Silk And Steel: The Skeleton King Part 3

His eyes widened. "But I thought?"

"We're north of the Dragon Spines."

He held her stare.

Kath struggled to explain. "Everything's changed. I've lost my home, forced to escape Castlegard, forced to flee from my own father. I've slain knights of the Octagon, traitors to be sure, but I never thought to slay a knight. Sir Tyrone is dead and my brother murdered. And now we follow the path of death, chasing the Mordant into the north." She struggled to find the right words. "We've crossed the Dragon Spines, pa.s.sing into nightmares. Whatever happens, whatever lies ahead...I can't lose you too."

His fingers caressed her face, his voice full of rea.s.surance. "You'll never lose me."

"It's more than that. In Cragnoth Keep I faced death without ever having tasted love." She met his mismatched stare, willing him to believe. "I need you...all of you."

His breath caught. "As my wife?"

She felt his heartbeat racing beneath his leathers, and knew her own raced at the same breakneck pace. Kath dared to follow her heart. "Yes."

He lifted her into his arms, kissing her with the ardent promise of more.

Horses clattered into the glade, the sound of voices emerging from the trees.

They pulled apart, a quick distance that was suddenly painful.

Duncan sent her a fervent whisper, "Tonight, beneath the trees, while the others sleep."

Nodding, Kath felt her face flame red, her loins liquid with need. She turned away, busying herself with her horse's tack, hoping the others did not notice. Her hands shook as she worked the buckles. A part of her could not believe her own audacity...but another part, her heart, soared at the thought of finally knowing Duncan. She clung to his words, repeating them like a prayer. Tonight...beneath the trees...while the others sleep. Kath stared at the sky, willing the moon to rise.

3.

The Mordant The Darkflamme flew overhead, snaking against a steel-gray sky, twelve feet of black silk ending in two silken tails of bright red flecked with gold. The forked banner snapped like a serpent's tongue, creating the illusion of darkness on fire, a threat of terror to the Mordant's foes, a promise of victory to his legions. Unfurled above the gathering host, the battle banner announced his return, the na-Mordant, the ruler of the Dark Citadel, the claimant to the Ebony Throne.

Like the useless skin of a molting snake, the Mordant shed the maroon cloak and silver surcoat of the enemy. Clad in his true colors, black adorned with gold, he chose the trappings of a soldier over the robes of a priest, sending a message to his followers. Black gauntlets, a black cuira.s.s emblazoned with a gold pentacle, black leather pants tucked into knee-high boots, and a sweeping cape of the finest black wool, but he kept his head bare, awaiting a crown.

Riding at the head of the gathering host, he held the dusky stallion to slow trot, turning the journey north into a stately progress, a monarch surveying his domain. Word of his return raced ahead, spread by mounted couriers, carrier pigeons, and rampant rumors. With every pa.s.sing league, the Mordant's entourage grew. Officers, soldiers, and priests, dispatched from every unit and outpost of his army, they flocked to his standard. Some came to bear witness; others came to enjoy the spectacle, but most came to curry favor, to gain a place in the new court of a dictator-king.

He welcomed them all with an open smile, keeping the weight of his years hidden, his glorious darkness buried deep beneath the facade of a young monk's face. His youthful countenance served him well. Cloaked in the illusion of inexperience, his appearance emboldened his entourage, inviting advice, and boasts, and whispered secrets. Only the graybeards remembered, hanging back, wary with their words, a glint of fear in their eyes. The Mordant listened and watched, hiding his amus.e.m.e.nt, studying his subjects.

The bold and the ambitious competed for his time, jostling to ride next to him. The Mordant spent his days in the saddle, listening to schemes and pet.i.tions without giving a single promise. His silence never deterred the flood of ambition...or his steady progress into the north. Crossing the gra.s.slands at a trot, they eventually reached the sprawling farmlands of his inner domain, the black soil lying fallow for winter. A song of praise erupted from the host at his back, now swelling to the size of a small army.

Each night, he held court in his pavilion, a sumptuous tent lavish with wine and sweetmeats. Beneath the billowing silk, they came before him, some to bow allegiance, others to stand stiff-kneed, reserving fealty till the Trials were complete. He accepted them all, the stubborn and the compliant, plumbing their souls, weighing their worth.

He plied his dark powers with subtlety, putting a name to each face and a value to each soul. Nearly a quarter of those who flocked to his banner were closed to him, honest men who lacked sufficient darkness in their souls. He probed the honest ones with words instead of magic, but he judged them all, each according to their worth. Most served with their swords, fodder for the coming war, but a few had value beyond the killing fields. Memorizing their names, he kept a secret tally, noting some for promotion to his personal guards, others for positions in the Citadel. But not all of the pet.i.tioners were faithful. Some harbored the seeds of treachery in their souls, mostly among the priests. Those he marked for death. Their treachery did not surprise him. After all, the Ebony Throne had sat vacant for more than thirty-two years, long enough for men to forget their fear, for treason to breed and plots to hatch. But even the traitors would serve, providing an example to others.

