Silk And Steel: The Skeleton King Part 30

Memories s.h.i.+vered within Kath. Her voice dropped to a hushed whisper. "Only a p.a.w.n can become a queen."

The old woman chuckled. "A p.a.w.n is the least expected piece. Easily overlooked, it slips past the other players, strength hidden beneath weakness, an irony of the G.o.ds." Another handful of herbs ignited in the fire. "But who taught you the purpose of the crystal blade?"

Kath hesitated, but she saw no reason not to answer. "The Kiralynn monks."

"The Eye in the Hand."

She nodded, surprised by the old woman's knowledge.

"Long have they remained hidden...since the time of the sundering."

Dizzy from the strange blue smoke, Kath shook her head, trying to think. "The sundering of the world?"

"No, the sundering of civilization, broken by the War of Wizards, when magic was lost and women became chattel."

Kath held her breath. "How old are you?"

"My memories are beyond age." The old woman fingered the crystal dagger, her expression hidden by a ma.s.s of wrinkles. "My great granddaughter tells me that you met a lost son of the painted people, one who wore the face of a mountain lion."

A mountain lion again, Kath tried to concentrate. "Yes, in Castlegard, over two years ago."

Dark eyes stared back at her like fathomless wells. "It seems many destinies are entwined in you." The old woman hefted the crystal dagger. "The G.o.ds make their choices known." Leaning forward, she held the dagger over the flames, extending the hilt toward Kath. "Use it well."

Kath reached for the dagger...but the old woman held on. Bathed in smoke and the heat of the flames, their stares locked across the fire, their hands joined by the dagger. Light leaped along the crystal, creating a bridge of magic. Kath felt a relentless pull in the depths of her soul. She fell into the old one's stare, plummeting through the ages, tossed and turned by thousand questions; Who are you? Will you be true? Why are you here? Questions beat against her mind like the wings of ravens...till a single word was spoken. Remember! Like the pure note of a gong, the command s.h.i.+vered through her mind. Kath gasped, feeling as if a forgotten doorway suddenly burst open.

The old woman released the dagger.

Kath rocked backwards, clutching the blade. Coughing on a lungful of smoke, she shook her head, a tumult of thoughts. "I don't understand."

"A consequence of youth."

Anger pulsed through Kath. "Will you help us against the Mordant?"

"Help is here...if you know where to look." The fire snapped and crackled, sending curls of blue smoke wafting to the ceiling. "Mother Earth has the longest memories. In such a place, it is difficult to lie...even to yourself." She smiled, a ma.s.s of wrinkles, amus.e.m.e.nt glinting in her dark eyes. "Memories of the past, visions of the future, the Womb of the World holds them all, waiting to be born. Breathe deep and open the doors of your mind." The old one leaned toward the blaze, gently fanning the smoke toward Kath.

A cloud of blue wafted her way. Kath coughed, but the coughing only made her swallow more. Smoke surrounded her. The domed chamber seemed to spin. A distant chime sounded...and then her mind exploded in visions. She knew things she never could have known. Images of the past, of that s.h.i.+ning time before the War of Wizards, when knowledge and honor held sway. She wore a sword belted to her side, and on her s.h.i.+eld, an eight-pointed star. A Star Knight! The great sword felt right in her hands, as if it was meant to be. But all too soon, the scene s.h.i.+fted and she saw the Star Tower betrayed, the knights murdered in their sleep, the tower desecrated, the great library burnt...even the stones were pulled down, as if the dark ones sought to destroy the very memory of the Star Knights. But a few who lived remembered. In the darkest of times, the s.h.i.+eld was re-drawn. Lines connected the eight points of the star...to create an Octagon! The symbol blazed in her mind...but then the world was spinning, and she knew time skipped forward, leaping by centuries. She saw her father, King Ursus, standing on a rampart, his blue sword drawn for battle. The scene s.h.i.+fted and she glimpsed his foe. Her soul quailed, shaken by the mult.i.tude. A sea of enemies stretched to the horizon, as if the very gates of h.e.l.l had disgorged all the armies of the past. And above the vast horde flew the Darkflamme, the war banner of the Mordant. She quailed at the sight, fearing for the Octagon. Once more, the scene s.h.i.+fted, this time to a cavern deep in the earth, red stalact.i.tes dripping like blood from the ceiling. A foul taste filled her mouth, reeking of evil. She wanted to flee but there was something here she needed to see. Beneath the stalact.i.tes, Darkness clutched a man, chained to the symbol of the pentagram like a dark offering...and then she saw his face...Duncan!

