The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga) (40 page)

“Ulrich,
get out of the there!”
The king
gripped the stone ramparts, staring down at the battle.

A troop of ogres surged the broken gate. Wielding massive war-clubs
studded with spikes, they hammered into the thin maroon line. The ferocity of
the attack proved too much. The defenders broke, running for the inner
gates.
 

“
No!”
The king’s cry carried the weight of doom.

The marshal yelled, “
Archers,
protect the retreat.”

Arrows streaked downward but they could not turn the tide.

The ogres surged forwarded, oblivious to the deadly rain.

The prince stood his ground, buying time for the others, dealing death
with every swing of his sword. But the ogres surrounded him, attacking from
every angle. The prince pivoted and whirled, a fearless frenzy of steel but he
fought too many. The ogres closed for the kill. War clubs ambushed the prince,
striking the back of his head. The prince crumpled under the onslaught, disappearing
in a haze of blood.

“
No!”
The strangled cry came from the king.

As the marshal watched, one of the ogres hefted the prince’s blue sword
aloft in triumph. Hate rushed through him. “
Get him!”
But the marshal
did not need to give the order. A hundred arrows thunked into the ogre,
dropping him where he stood. None of the others dared claim the blue sword.

But the inner courtyard was lost. Waves of black poured into the muddy
yard, pounding against the inner gates.

Beside him, the king slumped to the rampart. Clutching his chest, his
face turned ashen. “My son. All my sons.”

Fearing for the king, the marshal grabbed a squire. “Water, bring water
for the king.”

The war drums beat a ferocious rhythm.

“My lord, look!”

The marshal stared down into the courtyard. The enemy lines had pulled
back opening a corridor to the inner gates. A troop of ogres emerged, carrying
a second ram.

A
second ram!
Sweat bled from the
marshal. “
Stop that ram!”
 

Trumpets blared and arrows flew but the ogres did not stop. Muscles
bulging, the monsters howled an unearthly scream, hurtling forward with the ram.
Passing through the outer gap, they ran like demons possessed. They churned
through the muddy courtyard, trampling the dead and the wounded, bearing down
on the inner gate. Arrows rained like a torrent but still they came.

“Stop
them!”
But the marshal’s command
was lost in a mighty roar.

A second thunderclap rocked the world.

The great wall shuddered and shook, like the lashing tail of a dying
dragon. Struck deaf, the marshal fell hard, the stone rampart pounding the
breath from his chest. All around him, men tumbled and fell and screamed. A
cloud of soot rose from the gates, eclipsing the sun.

Choking on darkness, the marshal struggled to rise. He clawed his way
to the rampart and peered over the edge. The cloud of dust thinned, revealing
the grim truth. The gates were gone, a great hole rent in the middle of the
wall. His heart sank. Raven
Pass was lost.

“Sound
the retreat!”
He did not know who
would hear, but he had a duty to the living, to the last of the Octagon.

A lone trumpeter sounded the call, a mournful tune.

Men scrambled along the ramparts seeking the stairwells down.

The marshal grabbed a pair of soldiers and pressed them into helping
the king. Standing in the midst of chaos, he shouted orders for any who would
listen. “Take whatever supplies you can and retreat to the third wall.
Re-group
at the third wall!”

As the last of the men cleared the ramparts, he followed them down the
stairwell. His hearing returned in a rush, but it did not lessen the nightmare.
Dark magic had triumphed over stalwart swords. Raven Pass
was lost…and perhaps the Octagon as well.

50

Blaine

A blistering wind howled across the
steppes. Blaine
lowered his head and struggled to keep pace with the others. Hunched beneath
sheepskin cloaks, they ran into the teeth of winter. Snow pelted his face, ice
crystals encrusting his surcoat, his eyebrows, and his beard. Everything blurred
to white. His breath frosted to mist, snatched away by the wind. His boots
pounded the frigid ground, the long grass beating against his thighs, running
through a frozen hell.

