Silk And Steel: The Skeleton King Part 15

Distance was his best hope. Duncan pressed for speed, das.h.i.+ng through the waist-high gra.s.s, and all the while his senses focused backwards, listening for pursuit.

The hounds erupted in a wild chorus of yelps, likely caused by the diverging scents. Duncan kept running, praying to all the G.o.ds that the hounds followed the original trail.

Whips cracked and men yelled commands. The hounds bayed and the horses resumed the hunt.

Duncan kept running, kept listening. The wild baying gradually receded. The h.e.l.lhounds followed the seventh soldier but he'd only gained a short reprieve. He changed strides to a long, loping run, scanning the horizon, seeking for some advantage.

Running at a steady rhythm, he glided through the gra.s.slands, but the pace began to take its toll. Sweat beaded his brow and his side began to ache, but Duncan could not afford to slow. He tightened his grip on his longbow, always listening for the sounds of pursuit.

A cold breeze blew from the north. The wind's smell changed from dry gra.s.s to the rich loam of turned soil. Farmland...the steppes must give way to tilled farms. And where there were farms, there were people, a way to hide, a chance to lose his scent in a tangle of humanity. He turned north, running into the wind, hope in his stride.

Behind him, the tenor of the hunt changed. The h.e.l.lhounds howled, coming in his direction. The trap was finally sprung.

Ahead and to the right, something broke the flatness of the steppes. A low round structure, a hut made of stones with a sod roof. Drawn to the first sign of humanity, Duncan changed course. Breathing deep, he tasted the wind. The rich scent of loamy soil grew stronger...but he could find no trace of smoke or fire. Reaching for more speed, he ran through the waist-high gra.s.s till he burst into open farmland, the fields lying fallow for the winter.

The baying of the hounds grew louder, a relentless growl followed by an implacable gallop.

Duncan ran to the hut and put his shoulder to the oak door. The door flew inward without resistance, banging hard against the stone wall. Cold ashes and the stink of fear filled the doorway. Nocking an arrow, he stepped into the darkness.

A m.u.f.fled cry came from the far wall. A man sat huddled in rags, a swaddled babe clutched tight in his arms. "Don't hurt me!"

Duncan eased the tension on his bow. "Who are you? What is this place?"

"No one." The man shook his head, his words laced with defeat. "Nothing."

Anger boiled into Duncan, he had no time for despair. "Answer me. Who are you?"

"A runner." He hugged the babe close. "My wife died in childbirth. I promised her the babe would know a better life. So I ran, stopping here for the night."

"Running to where?"

"Anywhere...away...south" The man kept his back against the wall.

Duncan pressed the question. "Are there any villages nearby?"

"A what?" His voice wavered. "Nothing here but the Citadel and the Pit."

The words struck like a death knell. No place to hide, no place to tangle his scent, no way to outrun the h.e.l.lhounds...just a final battle.

The man stepped forward. "Are you from beyond the wall?" A glimmer of hope crept into his voice.

"Yes."

A wild howl ripped through the night.

"The Mordant's hounds!" Fear s.h.i.+vered through the man's words. "No one escapes those beasts."

Duncan stared at the man, knowing he'd led soldiers to his hiding place...but perhaps his bow could save two lives. "You'd best run." Duncan ushered him toward the door. "Run hard. I'll hold them off with my bow." They stepped from the hut and found the night filled with a wild clamor. The hunt drew near. The man trembled, holding the child so tight it whimpered. Duncan gripped his shoulder. "Run hard and find a better life."

"Luck be with you, stranger." The man bowed low and then sped south.

"And with you." Duncan turned and surveyed the hut. Inside was nothing but a trap...but the roof might provide a vantage point. He climbed the wall to the top, testing the sod before he stepped on it, grateful when it held his weight. He moved to the center, impaling his arrows upright in the gra.s.sy mound. Twenty-six arrows, their iridescent eyes defying the dark. He wondered if he'd ever see the Deep Green again.

He nocked an arrow and stared toward the south. The gra.s.sy rooftop provided his best view of the hunters. Six h.e.l.lhounds carved furrows in the deep gra.s.s. Running straight as arrows, they howled for the kill. A troop of thirty soldiers galloped further behind, spears bristling toward the sky. Too many, but he'd make them pay dearly for his life. He raised his bow to the heavens, screaming his defiance. "I am Duncan Treloch, a ranger of the Deep Green, and I will not yield."

As if in answer, a bolt of lightning seared the sky.

