Part 20 (1/2)

A m.u.f.fled cheer rose from the far side.

Brock's voice bellowed over the others. ”Then get your lazy a.s.ses back on this side before more rocks fall.”

Duncan looked at Bruce. ”Sound advice. You go first.”

Trembling, Bruce nodded and then scrambled up the rock-fall to the hole. Duncan retrieved the torch, knowing that Grack would punish them if it was lost.

Rocks s.h.i.+fted under Bruce's weight, a few stones clattering to the tunnel floor, but the hole remained open. Duncan followed, worming his way back, rocks sc.r.a.ping against his bare skin. Hands reached for him, pulling him from the rock's embrace. The others gathered around, pounding Bruce and Duncan on the back, talking all at once, celebrating a victory over the grave. Only Brock and Clovis stood apart.

Duncan looked at Clovis. ”Trell?”

The older man shook his head. ”He died before we could get him out.”

Duncan frowned, another life claimed by the mine, another victory for the Mordant.

Brock gripped his arm. ”Bruce nearly died as well, buried alive. A terrible way to die.” The big man shuddered. ”You were right, cat-man.”

Duncan nodded. ”You see what men can do when they work together.”

Bitterness flooded the big man's voice. ”Yeah, we can live to die another day. We're all fodder for the mine.”

”Maybe not.”

A spark of interest lit the big man's eyes. ”You have a plan, cat-man?”

The deafening clang of the bucket-chain rattled to a stop. The sudden silence signaled an end to their time in the depths.

A cheer rose from the men, they'd survived another day in h.e.l.l, rescuing one of their own from death's embrace.

Duncan nodded at Brock. ”We'll talk later.”

The men moved along the gallery to the central shaft, but instead of shuffling with weary defeat, they walked with purpose, even pride. Duncan noticed the change. Perhaps the cave-in was a G.o.dsend. Tonight might be his best chance to convince them to fight.

25.

The Mordant Splendor was the decree of the day. The Mordant abandoned subtlety for the trappings of power, choosing the garb of a warrior king. A gleaming gold breastplate inscribed with a pentacle, black leather pants tucked into knee-high boots, and upon his head he wore an iron circlet studded with black diamonds, a king come to claim his throne.

A dozen guards scrambled to open the ma.s.sive bronze doors.

A gong sounded, a deep-throated voice announcing his presence.

Thousands of supplicants fell prostrate, their faces pressed to the cold stone floor.

The Mordant crossed the narthex, boot heels ringing on polished marble. He stood on the threshold, backlit by the fading sunset.

Intimidation wrought into stone, the Basilica of the Dark Citadel proclaimed a thousand years of dominance. Vast enough to foster echoes, the cavernous hall wielded proportion like a war hammer. Ma.s.sive pillars lined the nave, supporting a vaulted ceiling shrouded in darkness. Slender rays of sunlight speared the upper dome, but they quickly faded, consumed by the gloom. Ma.s.sive candles sculpted like malformed faces provided the light, weeping waterfalls of wax tears. Mosaics glorified his past lifetimes, every detail designed to enhance his power. Built of dusky-colored stone, the Basilica portrayed all the subtle shades of Darkness from smoky-gray granites and dark-green marbles to the true black of onyx. Gold provided the only relief, a crus.h.i.+ng display of wealth paving the steps to the throne. And upon the glittering dais, exulted above all else, sat the Ebony Throne. Carved from the heartwood of a giant tree, the ma.s.sive throne was jet-black with rich swirls of green in the ebony grain, a wealth of rare wood, a triumph of Darkness over nature...and all of it, his to use, his to command.

The Mordant strode down the long aisle, his black cape flaring behind, the Staff of Pain clicking on the marble paving. Beneath his stride, he walked on names. History was written on the Basilica's floors. Names of battlefields won, cities plundered, towns burned, and villages raped. Most were long forgotten, missing from present-day maps, but in the Mordant's citadel they remained etched in stone, eternally trod beneath his boot heel.

