Silk And Steel: The Skeleton King Part 20

A m.u.f.fled cheer rose from the far side.

Brock's voice bellowed over the others. "Then get your lazy a.s.ses back on this side before more rocks fall."

Duncan looked at Bruce. "Sound advice. You go first."

Trembling, Bruce nodded and then scrambled up the rock-fall to the hole. Duncan retrieved the torch, knowing that Grack would punish them if it was lost.

Rocks s.h.i.+fted under Bruce's weight, a few stones clattering to the tunnel floor, but the hole remained open. Duncan followed, worming his way back, rocks sc.r.a.ping against his bare skin. Hands reached for him, pulling him from the rock's embrace. The others gathered around, pounding Bruce and Duncan on the back, talking all at once, celebrating a victory over the grave. Only Brock and Clovis stood apart.

Duncan looked at Clovis. "Trell?"

The older man shook his head. "He died before we could get him out."

Duncan frowned, another life claimed by the mine, another victory for the Mordant.

Brock gripped his arm. "Bruce nearly died as well, buried alive. A terrible way to die." The big man shuddered. "You were right, cat-man."

Duncan nodded. "You see what men can do when they work together."

Bitterness flooded the big man's voice. "Yeah, we can live to die another day. We're all fodder for the mine."

"Maybe not."

A spark of interest lit the big man's eyes. "You have a plan, cat-man?"

The deafening clang of the bucket-chain rattled to a stop. The sudden silence signaled an end to their time in the depths.

A cheer rose from the men, they'd survived another day in h.e.l.l, rescuing one of their own from death's embrace.

Duncan nodded at Brock. "We'll talk later."

The men moved along the gallery to the central shaft, but instead of shuffling with weary defeat, they walked with purpose, even pride. Duncan noticed the change. Perhaps the cave-in was a G.o.dsend. Tonight might be his best chance to convince them to fight.

25.

The Mordant Splendor was the decree of the day. The Mordant abandoned subtlety for the trappings of power, choosing the garb of a warrior king. A gleaming gold breastplate inscribed with a pentacle, black leather pants tucked into knee-high boots, and upon his head he wore an iron circlet studded with black diamonds, a king come to claim his throne.

A dozen guards scrambled to open the ma.s.sive bronze doors.

A gong sounded, a deep-throated voice announcing his presence.

Thousands of supplicants fell prostrate, their faces pressed to the cold stone floor.

The Mordant crossed the narthex, boot heels ringing on polished marble. He stood on the threshold, backlit by the fading sunset.

Intimidation wrought into stone, the Basilica of the Dark Citadel proclaimed a thousand years of dominance. Vast enough to foster echoes, the cavernous hall wielded proportion like a war hammer. Ma.s.sive pillars lined the nave, supporting a vaulted ceiling shrouded in darkness. Slender rays of sunlight speared the upper dome, but they quickly faded, consumed by the gloom. Ma.s.sive candles sculpted like malformed faces provided the light, weeping waterfalls of wax tears. Mosaics glorified his past lifetimes, every detail designed to enhance his power. Built of dusky-colored stone, the Basilica portrayed all the subtle shades of Darkness from smoky-gray granites and dark-green marbles to the true black of onyx. Gold provided the only relief, a crus.h.i.+ng display of wealth paving the steps to the throne. And upon the glittering dais, exulted above all else, sat the Ebony Throne. Carved from the heartwood of a giant tree, the ma.s.sive throne was jet-black with rich swirls of green in the ebony grain, a wealth of rare wood, a triumph of Darkness over nature...and all of it, his to use, his to command.

The Mordant strode down the long aisle, his black cape flaring behind, the Staff of Pain clicking on the marble paving. Beneath his stride, he walked on names. History was written on the Basilica's floors. Names of battlefields won, cities plundered, towns burned, and villages raped. Most were long forgotten, missing from present-day maps, but in the Mordant's citadel they remained etched in stone, eternally trod beneath his boot heel.

Dark glory echoed from every aspect of the Basilica. The Mordant breathed deep, imbibing the heady rush of unrestrained power. Virile with stolen youth, he traversed the immense nave. His boot steps echoed on marble, the only sound in the vaulted hush. His stare feasted on the sea of prostrate subjects, as if the path to the throne was paved in mortal souls. Reaching the dais, he mounted the steps, a fortune of gold beneath his boots. His black cape swirled as he turned to survey the long hall. Thousands of subjects remained p.r.o.ne, covering the stone floor like a living tapestry. Not a single man dared to lift his head. The Mordant smiled, fear was such a beautiful thing.

