S&SS [04] The Poison Priestess

by Karen Azinger

  “Careful counselor, the bloody cleric has gained a following among the men. Grant him too many favors and you’ll create a rival.”

  The general was shrewder than he looked. Steffan flashed a pointed smile. “Men have a way of dying in battle, even clerics.”

  The general barked a laugh. “You’re a ruthless bastard, counselor.”

  “Aye, that’s why we get along so well.” He gestured to Pip and the lad refilled the general’s tankard. “Any sign of the Rose Army?”

  “Not yet.” The general wielded the half-eaten drumstick like a dagger. “But mark my words, they’ll run when they see us.” He waved the drumstick toward the glowing campfires. “We have the numbers. No army in Erdhe can stand against us. Once they catch sight of us, they’ll turn tail and run, seeking safety behind stone walls. Like mice, they’ll scurry to their fortresses at Kardiff, Graymaris, Lingard, and Rosekeep. And once they shut the gates, they’ll be hard to pry out.” He stabbed the drumstick toward Steffan. “What’ll you do then, counselor? Order a siege?” He hawked and spat a wad of gristle into the fire. “A siege is a bloody great waste of a good army.”

  “They’ll be no siege.” Steffan shook his head, remembering the Dark Lord’s impatience. “Pellanor is the key. We take the capital and the capture the queen. Once we hold the queen the rest will fall.”

  “Straight for the plunder.” The general barked a rude laugh, hefting his tankard in salute. “Sack the capital and kill the bitch-queen, I like it.”

  Hoof beats approached at a hard gallop. A half dozen horsemen rode to the base of the hill. The guards crossed their halberds, refusing entry. Angry words drifted up toward the pavilion.

  A premonition shivered in Steffan’s mind. “Perhaps it’s the messenger.”

  The general threw Steffan a shrewd look. “Just as you predicted.” He stood abruptly, knocking over his chair, “I’ll see to it,” and strode down the hillside.

  His appetite forgotten, Steffan rose from the table and gestured to Pip. “I’ll meet with them in the pavilion. Admit only the general and the messenger. And tell Olaff to keep the other guards well away. I’ll have no rumors tonight.”

  Catching the seriousness of his mood, Pip gave a solemn nod, holding the silk curtain aside like the perfect servant.

  Steffan stepped into luxury. Braziers lit the interior, casting a golden glow against pavilion’s walls of crimson silk. He’d ridden to war but not without his comforts. The pavilion served as a shelter and a stage, meeting the needs of a warrior while providing the rich trappings befitting a lord and a conqueror. A table cluttered with maps stood in one corner, next to a stand holding his armor, and a chest for his clothes. Pip had a pallet on one side, while Steffan’s bed filled the other, a lush mound of pillows and furs. Soft rugs lay strewn across the floor, a gilded chair waiting in the middle like a throne. A battle banner hung behind the chair, a golden flame on a field of red, a reminder his status in Coronth’s religious hierarchy.

  Steffan grabbed a goblet and filled it with brandy, his mind raging with possibilities. Taking a seat on the throne, he downed the brandy, anxious to learn the details behind the Dark Lord’s wrath.

  Pip swept the outer curtain aside. “General Caylib and a messenger from Balor to see you, lord.”

  “Enter.”

  The general strode into the pavilion, his words confirming Steffan’s premonition. “The Black Flames intercepted a messenger from Balor.”

  A look of understanding passed between them. Steffan turned his gaze to the courier.

  Mud spattered and weary, the messenger swayed on his feet. Falling to his knees, he proffered a sealed scroll with shaking hands. “My lord, I’ve killed five horses to bring this scroll with all haste. Balor is in chaos. The Keeper of the Flame needs you.”

  The Keeper, not the Pontifax, a chill raced down Steffan’s back. He broke the seal and snapped the scroll open. Written in a shaky hand, the message was full of rants and demands…but little information, so typical of the burly Keeper. “What happened to the Pontifax?”

  The messenger swallowed, wiping his hands on his red tabard. “Dead, my lord.”

  Dead! “How?”

  “Burnt, consumed by the flames,” the man shuddered as if he could not believe his own words.

