White wings emerged from the clouds, a great frost owl soaring toward the tower as silent as snowfall. Though he’d seen it a thousand times, the gift of flight never failed to inspire awe. Fintan watched spellbound as the great owl circled the tower. Alighting on the battlement, a faint nimbus surrounded the owl, stretching and blurring till a blue-robed monk stood in its place.
Fintan stepped from the battlement, embracing his friend. “Aeroth!”
The dark-haired monk returned the greeting. “It is good to see you.”
Knowing the cost of magic, Fintan pressed a flask of mulled wine into Aeroth’s hands. “For you.” He studied his friend as he drank, noting deep shadows beneath his eyes and more gray feathering his hair. The price of duty took its toll. They moved out of the wind, sitting with their backs to the battlement, sharing the wine.
“How do you find the queen? As formidable as they say?”
“Impressive, the woman has an intellect as sharp as steel.” Fintan grinned. “She’d make a daunting addition to the Order were she not already a queen.” He sobered. “The Grand Master did well to send us. The queen is worth saving. I only hope we are not too late.”
Aeroth nodded. “And the others?”
“After so many years it is hard to shed the cover of secrecy. Gilbert and Aster chose to remain hidden, taking rooms at the Golden Tankard. The others are with the wagons, still three weeks from the city.”
“The wagons?” Aeroth’s gaze narrowed, his words a hiss. “Then the Grand Master approved its use?”
“We face the worst of times. Evil rises in all its forms. We must do what we can.”
“I know. I’ve seen it.” Aeroth’s voice sounded as if it came from the grave.
“Tell me.”
“The Knights of the Octagon muster for war. The Grand Master sent me to warn the king, but a harlequin was already among them.”
The news chilled Fintan to the bone. “Another prophecy proves true.”
Aeroth nodded. “The harlequin wore the face of a prince, masquerading as the king’s own son. Once revealed, the evil one threatened the life of another son. Both princes died, spitted on the marshal’s sword, but I fear the harlequin will be reborn, rewarded for sowing fear and distrust among the knights.” Aeroth grimaced. “It all happened so fast, I could not stop the killing. And then the king in his grief turned on the messenger. The owl saved me, though I’ve never had to change while falling from a tower.” Aeroth shuddered, taking a deep pull from the flagon. “A cold night.”
“A cold season.”
“Prophecies rush to be born.”
“And we few must do what we can to avert the Dark.”
“So you’re here to save the queen?”
Fintan nodded. “First the Flame must be defeated, darkness of another sort, hence the wagons.”
“Fight fire with fire.” Aeroth shook his head, “but such a terrible weapon. Rumors say it has grown more potent with age.”
“I witnessed the test. It burns with a fearsome heat, but once used there will be no more, the recipe is lost to the ages.”
“Some knowledge is better forgotten.”
Fintan shrugged. “Who can say, but for now, we use what we have.”
“Any message for the others?”
“Only that I’ve arrived and I’ve heard strange rumors about a delegation from Ur.”
“Since when does Ur meddle with Erdhe?”
“Exactly. It reeks of another hand.”
Aeroth finished the wine and then got to his feet. “I’ll pass the word.” They clasped arms. “Stay well.”
“And you.” Fintan stood by the battlement, watching as his friend shimmered and changed, transforming back into the frost owl. A few flaps and the great bird took flight, soaring out over the city. Fintan watched for a time and then made his way back to the doorway and down the stairs, his mind riddled with worries. Even the warmth of the castle could not dispel his chill. He prowled the empty hallways, returning to his chambers in the eastern wing of the castle.
Latching the door, he stoked the fire, adding pine logs to the blaze. Heat beat against him, but a deeper chill persisted. Standing with his back to the fire, he considered the news from the north. Another prophesy fulfilled. Darkness was moving too quickly, spreading tentacles across the lands of Erdhe. He wondered if another harlequin hid within the queen’s court. He scowled, feeling naked without a Dahlmar crystal, but at least he had magic of his own. His hand touched the focus nestled in his pocket, a small coin carved of malachite, inscribed with ancient runes. He fingered the coin, gaining a measure of calm.
