Silk And Steel: The Skeleton King Part 13

A rush of movement from the side.

Duncan whirled.

A soldier charged from the tall gra.s.s, a round s.h.i.+eld held to the front, a short sword raised in attack.

Duncan lowered his aim, loosed the arrow, and then dodged to the right.

The soldier staggered backward, grunting in pain, an arrow protruding from his thigh. "d.a.m.n you to the seven h.e.l.ls!" He lowered his s.h.i.+eld and charged.

Duncan danced away. Releasing the bowstring, he wielded the yew like a staff, poking blows at the soldier's face, trying to keep the swordsman at bay.

A gray-haired veteran, the soldier circled the archer, his s.h.i.+eld up, his sword flas.h.i.+ng in the morning light. His voice was a low growl. "Stand and fight."

Duncan jabbed at the soldier's eyes and backed away, desperate for some advantage.

Steel cut the air, a vicious chop at the yew wood. Duncan yanked the bow away, narrowly avoiding the blade. Sweat beaded his brow, he needed to defeat the swordsman without harming his bow.

The swordsman launched a furious attack, slas.h.i.+ng toward the archer's face.

Duncan stayed a hair's breath away, a s.h.i.+fting shadow in black leathers.

"Fight, d.a.m.n you." The swordsman hawked and spat, "b.l.o.o.d.y archers are nothing but cowards." Lowering his s.h.i.+eld, he charged. Duncan leaped aside, thrusting his bow into the soldier's feet. Entangled, the swordsman tripped and fell, sprawling face first. Duncan pounced, grappling for the sword. The two rolled across the b.l.o.o.d.y trail, knees gouging for groins, muscles straining. Slick with sweat, both men fought for the sword. An elbow slammed into Duncan's jaw, snapping his head back, but he never let go. Tasting blood, he rolled on top, wrestling for control. The soldier waged a mighty struggle, but the longbow had made Duncan strong. The sword's edge slowly turned toward the soldier's throat. Wide-eyed, he bucked and kicked, struggling to slow the blade's descent but his fate was sealed. Duncan finished the fight, burying the blade in the soldier's throat.

Rolling clear of the spurting blood, Duncan lay sprawled on the trampled gra.s.s. Every muscle ached. His head throbbed and his jaw hurt. His right arm bled, a deep gash from the sword. The fight had been close, too close. Only luck had kept a second swordsman from the ambush. He shook his head, knowing luck was a fickle mistress, but he'd trust to his bow.

His bow!

Bolting to his feet, he searched for the yew wood, finding it flung to the far side of the trail. He s.n.a.t.c.hed it up, running anxious fingers along the length, checking for nicks and cracks. A single fault would ruin the bow, snapping under the strain of the draw. He sighed, relieved to find it whole and undamaged. His hands caressed the yew, giving thanks to the G.o.ds. The bowstring was lost but he had another. Bending the bow, he set the second string, once more an archer.

He swayed on his feet, hammered with weariness. Blood dripped from his right arm, and his side ached from a nasty punch, yet he had to keep going. A strip of cloth torn from a dead man's cloak served as a bandage. He bound his arm, using his teeth to tie the knot. Searching the dead, he found a flask half full of water and a single biscuit of hard bread. The biscuit went in his pouch, but he drained the flask, slaking a viscous thirst. Discarding the flask, he knew he needed rest, just an hour of sleep.

His gaze was drawn toward the north, to the long gray wall. It slashed across the horizon, dividing north from south, a chilling reminder of the Mordant's power. But it was still a day's run away. He needed to catch the remaining deserters...but he also needed the strength to prevail. Taking the dead man's sword, he moved off the trail and into the tall gra.s.s. Weary and sore, he pulled his black wool cloak close and laid down to rest.

Duncan woke with a start, dreams of ambush in his mind. Reaching for his bow, he nocked an arrow and knelt. Golden gra.s.ses stretched in every direction, no sign of the enemy...but the sky was full of threats. Dark clouds churned overhead, obscuring the midday sun. "Darkness be d.a.m.ned." He'd slept too long, giving his prey too much of a lead...but the storm clouds posed a bigger threat. Rain would negate his bow. Even the best archer could not shoot with a wet bowstring. Lady luck had turned against him.

