Silk And Steel: The Skeleton King Part 46

They ran across the frozen north, the morning sun rising at their backs. Kath kept pace beside him, her throwing axes strapped to her back, the small octagonal s.h.i.+eld on her left arm, the maroon cloak billowing in the cold wind. Blaine smiled to see the cloak, knowing how much it meant to her. Strange how the impulse had come over him, but then he scowled, wondering what the other knights would say. He doubted the king would approve, or the lord marshal, but such worries were leagues away, as distant as another lifetime.

They settled into a loping run, boots pounding the frozen ground, each breath a plume of frost. Having grown accustom to the pace, Blaine stayed near the front with Torven and the scouts. Of the original eighty men, the hounds had chewed them down to thirty-four swords. The painted warriors paid a steep price for their audacity, yet they never faltered. Their ways were strange, and often unfathomable, but Blaine had come to trust their courage. Hard fighters, tough and stubborn to the core, yet they were wild and undisciplined. He wondered how they'd fair in a real battle against stone walls and trained soldiers. A grim laugh bubbled out of him. They ran towards the citadel. He'd soon know the answer, for better or worse.

Torven led them out of the gra.s.slands and into fallow fields, a flat crust of snow stretching in every direction. The fields surprised Blaine. Somehow he didn't think of the Mordant as ruling a bunch of farmers, yet he supposed they had to eat.

Just before noon, Torven called a halt. Weary from running, they dropped to the ground, spreading bedrolls across the frozen field. Blaine stayed close to Kath, chewing strips of dried horsemeat and handfuls of dried berries. No one bothered to talk. He finished the meager meal and crawled into his bedroll, falling fast asleep.

All too soon, someone shook him awake. Blaine lunged for his sword but a whisper stayed his hand. "Time to run." Groaning, Blaine stretched and made his toilet, and then they were running again, across the fields and into the setting sun.

The crimson sunset drew them west like an ill omen, and then he saw it. A black fist jutted up into the b.l.o.o.d.y sky, rampant and strong, a malevolent fortress bristling with battlements. The Dark Citadel, the name thundered through Blaine's mind like a curse. With each stride it loomed larger. Somehow seeing it was far worse than anything he'd imagined. As much a city as a fortress, tiers of dark stone wrapped around a ma.s.sive monolith. He'd expected a simple walled city guarded by a castle, not this monstrous beehive of stone. The citadel's dark ramparts defied his worst nightmares. Blaine shuddered, refusing to think how many soldiers lurked within its walls. "We're going to take that?" The question burst out of him, but no one answered.

Torven signaled and they dropped flat onto the frozen land. "We dare not draw closer. Not till darkness falls."

Hiding beneath their sheepskin cloaks, they appeared nothing more than a smudge of cream against the snowy expanse. Blaine and Kath huddled on either side of Torven, studying the citadel from afar. Still leagues away, yet the details of the mighty fortress were clear as daylight. Blaine counted nine rings of battlements stretching toward the clouds, no telling how many men walked those dark walls, or what weapons lay in wait, catapults, trebuchets, and other engines of war. A host of warnings whispered through his mind, reminding him that this was the lair of the Mordant. Beneath his sheepskin, he made the hand sign against evil. A fear deeper than swords gripped him. If the legends proved true, then the Mordant was a master of magic. Dark magic, weapons he couldn't even begin to imagine. Back in the caverns, he'd agreed with Kath's plan, naming it bold and imaginative, but in the shadow of the citadel it seemed insane, a vain conceit run amok. Riddled with doubt, he stared at Kath. "How in the nine h.e.l.ls are we going take that?"

Her voice was calm, not a hint of fear, but her eyes told another story, shadowed with worry. "It all depends on how many men the Mordant took south. The fact that we haven't run across a patrol is a good sign. He left the gore hounds but I'm betting he took most of the men south.

"You're betting with our lives."

"I know, but it's our best chance." She met his gaze. "Remember, no matter the numbers, we're counting on deception and surprise to win the day. Danya will provide the deception, and this," she pulled her stone gargoyle from beneath her chainmail s.h.i.+rt, "will provide the surprise."

