S&SS [04] The Poison Priestess

by Karen Azinger

  5

  Steffan

  The day dawned red, a perfect omen for the start of a holy war. Banners of the Flame unfurled against the brightening sky, snapping in the breeze. Steffan rode at the head of the army next to General Caylib, surrounded by an entourage of bishops. A long snake of soldiers marched behind, red tabards competing with the morning sky. The men began to sing, deep voices raising a battle hymn, proof of their eagerness for war. Thousands of hobnailed boots kept time, drumming the sound of invincibility into the ground. They tramped through the autumn countryside, churning the dew-laden grass to mud. Fifty thousand foot and ten thousand horse marched into Lanverness unopposed.

  The scouts proved their worth. As predicted, the village lay nestled at the foot of a steep ridge, quaint little houses made of timber and stone and thatch, surrounded by a patchwork of fallow fields and autumn forests. A handful of fat milk-cows grazed in a fenced pasture, but the farmers were not yet afield. Smoke rose in lazy curls from stone chimneys, a sleepy village lulled by a peaceful morning, soon to be shattered by war.

  The army climbed the ridge, fanning out along the length like a second sunrise. Steffan and the general took the high ground in the center, the perfect vantage point for the carnage to come. Trumpeters, signalmen, and messengers surrounded the two leaders, awaiting orders. The battle plan was simple. Two divisions of foot made their way around the far ends of the ridge. Approaching the village from north and south, they executed a simple pincer formation designed to trap the villagers in the jaws of hell.

  Horses nickered and battle banners snapped along the ridgeline, impatient for war. The general held the cavalry in reserve, watching as the two divisions emerged from the shadows. Sunlight broke through the morning clouds, streaming across the countryside, as if the Flame God gave his blessing to the battle.

  Steffan drew his sword and stood in the stirrups, his voice booming along the ridge. “For the Flame God! Death to the infidels!”

  A roar shook the ridge. “The Flame God!” Warhorses stamped and snorted. Soldiers shook their halberds and unsheathed their swords, howling for blood and victory.

  Below the ridge, the two divisions broke into a run. Halberds gleaming, they hurtled forward, screaming their devotion to the Flame God.

  The village stirred. Farmers emerged from their homes, some holding milking pails. Rubbing sleep from their eyes, they gawked at the soldiers, an unexpected nightmare.

  A hungry growl rose from the soldiers, predators sighting their prey. Two lines of red converged like jaws snapping closed. Bishop Taniff led the charge. A tall, bearded cleric in bloodred armor, he waded into the villagers, swinging his mace in a deadly arc while bellowing prayers, the perfect fanatic.

  Villagers erupted from their homes like ants kicked from a mound. Some tried to fight, wielding pitchforks and cudgels and scythes. The farmers showed uncommon bravery, a thin dike of homespun-brown holding back a relentless tide of red, but their valiant defense was fleeting. Halberds flashed in deadly arcs and the red advanced, reaping a bloody harvest. Bishop Taniff cut into the defenders, his mace carving a deadly path. Farmers fell beneath the onslaught while their women-folk screamed in horror.

  General Caylib scowled. “Too easy. A bloody slaughter.”

  Steffan nodded. “Wars always start by killing the innocent. The true battles will come later.”

  Below, the resistance crumbled. The farmers broke and ran, retreating to their homes, as if oak doors could stop an army. Soldiers swarmed the houses like angry wasps seeking entry. Halberds broke windows and bit deep into oak doors. Wood gave way to steel, and the red tide poured in. A desperate few tried escaping out back windows, mostly women with babes in arms, but the soldiers cut them down. Flames erupted from some of the homes, a shout of victory from the soldiers. The fight became a ransack. The village gave up its spoils. Women were pulled from their homes to be raped in the fields. Soldiers emerged from houses carrying quilts, cured hams, iron tools, and sacks of grain while others prodded prisoners with their swords.

  Terrified, the survivors cowered in submission. The peasants were herded into an empty paddock where soldiers gathered wood for a bonfire. A few women had sense enough to gather up their children and make a dash for the western woods. A handful evaded the soldiers, disappearing into the brush.

