The half-moon blade followed him, stopping a thumb’s width from his throat. “Surrender or die!”
Stewart stared at the crescent-shaped blade, stunned by the reversal of fortune.
The sounds of battle dimmed as the last of the emerald knights escaped.
A bearded enemy glared at him. “Surrender or die!” The half-moon blade kissed his throat, a promise of death.
Stewart spat the hateful words. “I yield.”
Hands grabbed him from behind, forcing his wrists together, binding them tight with strips of leather. Yanked to his feet, Stewart’s gaze darted across the churned mud, frantic for his blue sword. A pair of red-cloaked soldiers fought over it. Rage thundered through him, but Stewart could only watch. Someone grabbed his hand, yanking his gold signet ring from his finger, while another took the dagger from his belt. A third ripped his seashell broach from his cloak.
“Not that!”
A gauntleted fist crashed into his jaw, smashing him to the ground. Blood filled his mouth. For a moment, the world went black, but then a hand gripped his hair, dragging him to his feet, and he realized the nightmare was real. “Obey or die.” Despair washed over him, how could this happen? Prodded from behind, Stewart staggered through the mud, a prisoner of the Flame.
22
Danly
Danly wore no chains yet he was still a prisoner. They’d given him a horse to ride, a nag of a rundown mare that was sure to drop dead at the first hard gallop. As if the nag was not message enough, every day his captors proved their prowess, shooting game for the cook pot. His mount was too old to escape and his guards too accurate with their crossbows. Cruel iron no longer bit his flesh yet Danly remained well and truly shackled.
Still, his lot had improved, clearly gaining by the ambush. His new captors called him ‘prince’ and gave him decent clothes to wear, good leather boots and a warm wool cloak of butternut brown. One of the men cut his hair while another lent him a razor and a looking glass. The looking glass proved a shock, his eyes sunken like pits, his cheeks hollowed from the meager prison fare, but the worst jolt came from the streaks of gray in his beard. Gray…like the frosted beard of an old man. The sight drove him into a smoldering rage. Not content with stealing his manhood, the Spider Queen had taken his youth as well. The bitch had much to atone for.
Danly hacked at the beard, desperate to find the dashing prince beneath…but the reflected face remained a stranger. With the beard gone, the scars on his face became dominant. Five claw marks furrowed his left cheek, the raking nails of a prostitute’s revenge. He decided he liked the scars, a badge of his manhood, proof of his prowess with women. Every morning, he borrowed the razor, scraping his face smooth, determined to keep the last vestige of his manhood in plain sight.
He kept to himself when he made his morning toilet. If his captors knew he was a neutered eunuch, they never said a word…but then again, they never said much of anything. A tight-lipped crew of seasoned soldiers, they refused to answer his questions. Twenty men, all of them bristling with steel, yet he could not spy a single emblem or heraldic symbol among them. Wearing a mixture of chainmail and leather, they carried a medley of weapons, swords, axes, war hammers and crossbows, always keeping them close at hand. Their speech held a smattering of accents, but nothing Danly could recognize. He guessed they were mercenaries, but whatever lord they served remained a mystery.
Riding by day, they camped at night, always avoiding villages and towns. Haste did not seem to matter. Neither did the direction they rode. Some days they rode north, others west, but then they’d turn south again. If there was a pattern, Danly could not see it.
He spent most days riding next to the leader, peppering the man with questions, trying to solve the riddle of his captors. Danly kicked his sway-backed mare, trying to keep even with the captain’s stallion. “That ambush was well planned. Caltrops planted on the road, but how did you find us?”
Braxus flashed a smile, a swarthy man in dark leathers. “We have our ways.”
Danly resented the dark-haired leader’s surly wit, yet he persisted with his questions. “Did you follow the wagon from Pellanor? Is that how you found me?”
“So many questions, prince.” Braxus laughed, a flash of white teeth in a sun-drenched face. “Can’t you just enjoy this fine autumn afternoon?”
Frustration clawed at Danly. “But we don’t seem to be heading anywhere. One day we canter north, the next day we trot south, yet you never consult a map. What are you looking for?”
