Silk And Steel: The Skeleton King Part 18

Duncan joined the line of captives, standing behind a skinny man stripped naked except for a soiled loincloth, iron shackles on his wrists and feet. The man reeked of sweat and fear, the perfume of the Mordant's subjects.

A guard at the top of the stairs pounded his iron-shod spear against the stone platform. "Next!"

The line shuffled forward. A burly guard forced an auburn-haired woman to kneel. "My Lord, a woman of the fifth tier found guilty of trying to sell her newborn child to a third tier family. The priests have condemned her to the pit brothel as penance for her sins."

"Lift her face."

The guard forced the woman's head back.

"Hmmm." Leaning forward, the bald-headed lord smiled like a cat about to eat a bird. "Too pretty a flower for the brothels. Clean her up and send her to my residence. I'll see to it she atones for her sins."

The guard saluted fist to chest, "Yes, m'Lord," and ushered the sobbing woman back down the stairs.

One at a time, the prisoners climbed the stairs to learn their fate. Duncan stood with his head bowed, stealing glances at his surroundings. The litany of crimes made little sense. He'd expected to be questioned and tortured, but it seems they'd put him with common criminals. Perhaps there was a chance he could live to escape while keeping the secret safe.

The line of prisoners shuffled forward till only two were left.

Guards dragged the skinny dark haired man to kneel before the throne. Trembling, he bowed low, sweat glistening on his pale white skin. "A priest, m'Lord, condemned to the iron mines."

"A b.l.o.o.d.y priest!" The lord scowled. "What did this one do?"

The guard shook his head. "The bishop did not say, only that the man was to serve the remainder of his life in the iron mines."

"Priests and their dark d.a.m.ned secrets," the lord's voice dropped to a growl, "the b.l.o.o.d.y priesthood never lets anyone peek up their robes." He gestured toward the kneeling man. "Probably sent to spy on me."

The guard answered, "No, m'Lord, they took his tongue."

"His tongue, eh?" The lord leaned forward, a flicker of interest on his face. "That's one way of keeping secrets safe. I wonder what he knows." He stared at the prisoner as if considering other possibilities, but then he shook his head, resignation in his voice. "Priests are dangerous, even with their tongues cut out. Send him to the mine's deepest level. From the looks of him, he won't last long."

The condemned man wailed in protest, a guttural sound. The guard cuffed him across the side of the face, dragging him down the steps.

Duncan's guard gave him a prod. "Your turn, berk." He climbed the steps and knelt, keeping his head and his gaze lowered.

The lord spoke first. "What've you got this time, Cribb?"

"A runner. A gate patrol found him in the farmland." The guard poked Duncan in the ribs. "They say he killed a half dozen gore hounds before they captured him."

"Ha!" The lord barked a cruel laugh. "A bald-faced lie. More likely the lazy b.u.g.g.e.rs are spreading rumors, trying to gain a posting to the citadel." He gestured with the cat-o-nine tails. "Let's see his markings."

Another guard grabbed Duncan's shackles, pulling his left arm straight. It was only then that he noticed his left sleeve had been slashed open, a cut running from elbow to wrist but there was no wound to match the slice. The guard peeled back the black leather, revealing his forearm. "No markings. A rune-less b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

One of the guards gasped in surprise.

"That ain't all." The guard from the cage gripped Duncan's hair, yanking his head back. "Take a good look at his eye."

"Sp.a.w.n of the Pit!" The lord leaned forward. "Bring him closer."

Duncan began to rise, but the guard held a dagger to his throat. "On your knees, berk."

Goaded by a sword at his back, Duncan was compelled to shuffle forward, the stone dais hard beneath his knees. He reached the base of the throne and stopped, struggling to smother his rage.

The lord leaned close, his breath like bad cheese. "An eye like a cat, that's a new one for the Pit. The breeders might be interested in him. Might even be a reward for such a big healthy berk." Avarice gleamed in his dark gaze. "I'll alert the priests but in the meantime he'll serve the mine. A turn in the iron mine will take the fight out of him." He sat back, caressing the handle of the cat-o-nine tails. "See that he's branded and fitted for a collar."

His guard nodded, a grin on his face. "I'll see to it." He gave Duncan a shove. "On your feet, berk, let's go."

"Cribb, aren't you forgetting something?" The lord's voice was smooth as velvet.

His guard turned. "What?"

"His boots, Cribb. To the Master of the Pit go the spoils."

"As you say, Lord Sleghorn." He snarled at Duncan, his voice laced with frustration. "Take'em off, berk."

They treated him like cattle...but humiliation was better than torture. Duncan worked around his chains, struggling to remove his boots, struggling to control his anger. One at a time, the boots came off, a Midwinter gift from Jordan...at least he'd left his silver warrior's ring with Kath. Another guard grabbed the boots and threw them in a basket overflowing with plundered trinkets...the spoils of the d.a.m.ned.

His guard p.r.i.c.ked him with a sword. "On your feet, berk."

They never even asked his name. Perhaps names did not matter in h.e.l.l. He got to his feet and started down the stairs.

