Part 7 (2/2)
The horses were a major loss but they could not give up. ”We bind our wounds and retrieve what we can from the horses.” Unease p.r.i.c.ked the back of her neck. ”We'll head north. But we best leave before the scavengers come, before the ravens betray us.”
Duncan stared north. ”Too late.”
His words froze her. ”What?”
He pointed north. ”Hunters follow the hounds.”
Kath stared at the horizon, a cold hand gripping her stomach. A line of riders approached at a gallop, a hundred spears bristling against the sky. Their armor gleamed black and gold in the waning sunlight, soldiers of the Mordant. A horn blared, a call to arms. Death rode towards them.
8.
The Mordant The Dark Citadel thrust up from the land like a mailed fist. Built around a ma.s.sive rock, the citadel's dark ramparts dominated the steppes. Black granite walls spiraled nine times around the central monolith, creating eight tiers of city streets crowned by the royal palace, a stone beehive swarming with slaves, servants, soldiers, and priests, all awaiting their rightful lord.
The Mordant smiled, surveying the seat of his power. Thousands had perished raising the tiered city, a marvel of human toil, but the true wonder lay in the foundation, in the secret heart of the monolithic rock. Buried in the ancient depths, a doorway opened to Darkness. Even leagues away, he could feel the Dark Lord's summons, a hungry pulse tugging at his soul, the same summons that had first drawn him to the monolith so many lifetimes ago.
Keen to reclaim his destiny, the Mordant urged his stallion to a gallop. Surging ahead of his entourage, he gloried in his youth and his vigor. A cold breeze blew from the west, a tang of sea salt heavy in the air. Seagulls roiled overhead, their forlorn cries heralding his return. Nearly invisible from the farmland, the ocean pounded against cliffs three hundred foot high, eating away at the land, an abrupt end to the northern steppes. The jagged coastline came within a few hundred feet of the Dark Citadel, the rocky cove providing access to the Western Ocean, a source of power and intrigue.
Five leagues to the east lay another wellspring of power, a triumph of an earlier lifetime. Wooden towers reared into the sky, perched on the edge of the pit like giant praying mantises. A remnant from the War of Wizards, the pit had proved an unexpected boon, providing a fertile breeding ground for a twisted army.
Centuries of toil and achievements surrounded him, his great grand design finally coming to fruition. The Mordant spurred his horse, a feeling of triumph simmering in his soul.
His gaze snapped to the citadel. The dark heart of the north called him home. He galloped across the remaining leagues, his long black cape streaming behind, the cold wind raking his blond hair.
A delegation of black-robed priests stood in the citadel's shadow. Keepers of ritual, the priests of the pentacle administered his city, as well as the Trials of Return. Reining his stallion to a halt, the Mordant studied their faces, all of them strangers, too young to remember his last lifetime.
His guards arrived in a thunder of hooves. Stern faces under dark helms, they formed a crescent of steel at his back. The Darkflamme snapped overhead, a forked banner of black silk writhing in the wind.
The Mordant eased his stallion forward, his words conforming to ancient ritual. ”Death has once more been defeated. The Mordant returns to claim his throne.”
A bearded bishop met his gaze. Leaning on a wooden staff tipped with a golden pentacle, he stared up at the Mordant, his face wary, his words full of ritual. ”The Trials of Return will prove your claim...or see you dead.” He waved his hand, summoning a priest holding a velvet pillow, a simple iron circlet nestled on velvet. ”Dare to wear the na-Mordant's crown and your life will be forfeit if you fail.”
The priest approached, holding the pillow like a holy offering.
The Mordant claimed the iron crown. Raising the circlet with both hands, he made his voice loud enough for all to hear. ”I am the Mordant reborn.” He crowned himself, settling the circlet on his brow. ”By deeds and words I will prove my claim ere the sun sets this day.”
The bishop raised his staff in benediction. ”Let the Dark Lord's will be done.”
The ritual completed, the Mordant flashed the cleric a confident smile. ”Is everything prepared?”
”All according to ritual.”
”And High Priest Gavis?”
”Awaits you on the top tier.”
”Good.” The Mordant wheeled his stallion toward the citadel. ”Then let the Trials be finished.” He spurred the stallion to a canter, hooves clattering on the long stone ramp. The citadel towered above, black banners streaming from crenelated ramparts. A square gatehouse straddled the ramp; the ironbound doors thrown open wide like the maw of a hungry beast. Soldiers crowded the ramparts, straining for a view.
The Mordant slowed his stallion to a stately prance, pa.s.sing beneath the stone arch. Emerging from the gate's shadow, he entered the citadel to a triumphant roar. Trumpets blared and people cheered. Young and old lined the cobblestone street, black-armored soldiers holding back the crush. In the center of the street, stood four young pages burdened with baskets of fresh baked bread and pouches bulging with coins. By long-standing tradition, the Mordant's largess summoned the people to the Trial of Return.
Burdened with bread, the pages preceded the Mordant, tossing small loaves and copper coins to the waiting crowd. People surged forward, hands outstretched, grasping at the bounty. Spear-wielding soldiers held the crowd in check, keeping the street open.
The Mordant kept his stallion to walk, studying his people. Faces lean with hunger stared up at him, fighting for crusts of bread and copper coins. Most looked half-starved, their clothing threadbare. Little had changed in the ninth tier. By design, the citadel's lowest level held society's dregs. Barely more than slaves yet they clung to their positions with a rabid ferocity. Stewed in their own misery, they fought to survive, fermenting the feral qualities the Mordant prized in his a.s.sa.s.sins. He nodded in approval, pleased that nothing had changed, all part of his grand dark design.
