The general nodded. “Send for supplies from Coronth.”
He couldn’t do that. With the Pontifax dead, Coronth was in turmoil. The Keeper of the Flame sent a steady stream of messengers, demanding the army’s return. None of the messengers lived to spread the tale. “No, we need to forage for supplies. We’ll dine on the harvest of Lanverness.”
“So you’ve said,” the general snorted in disgust, “but the larder is empty. Every day raiding parties ride in all directions but the pickings are lean and a third of my men never return.”
Steffan nodded, he’d heard the reports. “I’ll order another bonfire tonight. The priests can read the portents. An omen of victory should bolster morale.”
“Men can’t eat portents.”
“And I’ll double the rations.”
“What?” The general’s outburst startled his warhorse. Yanking on the bit, he reined the stallion into submission. “What do you mean, you’ll double the rations?”
“I’m betting on victory, general, all or nothing.” His voice turned deadly serious, remembering the wrath of the Dark Lord. “Instead of four weeks of short rations, we’ll have two weeks of full bellies, and in the meantime, I’ll think of something. This war will not be won by swords alone.”
“Then think fast, councilor, for a hungry army is a dangerous beast.”
He gave the general a daggered glare. “In the meantime, general, you best find the enemy. Find the enemy and we’ll find the stolen harvest.”
The general bristled, but he did not argue.
Around them, the chorus of battle hymns ground to a halt, a rare stretch of blessed silence, the clop of hooves keeping time to the march. Steffan stood in the stirrups, scanning the hillside. A cold mist cloaked the hilltops. Autumn leaves fell from the trees, orange and red fading to brown. Fallow farmlands stretched between the hills, churned to mud by the rain, everything turning a dull brown. “Look at the countryside, general. This time of year, green should be easy to find.”
“So you say,” the general grunted, “but whoever leads the enemy fights like a fox, using the countryside against us.”
“Then set a trap.”
“How?”
The wind shifted and the rain came harder, big fat drops hitting Steffan square in the face. “You said the enemy shadows our army. Out numbered, they won’t risk a direct attack, but instead, they nibble at our raiding parties, like fleas irritating a hungry lion.”
The general grunted.
Steffan took it for agreement. “Then send a troop of Black Flames to shadow each raiding party. Ambush the ambushers.”
The general grinned. “I like it. Send some cats to catch the mice.”
“Exactly. But I want the enemy captured alive. Roast a few prisoners over a sacred bonfire and they’ll soon tell us where the harvest is hidden. Find the harvest and we’ll have no trouble feeding the troops. Feed the men and there’s nothing to stop us from marching straight to Pellanor.”
The general gave Steffan an appraising stare. “You look civilized, counselor, with your tailored cloaks and your sword inset with rubies, but underneath, you’re just as ruthless and bloodthirsty as me.”
“Anything to win, general. Anything.” Steffan spurred his horse to a gallop, impatient for victory. He had a crown to claim and another lifetime to gain, all in the name of the Dark Lord.
18
Danly
For two anxious days and three sleepless nights, Danly kept vigil, watching Athon’s every move, wondering which way the dice would fall. All his life he’d believed greed would triumph over loyalty and now his very fate depended on it, but the red-haired soldier avoided his gaze, a nervous tick raging in his left eye. Plagued by worry, Danly wondered if he should have dangled a better reward…or perhaps chosen a different accomplice. Doubt gnawed at his stomach like a ravenous wolf but all he could do was wait. He’d never been good at waiting.
The sky cleared and the roads began to dry, making traveling easier. The horses quickened their pace, every league taking him closer to exile. Danly kept a close watch on the red-haired soldier, anxious for an answer, but Athon kept his distance. The affable soldier had turned surly and short-tempered, like a horse with a burr under its saddle. Danly thanked the gods that no one else seemed to notice.
The sun climbed high in the noon sky, a bright disc among the clouds. The wagon pulled off the road, coming to a stop in the shade of an elm. The soldiers dismounted, stretching from a long morning’s ride. For the first time in three days, Athon approached the prisoner, his voice overly loud. “Do you need to piss?”