"And Cribb," the lord's voice cut like a knife, "don't even think of trying to collect the deformity bounty on him. This one's mine."

His guard gave a curt bow. "As you wish, Lord." He gave Duncan an angry shove, nearly toppling him down the steps.

Duncan's bare feet sank deep into the mud. Cold and clammy, it felt loathsome. Everything about the pit was loathsome and disgusting. He strained against his chains, struggling to keep pace with his guard, trying not to fall. He'd expected torture...but instead he found himself chained and shackled to the living d.a.m.ned, one among a mult.i.tude of slaves, condemned to work a prison pit. Duncan stifled a laugh, wondering if it was the onset of madness. His captors had brought him to the heart of the Mordant's domain yet he was essentially invisible, lost among so much misery. Perhaps h.e.l.l was as good a place as any to keep a secret safe.

23.

Katherine Horses running, manes caught by the wind, a whole herd racing across the ceiling. Across the ceiling, the thought jarred her awake. Groggy with sleep, Kath struggled to make sense of her surroundings. Chalk drawings covered the cavern walls, but instead of being flat and lifeless, the horses flowed with vibrancy across the walls. Contours in the rock gave the horses an added dimension, a wild gallop of ocher, umber, and charcoal. Cunningly drawn, she half expected to hear hoofbeats. But why was she in a cave and who made the drawings?

The last thing she remembered...poison! Bolting awake, she sat up, the sheepskin cover slipping down to reveal her nakedness. Grabbing the cover, she scanned the small cave, relieved to be alone. Stretching, she tested her leg, expecting agony. The skin of her left thigh pulled taut with only a twinge of pain. She picked at the bandage, needing to see. Five claw marks scored her left thigh, but the wounds were scabbed over, free of the poison's black taint. s.h.i.+vering with relief, she stretched muscles stiff with disuse but otherwise well. Even the blisters on her left hand had healed to calluses, becoming a match for her sword hand. Naked, she touched Duncan's warrior ring, letting the ring and the small stone gargoyle dangle between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, comforted by their presence, glad to be alive.

She found her clothes folded in a neat pile next to the bedroll, her green wool cloak on top of her leather jerkin...but where were her weapons? A chill s.h.i.+vered down her spine. Attacking the pile, she ransacked the clothes, but her sword belt and axes were missing...and so was the crystal dagger. Fear sliced through her, without the dagger she had no hope of defeating the Mordant...and the absence of weapons meant she was a prisoner. But whose? And where were the others? A flood of questions a.s.saulted her.

A second fear stuck like lightning. She grabbed the leather jerkin, plunging her hand into the deepest pocket, relieved to find the amber pyramid. They'd taken all her weapons, including the dagger hidden in her boot, but perhaps her captors did not recognize magic, a definite advantage. Clutching the pyramid, she pulled on her clothes, surprised to find them washed and mended. A neatly st.i.tched patch repaired her leather pants. Why would her captors mend her clothes? Another mystery.

She tried standing, slowly easing weight onto her left leg. The leg held with only a slight twinge of pain, one less worry.

Kath searched the cave, looking for weapons, looking for clues to her captors. The narrow chamber ended in a rough rock wall, the floor worn smooth by use. A clay chamber pot sat behind a boulder, but otherwise the cave was empty, except for the chalk drawings. Horses pranced along one wall and up across the ceiling, more beautiful than any castle tapestry. Rich with color and movement, the horses ran wild and free, a vibrant celebration of life. Surely whoever made these drawings could not serve the Mordant. Perhaps there was hope.

Retreating from the dead end, she walked beneath the mural, seeking a way out. It struck her that the cave was well lit; yet there were no torches or any scent of fire. Light came from the far side of a boulder, perhaps a way out. Feeling the need for a weapon, Kath hefted a fist-sized rock, a poor subst.i.tute for steel. Sticking to the shadows, she rounded the boulder...and stared slack-jawed. Light streamed from a foot-tall crystal embedded in the floor, enough radiance to light the cave. Perhaps her captors had magic after all. Extending a hand, she slowly moved toward the crystal, surprised to feel no heat. Kath wondered if she dared touch it.

Soft footfalls came from behind. "Don't touch that."

Kath whirled to confront a middle-aged woman, dark hair framing a tattooed face. "The Painted Warriors!"

"So you know of us." The woman had a disarming smile. "I came to tend your wounds but it seems you're healed."

"Who are you? Where are we?" Kath staggered under an avalanche of questions. "Where are my friends? My weapons?" She stared at the blue tattoos, a raven etched on the woman's face, giving her an eldritch look. "How did you find us?"

She laughed, a light-hearted sound. "So many questions." Flicking her dark hair behind her ears, she settled gracefully to the floor and sat cross-legged, holding a stoppered jug in her lap. "Sit, Kath of Castlegard, and I'll do my best to answer your questions."

"You know my name?"

Another laugh. "The tall blond knight, Sir Blaine, is a plague of questions, always pestering the healers for word of you."

"Then Blaine is safe." Relief washed through her. "But what of the others? Is Danya awake? And what about the monk? And Duncan..." A cold fist gripped her heart.