Blaine's frustration boiled over. "But your plan is all sleight of hand, a house of straw! Once we're inside those walls, we could face a hundred thousand men or more! The odds are staggering!"

"We take the north gate...and then we hope the people rise and fight." She stared at him, as if willing him to believe. "We seek surrender not a bloodbath."

Surrender! He nearly spat the word. Surrender was the wet dream of every commander who'd ever lived, yet it seemed to Blaine that it rarely happened, especially when the enemy held the walls. And these walls were formidable. He bit his lip and kept his doubt to himself. "What are those things over there?" Five leagues to the east of the citadel, a series of wooden towers reared into the sky like malformed dragons.

Torven answered. "That's the lip of the Pit."

"The Pit?"

Torven scowled. "It's the worst of the Mordant's domain, worse than any dungeon. Those wooden structures lower cages down into the Pit, the only way in or out." He pointed to the left of the towers. "And over there are the soldiers' barracks, for the Pit guards, and next to them, the stables." His voice deepened, revealing a touch of pride. "Come the dark, Fanggold will lead a war party against the barracks when Danya brings the others."

Blaine prayed the wolf-faced leader brought enough men to take the barracks, else they'd have swords at their back as well as in front. One mistake and Kath's plan would turn into a deadly trap. His gaze was drawn to the citadel. He brooded on the tiers of dark battlements, ramparts nested within ramparts. Like a Castlegard of the north, it seemed a daunting task, nigh on impossible. His stare slid toward Kath. "Still time to change your mind?"

She shook her head, a stubborn look on her face. "This is our best hope, our one chance to strike a blow against the Dark. It must be done now, while the Mordant marches south."

Conviction filled her voice, yet it did not ease his doubts. It seemed to Blaine that too much depended on luck and magic. He'd rather put his trust in good solid steel.

"Look over there!" It was Bear, pointing toward the east. A dark smudge flew through the twilight. Like an errant storm cloud, it flew straight for the Pit.

"Danya's done it." Kath's voice rang with a mixture of relief and pride. "She's called the ravens!"

A flock of ten thousand ravens bore down on the Pit. Blaine s.h.i.+vered beneath his cloak. "It's unnatural." He couldn't help sketching the hand sign against evil. The dark cloud circled overhead and dove into the Pit.

The painted warriors shared a grin, laughing and pointing toward the ravens, but Blaine could not share their joy. To him, the ravens had always been an omen of death, the scavengers of the battlefield. "Ravens are the heralds of death. Now the enemy knows we're coming."

Kath glared at him, steel in her green gaze. "Only if they know the symbols of slaves. This message is for our friends."

"Friends?" Blaine barked a laugh. "Depend on the swords you know."

Kath did not answer. They kept watch on the Pit. The cloud of ravens eventually remerged. Soaring out of the Pit, they circled the citadel. Round and round, they rode the wind, releasing a chorus of caws, and then they turned east, departing in one ma.s.sive cloud.

Blaine s.h.i.+vered. "No one could ever see that as natural."

Kath gave him a barbed stare. "Then perhaps they see it as an omen of defeat."

Blaine looked away.

It took forever for the sun to set. Huddled beneath sheepskins, they shared a scant meal of dried horsemeat and honeyed mead, keeping watch on the citadel. The sun sank in a blaze of colors, gold and red streaking across a winter sky, but the glorious display was fleeting. Darkness descended like an executioner's axe. Torches appeared on the dark walls. Too many torches, proof the walls were not abandoned. Blaine took the first watch, but doubt gnawed at his mind. In three nights they'd storm the citadel. He couldn't help but think they were destined for doom.

58.

Mara Mara trudged through the mud, a wicker basket riding on her back. Brown clouds boiled overhead, sealing the Pit like a cauldron's lid. She glanced up anyway, longing for a glimpse of blue. Every spring she stood in line, desperate for a chit to work the farms, but her face always betrayed her. Youth and beauty chained her to the Pit. She worked on her feet during the day and on her back at night, a miserable existence, but she never stopped longing for a glimpse of sky, for a taste of freedom.