Danly nodded. “Thought you’d never ask. I’m near bursting with need.” He scuttled off the wagon, struggling to keep pace with red-haired soldier.
Athon led him to a thorn bush. Fumbling with his pants, he released a golden stream.
Danly joined him, wondering if his fate would be decided over a piss.
“The golds are real, right? And the ruby ring?”
Danly’s heartbeat quickened. “I stake my life on it.”
Athon hawked and spit. “That’s right, prince. If we get to Pellanor and there’s no gold, then I’ll take your life.”
Danly suppressed a grin, marveling at the power of a well-told lie. “The gold will be there, I swear it.”
Athon turned sideways, revealing the hilt of a hidden dagger. “I’ll hide this in the straw. Bradford is with us. We’ll do it tonight while the others sleep.”
His words sounded bold, but the peasant-soldier reeked of sweat, the telltale smell of fear. Danly did what he could to bolster his courage. “Just remember, that ruby ring will change your life.”
Athon grunted and turned away, the tick in his eye beating a fierce rhythm.
Danly followed, shuffling to keep pace, the chains rubbing his ankles raw. As he climbed onto the wagon, Athon shoved him from behind. “Get in there!” Danly sprawled in the soiled straw, but Athon neglected to chain him to the wagon. The prisoner-prince hid his grin, one step closer to freedom.
A whip cracked and the wagon lurched forward. Mounted soldiers followed close behind, a coating of dust turning their green tabards to a muddy brown.
Danly made a show of getting settled in the bouncing wagon all the while searching for the dagger. At first he couldn’t find it…but then his hand closed on cold steel. He gripped the dagger, trying to keep the triumph from his face. His gamble had paid off, bartering bold-faced lies and a wastrel’s past for a chance at freedom. Flush with excitement, Danly studied his escort, choosing his prey. He’d never killed with his own hands, always paying guards to do his wet work. He wondered what it would feel like. One of his men had sworn the rush of killing was nearly as good as sex. Danly hoped it proved true. A prisoner-prince turned judge and executioner, he studied his guards. His gaze settled on Carter, the repentant Red Horn with the snide smile. The blond-haired soldier had traded sides one too many times. Danly grinned at the thought of giving the arrogant bastard a second smile, a deep slit in his bloody throat. He fingered the dagger, anxious for the night.
A pale sun crawled across the autumn sky as if taunting him with delay. The small cavalcade traveled through harvested fields and into a forest. Dark green spruce and naked birch branches arched overhead, forming a tunnel of trees. Another forest without a name, Danly wondered where they were, how far from Pellanor, how close to exile? Forests and farms all looked the same to him, each village no different than the last. But whatever their position on the map, tonight he’d gain his freedom…or meet his death trying.
The wagon lurched to a sudden stop, the draft horses squealing in pain.
Danly was thrown against the wagon, bruising his arm.
The draft horses bucked in their traces, rocking the wagon. A whip cracked and a soldier shouted orders, but the horses were frantic. White-eyed, they reared in the traces, flailing their hooves. Danly gripped the wagon, afraid it would topple.
Crossbow bolts hummed from the forest, peppering his gua
rd. Soldiers screamed, blood blossoming on their tabards. Danly cowered in the wagon, trying to make sense of the chaos. Brigands on the road! The sergeant drew his sword riding into the fray.
“Kill the prisoner!”
Captain Talcot leaped onto the wagon bed, his sword raised. “Die traitor!”
Danly scuttled backwards, a dagger his only defense. “No!”
A feathered shaft punched the captain’s chest, blood spattering Danly’s face. The captain tumbled backward. Danly stared in shock.
Something whispered past Danly’s head. He cowered in the wagon, struggling to make sense of the attack. Feathered bolts punched the air, piercing armor and flesh. Men screamed and horses bucked. The road became a killing field. Desperate for cover, Danly slithered beneath the wagon, thankful Athon had left him unchained. Pain pierced his side. He jerked away, shocked to find he’d landed on a caltrop. Caltrops littered the road, their nasty spikes pricking flesh and hooves, the reason the draft horses had reared in pain.
