Silk And Steel: The Skeleton King Part 11

"Aye. This way."

He took his leave from Lothar, following the squire to the nearest drum tower. "Did he say why?"

"A troop arrived from Castlegard. They brought a visitor." Baldwin tugged on the ironbound door, releasing a breath of warm air.

"A visitor?" He followed the squire down the spiral stairs, grateful for the warmth. "Does the man have a name?"

"I didn't hear it, but he wears a dark blue robe."

A meddling monk, the marshal swore under his breath, an omen of dread s.h.i.+vering down his back. He quickened his footsteps.

Through an arched doorway, they reached the king's council chambers. A pair of guards snapped a salute. The marshal nodded. Pulling the gloves from his hands, he strode into the small round chamber. A fireplace on the far side roared with heat, while wooden shutters struggled to hold back the cold at the two windows. The room was spare and plain, a round table with ten chairs, an iron candelabra dripping tears of wax onto the oak table. The only ornament was a s.h.i.+eld emblazoned with the octagon. Cracked and dented, it hung above the fireplace mantle, a relic from another war.

The marshal bowed toward the king. Ever a warrior, King Ursus sat at the table wearing scarred fighting leathers and a chainmail s.h.i.+rt, a sheaf of dispatches spread before him. Sir Abrax stood at the king's back, a sapphire-blue great sword looming over his right shoulder. As the champion of the sword, the presence of Sir Abrax told the marshal much. He nodded, approving of his king's caution.

"Osbourne, we have a visitor." The king's voice was cold, no hint of courtesy.

The monk stood on the far side of the table, his dark blue robes mud-spattered at the hem. Tall and lean, his face was fair as a n.o.bleman's, his shoulder length hair carrying more gray than black. He smiled a greeting but his eyes were dark and sunken as if weary with strain.

The marshal stared, surprised to recognize the monk. "We've met before."

The monk nodded. "At Castlegard." He held his right arm straight out, a blue Seeing Eye tattooed across his open palm. "My name is Aeroth and I bring a message to King Ursus of Castlegard from the Grand Master of the Kiralynn Order."

The king's voice cut like a sword. "By any map the Southern Mountains are far from here. How is it you cross the kingdoms with so much ease?"

"My Order has its secrets."

"That's what bothers me." The two men locked stares, a stalemate of wills. "Your Order brings nothing but ill tidings. Are your robes blue or just another shade of black?"

The monk bore the insult well. Only a slight narrowing of the eyes betrayed his anger. "It's true we often herald dark tidings but is it not better to be warned than to fall to surprise, ambushed by the enemy?"

The king eased back in his chair, the faint creak of leather and chainmail.

The monk raised his right hand, displaying the Seeing Eye like a talisman of truth. "The Kiralynn Order has always walked in the Light. Will you hear my message?"

The king grunted a.s.sent.

"Our Order sought to avoid a perilous war, but that opportunity is lost." The monk's voice deepened, as if cloaked in prophesy. "The Mordant has crossed the Dragon Spines, reclaiming the power of the north. A dire time is upon us, a time of trials and tests, when the decisions of a few will impact many. Be warned, for the Mordant will hurl the full might of the north against the Octagon. Seeking to eclipse Erdhe with Darkness, he will risk all to succeed in this lifetime. His legions will march south wielding weapons of dark magic, weapons that time has nearly forgot. But above all, the Mordant is always the Deceiver. The Grand Master warns the King of Castlegard to beware of deceit. The Octagon is strong in war but deceit will ever be your downfall."

A grim silence settled over the chamber.

The king shook his head, his voice gruff. "Words couched in riddles. Speak plainly or leave."

"The Order fears that a harlequin lurks within the maroon, waiting for the perfect chance to betray the Octagon."

"More talk of traitors," the king's voice dropped to a dangerous growl. "My men are loyal. You slight our honor."

"Forgive my words, majesty, but it is not a matter of loyalty. harlequins are awakened when their hosts are in their early twenties. The host has no choice in the matter, a victim crushed beneath an older soul, subsumed by a great evil. Once awakened, the harlequin can masquerade as the host knight until the time of the Dark Lord's choosing." The monk spread his hands in entreaty. "The Octagon is the s.h.i.+eld of the southern kingdoms. If you fail, the consequences are dire. The Order fears a harlequin hides among you, waiting to turn the tide of battle." His voice dropped to a harsh whisper. "How long can you hold the walls if a traitor opens the gates?"

The king glared daggers at the monk, a storm of anger riding his face. The marshal intervened. "Grim words, but what help do you offer?"

Nodding, the monk reached within the pocket of his robe. "Once more I offer the Octagon the test of a Dahlmar crystal." He held aloft a milk-white crystalline shard, the length of a small dagger. If there was something magical about the crystal, the marshal could not see it. "Each knight need only hold this crystal in his hand. If a harlequin lurks within, the crystal will glow cherry-red."

The king stirred, his voice a low growl. "We took your test before and not one of your demon traitors was found amongst my men."