  The general pointed toward the forest. “Sound the hunt. I want the strays captured.”

  “No.” Steffan overruled the command. “Let them go.”

  The general growled, “Mercy’s the last thing I’d expect from you, counselor.”

  Steffan laughed. “It’s not what you think. I have my reasons.” Turning in the saddle, he raised his voice to a command. “Let the trumpets sound our victory, the first of the holy war.” He wheeled his sorrel stallion away from the ridge top, his black cape fluttering in the breeze. “Come, we have an offering to make to the Flame God.”

  They rode down from the ridge into the killing fields. Trumpets blared in triumph and battle banners streamed overhead. Steffan led them through the village to the paddock, his stallion stepping around broken bodies, most of them farmers.

  Bishop Taniff waited at the gates, gore dripping from his spiked mace. The battle-cleric flashed a bloodthirsty grin, his voice booming in pride. “A holy victory, my lord! The infidels are sweet to reap!”

  Steffan nodded. “A fine start to the holy war. How many did we lose?”

  “Three dead and five wounded. The Flame God protects his own.”

  “That he does. And now the god deserves his due.” Steffan gestured to the wood pyre taking shape in the center of the paddock. “Consecrate the bonfire and prepare the brands.”

  The bishop grinned, a blaze of religious fervor in his dark gaze. “A righteous duty for a holy warrior.” He made a half-bow and then turned and strode toward the mound, his baritone voice bellowing chants to the Flame God.

  The bishop is a fanatic, but fanatics have their uses. Steffan stayed on his horse, surveying the scene.

  The army encircled the paddock, victory exultant on every face. Soldiers climbed the fence, jostling for a better view. A detachment of soldier-priests approached the wood pyre. Distinctive in their mitered helmets and flame-embroidered baldrics, they waved braziers filled with incense. Purifying the ground around the pyre, they released plumes of blue-gray smoke while muttering a chant of prayers. The cloying scent choked the field, a prelude to the charbroiled carnage.

  At the far end of the paddock, the surviving villagers huddled together. Shock and fear rode their faces, a pathetic cluster of two-dozen peasants, mostly women and children and a few graybeards too old to fight. The children cried, clinging to their mothers’ skirts, but the adults were strangely silent. Steffan recognized the look. They’d passed beyond fear into a stupefying haze of disbelief, staring but not seeing, like cattle oblivious to the butcher. Another crop of souls sacrificed to his ambition.

  The pyre was sanctified and the stage was set. Steffan gestured to a trumpeter. “Begin.”

  Horns blared in triumph, announcing the start of the sacrifice.

  Bishop Taniff ignited a burning brand. Holding the flaming branch aloft, his baritone voice beckoned the faithful. “Behold the Flame God! The true source of our victory!”

  Soldiers beat their shields, answering the call.

  The bishop circled the pyre, his words full of holy enticement. “And the Flame God said unto the Pontifax, send your sinners to me in a burning pyre, a bonfire of your enemies. Take up your swords and cleanse the land of infidels. Make an offering of soot and smoke and souls, and the righteous shall be welcome in paradise!”

  Soldiers took up the chant, “Paradise! Paradise!”

  The bishop raised the fiery brand to the heavens and then slowly lowered it toward the wood. Drenched with oil, the pyre ignited with a whoosh of flames. Fire licked heavenward, releasing a blaze of heat.

  At the far end of the paddock, the prisoners began to bleat.

  Steffan signaled
to the trumpeter. “Announce me.”

  The horns blared a trill of notes and Steffan rode into the paddock. Soldiers gave way, clearing a path before him. Circling the pyre, he rode towards the prisoners, his black cape billowing in the wind. “We’ve claimed the first victory for the Flame God!”

  His men cheered, beating their swords against their shields.

  Steffan raised his hands and the clamor stilled. “We’ve come to spread the true faith, and to liberate Lanverness from the abomination of a bitch queen!” He turned to address the prisoners. “We’re on a holy mission and we’ve come to give you a holy choice! Our priests stand ready to hear your confessions. For those of you who will bend the knee and take our faith, you will find prosperity through service. For those who refuse, the Holy Flames await.” Steffan gestured to the roaring pyre, the fierce crackling punctuating the silence. “A holy choice is upon you. Take the brand of conversion or the pyre of purification, yours to choose.”

