a deep breath, he nearly swooned. After the stench of the mine, the air smelled fresh. Teaming with scents, the first breath swamped him with the mingled smells of dung fires, pan baked bread, roasting grease, and the crowded stink of too many people. Duncan gulped the air like a drowning man, drunk on scent.

The handlers kept him moving. Poked and prodded, he shuffled forward. With each step his senses adjusted to the deluge. Reason returned like a slap. Duncan strained against his shackles, desperate to escape. Chained and surrounded by guards, he struggled to bide his time.

The lord and his entourage led the procession. Borne aloft on the shoulders of slaves, the gilded sedan gleamed like a beacon, at odds with the muddy lane. Dirty faces peered from a slum of mud huts and thatched hovels. A gaggle of raggedy children capered alongside, grinning as if they watched a troupe of mummers, but the adults were stone-faced and wary. A crowd swelled behind, chirping like birds following a trail of breadcrumbs.

Duncan slipped and almost fell. A handler caught him, shoving him forward. The pit seemed an endless sea of mud huts and bedraggled people, a vast city of slaves. So many people, enough for an army, he wondered if any of them still had the will to fight.

The long walk became a difficult trudge. Dread began to dog his steps. Duncan stared up, hoping for a glimpse of the sky, but the brown cloud hovered close, sealing the pit like a lid on a cauldron. At least he'd gotten out of the depths. Out of the mine and into the cauldron...just another layer of h.e.l.l.

Trumpets blared and the muddy lane widened into a common area, like the spoke of a wheel joining a central hub, but even here there was no gra.s.s, no speck of green, just a cl.u.s.ter of enormous boulders. Thrice the height of a tall man, the boulders formed a crude circle, as if frozen in a strange dance. Tall and majestic, the gray stones cast an aura of strength and serenity...till he saw how they'd been defaced. Meat hooks protruded from their tops, rust stains marring the stones like open sores. Duncan looked away, shuddering at the obscenity.

Slaves settled the lord's sedan chair in the heart of the boulders. The prisoners were herded to the side, surrounded by handlers. A pair of Taals emerged to stand at the base of each boulder. Around the stones, a crush of people crowded close, an army of witnesses come to view the pageant.

Lord Sleghorn rose from his chair. Standing atop the sedan's gilded platform, he addressed the crowd. "The Stones of Agony serve their purpose." The lord flashed a serpent's smile. "Gather close and witness the price of rebellion."

Duncan scanned the crowd, desperate for a weapon or a way out...but he found neither, just a sea of faces staring back at him. Time tightened like a noose around his neck. Luck and the G.o.ds had both deserted him. Taking a deep breath, he sidled close to Clovis, his words a hushed whisper. "I'm sorry. I never thought it would end like this."

The older man met his gaze, but instead of recrimination his eyes held a strange sense of peace. "Some endings are but beginnings."

Duncan stared at his friend, wondering if he'd slipped the bonds of reason.

Clovis gave him a soft smile. "I'm glad to have met you, Duncan Treloch. You brought Light to the depths of darkness."

Brock leaned close. "It was a good fight, cat-man. At least we're free of the G.o.d-cursed mine"

Such friends, Duncan shook his head, their words proving a balm to his soul. "Then let's show them how brave men die." Duncan gripped each man's forearm, fiercely wishing for a different ending...but time had run out. Silence tightened around them. The lord's speech was over...and the Taals came for them.

They took Marcus first.

"No! I didn't do anything." He squirmed in the Taals' grip, digging his heels in the mud, but the Taals were not deterred. They carried him like a broken doll to the largest boulder. Using a hook on a long spear, they hoisted Marcus into the air by his shackles. The small man screamed and writhed like a fish on a line but it made no difference. The chains of his shackles slid onto the meat hook atop the boulder. Marcus sobbed as iron weights were hung from his feet, stretching him along the boulder's face, a slab of meat dangling from a hook.

Duncan shuddered and looked away, knowing it would be a slow and painful death. The stones of agony were aptly named.

The Taals returned, claiming another victim.

Brock was next. The big man remained silent as they hoisted him onto the hook. One at a time, Duncan watched as the others met their fate with stoic courage. Clovis was the hardest to watch; the older man deserved a better end. And then it was his turn.

Part of him wanted to fight, to grab a weapon and claim a warrior's death, but he could not degrade the courage of his friends. Shaking off the Taals, he walked to an empty boulder between Clovis and Brock. "This will do." He fixed his stare on the lord, contempt on his face as the Taals hooked the spear through his shackles. "Better men than you die this day." And then he was dangling in air, leveraged onto the hook. Weights were hung from his feet, heavy as lead. He felt the stretch along his spine, the tightening of his chest muscles and the harsh strain in his shoulders. Duncan shuddered, gulping for air.

