Six soldiers pinned him with their stares.
Danly’s face reddened, but he refused to retreat. Taking mincing steps, he wobbled toward the campfire.
Someone snickered.
Someone else said, “All hail the eunuch prince!”
Danly flamed red, the words burning like a lash, but he kept walking, the clank of chains marking every step.
A dark-haired soldier laughed. “Does a eunuch squat to piss? Or do you just let it dribble down your leg?”
“Do you have anything left? Or did they shave you smooth like a maiden?”
Their mocking jibes came thick as arrows, every one finding its mark.
“Not much of a prince, are you?”
“That’s enough.” The leather-faced captain growled an order. “Get the prisoner a plate of food.”
Danly made it to the fire, taking a careful seat on a felled log. A red-haired soldier with a pockmarked face handed him a plate of roast venison and a hard biscuit. Danly grabbed the venison and shoved it in his mouth, the hot juices running down his chin, fouling his beard. He nearly swooned at the taste. Ravenous, he ate like a hungry wolf, trying to fill the void in his stomach. Someone handed him a mug of tea. He longed for wine, or better yet brandy, but he gulped the bitter brew, holding the mug out for more. Licking the grease from his fingers, he ate a second serving. His hunger finally sated, he felt the soldiers’ stares. Dark eyes stared his way, piercing him like spears tipped with scorn.
Danly hid behind a shield of words. “Where are you taking me?”
A stony silence was the only reply.
“What’s to become of me?”
No one bothered to answer. Sitting ringed around the fire, the soldiers were all strangers despite their green and white tabards. Some sat on bedrolls, other leaned against logs…but all of them stared…as if he was a freak, or a monster…anything but a man.
The disdain on their faces wormed into his soul. Shame wrestled with rage, a tumult of anger building inside till he could take it no more. His rage exploded in a roar. “Your head or your manhood?” Like a gauntlet, he threw the challenge in their faces, spittle flying from his mouth. “What would you choose?” His finger stabbed at each soldier. “Choose! Choose! Your head or your manhood! Your life or your cock!”
A few looked away, but most stared back at him with cold hard faces.
Their silence melted his resolve. Swaying on his feet, Danly slowly sank to the ground, his voice hushed to a whisper. “You’d choose the same as me.” He choked back a sob, his hands cupping his bandaged groin. “The same as me.”
The fire snapped and crackled, spitting sparks.
The stern-faced sergeant drew his sword, scrapping a whetstone along the length of steel. “Not bloody likely.”
The captain growled, “Enough of this. Carter, take the prisoner down to the stream and let him wash. He smells worse than a dung heap. And get him some fresh clothes.”
The blond-haired soldier grumbled but he grabbed a saddlebag and then stood over Danly, his hand on his sword. “Get up.”
The strength had gone out of him, like water run from a cracked jug.
“I said get up.”
Danly struggled to rise, the chains clanking at his ankles.
“Hurry up.” The soldier yanked him to his feet and shoved him toward the stream.
Danly stumbled and almost fell, the pain at his groin stabbing him with every step. He leaned against a tree, biting back a sob, wondering how it had all gone so wrong.
Behind him, the blond-haired soldier barked an order, “Move!”
Danly hobbled down the hill toward the rushing water. Something snagged the chain between his ankles. He tumbled forward, landing face-first in the stream. Cold water smacked him hard across the face, stealing his breath. Danly came up gasping, struggling to stand in waste-deep water.
Cruel laughter mocked him from the bank. “And to think I wanted you for my king.”
The words hit harder than the water. Danly turned and stared at the soldier, his voice a whisper. “So you were a Red Horn?”
“And now I’m sworn to the queen. At least she has more balls than you.” He threw a lump of soap at Danly, hitting him in the chest. “Get washed, before you kill us with your royal stink.”
