S&SS [04] The Poison Priestess

by Karen Azinger

  “Oh yes.” The captain leaned forward like a man bespelled.

  The Priestess speared another slice. She leaned across the table, the slice hovering at the captain’s lips.

  The baron began to choke, a loud hacking sound. He clawed at his throat, his face turning beet red, gasping for breath. “Poison!” He spat the word like a curse. Fingernails raking his throat, he drew streaks of blood. A coughing fit claimed him, his huge body convulsing. One hand gripped the tablecloth, yanking it toward him. Goblets and platters shattered across the floor. The baron struggled to stand, his eyes bulging, his face contorted. He gave a strangled groan, a death rattle, and toppled like a felled giant.

  The captain sprang backwards, drawing his sword. “What have you done?”

  Danly leaped from his chair, his face contorted in fear. “Poison! You never said anything about poison! I could have died!”

  “Calm down.” Steffan stood, his gaze locked on the captain, time to test the plan. He pulled the purse from his belt and threw it on the table. Heavy with golds, it hit the table with an impressive thunk. “A first payment.”

  The captain’s face flickered with interest, but he kept his sword raised.

  Steffan pressed his argument. “You can be rich, and on the winning side, or you can die.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A hundred of my soldiers are billeted at the eastern gate.”

  The captain gave a terse nod.

  “By now, they should have control of the gate. By morning, the city will be teaming with soldiers of the Flame.”

  Fear flickered in the captain’s eyes.

  “Take the gold and live.”

  His gaze slid from the purse to the dead baron and back again.

  “There’s more gold where that came from, enough to make you wealthy. You owe no allegiance to the dead.”

  Vengar lowered the sword and took the golds. “What would you have me do?”

  “Take control of the keep.” Steffan gestured to the Priestess and the prince. “Protect us till dawn. The army of the Flame will do the rest.”

  “And if anyone stands in my way?”

  “Kill them.”

  The captain scowled but he did not argue. “And what about him?” He gestured to the dead baron.

  “The heart and soul of the city.” Steffan moved around the table, nudging the corpse with his boot. “To take Lingard I merely needed to defeat one man and claim one gate. Put his head on a spike over the keep’s gates. When the people see their baron’s head on a spike, all resistance will crumble. Take away the leader and you take away their hope.” Steffan smiled. “It really is that simple.”

  The captain hesitated, his sword hanging limp in his hand.

  Steffan gave him a piercing stare. “You have work to do.”

  Vengar saluted and strode from the chamber. The door slammed shut behind him like a final heartbeat. Steffan gave the Priestess a slow smile. “You were magnificent.”

  Her dark eyes gleamed bright. “Poison is such a sweet seduction.”

  Flushed from the kill, Steffan thought she’d never looked more enticing.

  A low moan broke the mood. Danly cringed with his back to the wall. “I ate the apple! I could have died.”

  Steffan bolted the door. “Calm yourself.”

  “Poison!” Danly stared at the Priestess. “You never said anything about poison! You could have made a mistake!”

  “Never.” She wiped her dagger on the tablecloth. “When it comes to poison, I never make mistakes.”

  Danly sputtered. “But how’d you do it? I saw you eat the apple?”

  “An age-old trick.” She lifted the dagger, showing the runnel on one side. “Two sides to the dagger, but only one side holds the poison.” She flashed a knowing smile. “Taste the food yourself and the victim never suspects.” Her smile deepened. “Killing is an art, a special form of seduction.”

  Steffan crossed the room and took her in his arms, her lush curves melding to his body. “I can’t wait any longer.” He clasped her close, his hands tugging at the annoying velvet. She wore nothing underneath, as if she’d anticipated his need. Engorged, he carried her to the baron’s bed. Her lips tasted of apple. He could not get enough of her. She gave a throaty laugh as he took her over and over again.

  Outside the window, a scream pierced the night. The killing had started; the city was theirs, another victory for the Dark Lord.

  36

  Jordan

  Goaded by nightmares, Jordan set a hard pace. Her companions stayed close, three monks and six swordsmen, their allegiance hidden beneath leather armor and cloaks of butternut brown. They thundered down out of the mountains, galloping through the forests of Wyeth.

  The trees wept leaves, autumn quickly turning to winter. Time choked her like a noose. Jordan urged her horse to a gallop, praying they were not too late.

