Silk And Steel: The Skeleton King Part 24

Amused by the irony, he walked among them, studying each man with a critical eye. His brief time at Cragnoth Keep had proved fruitful. By understanding his enemies he found ways to defeat them. Stealing the garb of the knights was a small thing yet it would serve him well.

Craftsmen of the citadel mimicked his cast-off garments, transforming elite soldiers of the Pentacle into knights of the enemy. Trickery appealed to the Mordant. He'd worn many guises across many lifetimes, but the Deceiver always suited him best, the role that most profited the Dark Lord.

A swagger of footsteps followed. The Mordant turned to study Sir Raymond, another spoil of treachery. Clad in black chainmail over dark leather, the unmade knight had turned his colors, serving as a captain in the Mordant's elite guard. Cloak colors were easily changed, but it was the darkness of a man's soul that truly mattered. In Raymond's case, the truth lay exposed on his face. Stubborn eyes, a square jaw, and a nose made crooked by too many brawls...but the darkest truth was branded deep into his skin. Each cheek bore the scar of a broken octagon, marking him as an unmade knight of Castlegard. The Mordant kept him close, for the fallen knight had his part to play in the great dark design. "What do you think of my loyal knights?"

Raymond studied the men. "The silver surcoats are well done. And the maroon cloaks are near perfect."

"Near perfect?"

"Near enough. Even at Castlegard the dye is not always consistent. But it takes more than a maroon cloak to pa.s.s for a knight. Let me see how they move."

The Mordant gestured and the maroon-cloaked captain barked an order. "Search the courtyard for enemies."

Thirty knights unsheathed their weapons, a whisper of steel on leather. Moving in pairs, they patrolled the courtyard, swords held at the ready.

Raymond took the time to study each pair. "They move well enough, like men bred to their weapons, confident in their ability to kill. Elite soldiers carry a certain swagger, like lions on the prowl," he c.o.c.ked his head, "but something's not right."

Annoyed, the Mordant studied the knights, knowing the smallest imperfection could foil the ruse.

"It's their boots."

And then he saw it. Craftsmen of the Octagon used tanned leather, subtle shades of natural brown for belts, scabbards and boots, while the Pentacle used leather dyed to an unrelenting black. Their black boots betrayed them, such a small detail to ruin his dark deceit. "I ordered an exact copy. Have the quartermaster killed, and make it painful."

Sir Raymond flashed a feral grin. "I'll do it myself."

"Now call them to attention."

Orders echoed through the courtyard.

A cold wind blew out of the west, a tang of salt in the air.

The Mordant turned, his black cape billowing in the wind. Darkness rose within him, making his voice more than mortal. "First we deceive, then we divide, then we conquer." He studied the line of battle-hardened soldiers. More than a few bore scars on their faces, proof of their battle prowess. "A glorious task awaits you, for you are my knights of deception. Cragnoth Keep is held by traitors to the maroon. You'll cross the Dragon Spines at the keep and then fall on the southern kingdoms, raping and pillaging wherever you ride. Wearing the Octagon blazon, you are ordered to sate your every desire." His gaze bore into them, "your every desire." More than few men smirked hungry smiles. "Rape, torture, and murder, your every atrocity will tear at the knights' precious honor. Betrayal is the weapon that breaks men's heart and melts their resolve. Your actions will shatter the Octagon before our army ever marches south." His voice rose to a command. "Now finish your preparations and make all haste, for Darkness yearns to claim the whole of Erdhe."

The line of knights saluted, fists thumping their silver surcoats. "Honor and the Octagon!"

The Mordant laughed, his false knights would serve their purpose well. He turned, a swirl of black, and strode toward the palace. Six guards rushed to open the ma.s.sive doors. He entered the palace, embraced by heat, a haven from the bitter wind.

A black-robed bishop and two priests scurried toward him, an ambush of boredom. The sallow-faced bishop waved a thick scroll. "My lord, the citadel has need of your decisions."

The Mordant did not break stride. Bishop Siff was a sycophant of the High Priest, a mere administrator bloated with self importance. Like a terrier, he dogged the Mordant's heels, reading details from a lengthy scroll. "The longs.h.i.+ps of the Sea Lords have been provisioned as per your orders, but the grain of the city's third silo has been sorely depleted. The Quartermaster begs leave to order new s.h.i.+pments." The bishop droned like a bee in his ear. "The third ward of the first tier is rioting for more food. Two guards were killed, trampled by the rabble. Captain Lornid seeks permission to retaliate against the mob. And the blacksmiths require more iron ore if they are to meet the increased quota of swords, they..."

Anger flared through the Mordant, he'd nearly forgotten the mundane drudgery of ruling. He whirled on the bishop, his voice a cold whisper. "Enough."

The bishop froze, his mouth sagging open. Scuttling back two steps, he held the scroll aloft like an offering.