Lord Sleghorn glared up at him. "Mock all you want, but you'll soon be begging for release." His face twisted into a cruel smile, his voice a command. "Let the rebels hang till they're carrion, nothing but spoiled meat rotting on the hook." Making a curt gestured, he leaned back in the gilded chair. Slaves struggled to lift the sedan. The lord and his entourage slowly marched from the circle. Most of the soldiers followed...but the people remained.

Duncan smeared his bare feet against the stone, looking for purchase. His left foot found a slight bulge, taking some strain from his shoulders. Even now, he could not give up.

Seeking distraction from the aching pain, he studied the crowd, wondering if they stayed out of cruelty or merely curiosity, but their faces proved hard to read. Cold and wary, they kept watch, as if the stage was set for some larger drama.

Marcus whimpered and moaned, pleading for mercy, but the others bore their pain in silence. A dozen soldiers patrolled the inner circle, spears gripped in their hands, their faces closed. Duncan licked his lips, fighting a raging thirst, desperate to keep his footing. Twice he slipped, sending a rush of pain through his chest and shoulders. Regaining his perch, he kept still, wondering if he could somehow climb the boulder and win free of the hook.

A lazy sun crawled across the shrouded sky, marking a slow agony of time. Nothing changed except the shadows. The guards made their rounds, the people kept vigil, and the prisoners suffered in silence; a stalemate waiting for death.

And then Clovis began to speak. His words were hushed at first, but then his voice gathered strength. "You have the numbers! A handful of guards against a thousand, the numbers are the same everywhere in the Pit!"

Duncan stared at Clovis, startled to hear the echo of his own argument.

"Look around you. Your numbers give you strength, a chance for freedom, but you must work together. Dare to be free! Rise up and take the Pit!"

The guards gripped their spears, darting nervous glances at the crowd.

Duncan watched the people, wondering if they'd listen.

"Hear me! For I am Clovis Farsight, born of the Pit, gifted with the third eye, the inner sight of prophecy. I have seen the victories that can be yours!" Clovis coughed, struggling for breath, but he would not stop. "You have the numbers! Sleghorn can only rule if you let him. You sin against the Light by doing nothing, by wallowing in slavery. Freedom is worth fighting for, worth dying for! A sign will fall from the sky, written in stone. Do not miss your chance! Heed the words of the G.o.ds. Walk in the Light and dare to be free!"

His words evoked a shiver in Duncan's mind. So this was the meaning of the older man's prophecy, "Light from a stone reflected in the faces of the people." A wild hope surged through him; perhaps all was not lost.

A soldier threatened Clovis with his spear. "Shut up, old man."

But Clovis would not stop. Hanging from the boulder, struggling for breath, he spoke with the elegance of a preacher and the conviction of a prophet. First cajoling and then haranguing, he strove to rouse a crowd of thousands. Defying the agony of the boulder...he talked till his voice failed. Falling silent, he hung limp in his chains, his chin sunk to his chest, as if his words had consumed the last of his strength.

The crowd stirred but Clovis did not move.

Duncan studied his friend, anxious for some sign of life. "Clovis, are you with us?" But there was no reply. "Clovis!" Duncan's foot slipped, the lead weights pulling him down. Pain tightened like steel bands around his chest. Gasping for breath, he fought the weights, struggling to regain his footing. Drenched in sweat, he balanced on his perch, staring at the crowd. "Will you let your prophet die?" His voice shook with rage...but the crowd did not move. Desperate to save Clovis, he willed the crowd to action but they just looked away.

Silence hung like a shroud over the boulders...till Brock took up the argument.

Slow and steady, the big man used simple words, but he spoke with the voice of a warrior, a leader of men. Like a blacksmith forging a sword, Brock spoke a steady hammer-fall of words, pounding the same message over and over. "You have the numbers. You've heard the prophet. Dare to rise and win." He talked till the sun began to set, quenching the pit in shadow. As the last rays pierced the brown cloud, his voice fell silent, like a heavy hammer laid to rest.

The crowd stirred. A line of torches carved a path toward the boulders. Duncan watched with interest, till he realized it was merely soldiers come to replace the guards.

Twilight gave way to darkness, and the crowd began to leave, trickling away in twos and threes. Duncan hung from his chains, drenched in bitterness and despair. So many people complacent in their bondage, how could men become such sheep? He sent an accusing stare to the heavens, but the pit was covered in a vault of darkness. Not a single star shown through the murk, as if the G.o.ds had turned their backs on his plight. Rage and resentment boiled inside of him. "Why?" He shook his chains, his voice a raging bellow. "Why should good men die for you?" His shout rang across the pit, as much a question for the G.o.ds as for the retreating crowd...but there was no answer. Disgusted, he clung to his perch, a purgatory on the edge of pain.