Growing bored with the fawning prattle, he waved them all away. A handful of priests lingered. He made his wish a command, a touch of darkness lurking in his voice. "Leave me." Finally alone, he settled into a camp chair, the charcoal braziers dispelling the night chill. Sipping a fine merlot, he studied the campfires spread across the fallow fields, knowing it was but a fraction of those who served the Ebony Throne.

Seeking amus.e.m.e.nt, he reached for the one soul who knew the truth of his Darkness. *Come, monk, attend me. I appoint you my court jester, a foil for my royal thoughts.*

But the monk did not reply, a brooding prisoner locked in the Mordant's mind.

He could have forced the monk to his will but a taste of freedom long denied often proved the cruelest torture. *Come, I give you leave to see through my eyes, to feel the brazier's warmth, to smell the soil's rich loam, to taste a full-bodied wine. Come and remember what it means to be alive.*

He felt the monk rise to the temptation, looking through his eyes, swooning over the wine's lingering taste. The d.a.m.ned were so predictable. Chuckling, he prodded the captured soul. *I've felt you brooding, monk, ever since the Gargoyle Gate. Have you finally decided to renounce your useless Lords of Light?*

*Never!*

He laughed. *A pity I cannot dress you in motley and have you caper before me, the perfect court jester.* His laughter turned to a chuckle. *But let me guess at your discomfort. You thought I would be served by rabid monsters, not mere men, and certainly not by men free of the taint of Darkness.*

A brooding silence was the only reply.

*Answer me, monk, or the taste of life will be revoked.*

*You deceive them.*

*No, they wallow in their own delusions. If there is one thing the centuries have taught me, it is that mortals are masters of self-deception, even disbelieving their own mortality. Thousands of men have died by my own hand and all of them had one thing in common. Shock always filled their faces as the dagger pierced their hearts.*

*That proves nothing.*

*Then look at the faces of those who serve me. Raised under the Pentacle, they believe their cause is just, that the Dark Citadel is the pinnacle of civilization, enduring against the threat of the barbarous south. Trapped by myths of their childhood, honest men make the most loyal soldiers.* He laughed. *Mortals are victims of their own delusions...a boon to any tyrant who has the good sense to use them.*

*No! You are the Deceiver. I won't listen. I walk in the Light. I walk in the Light.*

*See, you prove my point. You stubbornly cling to your own delusions, believing in G.o.ds who ignore you, while proof of the Dark Lord's bounty surrounds you. What will it take to break your mortal delusions?*

Footsteps approached from the dark.

The Mordant suppressed the monk, letting him share his eyes, but nothing more.

A black-robed priest crept to the edge of the brazier's light. Red hair and a pudgy face splashed with freckles, Fenthane was a minor priest serving a bishop of the border guards. So this is how they would come at him, sending the young and the unsubtle to test his skills, more proof of the potency of his youthful disguise. "Fenthane, why have you returned?"

Bowing low, the priest took mincing steps into the light. "To offer a gift from my lord bishop," he proffered an amber flask trimmed in silver. "A flask of rare Urian brandy for your pleasure."

Draining the last of the merlot, the Mordant extended his goblet. "A thoughtful gift. It has been too long since I've tasted a fine brandy."

The priest's hands shook as he uncorked the flask, filling the goblet with amber liquid.

"Why so nervous, Fenthane?"

"It is an honor to serve you, Lord."

"No doubt." The Mordant swirled the brandy and raised it to his face, inhaling the rich aroma. Autumn apples fermented to the fiery scent of alcohol, aged in oak barrels to provide a woody base, but he caught no hint of any taint. At least the poison was subtle if not the hand that delivered it. *Shall I drink, monk? It would kill this body but one of us would be reborn.*

He felt the monk tremble, hungry with hope.

Setting the cup to his lips, he watched triumph bloom in the young priest's eyes...but he did not drink. Lowering the cup, he gave the priest a charming smile. "Tell me, Fenthane, what are your dreams, your ambitions?"

"M-my dreams, Lord?"

The Mordant swept his hand toward the campfires glittering like stars against the night. "Surrounded by followers, I am constantly plagued with pet.i.tions and requests, why should I not hear yours?" He raised the goblet in salute. "Especially given your princely gift."

The young priest swallowed, his hands fumbling with the amber flask. "I long to leave the border priests, to serve in the marbled halls of the Citadel."

"An ambition as small as the man."

The priest retreated a step, his face suddenly fearful. "W-what do you mean, Lord?"

The Mordant called the Darkness, summoning the weight of his years. Darkness rushed to fill his gaze. He stared at the priest, drilling into his mind. Like a flock of starving vultures the Darkness struck, shredding the man's soul. The priest screamed. He fell to his knees, but he could not look away. The Mordant made it rape, taking what he wanted and then flooding the man's mind with visions of torture, the brutal death of a traitor. The priest whimpered a strangled sound, the smell of hot urine flooding the pavilion. Satisfied, the Mordant withdrew, burying the Darkness beneath a mask of youth.