The Mordant struck the scroll, sending it skittering across the marble floor. "A flood of petty details." He snarled at the bishop. "I know what it is you do, for I have ruled longer than your petty mind can imagine." The bishop gaped like a fish out of water. The sight of the simpering fool only stoked the Mordant's anger. "Your face displeases me. In the future, Lord Gavis will make the reports himself. Let the priesthood drowned in the details of the mundane," his voice dripped with menace, "for that is your true purpose." He turned, a whirl of black, his boot heels ringing on the marble hallways.

A slow anger burned in the Mordant; perhaps he'd been too lenient with the priesthood. Perhaps more examples needed to be made.

"My lord, a word." A man's voice echoed from a side hallway. General Haith approached, a glitter of gold on black.

The Mordant slowed his steps, annoyance buried beneath a mask of calm.

The general matched his stride, a parchment clutched in his left fist. "I've just received a dispatch from the fourth border squad. There's been a battle in the steppes."

The Mordant came to a sudden stop. "A battle?"

"Our scouts detected an immense flock of ravens, a sure sign of a battle. When they reached the site, they found more than a hundred dead. All the dead bore the tattoos of the citadel."

"Where?"

"Deep in the steppes. Three days ride beyond the third gargoyle gate."

He'd entered the north through the third gate, perhaps there was more to this than met the eye. "And the enemy?"

"Most of the bodies were trampled to gore, leaving little to identify. But scouts report the battlefield was stripped of steel and leather, every dead horse butchered for meat. Only one enemy scavenges the steppes like that. The painted slaves have grown bold in your absence."

The Mordant resumed walking. "Bold indeed. Any signs of movement from the Octagon?"

"None reported." The general matched his stride, a shadow at his left shoulder. "My lord, it is well known that the painted men hide within the Ghost Hills. Riddled with caves, the hills are a haven for runaway slaves and other vermin." He clasped the hilt of his sword. "Lord, give the order. Let me eliminate this thorn from your side."

"How much threat is a thorn?"

"But the slaughter of a hundred soldiers cannot be ignored?"

"Butcher them in the steppes, but leave the Ghost Hills alone."

The general persisted. "But why? A troop of soldiers could easily rout the hills, putting an end to..."

The Mordant turned on his general, his words like a lash. "You exist to serve, not to question." General Haith retreated a step, his face pale. The Mordant bridled his anger; knowing the general had his uses. "For the sake of past loyalties, I will explain just this once. The Octagon knights cower behind their walls, rarely seeking battle, but the painted men dare the steppes, offering a skirmish to our soldiers. The escaped slaves keep our soldiers sharp between wars." He leaned toward the general. "Every army needs a whetstone."

Understanding dawned on the general's face. "A whetstone, not a true threat, and so you allow them to survive for as long as they serve."

"Serve to live, the eternal lesson of the citadel." The Mordant resumed walking, his black cape flaring at his back. "The painted people are nothing more than a thorn, easily trod beneath our boot heel. Our true foes lie in the south. In this lifetime, old scores will be settled." The Mordant smiled. "Summon my battle commanders. It is time the Pentacle prepared for war."

30.

Duncan A loud clang came from the trapdoor above. Duncan watched the others wake, trying to gauge their resolve. A few gave him confident nods as they shuffled into place, but too many looked away, their heads bowed, their hands shaking. Duncan tried to meet their stares, to bolster their courage, but it was too late for words.

The trapdoor clanged open and Grack descended the ladder. "On your feet, maggots!" Awkward with just one hand, the big Taal lurched down the rungs, but once he reached the bottom his awkwardness vanished, replaced by a cruel menace. Prowling the chamber, he twirled his spiked mace. "Time to earn your gruel, maggots. Serve to live!"

The bucket boys doled out the morning slop, a sour mash of oats and barley mixed with something foul that Duncan did not have a name for. Starving like the others, he gulped his portion down despite the taste.

An odd choking sound filled the chamber. Gren bent double, spewing his meal onto the floor.

Grack was on him in a heartbeat. "Not good enough for you, maggot?" His ma.s.sive fist lashed out, smas.h.i.+ng the dwarf to his knees. Grasping the small man by his hair, Grack pressed Gren's face into the stinking vomit. "Lap it up, maggot. For you'll get no more."

Gren squirmed, desperate to breathe.

Across the chamber, Brock's stare drilled into Duncan. His fists flexed, poised to fight, a burning question in his gaze.

Duncan shook his head no, willing Brock to stand down. They had to wait, or they'd all die for nothing.

Grack kicked Gren, a vicious blow to the ribs, but the small man just moaned, curling into a ball. Grack soon lost interest, his voice a snarl. "Get him on his feet!"

Seth and Clovis rushed to help. Gren tottered on shaking legs, bruises blooming on his face.

A sour smell hung in the chamber...the rancid reek of fear.

Grack scowled, "Into the hole, maggots. The Mordant needs his iron ore."