  “How?”

  “Taken by the Flame God in a Test of Faith.”

  Steffan sagged back in the chair, stunned by the news. Little wonder the Dark Lord had been enraged. The Pontifax had died the worst possible death…the type of death that could unravel a religion. “But how did this happen? Did you see it? Were you there?”

  The messenger nodded. “I was there that day. Like so many others, I went to witness the Test of Faith.” He shuddered, his voice heavy with remembering. “The Pontifax prayed as he always did and then he entered the flames. Barefoot, he walked straight into the blazing inferno, a vision of holiness. At first the flames caressed him, proving the miracle of the Test of Faith…but then the prisoner leaped in.” He shook his head as if in denial. “The sinner and the holy man grappled in the heart of the flames, locked in a struggle, as if good and evil fought before our very eyes…but then they broke apart.” His voice shook in disbelief. “And the impossible happened. The Flame God took the Pontifax! Bursting into flames, he burnt like a common sinner. He writhed in the flames, consumed by the God’s Fire. I watched him die but I still don’t believe it.” The messenger gazed up at Steffan, pleading in his voice. “How could it happen? How could he die like that?”

  The tale struck like a nightmare, worse than anything Steffan had imagined. “Who did it? Who was this sinner?”

  The messenger shrugged. “No one. Just an old woman.”

  “An old woman!” The shout sprang unbidden to his lips. The messenger cringed while Steffan struggled to contain his rage. How could an old woman foil so many plans? He stared down at the hapless messenger. “And then?”

  The messenger swallowed. “The people went insane. They rioted, killing priests, killing each other. Somehow the Keeper retreated to the Temple, but the city remains a beehive of hate. Balor is a city divided, the rabble on one side and the Keeper on the other.”

  Steffan shook his head, the bloody Keeper was never meant to rule. Stupid and brutish, he’d make a mess of Coronth.

  The messenger gestured to the scroll. “My lord, the army is needed in Balor. You must return and save the Keeper.” He started to stand.

  “I did not give you leave to rise.”

  The soldier shrank to his knees, a flicker of fear in his eyes.

  Steffan locked stares with the general, sending a silent message. He gestured to Pip. “Give the messenger a drink, we have much to discuss.”

  The messenger grabbed the goblet, downing the brandy in a single long swill.

  “Good. Now you’re going to tell me everything you know. No detail is too small. Take your time and tell me everything.” Steffan leaned back in the chair, plying the man with questions, sifting through details. Over and over, he asked about the old woman, about the Pontifax, and about the Keeper. Candles burned to stubs, yet Steffan kept digging. He repeated the most important questions, finding different ways to ask the same thing, always looking for discrepancies. Many details became clear, but there was never a single mention of the ruby amulet. Steffan assumed the Keeper did not have it. Satisfied that he’d wrung every drop of information from the messenger, Steffan leaned back in the chair. “You’ve done well. But I need one more duty from you.”

  The messenger eased back on his heels, his face relieved, as if the long ordeal were over. “Anything, lord.”

  “I need your silence.”

  The general was lightning fast, his massive hands encasing the young man’s head. With a single twist, he broke the messenger’s neck. The body slumped dead at Steffan’s feet, a look of shock etched on the young man’s face.

  “Well done.” Steffan prodded the body with his boot. “Word of the Pontifax’s death can never reach the army.
All religions need their icons, especially fanatics.”

  The general’s voice was gruff. “What will you do?”

  “Do?”

  “Do we fight…or return to Balor?”

  “An army of religious fanatics is a rare and wondrous weapon, not to be squandered on a mere mob.” Steffan’s voice hardened to steel. “The death of the Pontifax is unfortunate, but it will not deter us from our goal. The holy war starts tomorrow. Lanverness waits like a maid with her legs spread wide, eager to be raped.”

  “But with the Pontifax dead, you could rule Coronth.”

  Such shrewdness from a barbarian, but Steffan sought a larger prize. “I already rule Coronth.”

  “Then why not return and claim the throne?”