Tap, tap, tap...came from the windowpane.
Puzzled, Fintan turned to stare. His chamber was on the fifth floor, nothing beyond the windowpanes but darkness.
Tap, tap, tap.
Perhaps Aeroth returned. He crossed to the window and stared through the mullioned panes, nothing but night on the other side. Releasing the latch, he opened the windows, but the sill was empty. Puzzled, he leaned outward, staring down at the castle wall, a deadly drop to the courtyard below.
Something stung the back of his neck. He slapped at the stinger, shocked to find a needle embedded in his flesh. He pulled it free, blood and a bitter smell upon the slender pin. Confused, he staggered back from the window.
Something dropped onto the windowsill. It looked like a four-legged spider dressed in skin-tight black, but it had a face, a man’s face in a lad’s stunted body.
Fintan’s legs gave out. Weak as a babe, he collapsed to the floor, a cold creeping sensation claiming his body. He tried to scream, but the spider-man pounced, pressing his hand to his mouth. “No need to scream, your death is already sealed.”
Fintan struggled to move, to reach for the focus in his pocket, but a strange languidness froze his limbs.
The spider-man grinned. “Sting of the Assassin.”
Panic seized him. He’d heard rumors of the poison, but he’d always thought it a sinister myth. Fintan fought to move, sweat erupting from his skin. He didn’t want to die, not like this, but his wishes made no difference.
“A blue robed monk,” the assassin hissed, making the words a curse.
He’d always known openness would have a price, but he’d never expected to pay for it with his life.
“Your time is done.” The assassin removed his hand, grinning into Fintan’s face. “You cannot move, you cannot breathe, yet you will feel everything.” Hands searched his robes, turning out his pockets, feeling for jewelry at his neck and wrists. “They told me you reek of magic. Is this it?” The assassin grinned, holding the malachite coin aloft like a prize. “Yes, your eyes tell me it’s true.”
Fintan tried to turn away, but he was helpless as a worm, trapped within his own body. A scream built inside of him, but nothing came out.
“Nothing can defeat my master. Not your Order, not the Lords of Light.” The assassin drew a long sleek dagger. “You will feel your death. You will feel every cut. Even your severed head will serve my master, bringing fear to the queen.” The assassin leaned close, a twisted grin on his face. “Fear is the handmaiden of Darkness. I will enjoy taking your life.”
Steel sliced across Fintan’s throat. Blood fountained upwards. The first cut brought a burning pain. A scream roared inside Fintan, caught on a tidal wave of terror. Trapped in his body, he felt every ragged cut, every jagged saw of the blade. He could not breathe, he could not scream. Pain claimed him…and then there was nothing but darkness.
28
Stewart
Rain pelted his face with cold indifference, as if the gods shunned him. Stewart hunched against the downpour, struggling to keep pace. Trussed like a goat led to market, he walked in a line of twenty-six prisoners, all of them mud-stained and miserable. Three days of captivity and still he could not believe it. One swing of an enemy halberd and his war changed forever. Stripped of weapons, armor, and surcoat, they left him nothing but a quilted jerkin and boots. At least he kept his boots. More
than half the prisoners plodded barefoot through the mud. Many bore wounds, blood oozing from makeshift bandages. Stewart saw their wounds as a mark of valor, an excuse for capture, while he was largely unscathed. Shame and anger dogged his steps in equal measure.
His captors had never even asked his name. Eager to pilfer his belongings, one officer stole his gold signet ring while two others fought over his blue steel sword. A Black Flame claimed his sword as a spoil of war, wrapping the telltale hilt with leather. Rage thundered through Stewart, quaking at the loss of the sword. At least his seashell broach was still within reach, tucked in the sergeant’s belt pouch. The broach marked the man for death, if only Stewart could get his hands free.
The rope tugged forward, a relentless pull. He shuffled behind the others, his boots caked with mud, weariness warring with anger. Ropes burned his wrists, bound so tight his hands felt the sting of a thousand nettles. He strained against the bonds to no avail. For the thousandth time he scanned the woods, hoping to glimpse emerald among the bare branches, but rescue never came. The answer lay beneath his feet. Mud churned to a confusion of prints. In such a muddle even the best scouts could not sort enemy boots from the footsteps of a captive prince. Frustration beat against him, if only he’d blocked the halberd’s blow.