Suddenly numb to the cold, Danly fumbled with his wet shirt, peeling it from his skin, letting the rags float away in the current. Sinking into the water, he scrubbed hard, rubbing away the grime, rubbing away the horrors of the dungeon. And all the while the soldier’s words burned in his mind, lighting a faint hope. A Red Horn pardoned by the queen. Where there’s one, there’s sure to be more. Perhaps the others remained loyal, waiting for their king. Leaderless, they lay dormant, seeded within the queen’s court…waiting for his return. He’d kept his head…while all the other Red Horn leaders lost theirs. He’d kept his head. The realization gave him hope. The gods had spared him for a reason.
He cinched his prison pants and rose dripping from the water. “I need a shirt.” His old voice had returned, command tinged with disdain.
The soldier stared, but he said nothing, tossing Danly a cloth bundle.
A butter-brown shirt, stained in the front, too long in the sleeves, scratchy wool instead of silk, but for now it would do. He was clean, he was alive, and he had a purpose. Danly stepped from the stream, striding to the limits of his chains. First freedom…then vengeance…and then the crown.
8
Steffan
A pair of scouts galloped down the hillside, their horses lathered and blowing. “My lord!” Riding straight to the column front, they reined next to Steffan. “My Lord Raven, we’ve captured the manor house you’ve been askin’ for!”
“Intact?”
The scout looked befuddled.
Steffan rephrased the question. “Is the manor whole and unplundered?”
“It’s whole enough,” the scout grinned, “although the lads might have had a scullery maid or two.”
“And the lord of the manor?”
The scout shrugged. “The lads were still searchin’. We thought it best to bring you word.”
“Your names?”
“I’m Galbert and this is Tarnley.”
Steffan turned to the general. “I’ve a mind to sleep in a bed tonight.”
General Caylib quirked an eyebrow. “Getting soft?”
“Hardly. Swords are not the only way to capture a kingdom.” Steffan quelled the general’s questions with a look. “Bring two squads of Black Flames. I want the manor house secured and unplundered.” He turned his gaze to the bishop. “Bishop Taniff, you have the army. Bring them at a quick march and have them camp around the manor. Tarnley will serve as your guide.”
The bishop gave a curt nod while the general bellowed orders.
Eager to secure the manor, Steffan wheeled his stallion to the left. “Galbert, lead the way.” The scout spurred his horse to a gallop. Steffan and his holy guard of thirty Black Flames followed. Banners streaming, they thundered up the hillside and into a copse of oak. The countryside looked peaceful enough, fallow farmland separated by wooded hillsides, but the sky told a different story. Columns of dark smoke speared the north, proof of past conquests. Steffan could almost smell the ashes of dead infidels, a threat and a warning. Grinning, he urged his horse to jump a fallen tree.
They rode for a handful of leagues before reaching the manor house. The estate was guarded by a ditch and a thick hedge, but the wrought iron gate stood open. They rode down the lane, unopposed. The fields looked well tended, fenced and plowed under for winter. Fat milk cows grazed in grassy pastures, fresh meat for his hungry army. Beyond the fields, a cluster of thatch and wattle cottages huddled together. Doors gaped open and one bloody corpse sprawled on the threshold, but if the tenants survived, he could not tell. At least the cottages remained intact, no scent of fire on the breeze. Steffan urged his stallion forward, keen to reach the manor house. The lane took them to the heart of the estate, a stone wall sep
arating servants from the nobility. They clattered through a gatehouse and into a courtyard, sending a dozen chickens flapping in alarm. A pair of red-cloaked guards startled to a hasty salute while a third tupped a woman over a barrel. “The Lord Raven comes!” The cry echoed through the courtyard, more of a warning than a greeting.
Steffan dismounted. A handful of Black Flames surrounded him while the others hurried to secure the mansion.
One of the guards approached, hastily stuffing his manhood into his trousers. “Lord Raven, we’ve captured the manor house you’ve been wantin’.”
“And the nobles?”
The guard flushed red. “I’ll take you to the captain.” He turned and led the way toward the manse.
Built of dressed stone with diamond-paned mullioned windows and a gabled roof, it was a grand house, befitting a wealthy lord. Carved double doors opened onto a great hall with a vaulted ceiling and a massive stone hearth. Four trestle tables ran the length with a fifth set on a small dais. Faded tapestries lined the walls with hunting scenes. Light speared through windows sending fractured rainbows across the floor. The great hall was large enough to seat three hundred, perfect for Steffan’s intentions.
