S&SS [04] The Poison Priestess

by Karen Azinger

  Later, much later, he staggered to a stop. Bent over, hands on his knees, he gasped for breath. His heartbeat slowed and he took stock of his surroundings. Sounds came to him first, screams and cries and laughter, coming from every direction, the ruthless clamor of conquest. He stood in a narrow lane, houses and shops made of stone. It could have been an alley in the poorer quarter of Pellanor, until he saw the bodies. Two women flung aside, their heads twisted at unnatural angles, their skirts pushed high around their waists, rape and murder. Danly backed away.

  Laughter came from behind, cruel and menacing.

  Danly whirled, his hands balled into fists.

  Two Black Flames stood leaning on their halberds, ugly sneers on their faces. “Lost, prince?”

  Danly ignored their gibe. At least they knew his rank. Straightening his doublet, he marched passed them, leaving the ally and walking straight into hell.

  Chaos claimed the city. Soldiers in red flooded the streets, looting houses and shops, claiming the spoils of war. Doors were battered and broken, the inhabitants dragged into streets and slaughtered. Screams and laughter riddled the air, terror and cruelty locked in counterpoint. A pair of soldiers fought over a massive silver platter, while three more took turns raping a woman. A soldier staggered down the street holding a small wine cask aloft, spilling more than he drank. A cedar chest crashed from a second story window, breaking open against the cobblestones, spewing silken finery. Petticoats and dresses littered the street, trampled beneath the boots of conquerors. Excess was everywhere, and so was death. Danly lurched to the left, avoiding a puddle of blood. Bodies lay piled in heaps, rivulets of blood in the cobbles. A few corpses wore soldiers’ surcoats but most were townsfolk, old men and women and children, dead eyes staring as he walked past, food for crows.

  Danly walked like a man in a trance. He’d seen murder and rape, but never on this scale. The waste appalled him. Why conquer a city and then reduce it to hell? He staggered through the streets, shocked by the brutality.

  A pair of drunken soldiers drew their swords. “Well, well, what do we have here? A lordling, ripe for the plucking.”

  Danly froze, nothing but a fancy table knife at his belt.

  “Let’s strip him naked and bend him over a cask.”

  Danly retreated a step. “No, I’m on your side.”

  The bearded soldier sneered. “Sure you are…all dressed in emerald finery like a lord of Lingard.”

  Danly stared down at his clothes, shocked to realize he wore nothing but emerald. “No, you don’t understand.”

  One of the soldiers sneered. “Turn your pockets out, let’s see what you have.”

  “Not this one.” Two Black Flames appeared at Danly’s back, halberds held at the ready. “He’s under the protection of Lord Raven.”

  The drunks backed away, a shadow of fear on their faces. “How was we to know?” They turned and fled, disappearing into a side street.

  Danly sagged in relief.

  One of his minders gave him a sideways glance. “You’d best return to the keep, lord prince.”

  Courteous words but their tone was full of loathing. Danly gathered the shreds of his dignity. “Lead the way.” Setting his face in a mask of stone, he followed his minders. With the Black Flames as guards, he walked unhindered through the chaos, his soul absorbing the sights. Soldiers caroused like beasts, indulging every desire. Half-naked women screamed as they ran from drunken mobs. Overturned carts and broken casks littered the streets, the detritus of pillage. So this was the pinnacle of war, the rape and sack of a once-great city. Danly drank it all in, both appalled and captivated by the spectacle. His voyeuristic side reveled in the visual orgy while the waste and the danger repulsed his sense of survival. He shuddered, realizing he preferred peace. He’d thought Pellanor was boring, but he yearned for the days when he took his pleasures in the best bordellos. War was too wasteful and far too dangerous.

  “Make way! Make way for the sinners!”

  Soldiers scattered, clearing a path.

  A procession of red-robed priests strode through the street, incense burners releasing clouds of sickly sweet smoke. A mitered bishop carried a golden brazier aloft. Red-robed acolytes walked on either side, carrying flaming torches.

  Danly and his guards moved to the side.