A trap, they’d ridden into a trap, but were they friends or foes? Perhaps the Red Horns had come to his rescue.
Hoof beats galloped from behind, a bitter clash of steel.
Danly hid beneath the wagon, trying to make sense of the battle. A weapon, he needed a weapon. He’d dropped the dagger! Frantic, Danly scrabbled in the dirt, but it was gone. It must be in the wagon bed…but he couldn’t move. Huddled beneath the wagon, he kept silent, watching while all around him men died.
A soldier fell next to the wagon, an emerald tabard skewered by three bolts. Athon turned his head and stared at Danly, pleading in his gaze. “Help…me…”
Danly looked away, refusing to be noticed.
A rearing horse squealed and then fell sideways, crashing his rider.
A sword gleamed in the dirt, only an arms length away. Danly wondered if he dared, deciding it was better to hide and hope he wasn’t noticed.
The hail of bolts came to a sudden stop. The clash of steel fell eerily silent. Blood and bodies spattered the road. A horse nickered and a soldier moaned. A dozen horses milled on the side of the road, the victors inspecting the dead. A pair of brigands dismounted, slashing throats till the moaning fell silent.
Danly held his breath, wishing himself invisible.
Another rider dismounted, tall boots of subtle brown leather polished to a high gloss…the boots of a wealthy nobleman, or a successful brigand. The stranger knelt by Athon. The red-haired soldier stretched his hand back toward Danly’s hiding place, his voice a breathy whisper. “I’m the prince’s man…” but Danly said nothing. A quick slash and it was over.
The boots drew near, blood dripping from a dagger. The brigand crouched and peered beneath the wagon. A swarthy face stared at Danly, black hair, dark eyes, and a thin shaved mustache…a handsome man of middling years, no emblem of any type on his leather armor. “The prince I presume.” He tossed a set of keys at Danly. “For the shackles.”
Danly gaped like a fish pulled from the sea. “Who are you?”
“Your best hope.” The man flashed a grin. “Come, we must be gone from here.” He straightened and the boots strode away, mounting a horse.
Confused, Danly fumbled with the keys. His hands shook. It took three tries to open the lock, the chains eventually falling from his ankles…and all the while he wondered if he’d gained or lost by the ambush. Stunned by the sudden change in fortune, he hesitated…but hiding would do him no good. Taking a deep breath, he crawled from beneath the wagon.
A dozen mounted men stared at him. Bristling with weapons, their armor and cloaks a mixture of black, brown and dark green, but Danly could not find a single heraldic device among them. Brigands then, or perhaps mercenaries…but whom did they serve? Danly swallowed, struggling to keep his voice steady. “Who are you? What do you want?”
The dark-haired leader extended a gloved hand. “Come if you want to live.”
Danly hesitated; sweat beading his brow.
“You’re still within the Spider Queen’s reach.”
The threat decided him. The enemy of his enemy…perhaps he’d gained by the ambush. Danly took the offered hand and swung up behind the leader. The stallion snorted and took off at a fast canter, forging a path into the forest, the other brigands following close behind. Danly clung to the leader’s cloak, stunned by the change in fortune, wondering if he was a prisoner, a prince…or a pawn.
19
Jordan
Snow came early to the southern mountains. While the valleys clung to their gilded leaves the jagged peaks clashed with ice. A wall of mountains reared overhead like the ramparts of a frozen citadel, but Jordan refused to be daunted. Setting a brisk pace, she followed the path through the dusky pines, a sense of urgency driving her upwards.
A dozen monks from the Kiralynn Order joined her in the trek. Wrapped in thick fur cloaks, using their quarterstaffs as walking-staves, they looked more like itinerant trappers than monks, not a speck of blue among them. Behind the monks, came the reindeer burdened with food and bedding, a clang of bells marking their progress.