Tingold, the wolf-faced scout set a
fierce pace. Blaine
was determined to hold his position near the front, a matter of pride. Kath ran
beside him, her two guards, Bear and Boar lumbering a pace behind. Their
scouting party was eighty warriors strong. It seemed like a horde to Blaine. Kath had asked for
twenty swords but other warriors kept swelling the ranks, insisting on their
right come. Blaine
suspected some were glory seekers, like Brevor, the loud-mouthed spearman with
the fox tattoos, while others were spies of the council, sent to witness Kath’s
defeat by the gargoyles. He despised the doubters, but part of him wondered if
she could do it. Tales of the gargoyle gates were legendary among the Octagon,
a fearsome barrier protecting the far north. Somehow Kath was supposed to
defeat the gargoyles, allowing an army of painted warriors to slip passed
unnoticed. In the cold light of day, her plan seemed like a tale spun for small
children. Blaine
shook his head and kept running.

The storm eased and he flicked a
glance behind. Eighty men left a trail a child could follow. Trampled grass and
a stampede of footprints marked a long trail back to the Ghost Hills. If the
enemy found them there’d be no place to hide, fight or flee their only choice.

The painted warriors kept their
brutal pace. They slept at night, huddled together under mounds of sheepskins,
desperate for warmth, and ran by day, taking short breaks to sip honey mead and
munch on cold dried horsemeat. The nights were cold and the days long, filled
with the endless ache of running.

Tingold raised his hand, signaling
a halt. Gasping for breath, Blaine
crumpled to the ground, unused to so much running. Sitting cross-legged, he put
his back to the wind and chewed a strip of dried horsemeat, tough and stringy.
A pity their hosts ate horse instead of riding them, but Blaine doubted the
painted people knew how. A flagon of mead came his way. He took a long pull, a welcome
gush of warmth running down his throat, and passed it on.

Beside him, the wolf faced scout
flashed a grin. “I told ya we’d not see much snow.”

In truth, the snow was less than half
a finger deep, but the cold held a terrible bite.

As if the wolf scout read his mind,
Tingold slapped his thigh and barked a laugh. “In the north, ‘tis too cold to
snow!”

A set of smiles flashed his way.
The painted people took a perverse pride in the cold, as if it was a badge of
honor, proof of their manliness. Blaine
pulled his cloak close; they could keep their bloody cold.

He flicked a glance at Kath but she
seemed withdrawn. Dark smudges shadowed her eyes as if she hadn’t slept in
days. Blaine
left her to her thoughts, knowing she had more than enough to worry about, but
he missed the companionship of the others. Zith and Danya had both stayed
behind. The old man could never have made the run and Danya had much to do
before the army could march. His thoughts lingered on the wolf-girl, dark hair
and an impish smile. He’d once hoped…but she’d made her feelings clear.
Scowling, Blaine
shook his head. Nothing ever turned out the way he expected. At least he still
had his blue sword, his strength and his pride.

All too soon, Tingold signaled an
end to the break.

More
running,
Blaine
struggled to find a rhythm, his boots pounding into the frozen ground. Knights
were supposed to
ride
not
run
. For the thousandth time he
regretted bringing his chainmail, but he figured he’d need it in a fight. The
weight tugged at his shoulders, slowing his stride. Gritting his teeth, he
forced himself to keep pace. Cold air seared his lungs, harsh and unforgiving.
The god cursed steppes stretched to forever, a sea of frozen grass, pale
beneath a weak sun.

Blaine forged ahead, running shoulder to
shoulder with Torven, an eagle-faced warrior. The eagle looked his way,
flashing a fierce grin. Somehow the blue tattoos seemed more striking in the cold,
transforming the painted people into beasts rather than men. Plumes of mist
streamed from their nostrils, adding to the illusion. Bundled beneath sheepskin
cloaks they wore mismatched armor and scavenged weapons, mostly swords and a
few spears. Nearly a third carried dented shields embossed with golden
pentacles, the gleanings from past battles. Despite their ragtag appearance,
they looked fierce, but Blaine
wondered how they’d fight. A grim laugh bubbled out of him, instead of fighting
shoulder to shoulder with sworn knights, he was running across the frigid north
with a pack of barbarians. They’d gained allies of a sort, but it remained to
be seen if they could get passed the god cursed gargoyle gates.

