Silk And Steel: The Skeleton King Part 47

The Knight Marshal Three hours to prepare for mortal combat, yet the king seemed at ease, pa.s.sing the time with his captains. The marshal sat at the king's right hand, sharing meat and mead by the fire's warmth. They supped on a light meal of roast ham, hard biscuits, and bread pudding, the best their meager stores could provide. Baldwin fussed over the king's armor, making sure every belt and buckle was secure, but there was no need to sharpen the king's sword, for blue steel never dulled.

King Ursus was in high spirits, regaling the men with tales of heroes from the Octagon's past. All the heroes triumphed, vanquishing their foes with keen swords and dauntless courage. The marshal listened but he could not share the revelry. A feeling of doom pressed down upon him, obsessed with the riddle of the Mordant's challenge. He stared into the fire but found no answers.

The healer came begging a word, but the king dismissed him and the marshal ignored him. Neither man could stomach more words of warning.

All too soon, the time was gone. The marshal claimed the honor of armoring the king. Greaves and gauntlets, breastplate and bracers, he made sure each piece was tightened and secure, everything polished to a silvery glow. On the king's head he placed a crowned helm, and for his left arm, a ma.s.sive octagonal shield made of stout oak and beaten metal. Few men could wield a great sword and a shield, but the king did it with ease, a boon of blue steel.

Last of all, the marshal reached for the king's great sword, Honor's Edge. Five feet of peerless blue steel, the monk's crystal freshly set in the pommel; it was a mighty blade, a king's sword, forever honed to a silk-cutting edge.

"Not that sword." The king's voice was a low growl. "I'll take my revenge with Ulrich's sword, Mordbane." His voice softened. "The name always seemed a son's conceit but now it proves prophetic." His voice hardened. "I'll wield Mordbane, the perfect sword to claim a blood debt from the Mordant."

A shiver of foreboding raced down the marshal's back. "But Sire, for such a fight, you should use your own blade, the sword that best knows your hands."

"Give me Mordbane, for I'll use no other."

The king's voice was implacable. Bowing, the marshal unsheathed Honor's Edge, handing the great sword to Baldwin for safe keeping. Retrieving Ulrich's blue blade, he sheathed the sword and settled the harness across the king's shoulders.

Finished, the marshal bowed to his lord. "May Valin guide your blade."

The king smiled and gripped the marshal's arm, brothers-in-war once more. "Osbourne, guard my back."

It was the highest praise one warrior could give another. The marshal's voice caught. "Always, Sire."

A troop of knights brought the king's warhorse, Snowmantle, freshly curried and caparisoned in maroon and silver. Such splendid finery was unexpected. The men had clearly scavenged among the other mounts to outfit the stallion in the best the maroon had to offer, a gift for their king.

King Ursus openly admired the stallion and then he swung into the saddle like a man half his age. Unsheathing Mordbane, he raised the sapphire sword to the heavens. "For Honor and the Octagon!"

The men answered with a thunderous roar. "Honor and the Octagon!" They drew their weapons and beat their shields, giving the king a warrior's acclaim.

As if in reply, a rumble of drums announced the enemy. A dark line appeared on the horizon. A thicket of spears and shields clogged the snow-cloaked valley, yet the horde kept their distance. As before, only six riders approached the Wh.o.r.e, but one was the Mordant. Distinctive in his skeleton armor, he rode a ma.s.sive black stallion caparisoned in gold. Overhead, the Darkflamme fluttered and snapped like a serpent slithering in the wind, announcing his presence.

The marshal shivered with foreboding, but it was too late for words.

The king rode out to meet them. The marshal and four champions rode at his back, a keen set of weapons protecting their liege, the one precaution the king had agreed to. They stopped fifty yards beyond the wall, waiting for the enemy.

Six men rode toward them...led by the Skeleton King.

His armor glistened with a baleful light. Helm and breastplate, greaves and gauntlets, the silvery armor was patterned to resemble a lich king. The breastplate showed a skeleton's ribs, the helmet fashioned into a fearsome skull. A whisper of terror spiked the marshal, his gaze shying from the Mordant's armor. It reeked of wrongness, as if evil were somehow annealed into steel. A sudden queasiness gripped his stomach. A part of him wanted to rip the helm away and judge the enemy by his eyes, but another part expected a red-eyed ghoul to stare from the helm, a living dead encased in armor, a nightmare sprung from the pits of h.e.l.l. Doubt gnawed at the marshal, as if the king faced an invincible foe. He shuddered and looked away. "Sire, you cannot fight that."