  Riding from dawn till dusk, they raced across the leagues, making good use of their spare mounts, but when they reached Lanverness, they slowed to a crawl. War ravaged the Rose kingdom, long lines of refugees clogging the roads. Jordan rode among them, hungry for news, but the names of villages burned and hamlets forsaken meant little to her. Told from the perspective of peasants, war was nothing but a chaotic hell. Jordan wished them Godspeed but had little else to offer. Anxious to make better time, Thaddeus led them off road, wending their way through fallow fields and empty pastures.

  They kept to the back ways, slipping through the countryside like shadows. Twice they eluded marauders in red, taking refuge in the woods, but everywhere they saw the scars of war. Homesteads deserted, bloated corpses rotting in the fields. Peasants stumbled along muddy lanes, pushing carts of meager possessions. Whole villages lay ravaged, some burned to cinders, smoking ruins haunting the countryside. For the first time, Jordan saw the true wages of war, yet she knew this first payment was merely a token if Darkness prevailed. She gripped her sword hilt, praying for a way to thwart the Darkness.

  They smelled it before they saw it, the reek of rot fouling the air. Thad wanted to turn away but Jordan insisted. They rode across the battlefield, red and green cloaks churned to mud, a putrid stench rising with the morning mist. Jordan slowed her horse to a walk, picking a path among the dead. Corpses littered the field, gory and rotting, her gaze drawn to those in emerald green. Her heart pounding, she studied every face, mud-streaked and pale, frozen in death. A knight with an emerald cloak and black hair sprawled facedown in the mud. Jordan slid from the saddle and knelt to roll him over, praying it was not him. Mud sucked at the body, leaving a bloody puddle. Jordan held her breath, her heart thundering…but it was not him, not Stewart. Relief washed through her. She closed the stranger’s eyes, whispering a prayer to Valin.

  “Whom do you search for?” Rafe pulled his horse to a stop, staring down at her, but she did not answer. Jordan gathered the reins of her horse and kept walking, her gaze fixed on the slain.

  Thaddeus approached, his black stallion skirting a corpse. “Only a skirmish. More red cloaks than green, looks as if the queen’s men waged a good fight.”

  A pair of crows cawed, fighting over a severed hand. She kicked at the crows, sending the pair flapping into a steel-gray sky. “Only a skirmish yet over a hundred died.” Jordan kept walking, needing to see them all.

  “We’re exposed here, lass. Better to move among the trees.”

  She heard the truth of his words, yet she could not stop her search.

  “Scavengers will be here soon, we best be off.”

  Her gaze scanned the battlefield, noting the lack of weapons. “They’ve already come and gone.” She pointed to the nearest corpse, a barefoot soldier sprawled in the mud. “This one’s missing his boots.” Scavengers always followed the brave, gleaning weapons and armor and coin, a despicable practice. They took what they wanted but buried none of the dead, leaving heroes and enemies as fodder for crows. It was a grim sight, a grim lesson.

  “We should ride.”

 
“I need to know.”

  His voice sharpened. “Is this about your visions?”

  “No…yes!” She stared up at Thaddeus, grateful for his keen insight.

  “How?”

  “Because if he’s…” her voice broke, choking on the words. Jordan took a steadying breath. “Because if he’s here, then certain visions cannot be true.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Or I’ve come too late.”

  Thaddeus gave her a measured look. “Then you best gain the answer.”

  She quickened her pace, walking among the dead, checking every emerald cloak save one. From a distance she spied blonde hair beneath a cracked helm. Relief washed through her, not him, not Stewart. “He’s not here.” Her voice firmed. “We need to find the red tower.”

  “Then we best be off. And pray your description matches my memory.” They put spurs to their horses, galloping for the woods.

  37

  Stewart

  Darkness finally fell, a nearly moonless night, perfect for his plan. Lying huddled with the others, Stewart held the broken spur clamped between his thighs, sawing his hands back and forth across the rowel. The spur proved sharp but the rope was thick and stubborn. It seemed to take forever, but then the last strand broke, a rush of pins and needles flooding his hands. Stewart grinned in triumph. Flexing his fingers, he passed the spur to Gedry and then turned his attention to the camp. A single sentry sat lulled by the campfire, the best chance they were likely to get. Snores came from the others, thirty sleeping guards against twenty-five desperate prisoners. The numbers weren’t bad, till he considered his men were half-starved and beaten. Desperation and ambush were their only advantages; Stewart prayed it would be enough.