"No!" Kath stood, the crystal dagger clutched in her fist, poised to strike. Reality returned in a rush. She lurched forward, gasping for breath. Seeking an anchor, her stare roamed the chamber, from the dark to the light, coming to rest on the old woman's face. "What did I see?"

"In the Womb of the World...old souls are gifted with images of the past." Dark eyes glittered beneath the mound of sheepskins.

"It wasn't just the past."

Her face was hard to read, a ma.s.s of wrinkles, a muddle of blue tattoos, but her voice held no surprise. "Tell me."

Kath explained about the dark horde...and about the man trapped in a cavern of weeping stone...but she did not yield his name.

"Mother Earth knows of this cavern, a place of the foulest magic...it lies at the heart of the Mordant's kingdom...beneath the Dark Citadel."

Kath shuddered. "But is it the future? Or can it be changed?"

"Nothing is written in stone. Every one has the chance to write his own destiny. And a rare few have the chance to change the course of the world."

Kath gripped the crystal dagger. "Then I have the chance to change my vision?"

"Perhaps." The old woman nodded. "Or perhaps you are given a choice, to take the crystal blade south to the Octagon or to go north to the Dark Citadel."

Kath shuddered, the taste of ashes in her mouth.

The old woman stirred beneath her sheepskins. "There is a thing you should know. Our scouts keep watch on the Mordant's domain. The Dark Citadel prepares for war."

"The horde of my dream."

The old woman nodded. "Your dreams are powerful, they rush to be born." She clapped her hands and a man stepped from a side pa.s.sage. Tall and brawny, clad in pale white leathers, he bore a snarling mountain lion on his face. He nodded to the old woman and then gathered her into his arms, carrying her as easily as a small child.

Cradled in sheepskins, the Old One lost none of her dignity. "Come, child, the painted people are already gathered. It is time to hear the truth of my great grandson." She gave Kath a piercing stare. "Time for destinies to collide."

36.

The Knight Marshal A horn sounded in the courtyard, a trill of notes full of triumph.

The marshal strode to the battlement and gazed down into the muddy courtyard.

Thirty knights galloped into the yard, maroon battle banners fluttering from lances, arms and armor gleaming in the sunlight. They rode with their heads held high, as if fresh from victory.

King Ursus joined him at the battlement. "Ulrich returns from Cragnoth Keep."

The marshal saw that the king had the truth of it. The lead rider had the same bearish build, golden hair beneath a burnished half helm, a blue sword strapped to his back. Perhaps the prince was just the tonic the king needed.

Turning from the battlement, the king called for his squire. "Baldwin, summon the other captains. I'll meet the prince in my council chambers."

A lanky red-haired lad snapped a salute and then sped away.

The king strode the length of the battlement, the marshal at his side. They reached the drum tower and clattered down the stairs. A pair of guards saluted as they entered the king's chambers.

"Ulrich's return can only mean one thing." The king stood in front of the cold hearth. Ever the warrior, the hilt of his great blue sword loomed over his right shoulder, the monk's crystal glinting in the pommel. "The Mordant must have struck at Cragnoth Keep, hoping to claim treachery's wages. Rebuffed at the Crag he'll soon come calling at Raven Pa.s.s. I'll wager we'll see his army before winter ends."

"He'll dare the steppes in winter?"

The king nodded. "A goad to his army."

"A cruel ploy, befitting a foul lord." The marshal set a lit taper to the kindling. Fire erupted in the hearth, a welcome blaze of heat.

The king paced in front of the fire. "A doom stalks us, Osbourne, I can feel it in my bones. The Mordant will send a slavering horde against us, the likes of which none has ever seen."

The marshal had long ago learned to trust the king's battle sense. "We're as ready as we can be. We've pulled men from all across the Domain, leaving skeletal forces in the other towers. There are none left to answer the summons." He did not raise the specter of magic, that nightmare he kept to himself. "In times past, allies would have marched from the southern kingdoms, to stand shoulder to shoulder with the Octagon, fighting to hold back the Dark."

"Peace has blunted the swords of the south. They've forgotten what lurks on their northern borders. We'll have no help from the south," the king scowled, "and we have not done enough to prepare."

"What more can we do?"

"Catapults. We need catapults or trebuchets mounted on every tower of Raven Pa.s.s."

"A long haul from Castlegard."

"Then build them. There's plenty of trees further down the pa.s.s. I believe Sir Hunter has the plans. And get the healer involved, he's a scrollish man."

"The healer building catapults?"