  The soldiers beat their shields, “Choose! Choose! Choose!”

  Red-robed priests approached, bearing brands of conversion.

  Steffan waited on his warhorse, the breeze tugging at his cloak.

  An old man stepped forward from among the prisoners. A gray-haired grandfather, he shook his fist in defiance. “We’ll never take your god! You’re nothing but a pack of murders and thieves! The Lords of Light save our queen!”

  Steffan gestured to the bishop. “He has chosen.”

  Bishop Taniff grinned. “Take him!”

  A pair of priests pounced. Dragging the old man from the paddock, they hurled him into the bonfire. For half a heartbeat, the old man stared from the fire, and then the flames struck. Fire claimed his hair, his beard, his clothes. Wreathed in flame, he capered atop the pyre, howling unearthly screams. Priests whirled around the bonfire, singing the glory of the Flame God. Soldiers cheered and banged their swords on shields, caught up in the ecstasy of an easy victory. But the old man had little stamina and the fire soon took its due. He slumped among the flames, reduced to a charcoal lump, black smoke billowing into the sky.

  Bishop Taniff raised his arms in benediction. “Death to the infidel! All praise and glory to the Flame God!”

  “The Flame God!” The soldiers echoed the bishop.

  Once more, Steffan raised his hands for silence. He stared at the prisoners. Their faces chalk-white, the villagers shrank to a tight-knit cluster. Steffan suppressed a chuckle; certain none had ever witness such a horrible death. “The old man made his choice and our Flame God purified his sins.” Steffan gestured to the flames. “Now you must choose. Will you bend the knee, swear fealty, and take the brand of conversion or will you embrace the Flames of purification. The choice is yours.”

  A woman answered, a mother with three children clinging to her skirt. “We’ll swear your words and take your brand.” She sank to her knees, dirt staining her skirt. Like sheep, the others followed, their knees bent, bleating for mercy.

  Steffan gestured to the bishop. “Our first conversions of the war.”

  Bishop Taniff scowled, preferring the spectacle of sacrifice, yet he nodded toward Steffan. “They’ll wear the Flame God’s brand.” He gestured and priests approached the kneelers, wielding iron brands glowing red with heat.

  Steffan watched as the woman took the brand on her forehead. Her face grimaced in pain, but she did not scream. Steffan wheeled his horse away. Leaving the prisoners to the priests, he stood in the stirrups and addressed the soldiers lining the paddock. “Our first victory of the holy war!” He raised his fist in triumph. “To the victors go the spoils! Burn the village and gather the cows. Tonight, we’ll feast on Lanverness beef!”

  The men cheered, a thunder of approval.

  Satisfied, Steffan urged his stallion to a slow trot, seeking relief from the burning stench.

  General Caylib cantered to join him. Drawing even, he gave Steffan a piercing stare. “Mercy, counselor?”

  “Not mercy, but thrift. Never waste a resource.” Steffan met the general’s stare. “People are another form of plunder. They can curry horses, dig latrines, polish armor, and the women can serve as camp followers, keeping the men warm at night.”

  The general scowled, but Steffan could tell he was chewing on the answer. “The bishop did not like it.”

  “Bishop Taniff is a bloody fanatic who bears watching.”

  The general cocked an eyebrow. “More thrift?”

  Steffan smiled. “For as long as he’s useful.”

  The general barked a laugh. “I like you, Lord Raven. And I like that the war has finally begun.”

  “It has.” Steffan smiled. “We’ve thrown down the gauntlet and sealed it with a bloody atrocity.”

  “You’re forcing them to fight.”

  “Fight or submit. Either way, the Rose Crown will be mine.”

  “One thing puzzles me.” The general studied Steffan’s face, a wolf searching for weakness. “Why’d you let those strays escape?”

  “To serve as heralds.”

  “But you’ve lost us the advantage of surprise!”

  It was Steffan’s turn to laugh. “Surprise! We never had it! Look behind you, general. The Army of the Flame raises a league-long dust cloud. The queen knows we’re coming. By letting a few escape, we’ve traded surprise for terror. Tales will spread of what was done here this day. Terror is a mighty weapon, never underestimate its use. Create enough fear and our enemies will flee rather than fight.”