  Steffan smiled. “I’ll tell you a secret. Always give the rabble something to love and something to hate. Once the people of Balor get a true taste of the Keeper’s brutality, they’ll welcome the Lord Raven home with open arms. They’ll beg me to assume the throne.” He flashed a grin. “But only after we’ve conquered Lanverness. One throne is not enough.”

  The general laughed, a ruthless sound. “I like you, counselor.” Sobering, he nudged the messenger’s body with his boot. “This one’s silence is assured, but they’ll be more from Balor.”

  “The Black Flames will intercept them, just like this one.” Steffan settled the scroll into a brazier, watching the Keeper’s message blacken to ash.

  “The death of a ruler is a hard thing to hide. You won’t keep it secret forever.”

  Another shrewd observation from the barbarian. “I don’t need to. Once the war starts, once we have a few victories notched on our swords, then I’ll tell the army.” Steffan paused to consider the possibilities. “Sometimes setbacks are opportunities in disguise.” The grim details of the Pontifax’s death ran through his mind. “The best lies are based on truth. We’ll say the Pontifax entered the Flames and ascended straight to heaven. Too holy to walk amongst mere men, the Flame God called him home, ascending to heaven on steps of fire. More proof of the Flame God’s divine favor.”

  The general barked a laugh, his voice gruff with disbelief. “And you expect the soldiers to swallow that tripe?”

  “Of course, if it’s told the right way. A few embellishments and the faithful will be keen to believe it. In fact, the more fantastic the story the more likely they’ll cleave to it. The ascension of the Pontifax will become another miracle, enshrined in the hearts of the faithful, more proof of the power of their god.”

  “And when they learn the truth, what then?”

  “My dear general, truth is a relative thing.” Steffan chuckled. “It all depends on which version the faithful believe first. Once people believe something it is very hard to get them to un-believe. It’s all about faith not logic. That’s the beauty of religion.”

  “You wield religion like a sword.”

  “Exactly.” Steffan leaned back in the chair, a satisfied smile on his face. “But enough of religion, we have practicalities to discuss.”

  The general nodded, pouring himself another brandy.

  “The roads from Balor must be guarded. Every messenger must be intercepted and thoroughly questioned before being silenced.”

  “It will be done.”

  “And I need three of your best men for a special mission.” Steffan considered the task, anxious to gain control of the ruby amulet. “Choose three Black Flames with a bit of thief in their background. Dressed as common mercenaries, they’ll need swift horses to return to Balor.”

  “To help the Keeper?”

  “No, to look for something that is lost. Something that now belongs to me.”

  “What?”

  “A weapon of religion.”

  The general scowled, clearly disinterested…exactly the way Steffan wanted it.

  “Send the men to me and I’ll explain their mission.”

  The general nodded. “And what about this one?” He nudged the body with his boot.

  “Olaff will take care of it. One of the advantages of having a bodyguard who is also a mute.”

  “Anything else?”

  Steffan raised his goblet in salute. “To victory. To the start of the holy war.”

  The general raised his own goblet, a wolfish grin on his face. “To blood and plunder.” He swilled the brandy and then tossed the goblet on the ground, striding from the pavilion.

  Steffan scowled at the general’s ill manners. The man truly was a barbarian, but every barbarian had his uses. Refilling his goblet, Steffan stepped out into the night chill, gazing down at the army of campfires. The death of the Pontifax was disappointing, even shocking, but it could be handled, as long as he kept the news from the soldiers. In fact, the old charlatan’s death might prove a blessing. Properly embellished, his death could serve to deepen the conviction of the faithful, to hone his soldiers to a killing rage. An army of religious fanatics was a fearful weapon, unparalleled in all of Erdhe…and it was his to wield. Steffan smiled, feeling destiny coalesce around him. The Dark Lord’s plans would come to fruition and Steffan would reap his just reward. One lifetime was not enough.

  2

  Danly

  Six steps to the edge of sanity by ten steps to hell, Danly paced his domain, but his cell always remained the same. Iron shackles clanged with each step, a bitter sound, but at least his cell had light. Torchlight from the hallway striped the floor with shadows. His jailors had moved him up out of the deep dungeon, delivering him from eternal darkness, giving him a cell with bars and torchlight. A straw pallet, a slops bucket, and a wooden bowl adorned his princely domain, the lord of all he surveyed, but he hadn’t stopped dreaming of the Rose throne. A bitter laugh burst out of him. Danly scratched at his armpit, fingernails digging for lice, an infernal itch from his loyal subjects.