"Will you not sit and join me?"

Kath bridled her questions and sank to the earthen floor, studying the raven-faced woman. Except for the elaborate tattoos, she seemed ordinary enough, clad in a sheepskin jerkin with leather pants tucked into knee-high boots. But it was the dagger sheathed at the woman's belt that caught Kath's attention. Her voice dropped to a steely whisper. "Am I a prisoner?"

The woman sighed. "Will you give me a chance to explain?"

Kath nodded, hiding the rock in her fist, unsure if it was needed.

"My name is Thera, a healer, a mother of three, and a follower of the Raven." She set the clay jug aside. "And you are lucky to have escaped the poison of the gore hounds."

"Gore hounds?"

"Aye, for that is their true name. Abominations created by the Mordant, made with the darkest magic." The healer's voice dropped to a whisper. "It is said that the souls of men are bound within the hounds, the reason they hunt with unnatural cunning and ferocity."

Kath reeled backwards, remembering the uncanny attack, stunned by the horror behind the woman's words. "Valin's sword." Shuddering, she made the hand sign against evil, dispelling the nightmare. "But how did you find us?"

"The ravens. Their dark wings blackened the sky, too many to merely be a trap."

"A trap?"

"We value steel but cannot make it, for the Ghost Hills provide no iron ore. So our men follow the ravens, scavenging the battlefields of the steppes. Such a huge cloud of ravens signaled a rich find of steel, a tempting prize." Her voice hardened. "But the soldiers of the Mordant know of our need. Sometimes they butcher a few slaves to draw the ravens, setting a trap for our men." The healer looked away. "My husband died in just such a trap."

"My sorrow for your loss." Kath considered what she'd learned. "So if we'd stayed at the battlefield, your men would have found us?"

"The Mordant's men got there first."

Kath's heart froze.

The healer flashed a triumphant smile. "But this time it was our men who closed the trap. Numbers always win in the steppes."

For a heartbeat, the raven's fierceness dominated the woman's features, blue feathers and a sharp beak accenting the wild gleam in her dark eyes. Kath half expected the woman to sprout wings and caw. "Why does a healer wear the tattoos of a raven?"

"Ravens know death." She c.o.c.ked her head like a bird. "Know your enemy in order to defeat him."

And these people know the Mordant, living in his very shadow. Fierce warriors, they could be the very allies she needed. Kath leaned forward, anxious to learn more, but the healer forestalled her with a question. "How do you know of my people?"

"I grew up in Castlegard, listening to tales of the north. The knights tell stories that are almost legends, about an elusive people who tattoo their faces with images of animals and dare to ambush the Mordant's forces."

"So, we are little more than legends to you?" The healer's voice held a bitter edge.

Surprised by the bitterness, Kath sought to repair the damage. "I met a Painted Warrior once, in the courtyard of Castlegard." She remembered the morning when a patrol of knights clattered into the castle's inner courtyard, two years and a lifetime ago. "Tattooed like a mountain lion, he wore a s.h.i.+rt of soft white leather embroidered with small blue flowers."

The healer gasped, her face turning ghost-pale.

Kath studied the woman, trying to read the emotions swirling beneath the blue tattoos.

The healer fondled a beaded leather bracelet on her left wrist, avoiding Kath's stare. "The mountain lion is rare among our people."

"And the blue flowers?"

"Maiden's Tears." Her voice was distracted, her gaze fixed on the bracelet. "It is said that Maiden's Tears only bloom on the graves of heroes."

Kath sat statue-still, watching the healer, trying to avoid pitfalls in a conversation she did not understand.

The healer glanced at Kath, dark eyes framed by raven's feathers. "What happened to this man of the mountain lions?" Her was voice deceptively calm, a subtle warning.

Kath hesitated, feeling as if she stood on the edge of a cliff...but the woman deserved an answer. "He died..."

"Stop!" The healer's hand flew to Kath's lips. "Do not speak of it!" The raven glared fierce from the woman's face. "The truth of such a death must first be told in the Great Hall, for all to hear and learn and remember."

Kath nodded, wondering why one man could matter so much.

"Promise that you will not speak of it until the appointed time."

"If you wish."

"Swear it." The words were flung like daggers.

Kath did not understand, but she nodded, her voice solemn. "I so swear."

"Good." The healer raked a hand through her long hair, her face a mixture of grief and worry, her voice cold. "Come, I will take you to your friends." She rose to her feet, turning her back on Kath.

Trying to bridge the sudden chasm, Kath gripped the healer's arm. "I did not mean to offend."

"No offense was taken." But her tone remained cold.

"Are my friends well?"

The healer hesitated. "The girl is awake but heart-sore, eating little and saying less. The old man," Thera shook her head, "the poison of the gore hounds is slow to act but terrible in its vengeance. With the loss of an arm," she shrugged, "it remains to be seen if the old man will defeat the poison."

"He must survive." The words hissed out of Kath.

"We do our best, but his life depends on the G.o.ds."

Thera turned to go, but Kath had one more question. "My weapons?"