Silk And Steel: The Skeleton King Part 39

Brant nodded, his face thoughtful. "In the right hands, such a message might lend courage to a few."

"Or lead to betrayal."

Kath ignored the fox and seized the boar's words. "A few can become many. Even a small rebellion will bring confusion to the enemy."

Royce nodded. "It might work." Others echoed his agreement.

Kath figured she'd won two-thirds of the council. She began to hope they'd agree.

An owl faced woman blinked up at her. "But your plan requires stealth and surprise. How will you sneak an army through the gargoyle gates?"

The question struck like an ambushing dagger. Kath struggled to keep her face still. It was the one problem she hadn't solved. The gargoyle gates scared her. Even Zith described them as an abomination. She forced herself to meet the owl woman's stare. "I need to see them before I'll know how to defeat them."

"Defeat them!" The fox faced man spat the words in her face. "The gargoyle gates have stood for a thousand years and you're just going to walk up and defeat them?"

Kath was beginning to hate the narrow-faced man, but she kept her voice level. "I'll lead a small scouting party to the gates. If I can't find a way for an army to pa.s.s then the plan is defeated before it ever begins."

"You'll lead them?" The question came from Brant, the boar faced man. "And if you can't defeat the gargoyles then the army does not march?"

She made her words a promise. "Just so."

Brant nodded, his grin twisting the blue tusks tattooed on his face. "That's good enough for me."

Others shouted their agreement. "Let the gargoyles prove her worth."

"The gargoyle gates will be her true trial."

More proof, Kath wondered if a woman's word was ever enough.

Royce, the leader of the lions, stood, "It is time to decide. A show of hands for peace, and the army stays at home. A show of daggers for war, and we follow the War Leader's plan." Royce went first. Pulling a dagger from his belt, he lifted it high.

Around the chamber, the leaders declared their choice. A few hesitated until the Old One pulled a dagger from beneath her sheepskins. In the end, even the fox lifted his dagger for war, a grudging look on his face.

Royce came towards her, beaming a smile. "The victory is yours. The painted people prepare for war."

A victory of words, Kath smiled, but it felt hollow. The real fighting had not even begun, yet she already felt tired, as if she'd run for leagues. She gave Royce a small smile. "There's much to be done before the dark of the moon."

Royce seemed to understand, his face turning solemn. "We're a proud people and we love a good argument, but once a thing is decided, you'll find us swift to act." He leaned towards her, his voice dropping to a whisper. "But can you truly defeat the gargoyle gates?"

The question pierced her to the core. She didn't know the answer but she put on a brave face. "I'll do my best." In truth, it was the only thing she could say. She prayed to Valin it would be good enough.

47.

The Knight Marshal The battle for Raven Pa.s.s became a weary blur. The marshal lost count of the number of a.s.saults they'd repulsed. Tide lines of corpses littered the steppes, marking the waves of attack, but the walls held strong and defiant. Corpses piled like cordwood near the gate, many of them blackened and burned, raising a horrible stench, yet the horde never dwindled. The Octagon remained triumphant, vigilant atop their walls, yet the marshal could not shake the impending sense of doom.

A cold wind blew out of the north, a harbinger of snow. From the height of the second wall, the one dubbed Swordbreaker, the marshal had a clear view of the enemy. A pity the living so outnumber the slain.

Lothar joined him, a shield on his left arm, his battleaxe strapped to his side. "What are they waiting for?"

The marshal shrugged, "Perhaps they're conjuring a nightmare."

"I like it not." Lothar shot him a grim look.

A flight of black-fletched arrows leaped from the enemy lines. Soaring over the thirty-foot outer wall, they arched skyward, reaching for the second.

The marshal watched them come. "Shields!" He swung his own shield up, bracing for impact. Arrows thudded down, striking oak, and stone, and flesh. A single arrow thunked deep into his shield while another clipped his maroon cloak, tearing a jagged hole. "d.a.m.n." He rubbed his shoulder, thankful for his chainmail, and plucked the offending arrow from his shield. The marshal surveyed the wall. Only two wounded, Valin's luck favored them this time. "Get the wounded to the healery!" A detail of soldiers scurried to obey.

He'd ordered a rotation on the walls, keeping the archers on the battlements while the knights waited below, easily summoned by a trumpet's call. For the thousandth time, he gave thanks for the stout walls of Raven Pa.s.s. The builders had wrought well.

A trebuchet shuddered and groaned, hurling another boulder skyward. The monstrous wooden beasts worked day and night, heaving stones against the horde. The ma.s.sive boulder tumbled out over the enemy. Sailing deep behind enemy lines, it fell with a bone-crushing thud, raising a cloud of dirt and blood.

"Thirty with one stone!" Lothar shook his head in amazement. "An ugly way to kill but I wish we had twice as many of the wooden beasts."

