S&SS [04] The Poison Priestess

by Karen Azinger

  By midmorning they reached the tree line. Stunted pines and twisted firs provided a break from the biting wind. Jordan scanned the green fringe, hoping for late berries, wondering if pine needles would fill her empty belly, or just give her the runs. Ignoring the thought, she forced herself to keep walking, the last in a line of footsore travelers.

  Midday came and went without a meal and still they walked. Her boots shuffled down the slope, barely clearing the rocky trail. Twice she tripped, the fall waking her from a daze. She picked herself up and pressed forward, surprised to find the forest had thickened. Pines and firs and a few aspens crowded the trail, a touch of autumn gold brightening the deep green. Almost down, Jordan breathed deep the scent of pine, desperate to ignore her ravening hunger. At least her hunger kept her visions at bay, a minor blessing.

  The trail rounded a bend and a stranger stood in their way. A silver-haired woman cloaked in robes of midnight-blue. “What kept you?”

  Another monk, Jordan sank to the ground, too weary to take another step. She glared at the newcomer, disappointed that the woman came alone, without horses or supplies, without food. But then she caught a tantalizing scent. She breathed deep, intoxicated by the scent of fried bacon wafting up the trail.

  “Come, we have a camp set up below.” The woman gestured down the trail.

  Jordan found herself trotting down the trail, her nostrils flaring wide, following the scent of sizzling bacon.

  The trail grew level and then widened into a small clearing. A horse nickered, a line of thirty mounts picketed along the trail. Beyond the horses, a circle of tents surrounded a campfire. Ravenous, Jordan followed the scent to the cook fire.

  A stranger in brown leathers handed her a plate heaped with thick slices of bacon, pan-fried bread and roasted onions. “Lenore said you’d be here in time for supper.”

  “Thank you.” Jordan took the plate and sank to the ground, stuffing a whole slice of bacon in her mouth. Nearly swooning, she groaned in pleasure, grease running down the side of her mouth. Her hands shook as she ate, so desperate to fill her belly. Wrapping the onions and bacon in a flat bread, she devoured the meal, licking her fingers clean of the salty grease.

  “Another plate?” A stranger with russet hair and a thick beard offered seconds.

  Jordan almost said yes, but then she realized she was full. “No, but you saved my life.”

  The stranger grinned. “Happy to be of service.”

  A contented silence swirled around the campfire. While her companions ate, Jordan studied the strangers, six men all in leathers, bristling with weapons, not a lord’s emblem among them. They moved with a feral grace, clearly accustomed to wearing swords. Soldiers, or mercenaries, or perhaps thieves, yet they seemed at ease with the monks.

  Jordan leaned toward Rafe, keeping her voice to a whisper. “Who are they?” But the russet-haired stranger had ears like a bat.

  “Name’s Thad Tokheart.”

  “Thad?”

  “Short for Thaddeus.”

  Such an odd name, it must have shown from her face for he barked a laugh. “I know, it’s such a scrollish name for a man who lives by the sword, but my parents were both monks and they dreamt of raising a scholar.” He gave her a wry smile. “We don’t always get what we want.”

  “No, we don’t.” His parents were monks?

  He took her empty plate. “Find a place for your bedroll. We’ll sleep here tonight and then get an early start at first light. Lenore says we’ll have good weather tomorrow.”

  “Lenore?” Her mind seemed muddled.

  “The monk who met you on the trail.” She followed his gaze to the monk with silver-blonde hair. Lenore had a stately dignity about her, so at odds with the brigands seated around the fire. “You ride with a monk?”

  “Sometimes. You’d best get to your bedroll, we’ve an early start tomorrow.”

  “You said that before…an early start to where?”

  Thad barked a hearty laugh. “Wherever it is you’re going.”

  “You’re coming with me?”

  “Of course, lass.” His grin deepened. “The Grand Master said you might be needing a few swords, and what the Grand Master asks for, he gets.”

  Another riddle, but Jordan was too tired to figure it out. Spreading her bedroll near the campfire, she crawled inside. Exhausted, and sated with good food, she finally slept, untroubled by nightmares.