Gambling that his prey would make a dash for the wall, he wasted no time searching for tracks. Intent on speed, he flew across the gra.s.slands.

The wall loomed large with every pa.s.sing league. He scanned the trail, praying for a glimpse of the deserters. Overhead the storm clouds thickened, a brooding menace but no rain fell. Perhaps the hunt still had a chance.

At twilight, he saw them; a gleam of armor cl.u.s.tered on the trail ahead, four soldiers jogging toward a break in the wall. Time had almost run out.

Deciding to attack from the east, Duncan moved into the tall gra.s.s. A final sprint put the enemy within reach of his longbow. He nocked an arrow and he paused, fighting to slow his breathing. With the wall looming close, he needed to make every arrow count. Judging the wind and the distance, he raised the longbow. His muscles strained against the mighty yew, drawing the bow to a curve. A fat raindrop slapped his face, speeding his pulse. Ignoring the threat, he focused on his prey. He loosed the bowstring, sending an arrow into the sky. As if pierced, the clouds broke, releasing a sudden downpour. Seven more arrows soared into the crying sky, defying the rain.

Cursing the weather, he unstrung the bow, putting the bowstring deep in an inner pocket, next to his heart. Wiping the length of yew with a soft cloth, he slipped a leather cover over the bow, tying the end tight, desperate to keep the wood dry.

A scream split the twilight sky; at least one arrow had found its mark.

Lightning forked the dark clouds unleas.h.i.+ng a torrent of rain, as if the G.o.ds had turned against him.

Duncan jerked canvas covers over his quivers and reached for the captured sword, hefting its weight. The short sword felt awkward in his hand but it was the only weapon left to him. He ran toward his prey, determined to finish the hunt.

Rain beat against his face, soaking his wool cloak, muting his senses, another advantage lost. His boots squelched in puddles but they kept his feet dry. Tightening his grip on the sword, he raced through the downpour. Wary of an ambush, he slowed as he reached the edge of the trail.

Only three! The words pounded through his mind, a warning and a curse.

One man lay dead, while a second writhed in pain. A third soldier knelt to tend the second, his back to Duncan...but where was the fourth?

Risking ambush, Duncan lowered his bow to the ground and crept toward the third soldier, the captured sword poised to strike.

Lightning cracked the sky.

The soldier whirled as if warned, his sword rising to meet the attack.

Steel met steel, a mighty clang that competed with the thunder. The soldier glared over the crossed blades, his eyes full of hate. "I'll have your head!" He disengaged and lunged, releasing a flurry of blows.

Duncan danced away, using the captured sword as a s.h.i.+eld, doing his best to parry the rain of blows.

"Fight, you cat-eyed b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" The soldier sent a slas.h.i.+ng blow toward Duncan's face.

Duncan twisted away, narrowly avoiding the blade. Stroke and parry, slash and dodge, the archer evaded the sword but he had no attack, he was no swordsman trained to the cut and parry. Sweat trickled down his face as he strove to avoid the soldier's blade. A sword stroke whispered close to his chest, slas.h.i.+ng at his leathers, drawing a thin trickle of blood. Duncan danced back, desperate for a way to take the soldier's skill out of the fight.

The soldier flashed a feral grin, his eyes gleaming with confidence. Brandis.h.i.+ng his b.l.o.o.d.y blade, he leaped forward with an overhand cut. Duncan raised his sword in a two-handed grip. The two swords met in a furious clash. Like rams locked in battle, they grappled, steel straining against steel, feet churning the ground into mud.

Duncan saw his chance, a risky ploy. He dropped his own sword and wrestled for control of the other blade. Las.h.i.+ng out with his boot, he caught the man's s.h.i.+n with a wicked kick. Grunting in pain, the soldier slipped and fell. Duncan followed him to the ground, throwing his weight on top. Rolling in the mud, they fought for the blade. Slippery with blood and rain, they grappled one on top of the other. Duncan got his left hand free, reaching for the dagger at his belt. Struggling to hold the sword at bay, he positioned the point under the man's breastplate, aiming a desperate thrust deep into the belly. The soldier's eyes widened, his mouth gaping in a silent scream. Shuddering, he arched his back and lay still.

