Silk And Steel: The Skeleton King Part 36

Blaine's vision blurred...and for a heartbeat he saw a crown upon her head.

A chime of bells shimmered through the cavern.

"Victory!" The people erupted in a jubilant shout, the single word echoing against the cavern. The yell became a chant, breaking across the dais like a wave.

The crowd converged on Kath, smiling faces full of congratulations, sweeping her away in a rush of words.

Blaine watched, bemused by the sudden change in fortune...but in the pit of his stomach he felt left behind, like flotsam spurned by the tide of fate.

As if Kath read his mind, she turned and fought her way back to his side. "Your sword."

His sword! The words shivered through his mind. What was a knight without his sword! He strode to the rock pillar. An awesome sight awaited him. The sword had cleaved halfway through the stone pillar, a prodigious feat even for blue steel, a feat worthy of legends. The sight deepened his hunger for the sapphire blade. Blaine stepped to the pillar and gripped the hilt, a hilt made especially for his hands. Taking a deep breath, he pulled...but the sword did not move. He twisted, he shoved, and he strained with all his might ...but the sword remained locked in stone. "By Valin!" Sweat beaded his brow; he refused to abandon his sword to the pillar.

"Let me." Kath stood behind him, holding her gargoyle in the palm of her hand.

A crowd formed around them, watching.

Reluctantly, Blaine stepped aside.

Kath gripped the gargoyle in her left and reached for the sword with her right. With the barest of tugs, she eased the sword from the stone, as easy as b.u.t.ter.

An awed hush rippled through the crowd, their faces full of wonder.

Like a vision from legend, Kath held the sword aloft. Light gleamed along the sapphire steel, the war helm on her head. For half a heartbeat, Blaine feared he'd lost his sword. But then she turned, and offered the sapphire blade to him, a soft smile on her face. "The sword of a knight."

His hands closed over the hilt, hungry for the great blade.

Cheering, the crowd bore Kath away, carried on the shoulders of lion-faced men.

Blaine watched them go, gripping his sword, overcome by a tidal wave of emotions. She'd won the challenge. She'd regained his sword...and an army of allies. He should have been elated...but in the depths of his heart a shadow of resentment grew. Blaine wondered if she'd leave any glory for him.

43.

Duncan Shadows skittered among the stalact.i.tes, too many to count. Duncan watched through hooded eyes, trying to tell if they were real or imagined. Sometimes the shadows took forms, horns, and tails, and ebony eyes staring back at him, full of malice. Duncan rattled his chains, bound too tight to move. Naked, he lay sprawled across the cold stone floor like an offering, nothing for company but shadows. Smells a.s.saulted his senses; the lingering stench of blood and pain mingled with the raw stink of sulphur, the residue of other men's nightmares. Writhing against his chains, Duncan yelled in defiance, needing to hear a human voice. "My name is Duncan Treloch and I still live!"

"live...live...live," the words echoed back at him like a mockery.

Five braziers erupted in flame, bathing him in light. Sometimes bright, sometimes dim, the flames moved to a pulse he did not understand. Time had no measure in the cavern, but the waiting proved hard, time enough for nightmares to take hold. Horrors stalked his thoughts, a promise of things to come. Taunted by shadows, his imagination ran wild. Duncan closed his eyes, forcing his mind to recall the rich scent of a cedar tree, the lush green of a summer forest, the hint of a smile on Kath's face. But when he opened his eyes again, he was still chained to the floor, a G.o.d-forsaken prisoner bound in this infernal place.

If evil had a smell, the cavern reeked of it. Duncan had never really believed in the G.o.ds, but if the Dark G.o.d was real then the Lords of Light had to exist, else mankind was doomed to eternal Darkness. Faced with the truth, he prayed like he'd never prayed before.

Footsteps echoed against the cavern walls. He raised his head, surprised to find it wasn't an illusion. A black-robed priest strode toward him, red runes embroidered on the hem of his robe. A soldier walked two paces behind, carrying a small ironbound chest.