  25

  Steffan

  Something in the night pierced his senses. Steffan snapped awake but he did not move. Feigning sleep, he watched through hooded eyes, seeking the disturbance. Darkness held sway, the fire in the brazier burned down to embers, nothing but a dull red glow. His gaze roamed the pavilion. Everything seemed in order, till he caught a glimpse of a shadowy figure lurking in the far corner. His heartbeat spiked. Fearing the guards would be too slow to stop an assassin, he kept his body still, his right hand creeping toward the dagger hidden beneath his pillow.

  A throaty laugh arrested his hand. “Don’t you know me?”

  She stepped into the red light of the embers, raven-black hair tumbling around a heart-shaped face. Dark eyes and full pouty lips, she appeared like a vision from his dreams. “You!”

  “Of course.” She circled the brazier, a slow, sultry pace, slits of silk revealing a glimmer of shapely white thigh. “I promised I’d come.”

  “But how did you find…”

  “Shhhh…” Her dark gaze glittered in the dim light. “Do you want to talk?” She prowled towards him. “Or do you want something more?” Her smoky voice hinted at forbidden pleasures, like fingernails caressing his spine.

  He threw back the furs, inviting her to his bed.

  And then she was in his arms, like he’d dreamed a thousand times, but this was so much more potent, so much more…consuming. Her fingertips blazed a path down his chest but he could not wait. Emboldened by her scent, by her touch, he gave into to his desires. Pulling her close, he rolled on top, pressing his need against her. He kissed her hard. Her tongue flicked within his mouth, bold and daring, igniting a bonfire within. Ravenous to have her, he ripped at her silks. Skin to skin, his hands claimed her, caressing every curve, delving every shadowy crevice, but it only deepened his desire. Rearing above her, he saw his own hunger mirrored in her face. Like an unquenchable sword, he took her without preamble, thrusting deep and hard and full of need. He came with a roar, his back arched, his skin slick with sweat.

  But even after the first rush, he did not stop. Keeping a slow steady rhythm, he stoked the fires, letting the passion build between them.

  A smile flicked across her face, like a cat tasting cream.

  Something about her smile irked him, pricking his pride. Steffan swore that he’d make the second time last, that he would not come till she screamed. He slowed the rhythm to a tease, his tongue flicking along her skin, smitten by her sandalwood scent, by her salty taste.

  She laughed, a silken sound that sent shivers down his spine. And then she rolled on top, her long legs gripping him tight, her dark hair forming a curtain against the night. She rode him, setting her own rhythm. “There’s a fine line between pain and pleasure. Dare to walk the line?”

  Her throaty challenge almost brought him to a climax. Almost. With a roar, he tipped her off the bed and onto the floor, and then he pounced, rolling to get behind her, to feel the swell of her buttocks against his loins. But she moved like dark lightning, fingernails raking across his back. Like two lions grappling for dominance, they rolled across the carpet, a ball of passion laced with pain. As if she knew his every secret, her touch quivered through him, pushing him to the limit of his endurance. Refusing to give in, Steffan found stamina he never knew he had. Back and forth, they stoked the fire between them, till he thought he’d burst into flame. Desperate to end it, he threw her across the bed and took her from behind. She arched her back and screamed and he finally found release, as if his very soul rushed from his body into hers.

  Spent, he coll
apsed to the carpet, sodden with sweat.

  She joined him; her head resting on his shoulder, nestled against him like a contented kitten.

  It was only then that he noticed the first hint of dawn light filtering through the pavilion. “How do you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Make it last so long?”

  She gave a throaty laugh, her fingers playing with the hairs on his chest. “A woman’s charms.”

  He suspected it was far more than a mere charm but he wasn’t going to complain. The Priestess was incomparable, beyond his wildest dreams, but he hoped he gave as good as he got. Catching a sudden chill, he pulled a fur from the bed, spreading it across them. Burying his face in her raven-black hair, he drank in her scent, an alluring mix of sandalwood and violets and something else, something mysterious, something that teased his mind. “It was your scent that woke me.”

  “Hmmm.” She gave a sleepy murmur.