Duncan pulled the dagger free and slit the man's throat, needing to be sure. Blood filled the puddles as he staggered to his feet. Tilting his head back, he drank the cold rain, letting it run across his face like tears, thankful to be alive.

A moan of pain pulled him back to his purpose.

The second soldier writhed in the mud, a feathered shaft protruding from his chest.

Duncan knelt by the wounded man, a veteran with streaks of gray in his beard. "Where's the fourth soldier?"

The veteran fought for each breath, his face wracked with pain, but his gaze was still clear. "You won't...catch him." Triumph filled his face. "The Citadel...will hear...of the witch."

A dagger of fear sliced through Duncan's belly.

The soldier laughed, bubbles of blood foaming at his mouth.

A flash of steel silenced the laughter...but not the threat. Duncan sheathed his dagger and then retrieved his longbow. Picking up his discarded sword, he raced north, desperate to catch the last man.

15.

The Knight Marshal Silent as death, they sat in the council chamber, awaiting the captains, waiting to learn if a demon lurked inside of a friend. The marshal stared at the monk, a fierce resentment growing inside him. How easily this stranger spoke of treachery, casting suspicion on friends and comrades, men he'd fought beside in battle, men he'd trusted with his life. He clenched his fist, fighting the urge to reach for his sword.

The marshal knew his king felt the same, yet his lord hid his rage well. Stern and unwavering, King Ursus sat at the table, a chiseled look on his face, his stare fixed on the monk.

Perhaps the monk understood, for he turned away, offering his back to the room. Wrapped in robes of midnight blue, the monk drifted toward the shuttered window. Lifting the latch, he eased the shutters open, admitting a cold wind, a bitter breath of winter.

No one complained.

The sudden cold suited the chill of the room.

Candles flickered against the wind, casting an uneven light. The king's great sword gleamed upon the tabletop, a promise and a threat.

No one spoke.

Minutes seemed like hours.

A knock at the door broke the spell, a bustle of noise from the hallway. Prince Griffin was first to arrive, followed by G.o.dfrey. Bold and confident, the two princes mimicked their father, blond-haired warriors dressed in fighting leathers, maroon cloaks at their shoulders. Griffin started to speak but one look at his father's face silenced him. The grim mood proved contagious. Wood sc.r.a.pped against stone as the two princes took seats at the table.

The others came by ones and twos, the captains and the champions, big men bristling with weapons, maroon cloaks spattered with mud, answering the call of their king. Sir Dalt, the captain of Ice Tower, Sir Rannock, the champion of the morning star, Sir Odis, the champion of the lance, they tramped into the chamber, mud on their boots, the smells of sweat and horse clinging to their wool cloaks. Eighteen men answered the summons. Caught by the grim mood, they asked no questions. Veterans of many battles, they crowded into the chamber, standing behind their king, taking sides against the stranger.

The marshal knew them all, some of them friends, all of them brothers-in-arms, warrior-knights dedicated to the maroon. He studied their faces, wondering if a demon lurked among them, but the monk's accusation seemed hard to believe, a stain against their honor.

Sir Lothar flashed a questioning glance his way, but the marshal kept his face impa.s.sive, better to let the king explain.

Silence prevailed, like a lull before the battle. The fireplace snapped and crackled, spitting sparks onto the stone floor. Knights fingered their weapons, every stare locked on the monk.

Alone, on the far side of the chamber, the monk stared out the window, his dark hair ruffled by the winter wind.

The king spoke, "My council is a.s.sembled."

The monk turned, his face pale in the candlelight. "All of them?"

"All save three captains who remain at their posts along the Domain; Ulrich is at Cragnoth, Boris at Holdfast, and Clemet at Castlegard."