They lined up and shuffled towards the door. Duncan's stare circled the chamber, willing the others to remain calm. A handful met his gaze, Brock, Clovis, Thomas and Seth, but too many of the others looked skittish. Pale and shaken, fear etched their face, yet none of them talked. Perhaps Grack's cruelty had pushed them to silence. Either way, Duncan was relieved when he finally reached the ladder. He swung out and followed the others down, careful to avoid the missing rungs.

Strung out in a line, they descended into the mine.

And then the screaming started.

A piteous wail came from above.

Twisted by distance, the wail held no words...only fear.

Duncan clung to the ladder, trying to protect his head, expecting a body to come tumbling from above...but the corpse never fell. Silence followed the screams, leaving a mystery hanging in the stale air.

From below, Brock bellowed, "What's happening?" but no one answered.

Duncan yelled, "Keep moving!"

Someone whimpered, but they started moving again, shuffling down the ladder. No one spoke, but the pace increased, as if they all yearned to stand on solid ground. Duncan finally reached the bottom and found the others milling in the central shaft, a mixture of confusion and fear on their faces. Duncan took a risk and singled out Gren. "Do you still want to fight?"

The others stilled, their stares spearing the dwarf.

Bruised and battered, Gren met Duncan's stare, a glint of anger riding his eyes. "I want to kill the b.l.o.o.d.y Taal."

Duncan nodded. "And so you shall." He looked at the others. "It's easy to die in the mines. That's why we need to fight, but not until the appointed hour. First we work to meet the quota, then we eat...then we fight."

A few flashed wolfish grins.

Duncan said, "Now get to work. We need to make the quota so Grack doesn't suspect."

Stragglers descended the ladder.

Duncan longed to question them, but instead he turned for the gallery, needing to set an example. Pa.s.sing close to Clovis, he whispered, "Find out what happened." Without pause, he strode down the gallery to an empty tunnel. Kneeling, he crawled to the ore face, taking up the hammer and spike.

Iron pounded against stone in a relentless heartbeat. Duncan drove the wedge deep, wondering if they'd been betrayed. Shackles on his wrists clanged with each stroke, echoing his rage. Swing and strike, he attacked the ore-face, releasing a shower of blood-red rock. Coughing on the dust, he studied the rock-face, desperate for a trickle of water, for a chance to slake his thrust, but the rock did not oblige. Unwilling to weep, the dark-cursed rock proved as cruel as the G.o.ds.

Behind him, wood sc.r.a.ped against rock. Clovis pulled the empty sledge toward the ore-face. Duncan leaned on the hammer, taking the weight off his knees. "Who was it?"

Despite the dim darkness, Duncan saw a flicker of fear in the older man's eyes. "Bruce."

Bruce, the name ambushed Duncan with a spike of fear.

"Seth was the last man down. He claimed Bruce balked at the ladder, refusing the climb."

"Did Seth see what happened?"

Clovis shook his head. "Seth scrambled down the ladder, keen to get beyond Grack's reach." A racking cough shook the older man. When it finally subsided, he wiped his sleeve across his mouth. "Bruce was unmanned by the cave-in. I've seen it before. A cave-in preys on a man's mind till he can't take another day in the depths. Choked on madness, such men seek other deaths."

"But did he seek death or something darker?"

Clovis stared, "You saved his life. Bruce wouldn't..."

A cold anger burned in Duncan. "And now he seeks to save his own skin." He tossed lumps of ore into the sledge. "If Bruce sought death he could have waited another day."

Clovis had no answer.

"If he turned traitor, then death lies in wait for us all." His hands balled into fists. "I'd rather die fighting than go meekly to the executioner's axe."

Clovis gave him a wistful smile. "I'd like to see the sky again."

"And what about your gift of prophesy, your second sight? Will we succeed?"

The older man's face clouded. "Dreams are often fickle, full of fears and wishes instead of prophecy."

Clovis turned away but Duncan sensed something troubled him. "What did you see?"

Sighing, Clovis tugged on his beard. "Since you've come, I've seen many things in my dreams, fighting, blood, and pain. But last night I saw something different. Light streamed from a boulder, reflected in the faces of the people."

Duncan barked a laugh. "Light from a boulder?" He should have known not to ask. Prophecies never made sense. "Did you see the sky in this vision?"

"The sky?" A slow smile spread across the older man's face. "I stood beneath a blue sky and it was beautiful."

"A blue sky, I'll take it as an omen of victory." He gripped his friend's arm. "We rise tonight and d.a.m.n the traitor." He dropped the hammer, keeping the iron wedge, a crude weapon but better than nothing. "Come, we have plans to discuss." They crawled back to the gallery and then entered the fifth tunnel. Brock worked the ore-face, sweat glistening on his broad back. Stilling the hammer in mid-swing, he turned to stare at Duncan. "Cat-man."

Duncan nodded. "You've heard about Bruce?"

The big man hawked and spat. "Either a b.l.o.o.d.y corpse or a filthy traitor."

"Aye, that's the question. But either way, I say we fight."

"You said we needed surprise to win."

"Just so."