"Aye, but even then they'd make little difference." The marshal leaned against the rampart, staring out at the enemy. So many, they eclipsed the steppes with their black armor, like a shadow cursing the land. "How many do you think we've killed?"

"I'd wager nigh on two thousand."

"Yet it changes nothing. We're still outnumbered twenty to one."

Lothar grunted, "Or more."

"Yet their tactics trouble me more than their numbers." A squire drew near, a wicker basket slung over his right shoulder. The lad stooped to collect the enemy's spent arrows, inspecting the shaft before adding it to his basket. Their own stores were running dangerously low.

The marshal forestalled his friend with a glance, waiting till the lad was well out of earshot. "We need no ill rumors."

Lothar grunted. "So what troubles you about their tactics?"

"What doesn't?" He shrugged, fingering a dagger at his belt. "After the monk's warning, I half expected monsters and magic, yet we've seen neither."

"Perhaps we haven't looked hard enough."

"Or perhaps they're waiting for something." The marshal shook his head, trying to dispel the feeling of dread. "Their tactics make no sense. I keep expecting grappling hooks in the dead of the night, or a thicket of ladders raised against the outer wall, but they seem content to fight with spears, and arrows, and battering rams." He tightened his grip on his shield. "Something's not right."

Lothar shrugged. "Thank Valin for small favors."

But the marshal did not think it was the war G.o.d's doing.

"Lord Marshal!"

A gray-cloaked squire ran toward him. "I've a message from Prince Ulrich."

He recognized the lad; a pug nose and a tousle of curly black locks, the personal squire to the prince. "What is it, Brock?"

"The prince says to tell you that he's down to just three urns of oil."

The marshal flicked a warning glance to Lothar. "Tell him to be sparing with the oil, for there's none left in the stores. Have him dump a barrel of caltrops in front of the gates. If we can't stop them with fire, we might at least slow them down with spikes."

"Yes, Sir!" The squire saluted, fist to his chest, and sped away.

Someone yelled, "Shields!"

The marshal spun and lifted his shield. Arrows rained down, but this time they missed him entirely. Lowering his shield, he gave the nearest archer a wry grin. "Their aim's getting worse."

Laughter rippled along the wall, part unease, part relief, but laughter nonetheless. Pride rushed through him. Despite the odds there'd not been a single desertion. "Loose a volley and show them how it's done."

Archers raised their bows. Bowstrings thrummed and three hundred feathered shafts took flight. Like a cloud of angry hornets they fell on the enemy. Screams rose from the steppes but it was never enough.

Back and forth the arrows pa.s.sed, a slow war of attrition, yet the Octagon held the high ground, secure atop the walls, killing more than they lost.

"How long can they keep this up?" Lothar growled the question but the marshal had no reply.

The answer came near sunset. Lothar saw them first. "Look to the north." He stabbed a finger toward the dark host. A cavalcade thundered south, their armor tinted red by the setting sun, black battle banners flying overhead. "Must be nigh on five thousand, curse the lot of them." But then Lothar flashed a deadly grin. "Do you see it? They bring no siege engines! By Valin, our walls will hold!"

The marshal watched them come, a cold dread growing in the pit of his stomach. "No siege engines but they bring something far worse."

"What?"

"Do you see the battle banner flying at the front?" A long snake of black silk ending in two tails of bright red flecked with gold, the forked banner snapped like a serpent's tongue, creating the illusion of darkness on fire.

Lothar shrugged but his voice was uneasy. "What of it?"

"It's called the Darkflamme, the battle standard of the Mordant. Now we know what they'd been waiting for." The marshal turned to summon a squire. "You there, alert the king. For the true battle is upon us."

48.

Danya Danya sat cross-legged on the steppes, stretching her feelings like a whisper borne on the wind. Gripping the silver cuff on her left arm, she drew on the magic. Tentative at first, but once summoned the ancient power coursed through her veins like liquid fire. Questing outward, she sent her power hurtling across the steppes. Horse, I am horse, swift and beautiful and proud. Manes streaming in the wind, hooves churning the steppes, the smell of trampled gra.s.s in their nostrils, she sought the proud swiftness that defined the pure essence of wild horse. Stretched thin, she leaned forward, reaching, hoping, questing, but she found...nothing.

Danya gasped with effort, her spirit snapping like a bowstring. Back within her own body, she shivered beneath the sheepskin cloak, cold and bone-tired. Magic took its toll, yet she could not afford to fail.

Bryx chuffed in agreement. Stretched beside her, the great mountain wolf yawned, revealing a mouth full of sharp teeth.

Danya sighed in frustration. "I know. I'm trying." She wasn't even sure she was doing it right. Three days and she'd had no luck. Perhaps she needed to go further into the steppes, but time was running thin. She shivered against the cold; sitting huddled beneath the thick sheepskins.