"I gave my word." The king swung down from his warhorse, a blaze of silver and maroon.

The marshal's horse stamped and shied, fighting the bit as the enemy drew near.

Six riders stopped a bowshot away, the Darkflamme snapping overhead. The Mordant dismounted and walked forward alone.

The marshal swung down from his horse and gripped the reins, studying the enemy with veteran eyes. The skeleton helm hid the Mordant's face but he was most likely the younger man. Quickness and perhaps stamina would be to the Mordant's advantage, but the king had a lifetime of experience, a seasoned warrior, a master at the sword. And the king stood slightly taller and heftier than the Mordant, giving him the advantage of reach and strength. The Mordant carried no shield, but that was to be expected. Only blue steel allowed a great sword to be wielded in one hand, another advantage to the king. But the skeleton armor proved hard to look at, as if some dark magic ensorcelled it with an aura of dread. Steel against magic, he liked it not. The marshal made the hand sign against evil, sending a desperate prayer to Valin.

The king met the Mordant halfway. Whatever words were exchanged, the marshal could not hear. The combatants moved apart, putting two spear lengths of snowy ground between them.

King Ursus drew his blue sword, a gleam of sapphire in the afternoon light. "For Honor and the Octagon!"

The Mordant remained silent, slowly drawing his sword. The great sword had the same length as the king's, but the blade was black! Dark as sin, it seemed to swallow the light.

"What sorcery is this?" The marshal's words were a hiss.

Beside him, Sir Rannock growled, "We swore not to interfere."

The marshal ground his teeth, "Sorcery was not part of the bargain!" but the battle was already joined. The king sprang forward, attacking with an overhand cut. The sapphire sword sliced down with a deadly whistle, a mighty overhand cleave, but the Mordant glided sideways, evading the blue sword. Pivoting, the king chased his opponent with a powerful diagonal cut, but once again the Mordant slipped away, almost as if he antic.i.p.ated the king's moves. Attack and evade, the battle fell into a maddening rhythm.

"He's toying with him, trying to wear the king down."

"But look at his footwork, the b.a.s.t.a.r.d glides like a veteran."

And it was true, the Mordant fought like a seasoned knight. The marshal's mind screamed a warning, yet he could only watch.

Stroke and evade, they circled like a pair of scorpions wary of each other's sting. The king's footwork began to slow, and the Mordant leaped to the attack. The black blade slashed down in an overhand cut. The king was quick to parry. For the first time, the two blades met in a fearsome clash...but the sound was wrong. Instead of a metallic clang, the swords loosed an ear-shattering screech.

Blue steel screamed in pain! The sound sc.r.a.pped across the marshal's soul.

The king staggered backwards, but then he recovered, aiming a fury of blows at the Mordant's head. The black blade parried each blow...and each time the steel screamed.

The combatants broke apart, slowly circling, testing with a series of feints. Fatigue slowed their footsteps, but both kept their swords raised. It seemed as if both men waited for an opening, but then the king did something unexpected. He hurled his shield at the Mordant, making him stumble. Leaping forward, the king attacked with a mighty two-handed blow, a great overhand cleave. Keening a deadly whistle, the sapphire sword descended like righteous vengeance. The blow should have cut the Mordant in two, but somehow the Skeleton King raised his dark sword. Black steel parried the blue blade, releasing a deafening screech.

And then the king's blade broke.

Blue steel sheared in half! Ulrich's sword failed!

The marshal gaped in horror. "Impossible!"

The king staggered to a stop, staring at his broken sword, little more than a hilt in his hands.

The Mordant attacked, sending a vicious cut to the king's head.

Weaponless, the king jerked backward, trying to avoid the blow...and then he tripped and fell. The Mordant leaped forward. Placing his boot on the king's chest, he held him at sword point. The Mordant removed his helm. "Behold the man who claims the life of a king! Vengeance is mine this day!"

The marshal gasped for he knew the face. Not a ghoul, not a lich, but a man with broken octagons branded deep into his cheeks, Raymond, the traitor-knight of Castlegard. The marshal's great sword leaped to his hand as if it belonged there. Rage drove him forward, a scream of defiance on his lips. "No!"

The traitor lifted the black sword in a two-handed grip, the tip held poised above the king's chest.