Braxus shrugged. “We’re looking for nothing.” A sly smile spread across his face. “Merely waiting to be found.”
“Waiting to be found?” The answer made no sense. “But why did you rescue me? If you’re with the Red Horns, just say so.”
The steady clop of hooves was his only reply.
“Then you’re not with the Red Horns.” Annoyance leached into Danly’s voice.
“I’ve told you, prince, it’s not for me to answer your questions.” Braxus flashed a devilish grin. “You’ll just have to be patient.”
“Princes are rarely patient.”
“So I’ve noticed.”
Danly tried another tack. “I have gold, you know. Enough to make you and your men wealthy.”
“And where is this gold?”
Danly tried to keep the eagerness from his voice, hoping the well-told lie would serve him once more. “In Pellanor, safe with friends.”
Braxus gave him a sly smile. “Ah, of course.”
Danly’s frustration boiled over. “If not gold, then what do you want?”
The leader turned serious, his dark eyes full of warning. “Be careful, prince. There are more powers in this world than you know.”
A shiver raced down Danly’s spine.
A ring-tailed pheasant broke from the brush, a flutter of wings rising into a crisp blue sky. One of the brigands raised his crossbow. A single bolt thrummed aloft. The feathered shaft struck its mark. Skewered, the pheasant plummeted, dinner for the cook pot.
The lesson was not lost on Danly. He glanced at the leader. “You’re men are good.”
“Of course they are.” Braxus sat straight in the saddle, his right hand resting on his sword hilt, looking like a brigand-prince. “To succeed in this world, you must either be born to privilege or be very good at what you do.” His dark stare bored into Danly. “Which are you?”
The question hit like a slap. Danly sputtered with indignation. “Royalty is ordained by the gods. Kings and princes are always set above their people. It is the natural order of things.”
The brigand’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “Is that why we found you in rags and chains, stinking of shit, cowering under a wagon?”
Anger pulsed through Danly. “I’m still a prince.”
“And your mother’s still a queen, yet you’d take her throne.”
“Women are not fit to rule.”
The brigand gave him a snide smile. “Then you don’t know many women.”
Danly wanted to punch the smile from the brigand’s face, but he settled for words and superior blood. “I’m a royal, a prince of Lanverness.”
Braxus made a mocking bow. “Of course you are. Otherwise you’d have no value.”
Danly glared. “What makes you so insolent?”
Braxus laughed. “I’m good with my sword…but I thought you figured that out.”
“Who are you?”
The brigand leader turned serious, his dark eyes glinting in the sunlight. “Born a commoner, I used my wits and my sword to find a way to power.”
“But whom do you serve?”
“Can’t you guess?” His mouth twisted into a grin. “Someone powerful.” Braxus laughed, spurring his stallion to a gallop.
Danly coughed, choking on the brigand’s dust. He drove his heels into his horse’s flanks, but the nag ignored him, stumbling along at the same slow trot. Danly glared at the brigand’s back, sputtering with rage.
Days turned to weeks. Da
nly kept hammering the brigands with questions, like chipping away at a block of ice, yet he never got any answers. Travel became a dull routine. Forced to saddle his own horse and take turns cooking meals, Danly felt like a common soldier. Calluses appeared on his hands, dirt and grime beneath his fingernails. Appalled, Danly feared he looked more like a brigand than a prince. Trapped in some kind of nightmare, he stumbled through the days…till he was toed awake to a fog-filled morning.
“Come, prince, today you’ll gain your answers.”
Danly glared from his bedroll. “In this fog?”
Braxus laughed. “A perfect day for it.”
Danly rose with the others, made a hasty toilet and then saddled his horse. Mist shrouded the forest, so thick he could barely see. Braxus grabbed the reins of Danly’s horse, putting the nag on a lead. “Just in case you decide to stray.”
They rode single file, weaving through the forest. The naked trees loomed like shadows, skeletal hands grasping at the swirling clouds. Danly pulled his cloak tight against the chill, peering through the fog.