The man in front slipped and fell.
Stewart hissed, “Get up, Gedry!” He willed the wounded scout to stand, knowing laggards died under the lash.
A whip cracked, “Keep moving, scum.” A bearded guard leaned from his mount, wielding a cat-tailed whip. Bloody welts scored the scout’s back, driving him to the ground.
“Keep moving!”
Gedry floundered in the mud, taking another lash.
“Filthy infidels,” the guard made the words a snarl, “march or die!” He lifted the whip, poised for another strike.
Stewart stepped forward, glaring up at the guard. “Untie my hands and I’ll carry him.”
The guard stayed the whip, an ugly sneer on his face. “A hero? So you’ll take the lash for him as well?”
Stewart stood his ground, meeting the guard’s stare.
“You insolent dog.” The whip snaked toward Stewart, a snarling whistle heralding pain. Stewart braced for the blow, his head bent, struggling not to flinch. Agony lashed along his left arm and across his back, burning like a red-hot poker. Stewart staggered, fighting not to scream.
The guard laughed, flicking the whip for another strike. “Cat-o-nine stings like hell! Not such a hero now.”
Gedry struggled to his feet, his shirt stained with blood. “I’m standing! I’m standing!”
The guard sneered. “So you can both feel my lash.” He coiled the whip for another strike.
Hoof beats galloped in the mud. The sergeant drew rein. “What’s holding up the line?”
The guard changed his tone. “Two prisoners too lazy to walk.”
Stewart kept his head bent, hiding the rage smoldering in his eyes.
The sergeant’s horse churned the mud, his voice an angry command. “Keep them moving, Dalbris, and keep them alive. The priests want this lot for the Flame God. Disappoint the red robes and they’ll take you instead. Now get them moving.” The sergeant spurred his horse, cantering toward the front.
The guard’s voice sank to a snarl. “I’m watching you two.” The whip cracked but it did not strike. “Now march!”
The line staggered forward, mud sucking at each step. Stewart followed the tug, keeping pace with the others, but his mind mulled over the sergeant’s words. Wanted for the Flame God! Panic flashed through him, he’d heard too many tales of Coronth not to fear the fire. Perhaps if he told them he was a prince, but a sixth sense warned him to keep quiet. Yet time was running out. He needed to escape, but not without the others. Thirty guards against twenty-six prisoners, the numbers were nearly even, but sometimes numbers lied. Everything was against them. Mounted and armored the guards were well fed, while every day’s march sapped the prisoners’ strength. Mud and muck took a heavy toll on a man’s body, turning hardened soldiers into shambling wrecks, yet he had to find a way. Stewart flexed his shoulders, testing his bonds, but the rope held tight.
Whips cracked as the guards prodded the prisoners like cattle to market. Stewart focused on putting one foot in front of another, struggling not to trip. Footsore and weary, the day seemed to stretch forever, an endless slog through the mud.
At sunset they stopped, herded off the side of the road to a copse of naked trees. Stewart barely noticed his surroundings. When the line stopped, he sank to the ground, indifferent to the mud. A guard circled among them, checking their bonds.
“Food, give me food.” A few men begged to be fed, but all they got for their courage was a cuff to the head.
The weather worsened with the rain falling in sheets.
Drenched and shivering with cold, Stewart tilted his head to catch the rain. Gedry sat beside him, shoulder to shoulder, sharing an arm’s length of warmth. The scout whispered. “My lord, you should tell them.”
“Shhhhh.” Stewart hissed a warning.
“Tell them the truth and they’ll have to treat you better.”
Stewart shook his head, grim with doubt. By tradition, noble prisoners were ransomed for gold, but he did not trust the soldiers of the Flame. “I fear they’ll use me against the queen. I’ll not be a dagger held to the queen’s throat.”
“Yes, m’lord.”
“And don’t call me that, I’m merely a captain.”