He took a seat on the Ebony Throne, regal in black and gold.

The voice of the gong rumbled like thunder.

Thousands rose to their feet, a shuffle of humanity, all bowing toward his throne. Familiar faces stood the closest, the high priests and the generals, dressed in their finest, come to pay homage to his reign. He gave them a paternal smile, and then he began to speak.

"The Mordant has returned!" A trick of the architecture allowed his voice to boom through the Basilica. "The time of waiting is over. I have come to take up the Dark Lord's sword, to bring the destiny of a thousand years to fulfillment. A new age of Darkness yearns to be born. Like all births, it will be drenched in blood, the blood of the southern kingdoms, for we are the Masters of War." Cheers rose from the crowd but he quelled them with a raised hand. "The Basilica bears the proof of our prowess. Triumphs of the past surround us. Melted crowns gild the steps of our dais. Names of the vanquished are trod beneath our boot heels. Nothing in history has ever stopped the Dark Lord, and nothing will stop us now."

"Victory!" A single shout rose from the base of the dais. The crowd took up the chant. "Victory! Victory!" A rolling thunder echoed through the dark vault.

The Mordant eased back against the throne, basking in their adoration, more proof of his power. After a time, he raised his hand to still the crowd. When silence returned, he nodded to his High Priest.

Gavis climbed halfway up the dais, resplendent in robes of the blackest silk trimmed with runes of gold. "My Lord, shall we begin?"

The Mordant gestured with a flick of his hand.

Gavis snapped opened a scroll and began to read the list of names. His baritone voice summoned two hundred of the most powerful men in the citadel to swear allegiance to their G.o.d-king, a public display of fealty.

General Haith came first. Resplendent in burnished armor, the old soldier bowed low. Drawing his sword, he extended the gilded hilt toward the Mordant. He climbed the dais and he knelt to make his offering. "My sword is yours to command."

The Mordant touched the hilt in acceptance.

The general sheathed his sword and completed the oath of loyalty. "As the Dark Lord is my witness, I swear to serve my lord, the Mordant, to obey his every command, to crush his enemies, to extend his reign, to live or die for him." Falling prostrate to the golden steps, he kissed the Mordant's boot, the ultimate act of submission.

Pleased with the display, the Mordant smiled. "Your fealty is accepted. Serve well and live long."

The general retreated while other powerful men came forward to make their pledge. One at a time, they climbed the golden steps and knelt before the Mordant, swearing the oath of fealty. Generals, bishops, stewards, and a.s.sa.s.sins, they all abased themselves before the power of the Ebony Throne.

The Mordant watched them come, his face set in a benevolent mask, his malevolence hidden behind a cloak of stolen youth. He studied each soul, marking their names, gauging their worth while enjoying their abas.e.m.e.nt. He accepted them all, even the ones who carried the scent of treachery...until a certain bishop dared to climb the dais. Fat with easy living, Bishop Tynes huffed up the stairs, his multiple chins quivering with each step. Dropping to his knees, he pressed his hands together in prayerful wors.h.i.+p, intoning the words of ritual. "As the Dark Lor..."

"Bishop Tynes."

The bishop stuttered to a stop, confusion beaming from his moon shaped face. "Yes, Lord?"

The Mordant smiled, the corpulent bishop would make a fine example. "I received your gift of brandy."

The bishop gaped liked a fish pulled from water but the sweat on his forehead ruined his performance. "Brandy, Lord? I know nothing of any gift."

"A cup of death brought by a priest in your service." The Mordant despised bad liars but he kept his voice soft and paternal. "Surely you will not lie to your Lord?"

The fat prelate shook his head; his jowls quaking like a stormy sea. "I don't know what you mean."

"Did you think I wouldn't know?"

The bishop stared, wide-eyed, his face flushed with fear.

"The truth was written on Fenthane's soul." Leaning forward, he prodded the bishop's belly with the b.u.t.t of his staff. "Confess your sins."