A pair of soldiers clattered down the stair. “Lord Raven,” the captain saluted, “I see Galbert made good time.”
“Your name?”
“Captain Humbolt, sir.”
“You’ve done well to secure the manor house but what of the nobles?”
“Fled, sir. Nothing but nags left in the stables. They took the best horses, and as far as we can tell they took the gold and silver, but the larders are full and so is the wine cellar.”
“And you did not think to follow?”
The captain blanched. “I was told you wanted the estate intact. With so few men, I thought it best to secure the mansion.”
Steffan nodded. “Have the servants assembled in the great hall, I will speak to them. In the meantime, I want to see the lord’s chambers.”
The captain issued orders and then ushered Steffan and his guard up the stairs. The lord’s bedchamber proved largely intact. A massive four poster bed piled high with embroidered coverings dominated the chamber. Clothing was strewn across the floor, the doors to the wardrobe hanging open, proof of a hasty retreat…or a quick ransack. The lord’s solar held two more chests of clothing, rich velvets and brocades, both hastily stirred. The jewel box was empty and so was the sword rack, but the silver candlesticks remained. “You’ve done well.” Steffan hefted a candlestick and tossed it to the captain. “A reward for your diligence.”
The captain grinned. “Thank you, sir!”
“I’ll be staying here for the night. I want a woman, a hot bath, and the best bottle of the brandy in the cellar. Can you see to that?”
“Yes sir.”
“Good man.” Steffan strode from the solar and returned to the top of the stairs. Servants huddled below in the great hall, surrounded by soldiers. A few women wept and a few men bore bruises, but otherwise they looked intact. “I’m glad to find you in good health.”
They stared aloft, trembling in fear, a dazed look in their eyes.
“We’ve come to spread the blessings of the Flame God. Your lives have been spared so that your souls can be saved. Tomorrow you’ll be given a choice between the brand of conversion and the pyre of flames. I suggest you take the brand. But tonight, you will show your gratitude by serving a feast for my officers. Spare no expense, for your lost lords will not begrudge the largess. I want a feast fit for conquerors, your best wines, your best roast fowl and your best confections. Kill the fatted calf and open your cellars. Serve well and you will live well.”
The servants gawked up at him.
“Get to work.” Steffan glared down at them, “or I’ll give you to the priests.”
The outer doors banged open and the general clattered in.
The servants scattered like chickens fleeing the axe.
General Caylib crossed the great hall and climbed the stairs. A troop of Black Flames followed, halberds held at the ready. “The manse is secure and Bishop Taniff is bringing the army at quick march.”
“Good. Have the army camp in the surrounding fields. Butcher the livestock and let the men raid the outer buildings but the manor house is to remain untouched. I’m holding a feast for the officers tonight. No priests, no bishops, just officers, and I want the best military men to be seated at your table.”
The general scowled. “What are you up to, counselor?”
Steffan grinned. “Wielding my favorite weapon.”
The general gave him a slanted look, but he asked no more questions.
A man of few words, he liked that about the general. Steffan returned to the lord’s solar and found servants pouring pails of steaming water into an iron tub. A knock sounded on the door. “Come.”
Pip entered, followed by Olaff bearing Steffan’s travel chest. “They say we’re staying the night.”
“We are. I want fresh clothes laid out for the feast tonight and I’m expecting a woman.”
Pip moved with practiced efficiency, supervising the bath and laying out a change of clothes. Steffan searched the lord’s solar, looking for letters, writs, and other correspondence. He found the lord’s seal, a fist clutching a lightning bolt, a pretentious symbol for such a minor lordling.
“Your woman is here, m’lord.”
“Good. Send her in.”
She entered with timid steps, walking with her head bowed, a flaxen-haired lass in peasants’ clothing. He preferred dark-haired beauties, but a little variety now and then was a good thing. “Let me see your face.”
She raised her head a finger’s width, tears streaking her cheeks, a shy beauty.
“You don’t want to do this.”