Gedry gave him a hard look. “Then don’t take a lash for me…sir. It ain’t right.”
The scout was a man of pride. Men of pride deserved to be saved. The prince nodded. “You’re a good man, Gedry. Gods willing, we’ll see our way out of this.”
Someone hissed a warning. “Guards,” and the two men fell silent.
Two guards approached carrying a steaming kettle and a bulging water skin. The men sat up, like dogs begging to be fed. Each prisoner received a single bowl of gruel and a cup of murky water. Stewart struggled not to lunge at his allotment. Carefully holding the bowl with both hands, he licked the spill from the side, desperate for every mouthful. Watery and full of grit, the porridge was at least warm and slightly salty. A piece of gristle floated on top, a rare prize. Stewart gnawed on it, his stomach growling, knowing he wouldn’t feed such slop to his hunting dogs. Ravenous, he licked the bowl clean and then drank the water, holding the mug to the rain for a second cup.
All too soon the guards collected the bowls and the prisoners settled down to sleep. Huddled together like pigs in the mud, they sought any scrap of shared warmth. Some fell deep asleep, exhausted by the long march, while others whimpered and coughed, trapped by misery. Stewart remained quiet, his mind seething for a way to escape. Exhaustion threatened, but he held it at bay, racking his mind for a plan. The guards were well fed and well armored while the prisoners barely survived, desperate to make it through the day. And then he realized he had his answer. Desperation was their only advantage, the frenzied madness of men fighting for their lives versus guards who merely followed orders. And the key to unleashing such desperation was the truth.
He pressed his mouth close to Gedry’s ear. “Pass the word. They mean to give us to the flames. Spend tomorrow’s march searching for a sharp rock or a dropped knife, anything to cut the ropes. We escape or we die.”
Gedry nodded and leaned toward the next man in the huddle. Whispered words flashed through the men, raising a hum of tension. Fight or die, it was the only weapon they had. Stewart prayed to all the gods it would be enough.
29
Steffan
Screams echoed up from the valley below, the twisted howls of the damned. Steffan watched from the hilltop. Priests stripped the captive naked and then hung him from an iron spear, raising and lowering him over the flames. A sea of red surrounded the pyre, soldiers chanting prayers to the Flame God, writhing in a frenzy of worship.
“Do you always have entertainment in the morning?” The Priest
ess emerged from Steffan’s pavilion, her dark hair tousled, her hourglass figure seductive in a robe of deepest purple.
His gaze traveled the length of her, lingering on the lush cleft between her breasts. “Only for you, my sweet.” He extended a hand and she joined him, staring down at the valley. “Behold the power of religion.”
“Even from here I can feel the raw force of it,” she shivered, “almost bestial in its intensity.” She studied the ritual, a thoughtful look on her face. “Who is the victim?”
“An enemy solder. I’ve ordered my Black Flames to set traps for the enemy ambushers, bringing the captives back for questioning. The first few are tortured and the rest are eager to spew their darkest secrets.”
She arched a dark eyebrow. “Torture?”
“To learn where the harvest is hidden.”
“And does the fire make them sing?”
“Always. The infidels don’t know fire the way we do. The first victim is usually stoic…till the flames take him in their embrace. Having watched the first man roast to death, the second always weeps like a babe, begging for release.”
“And do you spare them when they sing?”
“And waste all this power?” He gestured to the army below, writhing like a kicked anthill. “Religion is a fearsome beast but it needs feeding now and then.”
“Little wonder the Dark Lord is pleased with you.” Her dark gaze studied him like a hungry hawk. “And where is the harvest?”
Steffan retreated to the awning of his pavilion, to the large oak table strewn with maps. He found the one he wanted. “We’re here, a month’s march from the gates of Pellanor. But here to the east, is Lingard, the nearest enemy stronghold.” His finger tapped the map. “We’ll find the harvest behind Lingard’s stout walls, enough to feast my men for the final march to Pellanor.”
“Lingard.” Her gaze turned inward, her beautiful features locked in thought.
Steffan watched her. Not for the first time, he wondered what dark powers she held.
S&SS [04] The Poison Priestess Page 24