  Warm beneath the fur, he held her close. He must have dozed, awakened by a flash of sunlight on his face.

  Pip entered the pavilion, a silver tray held in his hands. “I’ve brought your…” The boy stumbled to a halt, his gaze feasting on the Priestess.

  “Yes, put it there.” Naked, Steffan emerged from the fur. Shivering against the morning chill, he reached for a discarded tunic “And stoke the brazier. It’s cold in here.” He pulled on a soft white cambric shirt more suited to a royal court than a war camp.

  Pip set the tray on a low table, the tantalizing smell of fried bacon filling the pavilion, and then he leaped to add more coals to the brazier, his wide-eyed gaze returning to the Priestess.

  She lay curled on the floor, one corner of the fur turned back, revealing a creamy shoulder and the full swell of a magnificent breast. Even asleep, the woman was a temptress, but then Steffan noticed the bright gleam of eyes beneath dark lashes. She stretched, as if just waking, and the fur slipped further down.

  Pip swore, spilling unlit coals across the carpet. “Damn!” He leaped to recapture the coals.

  Steffan chuckled, appreciating the lad’s discomfort. “Fix the brazier and then go tell the general that we’ll be camping here for the day.”

  “Here for the day?”

  The lad was clearly addled. “Yes, light the brazier and then tell the general we won’t be marching till tomorrow.” Steffan reached for a mug of mulled wine. “I’m giving the army a day of rest, the priests a day of prayer, and the general a day to sharpen his swords. Just tell them I’m not to be disturbed.” He settled on the floor, next to the Priestess, and gave the lad a dismissive look. “That will be all.”

  “Yes, m’lord.” Pip straightened his tunic, and backed toward the entrance, his face flaming as red as his hair. Casting one last mooncalf-stare at the Priestess, he bowed his way out of the pavilion.

  The Priestess chuckled, a warm throaty sound. “Your squire?”

  “Squires are for knights.” He leaned forward, tugging on the fur till both breasts were revealed, lush and full and perked against the morning chill. “Pip’s a street urchin, part thief, part spy, part servant. He’s useful enough, but you, my dear, enjoyed the tease.”

  “And you enjoyed showing me off.”

  He could not deny it.

  She sat up, letting the fur puddle around her waist, and reached for his mug of mulled wine. Taking slow sips, she stared at him with dark, mysterious eyes. The woman was pure allure. Everything about her was seductive, but a part of him suspected she was a trap, a very delectable trap. Tearing his gaze away, he reached for the silver tray, and set it between them like a barrier. The smell of fresh-fried bacon hid her scent, rousing a hunger of a different sort. Wrapping a generous serving of bacon and fried eggs in a flatbread, he began to eat. “You came here unannounced, slinking into my pavilion in the dead of night. What if you’d found me in bed with another woman?”

  Unruffled, she reached for the table knife, skewering a fried potato. “Then I’d have sent her away.”

  “Just like that?”

  She gave him a sloe-eyed smile. “Just like that,” and then she consumed the fried potato spear, enveloping it in one long mouthful.

  He watched, mesmerized, knowing just how deep she could swallow.

  Like a taunt, she held his gaze as she finished the potato and then she took a long drink of mulled wine, a single drop lingering on her lips. Her tongue flicked out, licking the drop. Red wine enhanced the color of her lips, so deep and lush and full. He tore his gaze away, realizing it was hard to think around her.

  The brazier snapped and crackled, releasing a breath of heat.

  “So why have you come?”

  “We had an agreement, remember?”

  Images of that steamy night in Coronth filled his mind. “You stayed but one night. I almost thought it a dream.”

  She gave him a languid smile, her hand brushing his thigh. “Oh, I’m so much more than a dream.” But then she pulled away, lying back amongst the furs, her face changing from temptress to conspirator. “The Mordant reaches for power in the north. And once he secures that power, he will come south.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “I have my ways.” She skewered another potato, but this time she took small dainty bites. “We have but a single season to secure our claim to the south and prove our worth to the Dark Lord.”

  A chill settled across his shoulders. “Surely the Mordant will not interfere with our conquests?”