"So be it." The monk's gaze circled the chamber, as if searching the soul of each man. Raising his right hand, he revealed the tattoo of the Seeing Eye. "Seek knowledge, Protect knowledge, Share knowledge. My name is Aeroth, a sworn monk of the Kiralynn Order. I come to you on the brink of war, bringing warning of a dire plot by the Dark Lord, a deceit designed to defeat the Octagon."

A murmur of anger ripped through the chamber.

The monk reached into his pocket, revealing the crystalline shard. "A prophecy warns of a harlequin hidden among you, a servant of the Dark Lord wearing the face of a knight." He raised the crystal aloft, candlelight reflecting off the milk-white facets. "I ask each of you to hold this crystal in your naked hand. If it remains dormant, it proves you walk in the Light. If it glows bright red, it proves a harlequin hides beneath your face, a demon disguised as a knight."

"Demons!" Sir Dalt made the hand sign against evil.

A murmur of outrage rippled through the room. The captains cast uneasy glances at the monk, their hands at their weapons.

King Ursus leaned forward, stretching his open hand across the table. "I will be the first."

The monk had the grace to look embarra.s.sed. "Majesty, it is not necessary."

The king's fist banged the tabletop, his voice a roar. "Of course it's necessary! You come here speaking of treachery. Your words stain the honor of us all." The king skewered the monk with his stare, his voice a command. "Give me the shard."

The monk moved to the table. Leaning forward, he offered the crystal to the king. Their hands met over the sapphire sword. The king took the crystal and held it aloft. The shard remained dormant. A sigh of relief rippled around the chamber.

G.o.dfrey was the first to speak. The youngest among them, his voice burned with righteous indignation. "How dare you test our king! How dare you come here and impugn the honor of the Octagon!"

The king turned toward his third-born son, a glint of approval in his eyes. "You'll soon learn the monks dare much. But if the Octagon is to be tested, it's fitting the king be first."

But the prince was not mollified. His voice brimmed with outrage. "We spill our blood guarding the southern kingdoms!" He stabbed an accusing finger at the monk. "By what right does a weaponless monk dare judge us?"

The marshal stared at the prince, fearing he protested too much.

"Enough!" The king's roar echoed through the chamber. "By my order, each of you will take this test, but never speak of it past these walls." His stare scoured his captains, slaying any protest. He turned towards, his third-born son. "We lead by example."

G.o.dfrey glowered, but then bowed under the weight of his father's stare. He accepted the crystal, holding it aloft. The marshal held his breath, but the shard remained dormant, a dagger-length of milk-white crystal held in the prince's fist.

The king said, "And now Griffin."

G.o.dfrey pa.s.sed the crystal to his older brother. Griffin took the shard and held it aloft. "It sleeps." He turned to pa.s.s it to the next man.

The monk intervened. "Remove your glove."

Griffin shrugged. "It matters not."

"Remove your glove."

A snarl filled the prince face. "Curse your crystal." Erupting from his chair, he hurled the shard at the monk. Quick as lightning, he unsheathed a dagger and held it to his brother's throat. "Back, all of you!"

The marshal drew his sword, a stab of horror at his heart. Not the king's son!

Weapons sprang from scabbards, a thicket of steel surrounding the prince.

G.o.dfrey struggled, a wild look in his eyes, but the dagger drew a line of blood at his throat. "Father!"

"G.o.dfrey!" The king stood, knocking over his chair, his face a blaze of disbelief. "Don't harm my son!"

The knights growled, tightening the cage.

The demon retreated, setting its back to a wall, holding the younger brother like a s.h.i.+eld. "Keep back, or I'll kill him."

"Do as he says." At the king's command, the knights came to a stop, their weapons raised in a ring of steel.

Only the marshal inched forward, seeking a way to save the younger son.

"All of you keep back." The demon glared at the marshal. "You too, old man." Holding the dagger to G.o.dfrey's throat, it shuffled toward the door, its back pressed to the wall. "Drop your weapons."

The king gestured and the captains complied, a rain of steel hitting the stone floor.

Empty-handed, the marshal sidled to toward the door, desperate to stop the demon.

The king took a step toward his sons, his hands spread wide in entreaty. "Griffin don't do this. Fight this monster and release your brother. I know you're strong..."