  Carts rumbled behind the phalanx of priests, and in the carts stood people, jammed together like cattle, young and old, men and women, their hands bound, their faces full of fear.

  “Make way for the sinners!”

  A few captives stared at Danly, recognition lighting their faces.

  “The prince!”

  Danly staggered as if slapped.

  Bound hands reached toward him, desperate faces flickering with hope. “Prince Danly! Save us!” Other captives took up the cry. “Spare us from the flames! The Prince will save us!”

  Danly watched in horror. The same townsfolk who’d cheered him yesterday were bound for the flames. He’d enjoyed their cheers…but now this. There was nothing he could do. It wasn’t his fault. If they wanted to live they need only convert. He’d done it himself, a few mumbled vows to save his own life, a cheap enough price. After all, what did the gods matter? One god was as good as another. No, it wasn’t his fault, but he didn’t want to watch. He turned away. “Not this way.”

  A hand clamped his shoulder, strong as steel. “Stay.” The bigger of the two guards leaned close, his breath a foul stink of garlic. “You’re their prince, you should watch.”

  Danly wanted to strike the brute but force was never his forte. His instinct for survival won out. Shackled by the guard’s grip, he turned to watch the procession, enduring the entreaties of the damned.

  “Help us, my Prince!”

  “Spare us!”

  “Mercy!”

  Cries for help dwindled as more carts rolled past and Danly did nothing. Hope died, fading to despair, but in some, it sparked outrage, their glares full of accusation. Their stares burned him. One captive leaned forward, arcing a wad of spittle in his direction.

  “Traitor!”

  “You betrayed us!”

  Their taunts hurt. The truth stung like nettles on his soul. Danly tried to pull away, but the guard held him fast, an iron grip biting into his shoulder. The last cart rumbled past and Danly sagged in relief. “I’ve seen enough.”

  The guard prodded him. “Follow.”

  Danly stood his ground. “No. You’re my escort. Take me to the keep.”

  The Black Flame shoved him hard. “Follow.”

  Danly staggered forward, barely keeping his balance. Flushed with rage, he turned to argue, but his protest died in his throat. Both guards glared at him with fanatics’ eyes. Eyes of evil, eyes tinged with madness, their malevolent stares stunned him, erasing all doubt. If he argued they’d kill him, or worse, throw him in the carts to burn with the townsfolk. Danly followed the procession.

  A crowd thronged behind the carts. Mostly soldiers but a few citizens as well, converts wearing the brand of conversion.

  “Burn the sinners! Cleanse the infidels!”

  The converts screamed the loudest, as if they had something to prove.

  The procession spilled into a large square, a mountain of kindling heaped in the center. Bishop Taniff and his priests stood in a crescent around the pyre. Clouds of incense billowed around them like a holy haze. Captives cried and begged as soldiers hauled them from the carts, prodding them up the wooden mountain.

  Danly knew what was coming, such a gruesome way to die. He’d seen soldiers sacrificed in the army camp, but nothing like this, never so many, and never people he’d betrayed. Sickened by the spectacle, he tried sidling away, but the Black Flame gripped his shoulder. “Stand in front.”

  Herded by the burly guard, Danly forced his way forward, till he stood at the foot of the pyre. Close enough to see the captives’ faces, men and women who’d welcomed him the day before. And then it hit him; this was his doing, his doom.

  The priests
finished their prayers. The bishop’s voice boomed through the square. “For the last time, I give you the chance to repent, to drop to your knees and beg for the brand of conversion. Accept the Flame God or die for your sins!”

  Even now the captives hesitated. Danly wanted to scream at them, to tell them to take the brand, but he was afraid to call attention to himself.

  A few relented. Mostly women, their faces streaked with tears, they staggered down the pyre to kneel before the bishop. Soldiers took them away.

  Bishop Taniff gestured to his acolytes. “Burn the infidels!” Torches touched wood, causing the kindling to erupt in flames. Danly closed his eyes tight, refusing to watch, but he could not block out the hideous screams, or the roaring heat. Screams and shrieks beat against him, growing more intense, a nightmare clawing at his mind. A terrible burnt smell roiled through the square. Danly coughed on the stench. A single piercing scream and then a grim silence prevailed, a shocking stillness. Danly opened his eyes.