So much had changed since they'd come north. The magic was with her all the time now, singing through the silver cuff, demanding to be released. Her fingers absently traced the outlines of incised animals, wolf and eagle, horse and lion. But magic was not the only thing that had changed.

She flicked a glance over her right shoulder. Ten painted warriors sat at her back, keeping watch a discrete distance away, swords and slings at the ready. She'd grown accustomed to their blue tattooed faces...especially the one. Neven, his name whispered through her mind, evoking a smile. She'd known he was the one as soon as she saw him. His smile caught her heart, yet it was more than that. She'd found a deep recognition in his dark brown eyes, as if it was always meant to be. Their first kiss had proven the promise in his eyes. She loved everything about him, the rough stubble on his chin, his dark hair cascading in waves to his shoulders, and especially his tattoo, the blue wolf staring back at her with the eyes of a man.

Danya pulled up her right sleeve, needing to know it was real. A blue tattoo graced her right arm, the paw print of a wolf, her first step toward joining the painted people. A thrill of pride rushed through her. She'd finally found a place she belonged, where her magic and her love for animals was respected, even revered, instead of being cursed.

Bryx chuffed in agreement.

Smiling, she hugged the wolf, her fingers running through his thick black fur, loving his musky scent. "We finally found a home."

The wolf licked her face.

But she hadn't come to the steppes to daydream. She owed Kath and Duncan a great debt, and the monks too. A cold wind whistled across the gra.s.slands, the promise of snow hanging in the clouds. The steppes looked peaceful enough but she knew it was a lie. The painted people lived in the very shadow of the Mordant. They'd never be safe unless the Darkness was defeated. Danya took a deep breath. For the past and the future, she needed to succeed.

The ravens would be easy enough to persuade. A bribe of fresh entrails and the greedy birds would agree to carry the message carved in sling stones. Intelligent and curious, the ravens would see her request as a game, but the mountain sheep were another matter, a stubborn breed. And then there were the horses.

Nightmares crowded her mind. Danya shuddered remembering the battle in the steppes. Never again, she'd sworn it over and over, half a thousand times. She would not use her magic to compel; yet magic was her only weapon.

Hunched beneath the sheepskin, she took a deep breath and tried again. Closing her eyes, she dreamt of horses. In her mind she galloped across the steppes, the wind tugging on her mane, her hooves churning the soil, pounding a wild beat of freedom. Danya reveled in the glory of horse. Over and over again, she dreamt the dream. And then she felt them, answering her call.

Hoof beats thundered on the horizon. A hundred or more horses galloped toward her. Wild and proud, their manes rippled in the wind like battle banners. Danya reached out to them, reveling in their freedom, their speed, and their sheer joy of the run.

Behind her, she heard the painted people whoop in triumph, but they kept their distance, staying back.

The herd slowed, stopping a spear's throw away. Cautious, they milled in a circle, chestnut and black, dappled and white, proud eyes staring at her. One came forward, a stallion, sixteen-hands high. Scars of triumph marked his flanks, a dark mane crowning a winter coat of dappled gray. He had a n.o.ble head and a proud curve to his neck, a king among his kind.

Danya stood and bowed low. "Thank you for coming." She filled her thoughts with warmth, reinforcing her words. "I ask for your help against a common enemy." Recalling the details from their long ride across the steppes, she showed the stallion the trail of dead horses. Ridden to death, still saddled, left for carrion.

The stallion reared, ma.s.sive hooves pounding the turf. He snorted and bellowed, full of outrage.

"Yes, my friends and I seek the one who did this. We will avenge their deaths. Will you help?" She showed him her need for two horses, one to bear herself and the other for Zith. In her mind's eyes she concentrated on Zith's missing arm, underscoring his need for a gentle mount.

The stallion shook his head and neighed.

Danya felt his hatred for saddles and bits. "I understand. They will not be used."

The stallion dipped his head, tossing his mane, and then he stamped and whinnied.

A chestnut mare emerged from the herd. She came forward, her neck questing toward Danya, her liquid eyes warm and full of intelligence. Danya offered a hand, palm up, and waited. The mare came to her, agreeing to be touched. Smiling, Danya ran a soothing hand along the mare's silky shoulder...and then she saw the brand, and her breath caught, a horse of the octagon. The mare whinnied and nodded as if in agreement.

Danya turned back toward the stallion. "I thank you for the mare, but can we have the help of one other?"

The stallion reared, ma.s.sive hooves churning the air. He bellowed a call and the herd turned and ran, galloping toward the south. Shaking his dark mane, the stallion came toward her, his head held proud.

So the king offered himself. Danya's breath caught. If only more men were half as n.o.ble. She gave him a heartfelt bow. "Thank you, my lord. Perhaps together we can end this Dark blight on the land."

The stallion stamped and whinnied and Danya knew she'd gained an ally against the Dark.

49.