The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga)

THE SKELETON
KING

BOOK THREE OF

THE SILK & STEEL SAGA

Karen L. Azinger

The
Silk & Steel Saga

Book One:
 
The Steel Queen

Book Two:
 
The Flame Priest

Book Three:
 
The Skeleton King

Forthcoming books by Karen L Azinger

Book Four:
 
The Poison Priestess

Book Five:
 
The Battle Immortal

Additional books by Karen L Azinger

The
Assassin’s Tear

Published by Kiralynn Epics L.P. 2012

Copyright © Karen L. Azinger 2012

First published in the United States of America by
Kiralynn Epics 2012

Front Cover Artwork Copyright Greg Bridges © 2012

Celtic Lettering used with permission of Alfred M
Graphics Art Studio

The Author asserts the moral right to be identified as
the author of this work

All characters in this publication are
fictitious and any resemblance to real persons living or dead, is purely
coincidental.

ISBN
  
978-0-9835160-6-4

e-book ISBN
978-0-9835160-7-1

Library of
Congress Control Number:
2012906988

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may
be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by
any means,

electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or
otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

ACKNOWEDGEMENTS

My dream of an epic fantasy
continues, and like the first two books, it takes a lot of people to make the
saga come true. First and foremost, to my husband Rick, who is always keen for
the next adventure and always believes no matter the odds. To my best friend,
first reader and sword sister, Danae Powers, who listened from the very first chapter.
To my writer friend, Peggy Lowe, a critique circle of one. To my alpha readers,
Mike, Nick, Diane, Mary, John, Stewart, Tanya, Chris, Cheryl, Bob, and Gina,
your enthusiasm kept me going through all the bleak times. To Greg Bridges for
the totally awesome front cover and the book spine. To Peggy Lowe, graphic
artist extraordinaire, for the back cover, the two maps and the logo, well
done! To all of my readers who eagerly followed the saga to the third book, I
write for you. And to my mom, for everything, I so hope you know.

The Mordant spoke not a word. He
made no gestures and cast no spells. He merely stepped onto the gateway and the
gargoyles awoke. Muscles rippling beneath granite, the gargoyles reared on
their pillars, shrieking an unearthly wail. Wings unfurled and talons extended
as the great stone beasts strained against their bonds. Twelve massive gargoyles
towered overhead, each one a twisted nightmare of beaks and snouts, fangs and
claws. Cast in stone and affixed to pillars, yet they
moved
. Infused with an unholy magic, they writhed in torment,
clawing at the sky.

Trapped within his prison, Bryce
felt their suffering as if it was his own. So much pain, so much torment, their
shrieks flayed his soul, the damned calling to the damned. He saw them in his
mind’s eye. Stone wings beating against the sky, the great beasts struggling to
take flight, but they remained fixed to their pillars, their souls forever
trapped in granite sepulchers. Perhaps it was his healer’s sensitivity, a blessing
turned curse, but whatever the reason, their cries shattered his sanity,
foretelling his own doom.

Bryce screamed but he had no mouth.
Just a soul trapped within the Mordant, condemned to a living hell.
*Release them! Set their souls free!
Can’t you feel their agony? Feel their
madness?*
He railed against the cruelty of his own existence, cursing the
abomination that claimed his face…his body…his mind…but his struggles made no
difference, a paper moth beating against a thousand years of evil. Bryce howled
against his fate. *
I’ll not be trapped for centuries! I’ll not be a thing
possessed.*

*
Monk, you amuse me.*
Like a demon
summoned from the netherworld, the Mordant’s suffocating presence surrounded
him.

Stunned to silence, Bryce made
himself small, a mouse trying to hide.

*
So you sense the truth of my
gargoyles, the souls of the damned trapped within stone. You have more value
than I thought.*

Bryce shuddered under the Mordant’s
scrutiny, desperate to hide a single secret.

*Scream all you want, but like
the gargoyles, you shall never escape.*
The Mordant prodded his prisoner
with a lance of pain.
*It is past time
you willingly gave yourself to the Dark.*

*Never!
I walk in the Light!*

*I
grow weary of your feeble chant.*
The
Mordant’s voice battered Bryce like a hand swatting a fly.
*Soon you will feel the true power of the
Dark Lord. Then you will know there is but one god worth serving.*

The Mordant withdrew, the walls of the prison slamming down. Bryce
shivered with relief. The gray void was a cruel hell but the Mordant’s scrutiny
was worse.
 