Twelve days of running before he
spied his first glimpse of the wall, a long black slash spoiling the
grasslands. With each stride, the wall loomed larger. Over forty feet tall,
topped with crenelated battlements, the wall cut through the steppes like a
statement of power.

Tingold turned north, angling toward
the wall. At midday, Blaine
spied the gargoyle gates. The grim sight brought him to a standstill. He gaped
in awe…till another runner bumped into him. Sketching the hand sign against
evil, Blaine
struggled to keep pace.

The gate was not what he expected.
A paved roadway breached the long black wall. Wide enough for three wagons, the
breach might have seemed like an open invitation to the north…were it not for
the gargoyles.
Twelve gargoyles
guarded the gate, massive monsters frozen in stone. Each gargoyle was unique,
beaks and claws, wings and fangs, a torment of stone so realistic they seemed
poised to strike. Thrice the height of a tall man, the monsters stood perched
atop pedestals, rearing over the roadway like a gauntlet of nightmares.
Suppressing a shudder, Blaine
clenched his fists. It was hard not to reach for his sword, especially since he
knew the legend, but he would not be shamed in front of the others.

Tingold came to a halt, staying a good twenty paces from the gate.

Blaine
stopped beside him, breathing plumes of
frost. The others gathered round. No one said a word; they just stared at the
gates. Tingold broke the silence, but he kept his voice to a whisper, as if
speech might wake the gargoyles. “Keep your distance from the gates.” He pinned
Blaine with a
warning stare. “One step on the roadway and the gargoyles will wake.”

Annoyed, Blaine
nodded, it wasn’t the first time he’d heard the warning. His gaze roamed across
the painted warriors, noting that more than a few had drawn swords, as if steel
could defeat stone.

Tingold turned to Kath. “You asked for a gate. What will you have us
do?”

But Kath did not say a word. Her gaze transfixed by the gargoyles, she
walked towards the gate as if drawn by a spell.

Tingold leaned towards Blaine,
his voice an urgent hiss. “What’s she doing?”

Blaine
could only shrug.

“If she steps on the roadway, the gargoyles will wake.” The painted
warriors stood poised to fight, but none moved to stop her.

Kath strode within a foot of the gate…and stopped. Still as a statue,
she gazed up at the gargoyles.

Minutes stretched to an hour and still she did not move. The painted
warriors sat on their haunches, staring at Kath. They shared a meal of dried
horsemeat and mead. In hushed tones, they wagered on the outcome. A few favored
Kath but most wagered on the gargoyles. Bear, one of Kath’s bodyguards, gave a
confident grunt, his arms folded across his broad chest. “You’re all wrong. She
seeks a vision from the gods and then she’ll defeat the gargoyles.”

Blaine
smirked, more proof the painted people were
little more than superstitious barbarians…but the confidence of Bear’s voice
irked him.

They finished their meal and still Kath did not move. Torven, the eagle
faced warrior, took charge. “We must give the War Leader the time she needs.
Brevor, Tangor, Clemit and Vin, take the first watch. The rest of you get some
sleep. We’ll need to be well rested if the enemy comes.”

Four guards loped away, taking up a square pattern around the troop,
keeping watch over the steppes. Bear and Boar moved close to Kath, sitting at
her back like a couple of faithful watchdogs. The others made a camp of sorts,
laying bedrolls on the frozen ground. Flagons of mead were passed but they went
without a fire. Blaine
sat cross-legged, chewing on a salty strip of dried horsemeat. A few of the men
talked, while others diced or honed their weapons, but most crawled into their
bedrolls, grown men huddled together for warmth. Blaine pulled his two cloaks close, the
maroon beneath the sheepskin, and kept watch on Kath. A mere slip of a girl,
she was dwarfed by the gargoyles. For the thousandth time he wondered why the
monks had chosen her instead of a seasoned warrior. King’s blood ran in her
veins but she was still just a girl and her magic seemed a pitiful weapon
against the mighty statues. Perhaps their journey north was nothing more than a
fool’s errand.