The marshal redoubled his speed, desperate to save the king.

The black blade plunged down. An unstoppable force, it sliced through steel and leather, flesh and bone. The king screamed as if burnt.

"NO!" Two strides and the marshal swung. His great sword took the traitor at his throat, cleaving the head from the body. Blood gushed from the severed throat. Headless, the skeleton staggered for two steps and then crumpled to a b.l.o.o.d.y heap.

The marshal glared at the Mordant's guards and they chose to flee rather than fight, running for the enemy's lines.

A great shout rose from both armies, but the marshal did not care. He knelt by his king, grief struck. "My lord!"

The king still lived, clutching the dark blade embedded in his chest, but it was a mortal blow, and they both knew it.

A sob broke from the marshal. "My lord, they lied, it was not the Mordant."

The king's eyes locked on his. "Sound...retreat."

Chaos erupted around him. The other champions surrounded the king with a ring of steel. And then a wagon rumbled near. The healer held the horses to a tight turn. Baldwin crouched in the wagon bed, his face chalk white. Quintus pulled the wagon to a stop. "Put him here!" They bent to lift the king.

The healer shouted a warning. "Remove the sword and he'll die!"

They lay the king in the wagon bed, the dark sword still protruding from his chest. Baldwin cradled the king's head, crying a river of tears. The healer cracked the reins. The wagon jerked forward, the horses lashed to a gallop.

The marshal grabbed the reins of his stallion and vaulted into the saddle. He threw a glance toward the far end of the valley. The enemy roiled in a froth of confusion. Putting spurs to his stallion, the marshal galloped back toward the Wh.o.r.e. "Sound the retreat!" Standing in his stirrups, he yelled above the din. "Sound the retreat!"

A single trumpeter obeyed, but it was enough. The call stirred the maroon to action. Like angry hornets flung from the nest they scrambled beyond the third wall, seeking mounts and supplies.

The marshal spied Lothar in the confusion. "Get the men away. Tell them to split up and ride for the hills. If we leave a thousand trails, the enemy will never bother to follow. We'll regroup at the Stonehand in a fortnight."

Lothar nodded. "And you?"

"I'm with the king." Heedless of anything else, the marshal put spurs to his horse and followed the wagon tracks toward the hillside, desperate to reach his king.

60.

Duncan Pain pierced every part of his body, a hundred stabs of agony. Chained to the stone floor, lying spread-eagled beneath the gibbering shadows, madness reached for Duncan yet he fought to keep his sanity. He needed to remember, he needed to live, holding onto the hope that Kath would come...yet he feared for her to dare the Mordant's stronghold.

Kath! Her name alone was like a balm, yet he tried not to think of her, afraid the shadows would invade his mind, tricking him into a betrayal. Yet sometimes he could not resist. Succ.u.mbing to daydreams, he clung to her easy smile or a flash of her leaf-green eyes, imagining all that could have been. Such dreams were sweet but fraught with danger. So he locked them tight in his heart, longing to know that she was safe.

On worse days, when nightmares plagued his mind, he lived in dread of the Mordant's return. Three times the Mordant had reached through his pain, using him as a scrying vessel to speak with the Dark Lord. Always it started with a foul, oily taste in his mouth, a prelude to agony. Even from afar, the Mordant inflicted torment, flaying his body with Darkness, using him like a wh.o.r.e, a sacrifice to the Dark Lord. Each ordeal seemed worse than the last, leaving him shuddering on the cold stone floor, gagging on the foul taste of Darkness. Duncan wondered how much more he could endure.

Naked and chained to the cavern floor, he struggled to survive the slow drip of time, nothing to do but suffer and wait. But then one day, he perceived a change. High among the stalact.i.tes, the shadows broiled like angry wasps; perhaps something spoiled the plans of the Dark Lord. Duncan took it as a sign of hope, watching the shadows through hooded eyes.

Later, much later, he learned the truth.

A small voice came to him in the back of his mind. *Are you there?*

*Yes!* He grabbed for the voice like a drowning man lunging for a piece of driftwood.

*Listen to me!* The voice of the monk whispered through his mind. *A great battle has been fought*"

His heartbeat quickened, thinking of Kath and her sword, but then he forced the image away, striving to listen.