Perhaps the waiting was finally over. Duncan's mouth went dry, parched as a desert, suddenly desperate for more time.

The priest stared down at him, a pinched look on his narrow face. "Put it there, just beyond the sacrifice."

Anger blazed in Duncan. "I'm no sacrifice. What do you want?" But the priest ignored him.

The soldier set the ironbound chest on the floor, just beyond Duncan's left hand. Retreating a pace, he darted nervous glances at the ceiling, his right hand on his sword hilt.

The priest knelt, holding the tip of a wineskin to Duncan's lips. "Drink."

Duncan jerked away. "What is it?"

"The only drink you'll get."

He was tempted to refuse but thirst won out. The priest shoved the tip deep, a sudden gush of tepid liquid. Duncan almost gagged, but then he swallowed rather than drown, a flood of watered wine and a hint of something else, something bitter. He struggled to keep pace, a gush of liquid down his throat. The flood came to a sudden stop. The priest yanked the wineskin away, leaving Duncan gasping for breath, a trickle of wine on the side of his mouth.

The priest stood, disdain on his face, and turned and walked away, the soldier staying two paces behind.

Duncan watched them go. "That's it? You're leaving me?" But his only answer was a mocking echo, "me...me...me?"

The copper door shuddered close.

Silence descended like a pall. They'd left him alone to stew on his torture. Curiosity preyed on his mind. His stare kept returning to the ironbound chest, wondering what horrors lurked within. He should have died on the steppes, a warrior's death, anything but this. Something broke inside his mind. Raging against his chains, he strained with all his might, but he was bound tight, held spread-eagle against the cold stone floor. Defeated, his head lulled back, his eyes closed. He felt like a soul trapped in a bottle. Condemned to a nightmare he'd never dreamed, he dared not guess how it would end.

He must have dozed. Perhaps it was the wine, but when he woke, he found he was not alone. A tall man, dressed all in black, stood statue still, staring down at him, like a crow studying carrion. A n.o.bleman's face, young and fair, with blond shoulder length hair and a neatly trimmed beard, but it was the eyes that captured Duncan's attention. Ice blue and piercing, full of patient malice.

"Who are you?" Duncan's voice sounded hoa.r.s.e in his ears.

The tall man smiled. "Can't you guess? I'm the Lord of the citadel."

The Mordant! It took all of his control not to shudder. Balling his hands into fists, Ducnan forced himself to meet the ice-blue stare.

The Mordant leaned forward. "That's it, meet my stare."

Something slammed into him, something dark and oily, trying to worm its way inside. Clawing at the edge of his mind, it pried at the hinges of Duncan's soul. But Duncan fought back, refusing entry. Like a knight in a beleaguered castle, he locked the doors of his mind and stood his ground, refusing to yield. The a.s.sault turned ugly, a black battering ram at the gates, the weight of centuries pounding against him. His walls crumbled under the onslaught. Battered and bruised, Duncan retreated inward, curling into a ball. Darkness followed, a relentless, smothering wave of corruption. Thick and oily, it pressed against him, seeking entrance, searching for any crack or crevice. Just when he thought he would succ.u.mb, he found a light blazing deep within his soul. Bright as a torch at midnight, it held the best of him. Radiating confidence, the light echoed his own words back to him, words he'd spoken in the depths of the Mordant's iron mine. Instead of dying like slaves...live like men. Take a chance and fight. Buoyed by the light, Duncan fought back, pushing outward, wielding memories like a sword. He thought of the Deep Green, mighty redwoods towering overhead, the soul soaring beauty of a leaf-green cathedral. He thought of the Treespeaker, and the endless wisdom in her golden eyes. And then he thought of Kath. Suddenly, the darkness retreated, routed by a blazing light.

The Mordant jerked back as if burnt. "So, an honest soul," his face twisted into a sneer, "a soldier of the Light." He circled like a hungry wolf, boot heels clicking on stone, an angry swirl of his black cape. "I cannot touch your soul...not...yet...but your pain will serve. Believe me, your pain will serve."