The sun began to set and still Kath did not move. Blaine crawled into his bedroll, seeking
warmth. He must have slept, for when he woke; the dawn’s red light streaked a
cloud strewn sky.

Torven crouched next to Blaine,
offering a flagon of mead. “She hasn’t moved.”

Blaine
tilted the flagon, taking a long pull of
fiery liquor, a blaze of warmth settling in his stomach.

“It is perilous to wait near a gate. A patrol could come at any time,
or worse, the gore hounds.”

Blaine
shuddered. “So what do we do?”

“Talk to her. Perhaps you can persuade her to move from the gate and
return when she’s ready.”

It seemed a reasonable suggestion. “I’ll see what I can do.” Returning
the flagon, he crawled from his bedroll. Shivering against the cold, he settled
his blue sword across his shoulders and walked a few paces away to make his
toilet. His piss raised a cloud of steam into the morning air, more proof the
north was a god forsaken land, not worth dying for. Finished, he turned and
studied Kath. The girl hadn’t moved, her two faithful guards sitting at her
back.

He closed the distance, his stare roving from Kath to the gargoyles. As
far as Blaine
could tell, the statues hadn’t moved either, but he did not trust them. The gargoyles
set his teeth on edge. Cast in stone, the huge hulking brutes seemed to leer
down at him, claws extended for the kill. Making the hand sign against evil, he
sidled close to Kath, staying a good sword’s length from the roadway. Blaine kept his voice to a
hushed whisper, yet it sounded loud to his ears. “What do you see when you
stare at them?”

Kath startled, as if woken from a dream. She turned and cast a weary glance
toward him. “I see souls imprisoned in stone.”

Blaine
shuddered. “Another nightmare from the
Mordant.”

Kath nodded, her stare returning to the gargoyles. “Just so.”

He stood at her back, not sure what to say. The silence lengthened, as
if she’d forgotten him. He moved a step closer, peering over her shoulder. In
one hand she held the crystal dagger, in the other, the amber pyramid. Her
fingers flicked, rotating the small pyramid against the palm like a talisman or
a prayer bead. Somehow the gesture worried him. “Do you know what to do?” His
words sounded harsh to his ears but he couldn’t take them back.

“Yes, but I’m afraid.”

Her answer sent a shiver down his spine. “Afraid of the gargoyles?”

“Afraid I’ll become them.” She turned and stared up at him, and just
for a moment, her eyes held a world of pleading.

He caught his breath, but before he could respond the look was gone,
her face wiped clean, as calm as stone. Unsure what to say, he gestured back at
the others. “Torven says it’s dangerous to linger near a gate. A patrol might
come. Or hellhounds.”

Kath nodded, her face solemn. “Yes, I’ve run out of time.” She took a
deep breath. “Will you help me?”

“How?”

She pointed to the nearest gargoyle, a fearsome beast with the fangs of
a lion and the wings of a bat. “I need to get up there.”

“
Up
there?”

“Yes, on top of the pedestal.”

Blaine
did not want to go anywhere near the
gargoyles. “Won’t it wake?”

“It might, but it’s a chance I’ll have to take.”

He noticed the others had drawn close, crowding behind him, judging him
with their barbarian eyes. Feeling their stares he knew he didn’t have a
choice. “My sword is yours.”

She gave him a half smile. “I don’t need your sword, just a leg up,”
but then her face turned grim. “Don’t touch the stone, don’t even brush against
it.”

He nodded, finding it suddenly hard to swallow.

Looking past him, Kath nodded to the others. “Get back from the gate.
Keep well away from the gargoyles,” her voice trailed to a whisper, “for I know
not what they’ll do.”