Part 31 (1/2)

The king turned his gaze to the marshal. ”Send a message across the Domain under my seal. Warn the others of this ploy, though I doubt it will be repeated.” The king studied his captains. ”We've had our warning. Now the Mordant will come in force.”

Ulrich looked indignant. ”That's it? You make light of the attack.”

”I make light of nothing.” The king's words struck like a slap. ”The council is dismissed. Remind your men of the lesson of Cragnoth, especially the sentries. See that they remember the runes. Now go, for I would speak with my son.”

The king's anger rippled through the chamber. The captains rose from their seats and left without speaking. The marshal moved to follow but the king raised his hand. ”Not you, Osbourne.”

The marshal resumed his post, his back to the blazing fire.

The chamber emptied and the door closed. Pine logs snapped and crackled in the hearth. The king glared at his only remaining son, but he did not speak. The prince broke first, words erupting in anger. ”I did what you ordered. I held the Crag and defeated the enemy. The men celebrate my victory.”

”You opened the gates for the enemy.” The king's voice simmered with rage. ”You were warned of treachery yet you never looked past their cloaks.”

The prince flamed red. ”They're dead, what does it matter?”

”Did you even remember the runes?”

Ulrich looked away.

”No.” The word fell like an axe. ”I'll wager a veteran told you after the battle.”

The truth was writ large across the prince's face, yet he tried to cover his shame with bl.u.s.ter. ”I gained a victory for the Octagon. What else matters?”

The king's voice dropped to a deadly hiss. ”The crown matters. A king needs to know his enemies, to always out-think them.” Disdain filled his voice, ”Yet you did neither.”

Outrage claimed the prince. ”I slew more enemies than any of my men!”

”It's not your sword that's in question.” The king glared at his son. ”Strategy is stronger than steel. It is the first and best weapon of any king.” His voice dropped to a deadly growl. ”Lionel would never have made your mistake.”

Ulrich's head snapped back as if slapped...but then his eyes hardened to chips of flint. ”Lionel's dead, isn't he? Clever enough to get himself killed...and now I'm your only remaining son.”

The marshal caught his breath.

The king stared, his face stone hard...but the tic in his left eye had returned with a vengeance, an ominous sign.

Ulrich glared. ”You never see my worth.”

”I've seen more than enough.” Disgust filled the king's voice. ”Get out of my sight.”

Ulrich stood, his face a deadly grimace. ”You wrong me, father. I'm not just a sword looking for a fight.”

”Then prove it.”

Stares clashed across the table, but it was the prince who flinched first. ”As you command.” The prince strode from the chamber.

The door slammed shut but the king remained seated. He leaned back in the chair, his face creased with worry. ”The G.o.ds mock me, Osbourne. First Tristan, then Lionel, then G.o.dfrey and Griffin. They steal the best of my sons and leave me a hollow sword. Ulrich should have remembered the runes. My squire would have known better.” He shook his head, a mane of silver. ”I fear for the Octagon.” The tic at the king's left eye beat a fierce rhythm.

The marshal worried for his lord. ”Perhaps the prince will grow into his role. Give him time.”

”Time is already late.” He shook his head like an angry bear. ”How many good men died because Ulrich opened the gate to the enemy?”

The marshal had no answer.

”The Octagon cannot afford such mistakes. We fight with our wits as well as our swords.”

”Given the right advisor, Ulrich may learn to avoid such mistakes.”

The king sighed. ”Then you'd best outlive me, Osbourne.”

The words s.h.i.+vered like a doom, sc.r.a.pping against the marshal's nerves. He shook his head in defiance. ”We'll defeat the Mordant together and then worry about the throne.”

The king's face turned hard as stone. ”Yes, the Mordant. I've a fearsome blood debt to collect.” Grim as death, the king strode from the chamber. The marshal followed, but he could not shake the feeling of dread. He wondered how much time they had left.

37.

Duncan Chains on his ankles, shackles on his wrists, Duncan knelt on the cavern floor. Pain blazed in every part of his body, a prisoner once more.

Whips cracked and handlers yelled, moving up and down the ragged line. One of a hundred, he knelt in a long line of rebels, all of them shackled and chained. Most bore wounds; b.l.o.o.d.y badges of honor, but all of them wore nasty red welts crosshatched on their skin, badges of defeat. The sticky webs were gone, and so were their weapons, stacked in a mound like an offering to a G.o.d. Fresh air wafted through the chamber like a taunt, so close to victory it hurt. Krell's body lay crumpled near the entrance, a spear rampant in his chest. A fallen hero, Duncan envied the big man his fate.

A whip cracked close to Duncan's face. ”Don't wish for death, maggot.” A leather-clad handler sneered down at him. ”Your life is not your own.”

Duncan lowered his gaze, smoldering with hate.

A flourish of drumbeats came from the entrance, accompanied by the rhythmic tramp of hobnailed boots. Soldiers marched into the cavern, a disciplined gleam of gold and black. Soldiers...not mine guards, they formed a line opposite the prisoners, presenting a solid wall of s.h.i.+elds.

A trumpet echoed through the cavern, a haughty blare. The s.h.i.+eld wall parted to reveal eight slaves struggling to carry a gilded chair perched atop a raised platform. A single man sprawled in the sedan. Big and baldheaded, with muscles gone to fat, he wore robes of green wool, gold rings on his fingers, a cat-o-nine tails in his hands. The slaves lowered the chair. An entourage of guards and scribes hovered around like flies buzzing to carrion.

The handlers bowed deep and the soldiers snapped to attention.

The lordling rose from his gilded chair, using the height of the sedan to survey the prisoners. Flexing the cat-o-nine tails between his hands, his voice filled the cavern. ”Nothing in the Mordant's domain is ever wasted. Nothing. Not even your pitiful lives. But punishment is owed...and the debt will be paid.” The lord flashed a sleepy smile. ”Your leaders will serve by example...while the rest return to work in the mine. Lest you think to rebel again, each of you will be marked with a special brand. If the iron ore does not flow within a day, then every tenth man will pay a t.i.the to the Mordant. The t.i.the will be nothing important, nothing to hinder your work in the mine, just a small payment of useless flesh...just your manhood.”

A shudder pa.s.sed through the prisoners.

Duncan's mouth went dry.

”But first I'll have your leaders.” The lord gestured and a blond-haired courtier emerged from his entourage.

Something familiar snagged Duncan's stare. And then he saw it, the distinctive gleam of polished gray leather. The courtier wore his boots, his Midwinter gift from Jordan. Like a bauble tossed to a fawning servant, this courtier dared wear his boots! Outrage flooded all reason. Duncan surged to his feet, his hands balled into fists.

A whip cracked.

Fire lashed across his back. Duncan staggered forward.

A handler appeared, pressing a dagger to his throat. ”On your knees, maggot.”

Duncan snarled but he had no choice. His chains clanked as he knelt, but his stare never left the courtier. Tall and clean-shaven, with close-cropped blond hair, the man strode toward the kneeling prisoners. One at a time, he moved down the line, studying each rebel. He paused before Seth and gestured. ”This one.” A pair of handlers dragged Seth to his feet. The courtier continued down the line.