Battered and bruised, Bryce curled into a ball. He could still feel the
gargoyles, feel their soul-searing pain, but there was nothing he could do.
Struggling for composure, he strove to keep his wits, needing to protect his one
secret. The unexpected boon had come early in his captivity. To escape the
monastery, the Mordant was forced to traverse the Guardian Mist. In the depths
of the enchanted cloud, unbeknownst to the Mordant, the Guardian spoke directly
to Bryce. Appearing as a star knight, with a winged helm and a face etched with
wisdom, the Guardian whispered words of an ancient prophecy. And with the words
came a gift, a pinprick of light, a spy hole onto the world. The gift gave
Bryce a narrow glimpse of life, a way of eavesdropping on the Mordant, but it
was a sterile view, without smell, or touch, or taste, yet the keyhole kept him
sane.
 

At first, he tried to escape, after all, what shape did a soul have? Making
himself tiny, he tried to slip through the eye of the needle…but he could not
pass, as if a wall of mage-glass blocked the hole. Mind and will battered the
barrier, a rage of purpose, all to no avail. Failure pushed him toward madness,
till he recalled the words of the Guardian. Consoled by prophecy and the
teachings of the monastery, he nursed his sanity, waiting for a chance to
betray a thousand year old evil.

*Come, monk, I desire a
witness.*

Startled, Bryce stilled his thoughts, burying his secret.

*
The gargoyles herald my return to power. Come and behold the first
Trials of Return.*

Pulled by the will of his jailor,
Bryce rose from his prison to stare through the eyes of the Mordant. A rush of
sensations overwhelmed him, a tidal wave of all that was lost. A breeze brushed
his face, carrying the first bite of winter. Exposed to scent and touch, Bryce
reveled in the wind’s caress, swooning at the smell of sunlight striking the
grasslands. Denied all sensations, he drank in every detail, wallowing in the
sheer delight of the living world…but then the shrieks of the gargoyles
intruded, their pain slashing at his soul, a reminder of his grim purpose.
Embracing the pain, Bryce fought the ecstasy, forcing himself to think, to
concentrate, to understand the enemy.

The Mordant stood beneath the rearing
gargoyles, in the center of a short paved roadway that pierced the long gray
wall. Bryce knew the wall divided the north from the south, marking the start
of the Mordant’s domain, but beyond the gargoyle gate, he saw nothing but
golden grassland, the endless steppes stretching away to the north.

*
My soldiers come, summoned by
the screams of the damned.*

A patrol of horsemen galloped
toward the gate. Clad in black armor laced with gold, a bristle of spears
against the sky, they rode in disciplined ranks. A dozen great hounds raced in
front. A pack of hunters seeking prey, the hounds howled for the kill.

*Do you understand the risks? Clad
in the maroon cloak and silver surcoat of the enemy, I wear a face none in my
kingdom has ever seen.*

Bryce trembled with hope.

*Stand…or run?*

Bryce knew it was a taunt, but he
answered anyway.
*Stand!*

The Mordant laughed,
*I thought you would see it my way.*

Such an odd comment, but Bryce
ignored his jailor. Staring through the Mordant’s eyes, he watched the cavalcade
gallop close. Two hundred strong, the soldiers leveled their lances and
charged, a swath of death hurling toward the intruder. Transfixed with hope,
Bryce willed them to come, praying for death, praying for release.

A thunderstorm of hooves converged
on the gate. A dozen hounds led the riders, baying for the kill. Details became
clear.
 
Sunlight glinted on armor, gold
pentacles on black breastplates, stern faces beneath dark helms. The surging
line bore down on the gate, the horses’ hooves churning up clods of grass. The
leveled spears gleamed wicked keen, a promise of death, a promise of release.

Bryce watched them come, urging
them on.

Somewhere behind him, the unmade
knight gave warning, “
They’re not going to stop!”

A mere mortal would have run, but
the Mordant stood his ground, his feet spread wide, his maroon cloak flaring in
the breeze.

Sir Raymond screamed, “
Run!”

But it was too late to run. The horsemen
loomed large, a charging wall of spears. A horn sounded a sharp note. Riders
hauled on their reins. Warhorses snorted and stamped, fighting their bits. The
horsemen came to sudden stop, a thicket of spears bristling just beyond the
gate.

Dazed, Bryce stared at the gleaming
spear tips. So close…yet they’d stopped short. He reeled in disbelief, snatched
from the brink of death.

The Mordant’s voice boomed in his
mind.
*Behold the proof of my past! The
shadow of fear cast by my last lifetime still holds sway.*

Bryce refused to listen. Fevered with desperation, he prayed to the
Lords of Light, begging the gods to rouse the soldiers to a killing fury.
Straining against his bonds, he fought to make a threatening gesture, to
provoke bloodshed, but all he could do was watch, a prisoner trapped in his own
body.

The soldiers stayed on their horses, a row of hostile faces staring
down at him, silent and wary and full of judgment. Snarling against their
chains, the hounds sniffed the air, slaver dripping from their jaws.

Something about the hounds snagged Bryce’s attention.