At least she no longer worked in the mines. After the rebellion, her uncle had gotten her work at the dung heap, but still her beauty betrayed her.

"Come and see me tonight." A guard leered at her, making a poking gesture with his right hand. "Ask for Harit in the barracks of the First Fist."

She ducked her head and hurried on. "Cursed be the Dark Lord and all those who serve him." It was only a whisper but the words eased her burning heart.

A hard frost covered the ground but her weight was enough to break the crust. Cold mud oozed between her bare toes, another blight of the Pit. Pulling her cloak close, she trudged through the muck. Mara reached the gates and a familiar guard waved her through. The dung heap was a landmark of the Pit, a brown mountain leaning against the western wall. Shoveled from the stables above, the dung formed a ma.s.sive brown cone, a scree slope of waste. Old men in tattered rags scurried like beetles across the steep slope, gleaning the dung from the dross. Horse dung was precious in the Pit, the only source of fuel. Strange how the waste from above became the treasure of those below.

A horn blast sounded from above.

Someone screamed a warning.

A brown avalanche fell from the clouds, tumbling down the sheer rock wall. Workers scrambled to avoid the rush. Mara stopped and stared, unable to look away. An old man stumbled and fell, buried beneath the brown slush. Mara closed her eyes, such a terrible way to die.

A guard poked her with his spear b.u.t.t. "No time to gawk. Those who work, eat."

Mara lurched forward, following mud-churned footprints. A brown mist clung to the air, the pungent scent of fresh manure. The tumble of waste slowly settled, adding a fresh layer of dung to the mountain. Workers scurried up the slope, hoping to find treasure buried among the dross.

Oblivious to the drama, a dozen old women knelt on the frozen ground, kneading straw into dung. Their hands beat a steady rhythm, forming the mixture into flat patties suitable for cook-fires. Stacks of patties dried in the weak winter sun, worth a small fortune to the overseers. Mara eased the empty basket from her shoulders and bent toward the nearest stack.

A toothless old crone scurried to her side, her back bent, her hands stained brown to her elbows. "Mara let me help." Thessala touched her hand, the old woman making a deft exchange. Mara risked a quick peek. A small comb carved of bone, only a few teeth missing, nestled in her hand.

Thessala flashed a snaggletoothed smile. "It's good, isn't it? Found it yesterday. Some soldier probably carved it for his sweetheart, lost among the stable's dross."

Mara slipped the comb into her pocket. "It should fetch a good price, an extra ration at least." She tucked her blond hair behind her ears and reached for another patty.

The old woman worked beside her, helping to fill the basket. "You're a good girl, Mara. With your face, you'll get a good price."

Her face, a blessing and a curse, but Mara just nodded, knowing the crone meant no harm. Forty patties filled her basket, a seller's allotment. Mara knelt, slipping her arms through the straps. Bending forward, she slowly rose, taking the full weight on her shoulders, just another beast of burden. She waved to Thessala and trudged toward the gate.

Mud squished between her toes, cold and slippery. One step at a time, she made her rounds, delivering the patties. Two tokens bought a single patty, enough to heat a pot of stew. A few women haggled for a better deal but the price was never hers to set.

Dirty faces peered from mud huts and thatched hovels, everything brown and dreary, a misery that leached into her soul. Nothing ever changed in the Pit...except for him, the man with the mismatched eyes, the one who'd dared to start a rebellion. She'd helped him in the mine, and helped herself to revenge. Her fist tightened, remembering the feel of the dagger, the sweet nectar of justice, but the rebellion was short-lived. She didn't even know his name...but she'd never forget his face, or the way he'd made her feel, like a woman with choices instead of chattel. At least she no longer served in the mine, gaining a dung sellers' basket by the grace of her great uncle, but she never forgot that brief taste of rebellion. A shame the G.o.ds didn't favor the uprising. Six men condemned to death, the soldiers hung them from the standing stones, a lesson for others. She'd kept vigil in the crowd, needing to witness their fates. The man with the mismatched eyes remained stoic in his pain, but the others began to talk, especially Clovis, calling the people to rebellion. His words kindled a fire in her heart. She'd sought out the council of elders, adding her voice to the others, begging them to rise up. But old men are slow to action, debating while brave men died.