She shook her head, her voice a whimper. “No, lord.”
“But you’ve done this before.”
“Yes,” the smallest of whispers, “but only once.”
He doubted her answer, peasant girls were bred early, but it made for a tempting illusion. “An army surrounds this manse, an army of men eager for release, but I’ll give you a choice. You can stay the night and pleasure a lord, or you can walk out that door and a dozen soldiers will have you ere the sun rises. Yours to choose.”
She stared at him with wide eyes. “I’ll stay, lord.”
“Good, now drop your clothes. I’ll have a better look at you.”
She stood in front of the fire, slowly shedding her layers. Steffan watched while sipping brandy. Her every movement was shy and demure, her very timidness enflaming his manhood. Her small clothes finally fell to the floor. Naked, she stood in front of the fire, her hands crossed in front of her breasts, peeking at him through a long tangle of flaxen hair. She was like a wood nymph, shy and unconquered. “Lower your hands.” She obeyed and he got a good look at her breasts, tender buds waiting to be nibbled. Steffan yearned to pounce, but he knew the conquest would be sweeter for the waiting. “Now come and undress me.”
She knelt before him, pulling off his dust stained boots. Her hands shook, fumbling with belts and buckles, her eyes too shy to meet his face. His manhood strained against his leathers but he did not help. When he finally stood naked before her, she flinched away at the sight of him. Her reaction only made him harder. “On your knees before the fire.”
She obeyed, trembling before him. He knelt behind her. His hands cupped her breasts and stroked her flanks, like soothing a filly for the first saddle. When her trembling slowed, his hand delved her sex. So tight, he could not wait. He mounted her from behind, a deep thrust, over and over again. She writhed and bucked beneath him, but whether it was in pain or ecstasy, he did not care. He took her until he was sated, and then he turned her over. The second time was more languid, but just as satisfying. Finally spent, he lay on his back, staring at the coffered ceiling. She curled against him, tears streaking her face, yet she clung to him, her flaxen hair spread across them like a blanket.
“Will you k
eep me, lord?”
“So you liked that?”
“Yes, lord.”
She was a tempting little thing, but he suspected her allure would vanish with her timidness. “What’s your name?”
“Salmay, lord”
“If I keep you, you’ll be one of many, never the one.”
Her voice quavered, but she met his stare. “Yes, lord.”
Already the timidness was fading, such a pity. “Then clean yourself up and choose a gown from the lord’s trunks. I’ll expect you in my bed tonight.”
“Yes, lord!” He pulled away from her grateful kisses and strode into the lord’s chamber. “Pip, I’ll have my bath now.” He settled into the tub. The water was lukewarm but it suited him. “The girl, Salmay, will be joining our train. See that she bathes and find her something suitable to wear. I’ll have her in my bed tonight.”
“Yes, lord.”
“After the feast, I’ll be meeting some officers in the solar. Have the fire stoked and a good bottle of brandy ready.”
“Yes, lord.”
He finished bathing and then dressed in black leathers, the red badge of the raven emblazoned on his chest. Belting on a jeweled sword, he swirled his cape around his shoulders. A knock came from the door.
“Come.”
The general entered, still wearing his dust-stained clothes.
“Don’t you ever bath?”
“I’ve a war to win.”
“So do I.”
“You have an odd way of fighting it.”
Steffan grinned. “Is the army settled?”
“Encamped around the manse. They’re butchering the livestock. They’ll have their own feast, but the bishops and priests are not happy.”
“The bishops can have their ceremony tomorrow, branding the converts and burning the infidels, but tonight I have plans to progress.”
Questions glowered in the general’s eyes but he did not ask them. “The officers are assembled in the great hall, and from the smells, I’d say the feast is ready.”
“Then let’s feast.” He led the general down the hallway to the staircase overlooking the great room. Officers crowded the trestle tables, their red tabards stained by travel. Servants scurried between the tables filling tankards. Scents of cinnamon apples and roast beef wafted through the great hall. Someone spotted Steffan and pointed. The boisterous talk snuffed to silence.
S&SS [04] The Poison Priestess Page 9