  “Never underestimate the Mordant. As the eldest among us, he is the most favored by the Dark Lord, and the most ruthless, and his gaze has ever been fixed on the south.”

  “The north is a long march away.”

  She gave him a sharp look. “Not for the Mordant.”

  “What do you counsel?” He stared at her; shocked to realize that he truly wanted to hear her thoughts, though he seldom sought the advice of women.

  “A swift victory in Lanverness.” She seemed not to notice his scrutiny; her dark eyes alight with cunning. “Claim the strongest castles, put a crown on your head and rule with an iron fist. Solidify your power and hope to hold your winnings when the Mordant comes south. If you are strong enough, he may accept you as a vassal king.”

  Anger reared within him. “I do not do this for a vassal’s crown.”

  “No, you do this for more lifetimes,” her gaze skewered him, “for the favor of the Dark Lord.”

  Her rebuke cut deep. “As do you.”

  She nodded. “As do I. It’s what makes us perfect allies. We have an understanding between us,” leaning forward, she brushed his thigh, her voice low and sultry, “among other things.”

  Heat rose within him, but before he could act, the cunning look returned to her gaze, sharp as any sword. “How goes the war?”

  “Slowly.” Avoiding her stare, he parried her question with one of his own. “As I recall, you promised allies against Lanverness, yet I’ve seen no sign of any help. Have you brought an army with you?”

  “No, something better.”

  “Something better?”

  Shrugging off the fur coverlet, she stood naked in morning light. Subtle shadows accentuated her curves, beauty enough to take his breath away. He lay back on the carpet, enjoying the show. Lithe and graceful, she crossed the pavilion, wearing her nakedness like a crown.

  “You’re magnificent.” The words poured out of him.

  She gave him a sloe-eyed glance, “More than you know.” She reached for a leather sack in the corner. Opening the sack, she withdrew a long length of sky-blue silk. Staring at him, she drew the silk across her body, under and around her breasts, a slow sensual tease.

  Aroused, he leaned toward her. “You’ve got my attention, lover, but how is this better than an army?”

  She flicked the silk and it unfurled, revealing the signal in the center, a black scorpion on a field of pale blue. “A battle banner?”

  “The key to ten thousand traitors.”

  “How?”

  “T
he Spider Queen has purchased the full might of Radagar, ten thousand mercenaries to swell the ranks of her army.”

  “Ten thousand?” It narrowed the odds, shrinking his advantage. “And how does this help?”

  “There’s been a change of kings in Radagar.”

  His eyes widened. “You’ve been busy.”

  “Just so.” She gave him a satisfied smile.

  “And this?” He plucked at the pale blue silk.

  “The private banner of House Razzur. Raise it during the height of battle and the mercenaries will turn against the Rose.”

  The woman was full of surprises. “And how did you arrange this?”

  “I made the new king a better offer.”

  “What?”

  “A throne.”

  “You’re dangerous,” but somehow her danger only deepened her allure. He reached toward her but she moved away, settling on the far side of the silver tray, nestled among the furs.

  She nibbled the last piece of bacon. “Tell me about the war.”

  How easily she dampened his ardor, but he wanted this woman, in his bed and in his schemes for power, so he bridled his anger. Sitting cross-legged, he considered her question. “You came at night, so you’ve seen our campfires. Our numbers are invincible. We smash through Lanverness like a battering ram, crushing every opposition, but the Rose Army will not engage. They fight like cowards, harrying our rear, nipping at our heels and attacking our scouting parties. Like flies they annoy but I cannot land a killing blow.”

  “Smart flies.”

  He gave her a venomous look.

  “What else?”

  He gaze narrowed; the woman was well informed. “The damnable Spider Queen has emptied the countryside of food. Instead of finding barns and granaries laden with the fall harvest, they stand empty, and the livestock moved. My army eats like a plague of locusts and the rations grow thin.” He dropped his voice to a low growl. “A hungry army is a dangerous beast.”

  “Then feed them.”

  His anger flashed to irony. “My lady is oh so glib.”

  Annoyed, she threw him a daggered glance. “Don’t be churlish. If your army hungers then turn it toward the nearest city.”