Read Online The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga) by Karen Azinger - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Karen Azinger
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sparked like flint.
Benches scraped against stone.
Almost as one, the knights rose to greet their king. “The Octagon!” The shout
echoed through the hall. King Ursus moved among them, nodding greetings and
exchanging a murmur of words. Even in the winter of his years, the king roused
a fierce loyalty among his men. Like a blazing hearth, the warmth of
brotherhood swept through the great hall. The marshal stood with the others, proud
to serve such a king.
The press of maroon cloaks parted
and the king reached the high table. He nodded to the marshal, “Osbourne,” and
then took a seat next to Ulrich. His gaze circled the table, keen as sharpened
steel. “The signal fires have been lit. The council of captains is summoned for
war.”
Knights of lower rank took their
leave, nodding to the king, before moving from the high table. The great hall
began to clear. The other captains joined them at the high table, Sir Boris of
Holdfast Keep and Sir Dalt of the Ice
Tower. Each captain
commanded a tower or a keep along the Domain. They filled the high table, five
captains and three princes, with the marshal seated beside the king. One chair
remained empty…the chair of a dead prince.
Stewards poured tankards of ale and
offered plates of roast lamb smothered in gravy. Baldwin, the king’s squire,
spread a map of the north across the heart of the table, tankards set at the
four corners. Their work done, the stewards retreated to the staircase. Logs snapped
and crackled in the two hearths, the only sound in the great hall.
The king surveyed his captains. “I
led a war host to Cragnoth expecting battle…but instead found only treachery
and murder. The Mordant found a way to corrupt Trask and some of his knights.
It seems he sought a back door for his army, an easy way into the southern
kingdoms.”
The marshal eased back in his
chair, watching the faces of the captains. Only Lothar and Boris, the last to
arrive, looked surprised.
The king clenched his fist. “This
treachery cost us dear, the death of Prince Lionel and a score of loyal swords,
but Cragnoth is ours once more. The back door is closed, secured against the
north.” His stare circled the table. “But I expect the Mordant will try again,
the Octagon is summoned to war.”
Sir Lothar scowled. “A war in
winter. The Mordant strikes when it is least expected.”
“Exactly.” The king leaned forward,
like a hawk stooped to the hunt. “We must snatch advantage from treachery, heeding
the warning.”
Ulrich grinned. “Then you expect
another strike at Cragnoth?”
“Of a certainty,” the king cast a
sideways glance at his son. “The Mordant never wastes an opportunity. He’ll
send a force against Cragnoth to collect the wages of treason.” His fist
settled on the map, covering the painted symbol of the keep. “When the Mordant
finds his way blocked, he’ll seek another route across the Spines.” His hand
swept the length of the Domain, from Castlegard in the east to Salt Tower perched
on the edge of the Western
Ocean. “With so few men,
we must anticipate the strike.” He turned to study his firstborn. “If the
Octagon was yours to command, where would you wager the bulk of our strength?”
Ulrich leaned over the map, casting
a furtive glance toward Griffin,
but the second son remained impassive. “Cragnoth is our smallest garrison. By
attacking the Crag, the Mordant proves he strikes at weakness, so I believe
he’ll try for a quick victory at Holdfast Keep or the Ice Tower.”
The king turned his gaze toward his
second son. “And you, Griffin?”
The prince did not hesitate. “The
mountain trails are perilously narrow at Holdfast and treacherous with snow at Ice Tower.
An army would take the better part of a month to cross at either point.” The
prince’s gaze narrowed, a thin smile on his face. “Since the subtly of treason
failed at Cragnoth, I believe the Mordant will abandon a dagger in the back in
favor of a battering ram.”
Benches scraped against stone.
Almost as one, the knights rose to greet their king. “The Octagon!” The shout
echoed through the hall. King Ursus moved among them, nodding greetings and
exchanging a murmur of words. Even in the winter of his years, the king roused
a fierce loyalty among his men. Like a blazing hearth, the warmth of
brotherhood swept through the great hall. The marshal stood with the others, proud
to serve such a king.
The press of maroon cloaks parted
and the king reached the high table. He nodded to the marshal, “Osbourne,” and
then took a seat next to Ulrich. His gaze circled the table, keen as sharpened
steel. “The signal fires have been lit. The council of captains is summoned for
war.”
Knights of lower rank took their
leave, nodding to the king, before moving from the high table. The great hall
began to clear. The other captains joined them at the high table, Sir Boris of
Holdfast Keep and Sir Dalt of the Ice
Tower. Each captain
commanded a tower or a keep along the Domain. They filled the high table, five
captains and three princes, with the marshal seated beside the king. One chair
remained empty…the chair of a dead prince.
Stewards poured tankards of ale and
offered plates of roast lamb smothered in gravy. Baldwin, the king’s squire,
spread a map of the north across the heart of the table, tankards set at the
four corners. Their work done, the stewards retreated to the staircase. Logs snapped
and crackled in the two hearths, the only sound in the great hall.
The king surveyed his captains. “I
led a war host to Cragnoth expecting battle…but instead found only treachery
and murder. The Mordant found a way to corrupt Trask and some of his knights.
It seems he sought a back door for his army, an easy way into the southern
kingdoms.”
The marshal eased back in his
chair, watching the faces of the captains. Only Lothar and Boris, the last to
arrive, looked surprised.
The king clenched his fist. “This
treachery cost us dear, the death of Prince Lionel and a score of loyal swords,
but Cragnoth is ours once more. The back door is closed, secured against the
north.” His stare circled the table. “But I expect the Mordant will try again,
the Octagon is summoned to war.”
Sir Lothar scowled. “A war in
winter. The Mordant strikes when it is least expected.”
“Exactly.” The king leaned forward,
like a hawk stooped to the hunt. “We must snatch advantage from treachery, heeding
the warning.”
Ulrich grinned. “Then you expect
another strike at Cragnoth?”
“Of a certainty,” the king cast a
sideways glance at his son. “The Mordant never wastes an opportunity. He’ll
send a force against Cragnoth to collect the wages of treason.” His fist
settled on the map, covering the painted symbol of the keep. “When the Mordant
finds his way blocked, he’ll seek another route across the Spines.” His hand
swept the length of the Domain, from Castlegard in the east to Salt Tower perched
on the edge of the Western
Ocean. “With so few men,
we must anticipate the strike.” He turned to study his firstborn. “If the
Octagon was yours to command, where would you wager the bulk of our strength?”
Ulrich leaned over the map, casting
a furtive glance toward Griffin,
but the second son remained impassive. “Cragnoth is our smallest garrison. By
attacking the Crag, the Mordant proves he strikes at weakness, so I believe
he’ll try for a quick victory at Holdfast Keep or the Ice Tower.”
The king turned his gaze toward his
second son. “And you, Griffin?”
The prince did not hesitate. “The
mountain trails are perilously narrow at Holdfast and treacherous with snow at Ice Tower.
An army would take the better part of a month to cross at either point.” The
prince’s gaze narrowed, a thin smile on his face. “Since the subtly of treason
failed at Cragnoth, I believe the Mordant will abandon a dagger in the back in
favor of a battering ram.”
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