Duncan struggled against his chains. "Kill me and be done with it."

The Mordant smiled. "Not so hasty." He stopped pacing and stood, staring down at Duncan, as if studying a bug beneath his boot. "Tell me about your eye."

It was always about his eye, a man could never escape his heritage. "It sees."

"A stubborn one, but you'll soon tell me everything." The Mordant c.o.c.ked his head as if listening to another voice. "I know about the Deep Green."

Duncan remembered the fire, blackened trees and murdered clansmen, a cowardly attack against his homeland, another reason the Mordant had to die.

"I breed abominations, a specialty of the Pit. Yet I've never seen a man with a golden cat eye." The Mordant began to pace a slow circle, his face thoughtful. "With most abominations, the form tends to follow the purpose. A golden cat eye, the eye of a cat." He stopped in mid stride, a shrewd smile on his face. "You can see in the dark."

It was the most obvious advantage of his heritage. Better to admit one and keep the others hidden. Duncan made his voice reluctant. "Yes."

"A strong advantage for any warrior. You've just saved the lives of your kinswomen. When my army conquers Erdhe, I'll have them spare the young women of your forest. They'll make good breeders. Imagine an army of Taals that can see in the dark, a formidable force for an emperor."

Rage claimed Duncan. "No!" He bucked against his chains. "The Light strike you dead!"

"...dead...dead...dead..." his words echoed back like a mockery.

The Mordant grinned. "Plenty of fight left in you, that's good. Now tell me why a half breed of the Deep Green comes north?"

Duncan felt the Mordant's stare dissecting his face for answers "No need to be stubborn." The Mordant's voice sounded so reasonable. "I know about the crystal dagger."

Chilled to the core, Duncan willed his face to stone, desperate to hide his secret.

"The blue robed monks sent a party of champions chasing after me. Sent on a fool's errand, sent to their deaths, but that never bothers the monks, a gaggle of old men hiding safe behind their mage-stone walls." The Mordant stopped pacing and stared down at him. "Are you one of their champions?"

Afraid to give anything away, Duncan kept silent, watching the Mordant through hooded eyes. Breathing deep, he tasted the air. Beneath the lingering stench of blood and pain, he caught the Mordant's scent, so elusive it was hard to read, but then he understood. The Mordant reeked of the subtle stink of half-truths. "You know nothing."

Anger sparked in the Mordant's ice blue eyes. "Oppose me at your peril." He turned, a swirl of black, and strode to the ironbound chest. Kneeling beside it, he trailed a hand across the top, almost a lover's caress.

Sickened, Duncan tried to look away but he couldn't.

The Mordant turned toward Duncan, his face congenial once more. "Perhaps you've wondered at your fate?"

A shiver of dread ran down Duncan's back.

Pale hands flicked open the latches of the chest. The Mordant reached inside and withdrew a slender dagger cast in silver, runes etched along the blade. "There's a hundred more just like this one." Long and slender like a silver thorn, it gleamed wicked keen in the flickering light. "A thousand years is not nearly long enough, but it's given me time to master many things. Time enough to learn how to sculpt flesh and twist souls, but first, one must master the way of blood and sinew and bone, the things that bind a man to the mortal coil." He lifted the dagger up to the light. "These knives were crafted to my own design. They'll make a man suffer unspeakable pain without dying, teetering on the very brink of h.e.l.l." The Mordant smiled. "You'll beg for death long before I'm done."

Sweat erupted from Duncan's skin, betraying a rush of fear. He strained against his bonds, desperate to escape, but his voice was full of bravado. "I'll tell you nothing."

"You'll tell me everything." The Mordant eased to the floor. Stretching out his long legs, he lay beside Duncan, his head c.o.c.ked at an angle, his right hand toying with the silver dagger...close enough to be a lover.

Repulsed, Duncan flinched away, but the chains held him fast.

The Mordant smiled. "Torture is a very intimate act."

Duncan stomach roiled. He stared at the Mordant, his mouth desert dry.