A shadow fell across her face. The standing stones stood empty, the rotting bodies finally put to rest, but the call of rebellion still roiled in her heart. She leaned against the stone, wondering if the G.o.ds ever listened.

Something hard struck the back of her head.

She whirled to find the culprit...but no one was there.

Suspicious, she waited.

A stone clattered against the standing stones.

Astonished, Mara stared skyward. Another pebble fell from the sky. Piercing the thick brown clouds, it bounced and skittered, landing in the mud. A stone from the sky. And then she saw another. She stared open-mouthed.

The sky rained stones.

People emerged from their huts to stare. A hail of pebbles clattered into the Pit, a brief storm and then it was over.

Dark wings glided down from the clouds. Mara's breath caught at the rare sight. A single raven soared in a circle and then came to land at her feet. It dropped a pebble and then glared up at her, as if expecting something. "Caw!" Feathers ruffled, it stared at her with smoke-colored eyes. "Caw! Caw!" Dark wings stretched wide and the raven took flight, beating for the sky.

"Fly free, little brother." She made the words a prayer. Mara watched till the clouds swallowed the dark bird and then she knelt to claim the pebble. Just a small gray stone till she noticed the symbol etched on one side. Her fingers traced the carving. She couldn't read but every slave knew the symbol for rebellion. Her heartbeat quickened. She turned it over and saw three scores on the other side, a message from the G.o.ds.

Elated, she rushed to the nearest knot of people. "Do you see it?"

Three of them held pebbles. They all bore the same markings.

Mara smiled, "It's a message from the G.o.ds!" Rumors started this way, but she didn't care. She found herself running, suddenly fleet of foot, all the way to the large hut that served the council of elders. A small crowd had already gathered, a murmur of voices in the muddy lane. Shrugging the basket from her shoulders, she wormed her way to the front. A single guard blocked the doorway, a big man with a Taal's sloped forehead. He looked intimidating but Mara knew him from childhood. "Braith, let me in!"

He shook his head and stamped his foot. "No one pa.s.ses."

Standing on tiptoes, she whispered in his ear. "Uncle Elswin asked for me."

Braith grinned a lack-wit's smile. "Okay, just you."

She slipped through the doorway, always surprised by the sudden warmth. A dung fire glowed in the center of a large circular room, the smoke rising to the peaked roof. The elders took their ease around the circular hearth, leaning on pillows, sipping cups of cha served by a handful of women. Thirteen elders ruled the slums, all of them men, their hair respectable shades of silver, gray, or white.

Mara clung to the shadows, slipping along the wall till she reached her great uncle, the only one she dared approach. She crept forward to kneel by his side. "Honored Uncle," she kept her voice to a hushed whisper, her head bent in respect, "I have something you should see."

He turned towards her, a rounded face framed by a wealth of silver hair. A necklace of polished red beads hung from his shoulders, the symbol of his council seat. "Mara, child, you should be working." He reached out to caress her cheek with a six-fingered hand. "You've a pleasing face but you disturb the council chambers all too often."

"But Honored Uncle, you must see this." She pressed the pebble into his hand. "Stones are falling from the sky. It's a sign from the G.o.ds."

"What?" Surprise flitted across his face. "You bring me a pebble?"

She struggled to contain her excitement. "I bring you a message! All the stones bear the same symbol!"

He fingered the pebble, a flash of annoyance on his face. "You bother me with nonsense."

"No!" She fought to keep her voice a whisper. "A rain of stones fell from the sky, all bearing the same message! It's a message from the G.o.ds! They mean for us to follow the words of the prophet, to rise up and claim our freedom."

"Quiet!" His voice hissed. "Talk of treason will get us all hung from the Stones." He dropped the pebble as if it had stung him. "Forget this nonsense. It took a fist full of favors to get you a dung sellers' basket. Now get back to work before you lose your place."