A strange stillness settled over the forest, as if the mist strangled any sound. Wary of ambush, Danly swiveled left and right, looking for substance in the swirling white. The fog seemed unnatural, like a curse smothering the woods. Danly shivered, wishing for a sword. Just when he thought they were alone in the mist, he caught the faint sound of a flute. Simple notes, like a child’s lullaby beckoned them forward.
Braxus turned toward the flute. “I think we’ve been found.” He urged his horse to a trot.
They followed the notes, a slender thread leading through the mist. The flute grew louder, a simple peasant’s song. Danly caught a glimpse of a campfire. Silhouettes appeared in the mist, soldiers and horses and tents. Sounds rushed to fill the white void, the whinny of a horse, the rasp of steel against stone, the snap and crackle of burning wood. A bearded soldier in dark chainmail sat cross-legged in front of a campfire, the player of the flute. He set the flute aside and rose to his feet, a welcoming smile on his face. “Ah, Braxus, you’ve been expected.”
Braxus dismounted and clasped forearms with the bearded soldier. “We came as soon as we were found.”
More riddles. Danly stayed on his horse and surveyed the camp, teasing details from the fog. He counted another thirty soldiers, a nest of brigands in an odd assortment of armor, all of them heavily armed. Escape just became that much harder.
The bearded man was speaking again. “And this must be the prince?”
Braxus nodded. “Rescued from a grim exile yet he shows little gratitude.”
Danly prickled at the insult. “Was I rescued or merely recaptured? It’s hard to tell the difference.”
“See what I mean.” Braxus held his horse. “Come, prince, the answers you crave are close.”
Danly dismounted and stepped to the fire, warmed by the blaze. The bearded soldier whispered something to Braxus, gesturing into the mist. Braxus nodded, a hint of surprise on his face. “So soon.” He clapped Danly on the back. “Come, you’ve been granted an audience.”
“You speak as if I’m meeting royalty.”
Braxus grinned. “Fate leads a merry dance.”
Danly was reluctant to leave the warmth but it seemed he had little choice. “Where are you taking me?”
“You’ll soon see.” Braxus turned and strode off into the mist, leaving Danly to follow. They walked through the camp, past a ring of tents, and out into the bare-branched forest. Swirling mist quickly swallowed the camp sounds, muffling the forest with a cold dampness. Danly kept close to the brigand, wishing he had a sword. Braxus came to a sudden stop, pointing toward a scuffed dirt path. “Just follow the path. You are expected.”
Danly gave the path a suspicious glare. “Alone?”
Braxus nodded.
“And if I run?”
“Then you’ll never get your answers.”
Danly knew they’d never let him walk free. He suspected archers lurked in the mist, waiting for him to stray. His shoulders twitched, but he took a step forward. One step and then another, he followed the path. Mist closed around him like a fist, a damp chilliness. The world turned white, like a blank parchment waiting for a tale. He walked alone, no guards at his back, no servants at his beck and call, no gold in his pockets. Stripped of everything, he wondered if he still had a destiny. Something caught his foot. He stumbled and nearly fell. His gaze darted back along the trail, half expecting to find a claw thrust up from the soil…but no, it was just a root.
Straightening his jerkin, he kept walking, amazed that no arrows struck him from behind. Trees loomed out of the mist like misshapen hands. The trail meandered up a hill, through a stand of cedar trees. The mist thinned and he caught a glimpse of a pavilion. Purple silk with golden phases of the moon embroidered around the sides, like something from a vision. Purple, the color of royalty, but the heraldry was unfamiliar, another riddle. Perhaps he’d found the lord of the brigands. Determined to gain some answers, he pulled the curtain aside and stepped within.
A woman!
His footsteps faltered. Not just any woman…a siren conjured from the songs of bards. Like a vision, she lay draped across a low divan. Purple silk clung to her sultry curves, a deep slit revealing a glimpse of long shapely legs. His gaze drank her in. Her dark hair cascaded to creamy shoulders, dark as midnight, lustrous as a raven’s wing. Danly longed to run his hands through her hair, but then he saw her eyes, deep green like bottomless pools, and her lips, red and lush and full of temptation, begging to be bruised. Bewitched, he staggered forward. “Am I dreaming?”