The dagger point traced a trail down his chest, the metal as cold as sin. His skin seemed to shrink away, desperate to retreat. The dagger paused at his manhood. Duncan stared at the knife-edge, taking short shallow breaths, afraid to move.

"Aren't you going to plead for your manhood?"

Duncan clamped his mouth shut, a scream growing in the pit of his stomach.

"Torture is a rare art. It takes a master to evoke pain without killing." The Mordant chuckled, moving the knife-edge back up toward Duncan's throat. "So many points of pain, it took me a lifetime to find them all, to perfect the craft. Take this point for example," the dagger moved along his left arm, "so easy to slip the dagger between muscle and bone."

Pain stabbed into his left arm. The Mordant pressed down, forcing the point all the way through. The tip emerged on the other side, skewering his arm with silver. Duncan bit his lip, stifling a groan.

"No need to be stoic. I'll enjoy your screams."

Duncan stared at his tormentor, seeing him with fresh eyes. The Mordant was a monster. Little wonder the monks sought to destroy him. "Just kill me and be done with it."

"Oh there will be no killing, but the pain will be exquisite." The Mordant reached for another dagger. "You see the Dark G.o.d requires an offering before granting a boon. But one of the many advantages of serving Darkness is that the sacrifice need not be my own." The Mordant flashed a malicious smile. "Your pain will provide a bridge to the Dark Lord, a continual feast of agony, the perfect offering. A single drop of your blood in a scrying bowl and I'll be able to reach the Dark Lord no matter how far I travel. As long as you live, I'll have my link to the Dark G.o.d...and all his power." The dagger traced a line along Duncan's left forearm, pausing at a point near his wrist. "Your pain is my offering."

Silver stabbed into his wrist, a blaze of agony. Duncan turned his head away, biting his lip, but the scream broke free.

"That's it, embrace the pain. Let the suffering roll out of you."

"I won't...serve you."

The Mordant chuckled. "You already do." He held a gla.s.s vial to Duncan's wrist, catching drops of blood. When the vial was full, he reached for another dagger. "Now tell me, who wields the crystal dagger?"

"I don't know."

A dagger plunged into his side. Duncan shrieked in pain.

"Some spots hurt more than others. I can be merciful in my choices." The Mordant smiled, his voice a whisper. "Beg me to be merciful." A dagger p.r.i.c.ked his left thigh. "But first I need know about the wielder of the crystal dagger."

"I don't know!"

"I think you do."

The dagger plunged deep. So painful, Duncan nearly swooned.

"Tell me." The Mordant whispered in his ear like a lover.

Duncan flinched away. Swallowing his pain, he struggled to think. A quick death was his only hope. He needed to goad the Mordant to a killing rage. Turning towards his tormentor, he breathed deep, tasting the air for weakness, searching for a scent masked by his own fear. So much fear, so much pain, the scents were tangled, too muddled to read, yet he found his answer in the Mordant's c.o.c.ky smile. Duncan forced himself to laugh, a low chuckle. "You didn't expect me."

"What?" The Mordant paused, another dagger in his hand.

"For all your vaunted powers, you didn't see a cat-eyed man sneaking into the north."

"But I have you now."

"Yes, but what else have you missed? You're weaker than you think." He forced contempt into his voice, striving to hide his own fear. "A thousand years of evil and you're still playing with knives?"

The Mordant reared up like an angry cobra. "Mock me at your peril."

"Or what, you'll kill me?"

The Mordant stood, his face a swirl of anger. "Mortal, you've no idea whom you deal with." He threw his head back and shouted a command, his hands reaching toward the vaulted ceiling. "Sabilanth Tarant Har!"

A clap of thunder shook the cavern. Darkness boiled overhead, a swirling cauldron of shadows.

"Imlanth Tahra!"

Duncan stared wide-eyed, trying to disbelieve his eyes.

Shadows coalesced, thickening to pure black. A swirling storm cloud descended from the stalact.i.tes like a suffocating hand.