  A gruesome black cloud belched from the pyre, a signal of death.

  The crowd roared in jubilation.

  Danly stared at the people cavorting in the street. Evil danced around him, a primal force pounding against him. Gripped in ecstasy, the crowd howled like monsters. Danly shuddered; he’d never witnessed anything so consuming, so primal, yet somehow he stood apart. Understanding struck like a hammer blow. This was the evil that sought to supplant his mother’s rule, an evil that would scorch Lanverness to cinders, destroying his pampered world. An evil he’d made his ally.

  Smoke shifted, drenching him in the stench of burnt flesh.

  Danly ran and no one cared. Through cobbled streets and back alleyways, he ran till his side hurt and his lungs ached, and then he collapsed, the stench of burnt flesh clinging to his clothes. Vomit roared out of him. He emptied himself over and over again, till there was nothing left, yet in his mind the faces of the dead stared back at him. Betrayer and betrayed, both condemned to hell. A sob escaped him, for everything he’d done, for everything he’d lost. He sagged onto the cobblestones, beaten by guilt.

  “There you are.” The Lord Raven strode toward him, a dozen guards at his back. “We searched the city for you. It wouldn’t do to lose our prince.” Steffan made a curt gesture. “Bring him.”

  Hands grabbed Danly, lifting him to his feet. They carried him between them, like an empty sack, a hollow prince, a mockery of a man. His feet dragged on the ground, bumping against the cobbles, but that did not stop them. They dragged him back to the keep, dragged him back to serve evil, but this time he’d find a way to resist.

  39

  Jordan

  A cold morning mist swirled across the land, as if they rode through a veil. Jordan glimpsed it from a distance, a broken tower, the color of dried blood, rearing above an old growth forest. She stared, needing to be sure, but the silhouette did not match her visions. Doubt gnawed at her, but she kept her worries to herself.

  Thaddeus led them into a gully, the horses splashing through a shallow stream. Six swordsmen, a warrior-princess, and three monks, they kept their weapons close, peering through the mist. Despite the dawn, they kept riding, following the stream to the northwest. The woods thinned and they found themselves on the edge of farmland. Fallow fields stretched in every direction, offering little cover. Like a greensward, the fields surrounded a single hilltop crowned with an old growth forest, and atop that hill loomed a red-stoned keep. Thaddeus pulled his horse to a halt and turned towards her. “Is this the tower of your dreams?”

  Jordan stared across the farmland, her gaze fixed on the tower. The angle was different. And they were closer. She shivered at the sight. Like a blunt fist, the broken tower reared above the winter-naked forest, defying time and the gods. “Yes.”

  “The Crimson Tower,” he gave her a knowing look, “the past has a way of reaching into the present.”

  “What do you mean?’

  “These ruins are old, very old. The Crimson Tower was once a stronghold of the Star Knights.”

  The Star Knights, the words shivered against her like a destiny. “Then my dreams must be true.”

  “We’ll see.” His gaze turned to the others. “We’ll cross the farmland, riding hard for the keep. The peasants say the tower is haunted, so it should make a safe haven from prying eyes.” He put spurs to his mount. Jordan and the others urged their horses to follow.

  They galloped through the thinning mist, crossing the farmland to enter the forest skirting the tower. Oak and maple and hawthorn, the trees crowded close, their trunks’ thicker than a horse’s girth, as if the forest had never felt a woodsman’s axe. So tangled the branches, they dismounted, leading their horses through the thicket. An owl hooted in the depths, an eerie sound.

  Thaddeus found a deer track and they followed it toward the hilltop. Jordan caught glimpses of the tower through the naked branches. Broken by war and time, the tower reared above the forest like a blunt finger accusing the gods. Just like my dreams, a shiver of recognition passed down her spine. She quickened her pace, keen for a better look.