The hounds loosed a twisted howl, a deep-throated baying.

Thinking of Kath, he whispered her words. "Make every arrow count." Focusing on the nearest hound, he drew the great bow to a deadly curve. Leading the beast by three lengths, he unleashed the longbow's power. An arrow sang into the night. Without waiting, he chose a new target. Draw and release, he sent three more arrows toward the h.e.l.lhounds.

The first arrow struck true. A peel of pain erupted from the hunters. The leading h.e.l.lhound yelped, rolling into a keening ball of mottled fur. Two more h.e.l.lhounds dropped in their tracks...but the reaction of the rest chilled Duncan to the bone. Falling silent, the hounds scattered, abandoning their straight-arrow rush. Slinking to the ground, they disappeared into the deep gra.s.s, hard to see and harder to antic.i.p.ate...as if the d.a.m.n beasts knew how to thwart an archer.

Trumpets blared. Galloping hors.e.m.e.n drew near. The trap was nearly closed. Time was running out.

Duncan raised his bow, sending three arrows arching toward the hors.e.m.e.n, hoping to slow their advance.

A low snarl came from his left.

Duncan whirled, an arrow nocked.

A h.e.l.lhound broke from the gra.s.s, a tan and black fury streaking across the fallow field.

The arrow thwacked, catching the beast in the mouth. Howling in pain, it clawed at its own throat, disgorging a rush of blood.

Movement in the center, Duncan turned and released. The beast leaped to the left, showing an uncanny prescience, but the arrow found its flank. Gnas.h.i.+ng its teeth, the h.e.l.lhound lunged forward, dragging its rear leg, jaws slathering for revenge. If an animal could hate, this one did. Duncan spent another arrow, putting a shot in its right eye.

One h.e.l.lhound left.

Sweat rolled down Duncan's back.

The hors.e.m.e.n stopped at the edge of the fallow field, watching in silence, letting the h.e.l.lhound finish its task.

Duncan's muscles started to strain, keeping the great bow taut.

Lightning cracked the night.

A warning p.r.i.c.ked at his back. Duncan whirled, his bow at the ready.

Saber-toothed jaws lunged toward his face; the beast had gained the roof.

He got the shot off and stumbled backwards.

The arrow flew straight down the beast's maw. Teeth snapped shut in a fierce snarl. The beast plowed into Duncan, pounding against his chest. Knocked backwards, he s.h.i.+elded his face from the jaws. Beast and archer tumbled from the roof. The ground hit hard, stealing his breath. Something snapped and a rush of hot blood soaked his leathers. The beast pinned him to the ground, a smothering weight. Holding the saber-sharp teeth at bay, Duncan lay still, staring at the beast's lifeless eyes.

Gasping for breath, he rolled the heavy body away. Smeared with h.e.l.lhound blood, he struggled to stand, amazed to be alive.

A snarl of rage came from the soldiers, as if the men became their beasts.

Wakened to the danger, Duncan scrambled for his bow. The yew lay buried beneath the dead h.e.l.lhound. He tugged it free and stifled a cry. The bow was snapped in half!

The solders advanced, their lances leveled, circling the hut.

His heart hammering, Duncan reached for the sword, his last defense.

A thicket of spear surrounded him, the final teeth of the trap.

At least he'd die a warrior's death, with his enemies slain at his feet. He beat his sword against their spears, metal clanging against metal. "Fight me, d.a.m.n you. Fight me."

An officer with a plumed helmet growled, "Take him alive."

It was only then that Duncan realized the secret was not yet safe. He turned the sword to his own breast, both hands grasping the hilt. For half a heartbeat he hesitated, thinking of Kath, longing to see her one more time. Something struck the back of his head, a thunderous crack. Duncan staggered and fell. Desperate to end it, he reached for the dropped sword. A boot stepped on his hand. Had all the G.o.ds forsaken him? Another blow to the head...and darkness claimed him.

19.

The Knight Marshal Rumors spread like a plague through the maroon, slaughtering morale. The marshal prowled the walls, listening to the men, watching their faces, collecting their words. Dark tales grew with the telling, a grapevine of whispers on the ramparts, a gale of grim tidings in the great hall. Everywhere he turned, he heard tales of demons, dead princes, and treachery, proof the Octagon was cursed, fated to fall before the Mordant. Problem was, most of it was true. The G.o.d-cursed demon had done its work well. Defeat hung across the maroon like a pall yet the enemy was nowhere in sight.