  “I like it.” The general flashed a wolfish grin. “You’re a shrewd one, counselor.”

  Steffan felt the pleasure of the Dark Lord, a rush of power flowing through him. “Fear will be the vanguard of our army. One way or another, Lanverness will be mine.”

  6

  The Priestess

  The curtained palanquin swayed to the step of the bearers. Cocooned in silk, the Priestess reclined on pillows, peering between the curtains, observing the royal complex. Torchlight danced across marble columns and doors of beaten gold, each palace more extravagant than the next. An abundance of wealth crowded behind the protective walls, a royal sanctuary hiding a nest of princely vipers.

  For those who had the wit to see it, the true nature of the mercenary kingdom was writ large across the royal compound. Each palace was owned by a prince of the blood. The glut of palaces was the product of the royal harems, a legacy of the distant desert. Instead of a single royal line, the harems spawned a war for succession. Over a hundred brothers and half-brothers vied for the Cobra Throne, intrigue and poison the weapons of choice. Centuries ago, the desert-born had crossed the seas to conquer a corner of Erdhe, but the culture of the sands proved their ultimate undoing. Locked in continual conflict, their descendants frittered away their power till Radagar was nothing more than a purveyor of mercenaries, poisons, and aphrodisiacs. Decayed to insignificance, yet the royal house continued with the deadly game of succession. Cunning and treachery were the true keys to the Cobra Throne. It was a game the Priestess knew very well, a game she intended to turn to her advantage.

  The palanquin halted before a palace, an elegant exception to the surrounding extravagance. Moonlight shimmered on sandstone carved into graceful arches and bell-shaped domes, a confection of curves alien to the architecture of Erdhe. An arcade of slender columns created a shaded portico, echoing the pride of a desert past. Austere yet elegant, the palace reflected the complex nature of the man within, releasing a flood of memories for the Priestess.

  Otham opened the curtains and offered his hand. She let him help her from the palanquin, a whisper of silk.

  Just as she stepped to the cobblestone paving, the great cedar doors swung open. Servants dressed in silk emerged to bow a gracious welcome, but the Priestess knew soldiers watched from the shadows, scimitars guarding against treachery, a reality of a royal house.

  A silver-haired seneschal with a close-trimmed beard stepped forward. Touching his brow and his heart, he gave the traditional greeting. “Welcome to the Ro
yal House of Razzur. May you walk in the shade of peace and may your descendants be as numerous as the grains of sand in the deep desert.”

  The Priestess made her voice pure velvet. “May prosperity flow across this noble house like a spring that never runs dry.” She lowered her veil, giving him a glimpse of her face. “It is good to see you, Hamid.”

  “And you, mistress.” His smile was warm, but his gaze slid to her escort of guards, defining the extent of her welcome.

  And thus the game began, before she even met the prince. She decided to make a gesture of good faith, a concession to the paranoia of a royal house. “My escort will remain here.”

  Relief washed across the old man’s face. He gave her a half-bow. “You are wise in the ways of royal houses. I am to show you directly to the prince.”

  Inclining her head, she acknowledged the repayment of trust, pleased to gain entry without the usual search, a sign of favor from the prince. “I am eager to see him.”

  She settled the veil across her face and prepared to follow, but Otham hovered close …too close. Turning, she threw him a daggered glance. “All of my escort will remain here.”

  His eyes flashed with anger, but he bowed to her will, his voice a low growl. “Yes, mistress.”

  The man was useful but his protective jealousy was wearing thin. She would deal with him later. Composing her face, she nodded to the waiting seneschal. He gave her a half-bow and led her into the palace depths.

  Memories surrounded her like incense, so much remained the same. Pale walls of polished sandstone soared to arched ceilings, mimicking the colors and curves of the desert. Braziers lined the walls, throwing off heat to dispel the winter chill of Erdhe. Guards stood statue-still in the shadows, watching as servants slipped down the hallways. And everywhere, the babbling sound of fountains echoed through the corridors, a sign of wealth to the desert-descendants.