"But the test was only conducted in Castlegard. Raven Pa.s.s is guarded by men drawn from all across the Domain."

The marshal stared, hearing truth beneath the monk's words, but the king resisted, his words gruff. "The Octagon girds for war. The mere rumor of a traitor will destroy morale."

The monk nodded, his face thoughtful. "Perhaps the test can be contained. The Dark Lord is stingy with his favors. Few of his servants gain the status of harlequins. Hosts for the reborn are always chosen to give the Dark Lord the most advantage." His gaze darkened. "If a harlequin is among you, he will most likely wear the face of one of your captains, or perhaps a champion, someone of power and influence, someone who sits at your council table."

"You dare name one of my captains a traitor?" The king's voice held a dangerous edge.

"Not a traitor, a demon possessed."

"Is this a certainty or a wild accusation?"

The monk hesitated. "Nothing is certain...but it is likely."

"Why should I believe you?"

"Because treachery has already claimed a steep price." The monk matched stares with the king. "At Cragnoth Keep, where a traitor took your son's life."

The marshal stifled a gasp, the monk knew too much. But the argument turned the tide. He watched as anger bled from the king's face, revealing a well of grief.

The king nodded. "So be it. My captains will take your test and we will end this talk of demon cursed traitors." His face hardened and his voice rose to a shout. "Baldwin!"

The door burst open and the king's red-haired squire rushed in. "Yes, m'Lord."

"Summon my captains and the champions of the maroon. I have need of them here and now. But make no mention of our blue-robed guest. Now go and be quick about it."

Sketching a hasty bow, the squire scurried from the chamber, closing the door behind him.

"A traitor amongst my captains." The king swore. "Likely, you said." He drew his blue sword, Honor's Edge, and laid it across the table, a sapphire threat gleaming in the candlelight. "I'll have the head of any traitor...or the head of a fear monger." He skewered the monk with his stare.

The monk's stare dropped to the sword, his face grim. "If a harlequin is found, he must be captured, not killed. Death will only cause him to be reborn." He lifted the shard of crystal and settled it in his pocket. "And now we wait."

A grim silence settled over the chamber. The marshal stood behind his king, dreading the test, wondering if a demon hid behind the face of a friend.

12.

Duncan Unfettered by darkness, Duncan ran sure-footed through the night, reveling in his birthright. The G.o.ds had made his mother's people different, gifting them with a cat eyed vision. Even on the darkest night, his golden eye had more than enough light. In a world silvered by starlight, he saw details lost to ordinary men.

Carrying his longbow in his fist, he fell into a rhythm, running to keep a secret safe. He started with the smaller group, following a trail carved through waist-high gra.s.s, three men racing toward the northwest. Thrashed and bent, the trampled gra.s.ses screamed of panic, survivors desperate to escape the slaughter...but they carried a secret that had to be silenced. Duncan lengthened his stride, anxious to finish the task.

Stretching his senses, he tasted the wind. A northern breeze carried the sweet scent of dried gra.s.ses and the rich loam of earth but he searched for something else. Breathing deep, he caught a sour tang, the scent of fear, the scent of prey. He quickened the pace, a long loping stride.

The moon traversed the night sky, a pale glow shrouded by clouds, and still he ran, driven by the need to keep a secret safe.

Metal gleamed on the trail ahead. Duncan slowed, wary of an ambush, but it was only a discarded breastplate. Seven more strides and he found a broken gorget. A set of greaves, a gauntlet, and a dented helm followed, desperate men shedding their armor, fatigue overriding caution. Sensing weakness, he smiled, a wolf hot on the heels of prey.

The cloud-shrouded moon sank toward the western horizon, nearly set, the last dark before the dawn. He breathed deep, sensing sweat tainted with fear, the prey was close. Leaving the trail, he sought the cover of the tall gra.s.s. Crouching low, he made his way forward, an arrow nocked to his bow.

A moan of pain s.h.i.+vered through the night.

Duncan froze.

"Stop your belly-aching, Carlyle, or I'll stop it for you."

"It b.l.o.o.d.y-well hurts. The cursed horse shattered my bleedin' shoulder. I can't feel my left arm."

The wind carried their voices, making them seem a stone's throw away. Duncan risked standing, trying to spot his prey, but they remained hidden by the tall gra.s.s. He considered loosing a volley, but he needed to see his targets to be sure. Keeping low, he crept forward, closing the distance, a black-fletched arrow nocked to his bow.

"Stop moaning, or I'll give you a taste of my sword."

Mad laughter erupted. "We're all dead men. Deserters earn the deepest level of the pit...if the d.a.m.n centurions don't feed us to the b.l.o.o.d.y gore hounds first."

"We won't be going to the pit." The third voice held a note of command. "Not when they hear about the blond-haired witch."

Duncan's blood ran cold.

"They had a knight with them, but it was the witch that killed us."

"How can you be so sure?"

"The cursed Octagon never fights with magic." The voice turned to a sneer. "And they never bring women to the battlefield. Word of the witch will earn us saddlebags full of gold and a fortnight in the brothels."