  Feigning sleep, he kept watch while the spur passed from one prisoner to the next. Every man needed to be released before they made their move. Sweat beaded his forehead despite the cold, knowing they had but one chance to escape. He flicked a glance to the heavens, tracking the slivered crescent across the night sky, nervous of losing the dark. The plan was simple, Gedry would take the sentry, Timmons would secure the horses, and he would take the sergeant; otherwise it was every man for himself, kill or be killed.

  The lone guard stirred, rising from his seat by the fire.

  Tension rippled through the prisoners. They feigned sleep, more than a few faking shallow snores. Stewart wrapped the frayed rope around his wrists, praying the ruse worked. The guard walked along the huddled prisoners, stopping now and then to stare. Stewart kept his breathing slow and even, his eyes closed to narrow slits. The guard hesitated but then moved on, returning to his seat by the fire.

  Stewart whispered an order. “Wait till his head lulls forward.” A single mistake would get them all killed. Gedry was given the spur, the only weapon among them. Stewart flexed his hands, his gaze locked on the sleeping sergeant. Tonight he’d regain the seashell broach or die trying.

  The guard’s head drooped.

  Stewart waited a hundred heartbeats. “Now.”

  They moved like wraiths, slithering through the churned mud. Stewart found a rock the size of a child’s head, a much better weapon than bare hands. He tucked it in the crook of his arm and kept crawling. Silent as death, they crept toward the guards, no chink of armor or weapons to give them away. Reaching the firelight, they paused, but the guards did not stir. Gedry rose to a crouch, slinking towards the lone sentry’s back. Stewart tensed, the rock gripped in his hands, his heartbeat hammering. Gedry struck, driving the broken spur deep in the guard’s throat while twisting his head. The guard made a wet gurgling noise, one leg kicking out, but then he slumped dead.

  The other guards still slept.

  Stewart stood, leading the others to the attack. Looming over the blanket-wrapped sergeant, he hefted the rock with both hands, such a terrible way to die. Hesitation cost him. The sergeant’s eyes flew open. Kill or be killed. Stewart struck, pounding the rock down with all his strength. The rock hit with a sickening crunch, releasing a splatter of brains. The sergeant’s body twitched and then lay still. Stewart lunged for the sergeant’s belt. Desperate fingers found the seashell broach nestled in the cloth pouch.

  A scream rent the night. Guards sputtered awake, reaching for weapons.

  Stewart grabbed the sergeant’s sword. “For the queen!” He leaped to the nearest guard, severing the man’s arm before he could draw his blade. Blood and screams filled the night. Stewart whirled, searching for the nearest foe. Silhouettes against the fire, he charged into the fray. Stewart fought like a madman, buying time for his men to gain their own weapons. The battle became a nightmare, men with rocks attacking guards with swords and halberds, courage and desperation pitted against steel. In the flickering firelight, he saw Kerlin charge a halberd, taking the wicked blade in the chest. Kerlin flung his arms around the blade, holding it tight as a lover. “Kill him! Kill him!” his dying breath wheezed out. Stewart leaped forward, taking the guard’s head as Kerlin sank to his knees, the fearsome blade still buried in his chest.

  “Behind you!”

  Stewart whirled, parrying the swipe of another halberd. The half-moon blade whistled as it cleaved the air. Fear shivered through him, the same weapon had taken him prisoner. The guard sneered, “Infidel scum!” Fear blazed to anger; Stewart launched a furious attack. Beating the halberd away, he leaped inside its reach, thrusting his sword into the guard’s loins. A hideous scream answered his thrust. He yanked his sword free just in time to parry another attack. Sword against sword, he fought like a demon. The battle became a blur, his muscles aching, his back screaming in pain. Desperation lent him strength. He dispatched another foe and staggered to a stop.

  A heart-pounding silence surrounded him. The clang of steel was ended, nothing left but the cries of the wounded. It was over, and he still stood. He raised his sword to the heavens. “For the queen!”

  Silhouettes stumbled toward him, but so few. Only eight, eight of twenty-five, the losses staggered him.