She shook her head, baffled by his disbelief. "But I saw you in the crowds. You heard the prophet. Everyone knows Clovis had the third-eye. And now stones fall from the sky, giving proof to his words!"

He pounced, grabbing her arm, pulling her close, the smell of rancid milk on his breath. "You little fool." His face twisted to an ugly sneer. "Dung falls from the sky! Do you name that a miracle?" His long fingernails bit into her flesh. "Now be gone, or you'll find yourself chained in the brothels, nothing more than a broodmare for soldiers."

Horror pierced her heart, wakening her deepest fear. s.n.a.t.c.hing up the pebble, she scuttled backwards, fleeing the cruelty of his gaze. Desperate to be gone, she fled to the doorway, but the entrance was clogged with people, a barefoot mob chanting for answers. "Lead us! Free us!"

Braith struggled to open a s.p.a.ce, his towering bulk pressed against the mob. "No one pa.s.ses." He waved his arms like clubs, forcing the crowd from the doorway.

Spying an opening, Mara ducked beneath his arms. Clutching the pebble, she joined the crowd, just another dirty face in a sea of brown. The crowd's chant beat against her, waking the anger in her soul. "Lead us! Free us!" The chant rolled through the people like a rumble of thunder.

Movement at the council doorway. A s.p.a.ce cleared and her uncle emerged, his hair glinting silver in the sunlight, his necklace of red stones adding authority to his broad shoulders. He raised his hands for silence, six fingers spread wide on each hand, proving to the people that he was one of them.

An expectant hush settled over the crowd.

Mara shuffled to the left, anxious to see, but not to be seen.

"Be calm, my friends," her uncle wore a paternal smile. "Return to your work. All is well."

"But the stones!" A tall man near the front dared to argue. "Surely it's a sign from the G.o.ds!"

A murmur rose from the crowd.

Her uncle raised his hands for quiet. "Think, my friends. Everything that comes from above does so by the will of our overlords." The crowd began to protest, but her uncle shouted above the murmur. "Hear me! The stones are a test devised by the priests! A way of sorting the rebellious from the loyal."

Mara gaped, knowing it was a bold-faced lie. "Ravens brought the stones." It was only a whisper, but others repeated her words, an undercurrent of hope threading through the crowd.

Other councilmen emerged to stand behind her uncle, a show of authority. "Do not be deceived by the stones! Return to work and all will be well."

A dark-haired woman raised her voice in protest. "But what of the words of the prophet? Clovis had the sight! And now the G.o.ds have given us a sign!"

Anger flashed across her uncle's face. "Clovis died on the Stones and the G.o.ds did nothing. Don't be misled by false prophets." He glared at the crowd like an angry father disciplining a wayward child. "You have a duty to yourselves and your families. Life in the Pit is simple. You work and you eat. You work and you stay warm. You work and you live." He waved his arms in dismissal. "Be gone from here. Forget the stones and return to work before the soldiers come to claim the rebellious."

Mara stared at her uncle with fresh eyes. For the first time she noticed all the councilmen wore boots. Boots! Cold mud oozed between her toes, a reminder of her station in life. She realized the overlords set the councilmen apart from the people. Coddled by luxury, the council would never heed the G.o.ds' call. Mara stared at the pebble, flipping it from one side to the other, rebellion in three. But three what? And then she understood. Three nights till the dark of the moon, the perfect time for an uprising. The meaning burned with certainty in her heart, proving the truth of the message.

The council retreated to their chambers and the crowd began to thin. Most shuffled away with their heads bent, yoked once more to the will of the overlords, but a few knots of discontent remained.

Rebellions grew in the shadow of misery. Mara smiled, gripping the pebble in her fist. She'd seen the raven and she understood the message. Perhaps a pretty face could sway others to the truth. She tucked her blond hair behind her ears and moved toward the nearest knot of conspirators. Three days to make a difference, she swore to the G.o.ds she'd not be counted among the sheep.

59.