“Would it be such a bad dream?” Her voice was low and throaty, a tease to his every desire. “Come warm yourself by my fire.”
Her scent reached out to enfold him, musk, and sandalwood, and something else, something he yearned to possess. He staggered forward, drawn towards her fire. Pillows lay strewn across the floor, creating a soft bower of colorful silk. A low brazier sat in the middle, casting a crackle of flames…but the fire could not compete with heat of the woman. “Who are you?”
“Whom did you expect?”
“The leader of the brigands.”
“Oh,” her words were a purr, “such meager expectations.” She leaned back and her robe parted, revealing a spill of curves, a deep cleft between her breasts. “I’m so much more than that.” Her fingers traced the cleft. “Don’t you think?”
He found himself kneeling amongst the pillows, struggling to think. “Where are your guards?”
“Guards?” Her throaty laugh feathered down his spine. “I have no need of guards.” Her hand cupped his face, so soft yet so sure. “Are you such a fearsome warrior? Should I tremble in your presence?” She rose with an elegant grace, the swaying silk revealing more than it hid. He watched, spellbound, as she moved behind him, her fingers teasing the hair at his neck. Her breath whispered against his ear. “I’ve killed men before…with my own hand.”
Danly tried to control a shiver. “But you’re only a…”
“…woman? You have much to learn, prince.” Her voice deepened. “Look down.”
He stiffened in surprise. Her jeweled hand threatened his throat, a needle exposed on her ring like a serpent’s fang. He quivered, hiding his fear beneath indignation. “Poison is for cowards and…”
“…women?” Her voice held a hint of amusement. “See, you’re learning already.”
His stare remained fixed on the needle. Somehow the danger only added to her allure.
She flicked her hand, working a subtle hinge, and the needle disappeared beneath the golden serpent, a mere ring once more.
Danly took a steadying breath. “What do you want?”
Her words whispered in his ear. “A throne, of course.”
“It seems I’ve lost mine.”
“With my help, it could be found.” She pressed against his back, brushing against him like a cat in heat. “Do you want your throne?”
“I need an army.”
; “Such a small request.” She loosened his cloak, letting it fall to the ground. “And what else?”
“Your charms won’t work on me.”
“Oh, I think they will.” Her arms encircled him, her fingers tugging on the bindings of his tunic. Her scent enfolded him, making it hard to think. “Don’t you want to be a king?”
He had to stop this before she embarrassed him. “A king needs heirs, and I’ll never beget any.”
Another throaty laugh, “Surely a prince like you sowed many wild seeds.” She caressed his face, her fingers lingering on his scars. Her fingernails matched the lines. “I’ll wager these scars are from a woman,” her voice turned deep and throaty, “a woman scorned.”
“So?”
“So find an old conquest, a healthy peasant girl with a babe at her breast and claim the brat as your own.”
Danly gasped, such a simple idea.
“One son is all a king ever needs. One son to continue your name and your lineage.”
Danly shivered, as if the woman peered into his very soul.
Her voice thrummed in his ear. “What else?”
Scents of sandalwood enveloped him. Sandalwood and something else, something musky and alluring, surrounding him like a haze. He shook his head, wondering if he was lost in a dream. “What are you, some kind of female djinn granting three wishes?”
She knelt behind him, her curves pressed into his back, her teeth biting the lobe of his ear. “Oh, I’m so much more than that.” Her fingers worked the bindings of his trousers. “Give me your soul and I’ll grant your third wish.”
He flinched away. “Only the gods could grant such a wish.”
She persisted. Deft fingers slowly unlaced his bindings. “As it happens, I have the favor of a god.”
Danly laughed, drunk on her scent, intoxicated by her possibilities.
Her fingers brushed his groin. “Speak and you shall have it.” Her voice dropped to a throaty whisper. “What do you desire?”
The words rushed out of him. “My mother took my manhood.”
“Such a naughty mother. But with me, you can be a man again.”
S&SS [04] The Poison Priestess Page 20