Released, the priest crumpled to the ground, a puppet without strings. Drenched in sweat, the young man groveled at the Mordant's feet. "Forgive me, Lord! I did not know!"

Guards rushed to surround the priest, their swords drawn.

The Mordant raised his hand, forestalling bloodshed. "There is no danger, only a lesson. Sheath your swords and watch."

The guards obeyed; steel sliding into scabbards.

Making his voice soft and soothing, he nudged the priest with his booted foot. "Sit up. Let me see your face."

Sobbing, the priest obeyed, his face streaked with a river of tears.

"It is always the weak who are first sent against me."

"But they told me..."

"Shhh..." The Mordant kept his voice soothing. "There is no need for words. All the answers are written upon your soul."

The priest shuddered, a hint of hope in his gaze. "Then you'll forgive me?"

"You know what you've done...and now you must atone for your sin."

"But I did not mean to, Lord, I did not know it was truly you!"

The Mordant gestured and the priest fell silent. "I've shown you the fate of traitors."

The priest made a low whining noise, like an animal caught in a trap.

"I offer you a choice."

Choking on a sob, the young man sat back on his heels, staring up at the Mordant, his face ghost-pale. "A c-choice?"

The Mordant extended the goblet. "Drink."

The priest shrank back, his eyes wild.

"The cup or a traitor's death, yours to choose."

"Is there no other way?"

The Mordant waited.

Trembling, the priest took the goblet, his face flushed with fear.

The Mordant hid his smile, the power of fear was intoxicating to behold. "Drink it. Every drop."

The priest stared into the cup, slowly raising it to his lips. Tipping the goblet, he drained it in one long draught. Empty, the golden goblet fell from his hands. A single drop of amber liquid gleamed like a deadly jewel on the young man's lips. Shaking, the priest sat back on his heels, staring up at the Mordant, his face as pale as death.

The Mordant settled back in the chair, savoring the entertainment. "Now we'll see the true nature of your gift."

He did not have long to wait. The priest groaned, bending at the waist. Wracked with sudden convulsions, he fell to his side, writhing like a snake. Arching his back, he clawed at his throat, fingernails gouging b.l.o.o.d.y rents in the pale flesh, his mouth contorted in a rictus of pain.

Drinking in the details, the Mordant felt his manhood stiffen.

The priest flopped like a landed fish, foam flecking his lips. His eyes rolled back in his head, his back bent to an impossible angle. Uttering a final strangled gasp, he fell still, the smell of death hanging in the air.

A hush settled over the pavilion.

The Mordant studied the faces of his guards, his voice calm. "Treachery gains its just reward. Remember the lesson."

The guards saluted, fists thumping breastplates.

The Mordant nudged the corpse with his boot. "Return this to Bishop Tynes. Have the body stripped naked and staked in front of his tent, an offering to the ravens and a warning to traitors."

The guards saluted, reaching for the corpse.

"And captain," the Mordant smiled, "bring me a clean goblet and find me a woman."

The captain saluted, overseeing the removal of the corpse.

The Mordant leaned back in the chair, eager for the woman, hungry for release. Foiled treachery always sharpened his appet.i.tes. Power and youth made for such a heady combination. His hand worked the stiff ache at his loins, enjoying the vigor of a body in its prime. He had much to look forward to. Centuries of planning would finally come to fruition. This lifetime promised to be a glorious, full of retribution, deceit, and war.

A woman approached. Dark haired and dark eyed with a full and buxom figure, she was just the sort to quench his need. "Drop your robe and kneel. I have much to celebrate."

4.

Katherine Blaine's voice carried across the glade. Riding next to Danya, he regaled the dark-haired girl with tales of ancient battles. Zith rode close behind, leading the packhorse. Kath ducked behind her horse, fumbling with the saddle, her mind ablaze with thoughts of the coming night. Unable to resist, she risked a glance at Duncan.

He flashed her a secret smile. "Tonight."

Her face blazed like a sunset. Struggling for composure, she staked the stallion and rubbed him down with handfuls of gra.s.s. While the others settled their horses, she slipped downstream seeking privacy behind a bush. She longed for a proper bath, but a quick wash would have to do. Crouching by the stream, she pulled off her s.h.i.+rt, s.h.i.+vering against the biting-cold water. A small lump of amole root served as soap. Leaning forward, she peered into the water, trying to catch her reflection, but the rus.h.i.+ng stream held too many ripples. Her boots slipped and she nearly took the plunge. Regaining her balance, she laughed at herself. If she'd stayed in Castlegard her wedding night would have been so different. Scented baths, silken finery, and a sumptuous feast in the great hall...but the man waiting at the altar would never be of her choosing. Far better to wash by a stream and marry Duncan beneath the trees. Eager for the night, she finished and returned to the others.