  “We did it, my prince.” It was Owen, the one who’d claimed to be the baron of Lingard.

  “Gedry?”

  Owen shook his head. “By the fire.”

  “No!” He found the scout slumped by the fire, a fearsome gash across his abdomen, his face twisted in pain. “I’m done for, lord.” Stewart wanted to argue, but they both knew it was true.

  “It hurts something fierce.” Gedry clutched at his stomach, a tangle of entrails peaking between fingers. He looked up at the prince, his eyes pleading. “End it.”

  “An honor to fight with you.” Mercy came in the form of a swift dagger. Stewart’s eyes glazed with tears but his hand held steady. “You will be remembered.” He closed the scout’s eyes, and arranged a blanket over him, almost as if he slept. “The Lords of Light be with you.”

  The others stood in a circle watching. Stewart climbed to his feet, feeling like he’d aged a hundred years.

  “What orders, lord?”

  “How many horses?”

  “Three.”

  Only three, three horses for eight men, he’d expected more, but then again, he hadn’t really expected to win. “How many guards escaped?”

  “At least eight.”

  So the cowards broke and ran, the answer to his victory. “We need to be far gone before the night ends. Gather what you can, weapons, cloaks, food, and then we run, run and hide, till we find our own men.” They scattered, doing his bidding, while Stewart made the rounds, ending the moans of the wounded. It was a terrible task, but he would not order another to do it. Most took it as a mercy, but it was still grim work. Exhausted, he sheathed the dagger and claimed a corpse’s cloak.

  Owen brought him a horse, a saddled gelding.

  “Take the saddle off. We ride double, the less the horse has to carry the better.”

  They unsaddled the horses and then they were off, riding double with two men running along side. He held the horses to a slow trot, refusing to let any man fall behind. Stewart touched the seashell broach for luck. A desp
erate plan, a desperate escape, but he’d gained his freedom, a sword belted to his side, another chance to defeat the Flame.

  38

  Danly

  Everything changed overnight. He’d ridden through the gates as a prince, delivering Lingard to his so-called allies, yet she’d fed him the apple. A poisoned apple, Danly scrubbed his sleeve across his mouth, nearly gagging at the memory. He could have died like the baron. His resentment built as he watched the other two. Steffan and Lady Cereus were both distracted, standing close as lovers, studying a map. Caught up in their victory, they talked as if he wasn’t even in the room. Danly sat in the corner, watching as they held court, listening to their schemes. Anger pulsed through him. Slinging a cloak around his shoulders, he fled the chamber, making his way down the spiral staircase.

  Soldiers in red tabards crowded the keep. Messengers ran up and down the stairs, but none gave him a second glance. He reached the ground floor unopposed. Red-cloaked officers gathered in the great hall, maps slung across the oak table, saddlebags and gear dumped along the walls. All the trappings of wealth were gone. Silver candelabras stuffed in saddlebags, tapestries pulled from walls, heirloom swords claimed as spoils. Like a plague of thieves, the army transformed the keep. By mid-afternoon, the great hall looked more like a barracks than a lord’s residence.

  Disgusted, Danly shouldered his way outside, seeking the crisp winter air, but he found no relief. Soldiers filled the courtyard, horses picketed along the far wall. Some turned to stare, their faces a mixture of curiosity and disdain. He lowered his head and crossed to the outer gate, careful to avoid the steaming piles of horseshit.

  The portcullis was raised, Black Flames guarding the gate. They let him pass, but not without an escort. Two Black Flames followed him like shadows, a pair of minders for the traitor prince. Hatred boiled in Danly, knowing they were shackles of another sort.

  Danly slipped beneath the portcullis, escaping the keep. Soldiers gathered outside, staring up at the crenellated walls. Danly turned to follow their stares and staggered back a step. Baron Rognald’s bald head glared down at him. Impaled above the gate like a trophy, the gray-tinged face was frozen in a rictus of agony. Poison, the weapon of assassins and women. Danly shuddered, making the hand sign against evil. He’d eaten from the same apple. Taking a slice from her hand, he’d even licked her fingers. He could have died like the baron, writhing in agony, his head destined for a spike above the portcullis. Backing away, Danly turned and fled, running as if all the hounds of hell gave chase.