Strung out in a line, they followed the path, climbing into the snow before they’d escaped the autumn foliage. Such a low snowline did not bode well for above, but Jordan refused to turn back. Studying the ground, she looked for familiar landmarks, but the snowy blanket changed everything, obscuring the path and erasing footprints. A pity the past could not be so easily erased. It was only last spring that she’d dared the mountains with Kath and Duncan and the others, coming to the monastery for her Wayfaring. It seemed forever ago. If only she’d been more wary that fateful night. Her stomach clenched, remembering the pain of the knife, a dagger thrust in the dark. She’d counted Sir Cardemir as a friend, yet he’d betrayed her, corrupted by the Mordant. The monks had healed the wound but not the memory. She longed for vengeance, but the gods had other plans. Plagued by nightmares, she’d begged the monks for release from her Wayfaring. Some argued the mountains were too perilous in autumn but she dared not tarry for the changing seasons. Finally the Grand Master relented, giving her leave to go. She fled the monastery with her escort, daring the ice-bound pass. Staring aloft, Jordan gripped her sword hilt, praying she was not too late.
By noon they reached the tree line, passing from dusky green into a bleak world of gray and white. After the jewel-bright monastery, the sudden lack of color seemed ominous. Turning her back on safety, she headed for the perils above.
The snow deepened, exacting a stiff toll. Sweat ran in rivulets down her back, her breath freezing to frost plumes. Plodding through the snow proved hard work, more than she was used to despite her daily sword practice. Jordan paused to catch her breath, staring up at the ice-bound peaks.
One of the monks drew near. “The snow’s unusually deep this year, it foretells a bad winter.” Rafe stood at her shoulder, a tall auburn-haired monk with startling gray-green eyes. “The snow gives warning, the pass will be dangerous. Perhaps we should return to the monastery?”
Jordan shook her head. “I can’t turn back.”
“Is it worth your life?”
She stared at him, startled by the question. “Yes.”
He gave her a searching look and then nodded. “You’ve broken trail for long enough. Wait here and join the end of the line.”
Jordan waited as the others trudged past, finally falling into line just ahead of the pack reindeer. Behind her, the stag’s bell clanged with every step. She found herself moving to the steady toll, counting the never-ending beat. The path snaked upwards through a desolate landscape of snow and ice and rock. The snow gradually deepened, cold-white tugging at her boots. She stayed within the monks’ footsteps, thankful for the respite. After each switchback, the lead monk shuffled to the back, letting another break trail. Jordan grinned, acknowledging the wisdom of their ways. It seemed the monks did nothing without thinking.
Time slowed to a dull slog, an eternity of up. Twice she found herself at the front, forging a path through the deepen
ing snow, yet the icy peaks seemed no closer. Numb with weariness, Jordan let her guard down, her thoughts wandering to Stewart. Conjuring his face, she longed to touch him, to be with him, but then the daydream changed to a nightmare. His face turned bloody and battered, his gaze spiked with horror. “No!” She stifled a scream, her cry snatched by the wind. Stumbling, Jordan gripped her sword hilt, gulping deep breaths of knife-cold air. Always the same look of horror in his eyes, she made the hand sign against evil, taunted by a future she’d vowed to change. The Grand Master had named her visions a blessing, a gift from the gods, but they seemed more like a curse. Time teased her, every passing moment a bitter delay.
They reached another switchback, and it was her turn to lead. Snow lapped above her boot tops, cold and wet, like chains dragging her feet. Her muscles ached, forging a path through the cold white.
“Wait!” The call came from behind.
Jordan staggered to a stop and turned.
Rafe approached, snow dusting his furs. “Yarl found the cairn.” He pointed back toward the last switchback, to a pyramid of rocks peeking above the snow.
“So?”
Rafe grinned. “Wait and see.”
Three monks peeled away from the main trail, forging a fresh path to the east. The others gathered around the reindeer, removing their burdens. Rafe beckoned to her. “Come, the reindeer will flounder in the deeper snow. It’s time to send them back to Haven.”
Leather-bound packs were removed from the reindeer, one for each of the travelers. Released from their burdens, the reindeer bounded back down the trail, the stag’s bell clanging a merry retreat. Jordan realized she’d miss the cheerful beat. Lifting one of the packs, she shrugged it onto her shoulders. It seemed heavier than when she’d packed it, perhaps she was more tired than she thought.
S&SS [04] The Poison Priestess Page 17