*Raven Pa.s.s has fallen; the Mordant's hordes sweep south. The Octagon is defeated but not broken, not humiliated. A traitor was revealed, spoiling the Mordant's plans. Ever the Deceiver, the Mordant laid a trap for the knights, hoping to defeat the Octagon with their own honor. But the knights escaped the trap, scattering into the mountains. Even in defeat, there is still hope!*

*What about the north?* He longed for some word of Kath yet he dare not reveal too much. He still did not trust Bryce, not with his most precious secret.

*The Mordant's gaze is fixed on the south.* Urgency spiked the monk's words. *You must tell the others. The crystal dagger must come south!*

*Where are you? Tell me more*

Fear flashed through the whispered words, *The Mordant wakes. I dare not linger.*

And then the monk was gone, like a door closing in the back of his mind. Duncan was once more alone, trapped within his own nightmare. He rattled his chains and glared at the shadows, but within his mind he savored the words of the monk. Even in defeat, there is still hope. The words gave him strength, a way to fight back, making him a warrior once more. Laughter bubbled out of him, a wild berserker's laugh. Duncan stared at the shadows and roared his defiance. "You shall not win!" From the depths of the cavern, his words echoed back to him, as if a thousand ghosts took up his war cry. "You shall not win!" But the grim chorus could not shake his conviction. Even in this desolate h.e.l.l, Duncan knew there was more to the world than just darkness.

61.

Katherine Poised for battle, Kath and her band of warriors hid within the shadow of the citadel, waiting for the dark of the moon. The dark of the moon, that fallow time of the month when all life held its breath and the dead drew near. A time of superst.i.tion and fear, when honest folk sought shelter and nightmares held sway. Even the sea birds sensed the coming dark, stilling to a hush as twilight fled.

Kath made the moonless night her ally. Dark and forbidding and laden with omens, it was the perfect setting for a deceit of swords.

Twilight deepened. The dark was nearly upon them. Hiding beneath a sheepskin cloak, a smudge of cream against the snow, Kath led her small band toward the dark walls. Silent as death, they crept within the very shadow of the Dark Citadel. Needing the a.s.surance of cold steel, Kath drew her sword and stared up at the monstrous fist of stone, the lair of the Mordant.

Nightmares lurked within. She felt it in the marrow of her bones, yet she refused to turn back. More than a fortress, the citadel was a bastion of evil, a source of power for the Mordant. She swore to deny him that power. But oh, the risks. The painted people had come to believe in her, naming her their Svala, the wearer of their War Helm. Without reservation, they lent her all their strength, every warrior, young and old, male and female, committed to a single battle. If they failed...if she failed, a proud people would be left defenseless before the Mordant's soldiers. She could not fail. Yet despite the risks, she would not turn back. In the depths of her soul, she believed this was their one great chance to strike a blow against Darkness. And she believed her plan would work. Kath prayed to Valin like she'd never prayed before.

A soft rustle at her back. Beside her, Bear whispered, "They come."

Pride rushed through her; she'd never doubted it.

More than three thousand painted warriors crept across the frozen fields. Hiding beneath sheepskin cloaks, they seemed a part of the landscape, a wild force of nature. Approaching from the north, they lay in ambush behind her, waiting for her signal.

Kath planned to attack from the north, from the direction least expected. While the bulk of her army moved into position, another smaller force of eight hundred, led by Fanggold, was making its way up from the south with Danya. The citadel was an imposing fortress but it had two weaknesses, two gates, a main one on the south side, and a smaller sea gate in the north. Like swordplay, battle was all about feints and misdirection. If her plan worked, the forces of the citadel would rush to protect the southern gate while she attacked from the north. But much would depend on Danya and the dark moon.

She leaned towards Bear, keeping her words to a whisper. "Call a runner."

The big man cupped his hands to his mouth and made a soft whirring sound, imitating a bird of the steppes.

A few moments later, a youth clad in white sheepskin crept near. In the fading twilight, Kath could just make out the fierce fox tattooed on his face. "Your name?"

"Tannin, Svala."

"Tannin, I need you to get a message to Fanggold. Tell him to attack the barracks at the Pit, release the horses from the stables, and then set them aflame. And tell him to raise a loud noise, for I want the enemy to hear the battle. The citadel needs to be convinced that a great army lies beyond its southern gates." She stared at him. "Can you do that, Tannin?"

"Aye, Svala, I will." And then he was gone, scurrying across the frozen fields like a mouse evading a hawk, his sheepskins blending into the snow.

Kath prayed he wasn't seen.