Screaming, the bishop scuttled back down the golden steps, cowering at the foot of the dais like a crab looking for a rock to hide under. "I only obeyed! It wasn't my idea!" His voice twisted to a screech. "I've done nothing but serve the Pentacle." His stare raced around the Basilica but whatever support he sought did not come forward.

The Mordant called the Darkness. "Look at me."

Huddled at the base of the dais, the bishop raised a tentative stare.

"Treachery can be transformed...but never stupidity."

The bishop whimpered and tried to look away but his gaze was already caught. The Mordant plunged into his soul, plucking details from the fat prelate's mind. The trail of names led all the way to the way to the royal palace, so predictable, so disappointing. In all the years he'd ruled the Ebony Throne, the conspirators never thought to send an honest man against him. Finished, the Mordant withdrew, burying his powers beneath a mask of youth.

Released, the bishop crumpled to the marble floor, gasping like a hollow reed.

Sitting back in the throne, the Mordant studied the powerful men cl.u.s.tered around the dais, making note of those who trembled and those who hid their guilt well. He decided to let them stew in their fear; one example should be enough. Pounding his iron staff against the golden dais, he made his voice a command. "For committing treason against the Lord of the Ebony Throne, Bishop Tynes is hereby stripped of his robes and his priestly duties. Expelled from the citadel, he is condemned to spend the rest of his life in the Pit, chained to a slave in the iron mine till his soul departs from his body."

"Nooooo!"

"Let my will be done."

The gong sounded, a deep thunder sealing the Mordant's command.

General Haith gestured and a pair of bare-chested Taals pushed their way to the foot of the dais. Over eight-foot tall and muscle-bound, the ogre-like Taals bowed to the Mordant and then stepped to either side of the condemned bishop. Hands the size of shovels gripped the prelate's robe. Silk ripped down the center, sundering the robe in two. The bishop fell back on his rump, dumped like a lamb from the womb, naked except for a silk loincloth. Fat and quivering, he stared at the crowd, his eyes wide with horror. The Taals gave him little time to react. Lifting the fat man between them, they carried him down the long nave. The bishop writhed in their grip, screaming as his feet wind-milled a foot above the marble floor. The great doors opened. The Taals and their burden pa.s.sed from sight. The ma.s.sive doors shut with a dull thud.

Minutes pa.s.sed before the echoing screams fell silent.

An ominous hush settled over the cavernous hall.

No one moved.

No one dared meet his stare.

The Mordant smiled, a lesson well learned. He gestured toward his High Priest. "Continue."

Bowing, Gavis returned to the list of names.

The elite of the Citadel answered the summons, a newfound fear etched in their faces. Bowing low, they crept up the golden stairs, every man making a full obeisance.

The Mordant enjoyed the spectacle, watching their faces, reading their souls. So much abas.e.m.e.nt for a single death, the portly bishop was coin well spent.

Gavis was the last to take the oath. Holding his staff up in offering, the High Priest lay prostrate on the golden stairs, his words a hushed whisper, intended for the Mordant's ears alone. "Treachery can be transformed."

Amused, the Mordant stroked the beginnings of a beard. "Why waste a sharpened dagger, eh?"

Gavis lay still, his black silk robes draping the golden stairs like a shadow. "A dagger against your enemies."

The Mordant waited, drawing out the lesson. Beads of sweat glistened on the High Priest's forehead...but he did not beg, and he did not waver. The hand holding the staff remained rock-steady. This one had potential. Leaning down, the Mordant touched the staff in acceptance. "Serve well and live."

Remaining prostrate, Gavis completed the oath of fealty. "As the Dark Lord is my witness, I swear to serve my Lord, the Mordant, to obey his every command, to crush his enemies, to extend his reign, to live or die for him." He crept forward to kiss the Mordant's boot.

"No." The Mordant pulled his foot back, his words loud enough for the elite to hear. "I set my High Priest above all other men."

Gavis looked up, a glint of grat.i.tude in his dark gaze. He rose from the steps and took his place halfway down the dais, his face lined with dignity, his back stiff with pride.

The Mordant smiled, a dagger turned but not blunted.

The High Priest resumed his duties, his voice echoing through the Basilica. "The oaths of fealty have been pledged and accepted. In celebration of our Lord's return, the Mordant will hear the pet.i.tions of his people. Come forward and ask a boon from your liege."