From a distance, they looked like
large, shaggy wolves, a motley of tan and black, but up close, they radiated
wrongness. And then he got a good look at them. Like beasts sprung from the
depths of hell, the hounds proved a living horror, a corrupted nightmare of
jumbled features, the snout of a wolf, the curved teeth of a saber-cat, the
yellow eyes of an eagle…and something more, something twisted lurked deep
inside. The twisted wrongness called to Bryce, compelling him to understand. He
stared at the cruel yellow eyes…and something stared back…a fierce intelligence
pulsing with hatred…
the twisted souls of men!
 

The Mordant’s laughter ripped
through his mind. *
You have a gift for sensing souls. These are my gore
hounds, the perfect hunting beasts, a triumph of my last lifetime.*

*Abominations! A crime against
life!*

*Spare me your feeble judgments.
To gain power you must be willing to wield it. Something your Order has long
forgot.”

The hounds erupted in a frenzy of
howls. Fighting their chains, they snapped and snarled, as if trying to flee.
Whips cracked as their handlers hurled oaths at the beasts, urging the hounds
toward the intruder, all to no avail.
 

The Mordant stepped toward the
hounds.

Their howls changed to a cringing
whine, as if they’d caught the scent of something they feared.

The Mordant spoke a single command.
“Sabolanth.”

The hounds fell silent. Slinking
low, their bellies scraping the ground in submission, they bowed before the
Mordant.

Bryce shivered in his prison,
realizing the twisted hounds knew their maker.

A ripple of unease ran through the
soldiers. More than one made a strange hand sign.

Overhead, the gargoyles screamed a
warning, writhing against their bonds.

An officer dismounted, a gold plume
on his helmet signaling his rank. A black-robed priest joined him, a gold
pentacle on a chain around his neck. The officer advanced with his sword drawn.

Bryce watched him come, a glimmer
of hope in his heart.

The officer reached the shadow of
the nearest gargoyle and stepped onto the stone roadway.

Silence fell like an executioner’s
axe. The gargoyles froze, cut off in mid-shriek.
 
Beaks and talons stilled, they stood mute as
statues. Their sudden silence seemed ominous, like an ill omen. Bryce shivered
in his prison, knowing he witnessed the power of dark magic.

The officer and the priest closed
the distance, stopping within a sword thrust of the Mordant. The priest, a
sallow-skinned man with a curled mustache, began hurling questions at the
Mordant. “Who are you? A deserter? A turn-cloak? A spy? An assassin? What
brings a cursed knight of the octagon to the Gargoyle Gates?”

The Mordant held his silence.

“Answer the questions!” The priest
sputtered, his face turning red. “Who are you? Why does a knight of the octagon
wait here?”

“I’ve come for the Trials of
Return.”

The priest blanched, retreating a
step.

The officer stood his ground, the
point of his sword leveled at the Mordant’s heart.

The Mordant ignored the threat,
raising his voice loud enough for the soldiers to hear. “The first three
conditions of the Trials of Return have been met. I wait alone beneath the
screaming gargoyles. I have endured the charge of spears. And the gore hounds
fall silent at my command. My actions prove my claim.”

The officer nodded. “Put him to the
question.”
 

The priest made a curt gesture.

A pair of soldiers approached
carrying a small ironbound chest. Setting the chest before the priest, they
flicked wary glances at the Mordant, and then retreated to their horses.

The priest tugged on the chain
around his neck, revealing a large skeleton key. “Once the chest is opened,
your fate is bound to the secrets inside.”

“Open it.”

The priest cursed. “So be it.” He
knelt, inserting the key in the lock. Muttering a prayer, he opened the chest,
revealing a scroll nestled in black velvet. Lifting the scroll, he held it
toward the officer. The commander fingered the wax seals, as if checking their
integrity, and then returned the scroll to the priest. “All is correct.”

The priest broke the seals and
read, “The gargoyles announce a single claimant to the Ebony Throne. The spears
charge, answering the summons of the gargoyles, yet you refuse to run. The gore
hounds scent a kill, yet you quell them with a single command. You have endured
the first three trials, but your fate is now tied to the questions of this
scroll. Knowledge from the past is the key to the future. A single wrong word
and your life is forfeit, for no imposter shall ever gain the Ebony Throne.”
The priest lowered the scroll and glared, as if his stare would wilt the claimant.
“Do you understand?”

“Ask your questions.”

Bryce watched, praying for a
mistake.
 

The priest read the first question.
“What shape does Death take?”

The Mordant spread his arms wide.
“Death comes in the shape of an enemy, in the maroon cloak and silver surcoat
of the Octagon knights.”

The priest nodded, a sour look on
his face. “The gargoyles herald the return of a conqueror. What have you
conquered?”

*Do you understand, monk?*
The
Mordant’s voice whispered through the gray void.
*The trial of words offers
no riddles, no clues to be puzzled out, just a series of simple questions with
a thousand different answers, a thousand ways for an imposter to find death.
*