The marshal balled his gauntleted hands into fists, anger in his stride. Morale was his responsibility. He had to find a way to kill the doubt or the battle would be lost ere the first sword was drawn.

A cold wind blew out of the north, bitter and harsh, suiting his mood. Reaching the central drum tower, he yanked the door open. Down the spiral steps and into the hallway, he strode towards the king's council chamber.

So much had changed in a single fortnight. Normally abuzz with dispatches and commands, the council chamber stood deserted, the hearth cold, the candles extinguished, the shutters latched shut. The stewards had done their work well. Bloodstains were long since washed from the floor, the bodies given honorable burial. But a deep cut remained on the door, a scar marking the fatal thrust of a blue steel blade. He flexed his sword hand, remembering. Two princes impaled on one sword, yet it seemed as if the demon still lived. Doubt stalked the Octagon like a hungry ghoul. Mired in worry, he paced the chamber, waging a battle of words in his mind.

The door creaked open.

He looked up, hoping to see the king, but it was just Lothar.

"Thought I'd find you here, a ghost haunting his gravestone." He eased the door shut and leaned against the wall, a grim look on his weathered face. "You've heard the talk."

"A belly full."

Lothar grunted, fingering the hilt of his battleaxe. "It grows worse by the day. Some are starting to see demons behind every face. Soon there won't be a lick of trust left among the maroon."

And then we'll have desertions. Neither man said it, but the thought hung in the room like a curse.

Lothar moved to the window, easing the wooden shutters open, letting a sliver of daylight pierce the gloom. "It doesn't help that the king stays locked in his chambers, lost in his cups."

"The king mourns his sons."

"And neglects his duty."

The truth stung, but the marshal could not disagree. "The question is, how to undo the damage? You saw his face. How do we mend a cracked blade?"

"A cracked blade is discarded, melted down for sc.r.a.p. But we only have one king."

The marshal nodded. "Just so."

"And the number of heirs grows perilously short. At least the men won't be arguing about succession anymore."

But will Ulrich make a good king? Another thought left unsaid, hanging between them.

Lothar turned away. Leaning on the windowsill, he stared into a gray sky. "What did you see that day, after the monk jumped?"

He hadn't spoken of it to anyone.

Lothar sent him a piercing stare. "Your face was ghost-pale when you turned from the window...and the monk's body was never found."

His friend saw too much. "An owl. I saw a giant frost owl."

"A changeling!" Lothar swore, his face grim. "b.l.o.o.d.y magic."

"Seems there are more powers at work here than we know." The marshal's voice dropped to a harsh whisper. "Sometimes I wonder if we aren't being used, just p.a.w.ns in a greater game."

Lothar grunted. "Shapes.h.i.+fters and magic, it's too deep for me." He sketched the hand sign against evil. "Always thought changelings were a myth." He stared at the open window. "If a simple monk wields such powers what will the Mordant hurl against us?"

"Now you know why I walk the walls so late at night."

Lothar scowled. "We need the king. Now more than ever."

The marshal nodded. "Just so."

A cold wind howled outside, banging the shutters wide open. Sunlight streamed into the chamber, a shaft of light striping the floor. The marshal pulled his maroon cloak close, a buffer against the bitter chill.

"What's this?" Lothar followed the sunlight to the fireplace grate. Something gleamed among the ashes. He knelt to work it free. Gasping, he pulled back as if snake-bit, but then he bent to pick it up. "The monk's crystal." He stood, holding the milk-white crystal aloft. "I never took the monk's test." His gaze turned to the marshal. "I guess I pa.s.sed, not a demon in disguise." He set the crystal on the table.

Both men stared at it, as if it might spring to life.

Lothar broke the silence. "The b.l.o.o.d.y demon almost got away with it, wearing gloves on his hands."

The marshal shuddered at the thought, a demon-prince hiding among them, so close to the throne. In the thick of battle, the demon's orders would have been obeyed, betraying the Octagon. "The monk did us a great service...but the price was high, perhaps too high."

Lothar tugged on his mustache. "The king should not have turned on the monk."

"That was ill-done." The marshal reached for the crystal. "But this might prove a boon."

"How so?"

"Fight magic with magic. Prove to the men there are no demons among us." He fingered the crystalline shard, smooth as gla.s.s. "A wonder it didn't shatter against the hearth floor."

"A crystal tough as steel. It's not natural." Lothar's voice dropped to a low growl. "The king won't like it."

"Sometimes duty is a hard road." The marshal slipped the crystal into his pocket. "Time to rouse the king from mourning. Will you join me?"