A murmur of antic.i.p.ation swept through the crowd.

The elite of the citadel were the first to approach. Leading women veiled in colorful silks, the lordlings offered their daughters to serve as concubines. Fathers unveiled their nubile young daughters, displaying their curves like gifts before the dais. Most were comely enough, some were even stunningly beautiful, but he took them all, even the dowdy and the plain. Instead of influence the fathers gained obligation, bound to the Ebony Throne by their own ambition, desperate to see the Mordant succeed in the hopes that their grandsons might one day wield power. Each daughter gained him a willing va.s.sal, chained by blood and ambition. The Mordant chuckled, so much loyalty bought for the price of s.e.x.

When the parade of daughters ended, the rabble of the lower tiers came forward. Approaching the throne on their knees, they begged opportunities for their sons, for better wages for their craftsmen, and for more food for their tables. The lower tiers especially, begged for the largess of more bread and gruel. The Mordant played the benevolent ruler, granting a majority of requests. He'd leave it to the priesthood to renege on his promises, enforcing austerity and sacrifice, all in the name of war.

Growing weary of the petty rabble, he signaled an end to the pet.i.tioners. The hallway cleared but no one dared leave.

Gavis pounded his staff against the steps. "Summon the Sea Lords."

The Mordant sat forward, keen to renew the longstanding alliance.

The booming voice of the gong thundered a summons. The doors of the Basilica swung open. Twelve men in fish-scale armor swept in like a storm-blown gale. Their bronze armor gleamed in the torchlight, their long capes the deep blue of a bottomless sea. Tall and proud, they carried trident-tipped spears, their faces weathered by salt and sun. Marching the length of the colonnade, they strode to the foot of the golden dais and made a curt half-bow.

The Mordant kept his face still, allowing the stiff-necked sea-folk the illusion that they were more than mere va.s.sals.

One of the twelve stepped forward, his voice a deep rumble. "The Sea Lords answer the call of the Ebony Throne." The speaker was an older man, tall with streaks of gray in his long dark hair, his beard braided into a three-forked trident that reached to his waist. "MerChanter Timoth comes to renew the alliance of sea and land."

The plans of the Dark Lord required s.h.i.+ps, but the sea had never been the Mordant's domain. Many lifetimes ago he'd struck an alliance with the sea-folk, using them as mercenary va.s.sals, his wolves of the ocean. "Emissaries of the Sea Lords are ever welcome in our court."

Another man from the MerChanter's party stepped forward, laying a cloth-wrapped bundle at the foot of the dais. "A gift from the Miral of the sea."

The Mordant gestured and Gavis bent toward the bundle. The outer wrapping fell away, revealing a glitter of gold on black. The High Priest stood, holding a man's cloak trimmed in sealskin, gold discs s.h.i.+mmering along its length.

The Mordant waved him forward. Gavis climbed the steps, laying the cloak across the Mordant's knees. The truth of the cloak lay in the details. Gold coins were cunningly bound into the sealskin like a s.h.i.+mmer of scales. But every coin was different. Many were worn smooth with age while others bore a coats-of-arms or a crowned visage few would recognize, tokens of kingdoms long lost to history. The Mordant fingered the cloak. None save a harlequin of many lifetimes would know the true age such coins. "A most fitting gift." A smile graced his face. "The cloak of an eternal conqueror."

The MerChanter grinned, a flash of gold in his teeth. "You see the truth of it."

He gestured to Gavis and to General Haith. The two men climbed the dais. The Mordant stood and they removed the black wool cloak, settling the cloak of many coins across his shoulders. He liked the weight of it. The cloak felt like destiny, the solid tug of inevitability. "We are pleased with your gift."

The MerChanter nodded. "Then the Miral will be pleased."

"But you have come for more than ceremony."

"Aye." The MerChanter tugged on his beard, his face stern. "Long have we hunted distant sh.o.r.es as per our accord with the Ebony Throne. But the sudden crossing of the great ocean has taken its t.i.the. The holds of our longs.h.i.+ps are empty. Our rowers grow hungry for meat and mead."

The Mordant nodded. "Your holds shall be filled and a feast laid for your people." It was part of their longstanding bargain, safe harbor below the Dark Citadel and stores to fill the holds of their s.h.i.+ps.