"What makes you think they'll believe us?"

"The tale's too wild to be untrue. Besides, the battlefield holds the proof. Now shut your mouths and get some sleep. We've a long run to reach the nearest gate."

Duncan eased the tension on his bow, giving his prey time to sleep. The words of the soldiers clawed at his mind, confirming his worst fears. Survivors of the battle would name Kath as a witch, all the more reason they needed to die. He took a sip from his water skin and then spilled a trickle onto the ground. Working the small puddle with his dagger, he made a paste. Dabbing mud onto his face and hands, he disappeared into the darkness, a shadow of death.

Three against one, he'd need to be quick and accurate, and he'd need the element of surprise. Stretching his senses, he sought to detect movement. A chill breeze blew from the north, rustling the gra.s.ses. A cricket chirped a peaceful rhythm. But the men remained silent. He wondered if the sudden silence was an opportunity or an ambush. Either way, he was out of time.

The moon set, the deepest dark before the dawn. Selecting an arrow, he rose to a crouch. Drawing the longbow halfway, he crept forward, stepping to the rhythm of the cricket. Gra.s.ses whispered around him, just another shadow in the night.

The scent of prey intensified.

He found them in a hollow of trampled gra.s.s, three men rolled into their cloaks, lost to sleep, too tired or too careless to set a sentry.

The bowstring thrummed, the voice of death.

Quick as thought, he loosed a second arrow.

The third man rolled to his feet, his sword unsheathed. "What the..."

Duncan turned and loosed, a point-blank shot.

Thunk! At such close range, the arrow pierced armor and flesh, throwing the third man onto the ground.

He nocked a fourth, holding the bow taut, the fever of battle thrumming through him. Standing at the edge of the tall gra.s.s, he surveyed his prey, daring them to move. The first two men lay pinned to the ground, heart-shot. The third moaned, a wet gurgling sound, a feathered shaft through his lung. Duncan eased the tension on the bow, no sense in wasting a good arrow.

Drawing his dirk, he closed on the third man.

Impaled by an arrow, he lay on his back, his eyes wide with fear, blood leaking from his mouth. "W-what are you?"

Recalling the words of the soldiers, Duncan flashed a wicked grin. "The witch's a.s.sa.s.sin."

The man struggled like a stuck fish, reaching for his sword, but Duncan was quick, slas.h.i.+ng the dirk across his throat. Just to be safe, he slit the throats of the other two and then cleaned his blade on a dead man's cloak. Sheathing his dirk, he unstrung his bow, wiping the length of yew with a soft cloth.

He stared at his handiwork. Three dead bodies, three voices silenced, but another group had survived the battle, his work was not yet done. The sun chose that moment to rise, bringing a pale blush in the east. Color returned to the world in a rush. His vision s.h.i.+fted, making the transition to day. His best advantage was lost.

He left the dead where they lay, food for wolves. Setting out at a lope, he ran toward the northeast, searching for a second set of survivors. If the tracks proved true, there'd be seven against one. Even for a ranger of the Deep Green the odds were grim. Duncan gripped his longbow and settled into a run, a lone hunter chasing a deadly secret.

13.

Katherine Ravens woke her, a squabble of harsh caws. Bleary from sleep and still muzzy with pain, Kath stared at a sky blackened by a thousand dark wings. Confused, she watched the ravens fly, circling and dipping, casting a black plume against the pale morning sky.

Understanding struck like a curse. Kath bolted awake. The ravens betrayed us! The black plume marked the battlefield, twisting their victory into a trap. Their guides had turned traitors, signaling their doom.

She threw off the blanket, wanting to scatter the ravens to the four winds...but the dark birds were everywhere, a living shroud of scavengers fighting over a field of corpses. So many dead, the stink of carrion was already rising. The grim reality of the battle hit Kath hard. Without Danya's magic they'd be lying among the dead. Without speed they'd join them. She glared at the ravens, refusing to let the dark birds steal their victory.

She pulled on her boots, provoking a blaze of aches. Her shoulder hurt, her right arm throbbed, and her left thigh burned like h.e.l.lfire. Cursing the pain, she kicked the tangle of blankets away. Something silver tumbled into the gra.s.s.

Duncan's warrior ring, her heart skipped a beat. He wore it always, night and day, queen's court or forest deep. Silver embossed with Aspen leaves, she stared at the ring; terrified at its meaning. He'd left to hunt the survivors, a lone archer against the fleeing swords. She hadn't even asked how many. Enough swords could overwhelm even the best archer. Kath clutched the ring; desperate to believe it was his first gift and not his last.

She struggled to stand, ignoring the pain biting her left thigh. Surveying the camp, she was surprised to find Blaine sitting idle, feeding f.a.gots to the fire.

Her voice was a goad. "The ravens set a trap."

He stared into the fire, his blue sword looming over his right shoulder, not bothering to even turn in her direction.

"If we stay here, we're dead. We have to leave."

He barked a rude laugh, his face grim. "Easier said than done. Danya won't wake, the monk's lost in a haze of pain, and we have no horses."