  Whispers reached him even in the dungeon. He knew the rebellion had failed, but even the vaunted Spider Queen could not have caught all the conspirators. Like lice waiting to bite, there had to be more Red Horns hiding in the court, biding their time, waiting for the chance to put a king on the Rose throne. He clung to the hope, hoarding it like a starving man’s last breadcrumb, a meager dish but it was all he had besides hate.

  A roach scurried between the iron bars, heading for his food bowl, a marauder invading his domain.

  “You didn’t beg our leave.” His voice sounded hoarse with disuse.

  The roach continued its impudent march.

  “Beg our leave or risk our displeasure!” Danly pounced, capturing the invader beneath his hand. “Beg our royal leave.”

  A tickle of many legs served as the only reply.

  “Then die for your insolence!” He slammed his hand against the floor, crushing the invader. Brown gore clung to his palm. Wiping it on his tattered tunic, he resumed walking, repeating the command as he paced. “Die for your insolence!” The words had a lordly sound, a command fit for a king. A pity he couldn’t enforce the same sentence on his royal mother, but that sweet pleasure would have to wait till the Red Horns rescued him, till he claimed his crown. His chains clanked as he paced, six steps by ten steps, still stuck in hell.

  Somewhere down the hall an iron door clanged open.

  Danly froze, listening.

  Footsteps came his way, a lot of footsteps…too early for the morning gruel.

  He scuttled to the corner, crouching in the shadows, setting his back against the cold stone wall. If he hid, maybe they wouldn’t see him, just a shadow-prince hiding in darkness.

  The footsteps drew near. Torchlight revealed soldiers in emerald green tabards…and amongst the soldiers, a tall man in black robes.

  “Nooo.” The word shivered from his lips like a ghostly wail.

  The soldiers stopped at his cell, a clatter of keys at the lock.

  Danly couldn’t face another session in the pit. “You don’t want me. I’ve told you everything. No more names to tell, no more names.”

  The cell door swung open.

 
Panic gripped him. “You don’t have leave to enter!”

  But they came anyway, two soldiers, their faces grim, their hands gripping their swords, and between them glided the man in black, the queen’s shadowmaster, the one he hated almost as much as his royal mother. Hatred gave him strength. “So the queen’s cockroach comes crawling, what do you want?”

  “Justice comes for you.”

  The words struck like a dagger, piercing him with a shiver of fear.

  The Master Archivist drew close, his voice unrelenting. “Long overdue and more merciful than you deserve, but justice none the less.”

  The mention of mercy gave Danly a slim hope. “But there’s been no trial!”

  “Condemned by your own words in front of the queen, the traitor prince.”

  Danly tried another approach. His voice pleading, he took a step toward his enemy. “But I gave you names. I helped you defeat the Red Horns.”

  “Too little, too late.” The shadowmaster’s dark gaze was implacable.

  Danly played his last gambit. “But…I’ve repented! I regret what I did.” His gaze jumped from the master to the soldiers, desperate for sympathy. “I claim the clemency of the crown! Surely the queen’s own son deserves mercy!”

  “What you deserve is to be drawn and quartered.”

  Danly retreated, shrinking to a crouch, his back pressed against the cold stones.

  But the master’s words chased after him. “You deserve a public execution. Lashed to a butcher’s block and dismembered by a skilled executioner, sliced bit by bit until the last thing you see is your traitorous heart beating in his hand.”

  “No!” A stream of hot urine gushed down Danly’s leg.

  Scorn washed across the master’s face. “But I’ve come to give you a choice.”

  Danly grasped at the word. “A choice?”

  The master nodded. “More mercy than you deserve.” He raised his voice to a command, “Come.”

  More footsteps answered from the hallway. A red-robed apothecary, old and wrinkled, shuffled into view. A pair of soldiers in emerald green followed carrying a massive chopping block…and behind them, a black-hooded executioner bearing a gleaming axe.