The king glared. "We need to find advantages, Osbourne, for we shall not have the numbers."

The words fell like a sword stroke. The marshal stared at his king.

"Come, let us hear what Ulrich has to report." The king swept out of the solar, the marshal a half step behind. A pair of guards snapped a salute as they entered the council chamber. A dozen captains sat waiting at the round table. They stood at the king's entrance, big men in leather and chainmail, the smells of sweat and horse clinging to their maroon cloaks. The king greeted them by name, making his way to the high-backed chair. The king took his chair and the council began. Captains made their reports on men, weapons, and stores, the steady preparation for war.

The marshal listened to their tone as much as their words. Circling the table, he stood with his back to the roaring fire. Confidence ran high among the captains, perhaps bolstered by the king's presence, yet it was in this very room that two princes had died, impaled on a single sword. The others seemed to have forgotten, or perhaps they hid it better. Red eyes of the demon still haunted the marshal, a threat and a warning. He wondered if swords alone would be enough to win the coming battle.

Lothar sent him a questioning glance.

The marshal stilled his face and gave his friend the smallest of nods.

The door opened and Ulrich and two of his captains clattered into the room, mud and sweat staining their riding cloaks. A big bear of a man, with his father's broad shoulders and deep voice, the prince seemed to crowd the chamber. "I've come as you commanded, father. Cragnoth Keep remains safe in the hands of the Octagon."

A cheer filled the chamber.

The king rose and greeted his heir, clasping him close.

The marshal watched from the warmth of the fireplace. Ulrich seemed a younger version of the king, a big-boned man, a fierce warrior, yet there was something unfinished about the prince, something lacking, a pale imitation of the king. Perhaps the prince would grow into his role, given time.

The prince took a seat opposite the king, accepting a goblet of mead.

"Yours is the first true battle of this war." The king gestured to his son. "I would hear your report."

Ulrich nodded. "I bring word of victory...and treachery."

His words sobered the room.

"More treachery!" The outburst came from Sir Dalt. "The Crag is truly cursed."

"Enough!" The king made a cutting gesture with his sword hand. "I'll have no more rumors started at this table. Let the prince make his report."

Ulrich fingered his beard, his face troubled. "They came at sunset, thirty knights returning from a northern patrol. Sentries spotted them long before they reached the keep, a long maroon line riding up the switchbacks. Their horses were hard ridden, streaked with sweat. Their captain's name was Sir Lavor. He claimed they'd spied the vanguard of a vast army marching south across the steppes."

Surprised by the mistake, the marshal flicked a glance to the king.

The king's face hardened to stone, yet the prince did not seem to notice.

The marshal asked the question. "How did you learn his name?"

"I questioned him myself. He claimed Lionel sent them on patrol."

The twitch in the king's eye quickened. "So how did you spot their treachery?"

The prince paled but he did not balk at the question. "A small thing, really. They did not stable their own horses."

"Betrayed by arrogance," the marshal nodded. "And then?"

"I pressed them with questions and they answered with steel. The battle was bitter but we outnumbered them." Ulrich nodded to the king. "Treachery came to Cragnoth, just as you foretold."

"Yet you let them in." Anger rode the king's words.

The prince glared at his father. "They spoke of Lionel and other knights of the Crag." He reached behind to one of his captains. "And their cloaks and surcoats were without fault." From a saddlebag he pulled a maroon cloak and a silver surcoat, tossing both onto the table. Blood stained, the surcoat was pierced by many sword strokes.

Sir Dalt hissed, fingering the wool cloak. "So now the enemy wears our own colors."

Lothar scowled. "Another way to divide us."

Ulrich leaned forward, his fist on the table. "Yes, but now we're forewarned."

The king's gaze narrowed. "What of the survivors?"

Rebuffed, the prince scowled. "They fought like demons, refusing to surrender. But two of the wounded talked before they died." His gaze circled the table. "It seems they expected traitors to man the gates. Barring that, they planned to slit our throats in the dead of the night."

"And after that?"

"They did not say."

The king's face was rife with displeasure. "Then you bring but half a warning."

Anger stormed across Ulrich's face but the marshal intervened. "Did you check their left arms?"

"Yes. Later. After the fighting."

"And?"

Ulrich blanched. "They all bore the marks, black runes tattooed on their left forearms."

A ripple of nods circled the table.

Sir Rannock broke the silence. "The Mordant marks his own, like brands on cattle."

Sir Dalt nodded. "Making the enemy easily identified, no matter the color of their cloaks."