Dark glory echoed from every aspect of the Basilica. The Mordant breathed deep, imbibing the heady rush of unrestrained power. Virile with stolen youth, he traversed the immense nave. His boot steps echoed on marble, the only sound in the vaulted hush. His stare feasted on the sea of prostrate subjects, as if the path to the throne was paved in mortal souls. Reaching the dais, he mounted the steps, a fortune of gold beneath his boots. His black cape swirled as he turned to survey the long hall. Thousands of subjects remained p.r.o.ne, covering the stone floor like a living tapestry. Not a single man dared to lift his head. The Mordant smiled, fear was such a beautiful thing.

He took a seat on the Ebony Throne, regal in black and gold.

The voice of the gong rumbled like thunder.

Thousands rose to their feet, a shuffle of humanity, all bowing toward his throne. Familiar faces stood the closest, the high priests and the generals, dressed in their finest, come to pay homage to his reign. He gave them a paternal smile, and then he began to speak.

”The Mordant has returned!” A trick of the architecture allowed his voice to boom through the Basilica. ”The time of waiting is over. I have come to take up the Dark Lord's sword, to bring the destiny of a thousand years to fulfillment. A new age of Darkness yearns to be born. Like all births, it will be drenched in blood, the blood of the southern kingdoms, for we are the Masters of War.” Cheers rose from the crowd but he quelled them with a raised hand. ”The Basilica bears the proof of our prowess. Triumphs of the past surround us. Melted crowns gild the steps of our dais. Names of the vanquished are trod beneath our boot heels. Nothing in history has ever stopped the Dark Lord, and nothing will stop us now.”

”Victory!” A single shout rose from the base of the dais. The crowd took up the chant. ”Victory! Victory!” A rolling thunder echoed through the dark vault.

The Mordant eased back against the throne, basking in their adoration, more proof of his power. After a time, he raised his hand to still the crowd. When silence returned, he nodded to his High Priest.

Gavis climbed halfway up the dais, resplendent in robes of the blackest silk trimmed with runes of gold. ”My Lord, shall we begin?”

The Mordant gestured with a flick of his hand.

Gavis snapped opened a scroll and began to read the list of names. His baritone voice summoned two hundred of the most powerful men in the citadel to swear allegiance to their G.o.d-king, a public display of fealty.

General Haith came first. Resplendent in burnished armor, the old soldier bowed low. Drawing his sword, he extended the gilded hilt toward the Mordant. He climbed the dais and he knelt to make his offering. ”My sword is yours to command.”

The Mordant touched the hilt in acceptance.

The general sheathed his sword and completed the oath of loyalty. ”As the Dark Lord is my witness, I swear to serve my lord, the Mordant, to obey his every command, to crush his enemies, to extend his reign, to live or die for him.” Falling prostrate to the golden steps, he kissed the Mordant's boot, the ultimate act of submission.

Pleased with the display, the Mordant smiled. ”Your fealty is accepted. Serve well and live long.”

The general retreated while other powerful men came forward to make their pledge. One at a time, they climbed the golden steps and knelt before the Mordant, swearing the oath of fealty. Generals, bishops, stewards, and a.s.sa.s.sins, they all abased themselves before the power of the Ebony Throne.

The Mordant watched them come, his face set in a benevolent mask, his malevolence hidden behind a cloak of stolen youth. He studied each soul, marking their names, gauging their worth while enjoying their abas.e.m.e.nt. He accepted them all, even the ones who carried the scent of treachery...until a certain bishop dared to climb the dais. Fat with easy living, Bishop Tynes huffed up the stairs, his multiple chins quivering with each step. Dropping to his knees, he pressed his hands together in prayerful wors.h.i.+p, intoning the words of ritual. ”As the Dark Lor...”

”Bishop Tynes.”

The bishop stuttered to a stop, confusion beaming from his moon shaped face. ”Yes, Lord?”

The Mordant smiled, the corpulent bishop would make a fine example. ”I received your gift of brandy.”

The bishop gaped liked a fish pulled from water but the sweat on his forehead ruined his performance. ”Brandy, Lord? I know nothing of any gift.”

”A cup of death brought by a priest in your service.” The Mordant despised bad liars but he kept his voice soft and paternal. ”Surely you will not lie to your Lord?”

The fat prelate shook his head; his jowls quaking like a stormy sea. ”I don't know what you mean.”

”Did you think I wouldn't know?”

The bishop stared, wide-eyed, his face flushed with fear.