People cheered as he pa.s.sed, reaching for the Mordant's bounty. Dancing in the street, they held loaves of bread aloft. A frenzied, festive feeling prevailed. The Mordant smothered a smile. By beginning each reign with a veneer of benevolence, he gave his people a leader to revere, a hope for a better life, a grand delusion that ensnared their loyalty. And all the while they blamed their misery on the priesthood, the ruthless administrators of the citadel's harsh laws, the cruel taskmasters who separated the people from their G.o.d-monarch. The Mordant laughed, enjoying the beauty of the delusion. Mortals were so easily deceived.
A young boy ducked between two solders, his gaze fixed on a fallen round of bread. Oblivious to the Mordant's warhorse, he darted toward the crusty loaf. Startled, the warhorse reared, las.h.i.+ng out with ironshod hooves. The boy tripped and fell, cowering beneath the rearing horse. The Mordant yanked on the reins, forcing the stallion to settle, turning the horse away from the boy.
A guard grabbed the boy, slapping him across the face with a gauntleted hand.
”No!” The Mordant stayed the guard. ”Give him a loaf of bread and return him to his mother. See that he is not harmed.”
Saluting, the guard leaped to obey.
A roar of approval echoed through the street.
The Mordant smiled, another delusion of benevolence.
The procession resumed its stately march, slowly spiraling toward the upper tiers. Gatehouses divided each tier, but on this day, all the gates were thrown wide open. As the street spiraled upward, the Mordant rode from poverty into prosperity. Dirt and grime gave way to gleaming polish. Colors appeared in the crowd, crimson and sapphire and malachite, bright silks and warm furs replacing drab wools. Each tier had its purpose, from the lowly rabble, to the servants, the craftsmen, the soldiers, the armorers, the acolytes, the officers, and the priests, each according to their worth. By its very nature, the tiered city enforced a soul-numbing stagnation designed to feed the Dark Lord. Sons were condemned to the trade of their fathers and daughters were raised to bear more sons. The rare few who advanced beyond their birth station, did so by climbing on the backs of others. And above all, everyone sought the intercession of the Mordant, seeking a chance to vault above their station.
Shadows lengthened, cloaking the citadel in shade. The streets became steep, slowly spiraling to the palace. With each pa.s.sing tier, the Mordant's largess changed. By the time he reached the top, the four pages threw coins of silver and gold. Even in the upper tiers, the people pushed and shoved, scrambling for every coin. Greed remained pervasive in the citadel, a mortal trait the Mordant encouraged.
Rounding the final bend, he found the way forward blocked by immense doors clad in gold reliefs, the gatehouse to the first tier. A flurry of trumpets announced his arrival. An honor guard snapped to attention, black banners fluttering in the wind. The Mordant nudged his horse toward the final gate.
Four times the height of a tall man, the golden doors displayed triumphs from his past lives. The cataclysm of Azreal, the creation of the Pit, the destruction of the Star Knights, the battle at Breanth, the raising of the Dark Citadel, the completion of the Gargoyle Gates. Victories, betrayals, feats of dark magic, the gates displayed the legacy of his past lives, all done for the glory of the Dark Lord. The Mordant smiled, knowing this lifetime promised to eclipse them all, the final culmination of age-old plans. Eager to begin, he made his voice a command. ”The Mordant has returned. Open the G.o.d gate.”
A pair of black-robed priest slowly pushed the great doors open, revealing the wonders of the first tier.
Behind him, the crowd jostled for a view.
Dismounting, he threw the reins to a waiting page and strode beneath the shadowed archway.
An ambush of crossbowmen stepped from the shadows, their loaded weapons trained on his chest.
The Mordant stared at the soldiers, his arms held wide. The soldiers lowered their crossbows and sank to their knees. Had he dared defy the laws of the citadel by riding a horse through the golden gates, they would have skewered him with quarrels, proof of an imposter, another deadly test.
Walking past the soldiers, he strode to the heart of the first tier, to the great circular courtyard. Fas.h.i.+oned from silvery granite, the stones of the courtyard were inlayed with runes carved from black marble. Written in a language long forgotten, the runes spiraled out from the center, imbuing the citadel with dark cantrips of endurance and strength. At the very heart of the runic spiral, the peak of the monolith thrust up to the sky, revealing the dark doorway to below.
The Mordant stared at the shadowy doorway, breathing deep, feeling the rush of Dark power, the age old summons. He bowed low, his words hushed, ”Soon, my Lord” and then he turned and strode across the courtyard.
The royal palace dominated the far side, a crescent shaped edifice made of gilded columns and black marble. Burnished bright by the fading sunlight, the twisted columns glowed golden.
Arrayed in all of their finery, the citadel's elite stood on the palace steps, a bejeweled spectacle of bright silks and polished armor. High priests, generals, and stewards, the mortals who risked the most by his ascension, stood ready to witness the Trials. Most yearned to watch an imposter die a horrible death, remaining secure in their borrowed power. Staring down at him, they kept their faces stone-closed, their eyes wary, but they could not hide their souls. Darkness rolled down the steps in waves. The Mordant breathed deep, sorting through the tangled scents. Most reeked of boundless ambition, ruthless cruelty, and cold-blooded murder, the common tools of statecraft in the citadel...but underneath the petty acts of Darkness, he caught a hint of rarer fare, the taint of treachery...and a tantalizing thread of fear. Only a rare few had the wisdom to fear, mostly the graybeards, the ones who remembered.
The Mordant hid his smile. Fear was useful; it led to obedience. He searched the faces of the elite, making note of those he'd known in his last lifetime. Old and gray, the few who survived were ravaged by time. So many more were missing, conquered by death or the ambitions of younger men; the politics of the Dark Citadel were not for the faint of heart.
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