The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga) by Karen Azinger

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, passing 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