  Bloodred stones littered the forest floor, as if a giant had sundered the tower. They wove a path between the massive blocks, moss growing on their sides, reeking of age. Jordan could almost hear the clang of a ghostly battle, little wonder the peasants named the forest haunted.

  Thad led them onto a weathered trail that spiraled up the hill. Cresting the hill, they entered the tumbled walls surrounding the broken tower. The others fanned out to explore, but Thaddeus stayed by her side. Jordan secured her horse to a fallen log, intent on the tower. Running her hand along the bloodred stones, she made her way to the heart of the ancient keep. A brace of birds whirled aloft, nothing but open sky and ruined stones, a hollow shell, yet a hint of majesty lingered, a grand whisper of another era.

  “Look here.” Thad pointed to a keystone set high above an archway, an ancient emblem chiseled in stone.

  “The eight-pointed star.” Jordan crossed to stand beneath the symbol. Balancing on a fallen block, she reached up, her fingertips brushing the carving, half expecting another vision. She held her breath, but the moment passed, nothing but weathered stone beneath her touch.

  Thad said, “It’s as if the Star Knights still keep watch over Erdhe.”

  “So you feel it too?”

  “The Zward serves the Grand Master, but in truth we feel more kinship to the Knights.” He turned away, as if he’d said too much, making his way through the tumbled stones.

  Jordan followed, searching for other hints of the past. The thick walls and massive stones instilled an abiding sense of strength. She shivered, wondering at the power required to sunder the ancient keep.

  One of the Zward approached, hailing Thaddeus. “We found something you might want to see.”

  Intrigued, Jordan followed Thaddeus and Benjin out of the ruins to a narrow pathway that spiraled down the far side of the hill. A cave burrowed into the hillside, the mouth wide enough for five horses. Ellis emerged, holding a burning branch aloft. “It’s not what you think.” She scraped moss from the cave wall, revealing red stone beneath. “The ancients hollowed the hill to build a stable, big enough to hold a hundred horses.”

  Thaddeus turned to Benjin, “Is this what you called me to see?”

  “No, come.” The stocky swordsman led them through the opening.

  The air proved dank and musty, the torch casting an island of light in the dark. “Watch your step.” Refuse littered the hard-packed dirt floor. Broken crockery, a thrown horseshoe, a musty bedroll, an abandoned kettle, a moldering pile of leaves, the remnants of past occupants strewn across the floor, proof that others used the cave despite the ghost stories.

  A rustling noise came from overhead.

  Jordan flinched, reaching for her sword.

  Ellis raised the torch. “Bats.” Small bats clung to the vaulted ceiling, a writhing mosaic of brown fur and leathery wings. “It’s better in the back.”

  A hole in the f
ar corner admitted a shaft of sunlight and a breath of fresh air. Light pooled on the floor, illuminating a circle of stones awash with spent ashes. Benjin knelt by the blackened fire pit. Unsheathing a dagger, he stirred the ashes, revealing a red glow. “Still warm.”

  Thaddeus swore. “How many?”

  Benjin gestured towards the far side of the stables. “Plenty of fresh horse dung over there. Fresh but not warm, so I’m guessing they left yesterday. As to how many,” he shrugged, “Twenty or more.”

  Thaddeus scowled. “Deserters.”

  “Or brigands”

  “Or solders of the Flame, either way the odds aren’t good.” Thaddeus turned his stare towards Jordan. “You’re certain this is the tower of your dreams?”

  “Yes.”

  His hand tightened on his sword hilt. “Then we stay, but we keep close watch and we prepare for a fight.” He glanced around the cavern. “We’ll make camp here and picket the horses near the entrance. And we’ll take turns keeping watch from the broken tower.”

  Jordan said. “I’ll take first watch.” She left them to set up camp. Making her way out of the stables, she climbed the hill to the broken tower. Tumbled stones formed a giant’s staircase against the northern wall. The morning light burnished the stones to a crimson glow, like something out of myth or legend. She climbed to the top, gaining a view above the barren treetops. Her gaze swept the countryside, an island of forest surrounded by a sea of fallow farmland, a testament to the power of superstition.