“Potatoes!” The others came running. Drawing swords, they knelt on the ground, digging for their supper, the prince among them. “Found one!” Some were misshapen, others nothing but nubs. A handful were ruined, blackened by rot, too far gone to eat, but they soon had a mound of sixty, a veritable feast. Stewart cleaned his sword and sheathed it. His men stood in a circle, staring at their trove. Stewart’s mouth began to water, his imagination running rampant, “baked potatoes with butter.”
Crocker said, “Hash browns fried with bacon.”
“Mashed potatoes and gravy.”
“Pan fried potatoes.”
“Potato pancakes with sour cream.”
Owen laughed. “Hell, I’ll eat mine raw!”
They all began to laugh, an infectious roar that took them in the bellies and didn’t stop till tears glistened from their eyes. As the men sobered, they turned to stare at Stewart. “What will it be, my lord?”
A fire was always risky, but it seemed fortune smiled on them. “It’s nearly night.” His gaze turned to the scout. “Go get Jasper and Kennith, no sense leaving them on the ridge. The rest of you build a fire in the hearth, we’ll dine on baked potatoes tonight!”
A cheer erupted from the men. Smiling, they scattered to do his bidding. Wood was collected and a fire laid in the hearth. While the fire blazed hot, the men debated how to cook their precious find. Without pots or frying pans, they ended up nestling the potatoes amongst the glowing coals. Sitting on the floor in front of the hearth, they kept watch, using a sword as a poker. Stewart righted a chair and sat at the table. It seemed forever since he’d sat at a table, as if all the trappings of civilization had fled, nothing left but war. He shivered, suddenly feeling as if the cottage were a trap.
“Timmons, go spell Percy outside. And keep a sharp watch. We dare not be lulled by the promise of food and a roof.”
“Yes, lord.” The lanky soldier slipped outside, admitting a breath of cold air.
After countless days on the road, the cottage seemed a haven, snug and warm and dry, full of forgotten comforts. Stewart dozed in the chair, till the tantalizing smell of roast potatoes prodded him awake. “Are they done?”
Owen poked a potato with a sword, a grin splitting his swarthy face. “Yes!”
They ate roasted potatoes speared on daggers. No one spoke, other than a few vague moans of pleasure. Stewart nearly swooned at the taste, the outer skin hard as crackling, the insides soft and white and full of flavor. He gobbled the first; too hungry to slow, but he savored the second. Each man ate two; the others set aside to cool for the morrow. They sprawled in front of the hearth, content from the feast.
The door banged open. “Riders coming!”
“Bloody hell!” Stewart leaped from the chair, his sword whispering to his hand. He rushed out into the night, the others at his back. Blinking against the darkness, he crouched for a fight, but it was already too late. Twenty horsemen approached at a gallop, fanning out to surround the farmhouse.
Timmons hissed, “I’ll not be taken again, not again.”
Another voice whispered. “Quiet.”
Stewart studied the riders, hoping for emerald surcoats, but fortune was not so kind. The riders were a motley crew. Cloaks of brown and red and green, the tattered scroungings of escaped prisoners, or deserters, or worse still, scavengers come to feed off the leavings of war. Two carried crossbows, cocked and ready, while the others bristled with swords and halberds, their hands near their weapons, a lethal pack of wolves.
“Whose side do you serve?” Stewart tensed, his sword held at the ready.
“Side? Who said anything about sides?” A one-eyed man with a scarred face and red beard nudged his horse a step in front of the others, staking a claim to leadership. A mitered cleric’s helm combined with an emerald cloak sent mixed signals. He flashed a nasty grin. “We’ve come late to the party, boys. Seems this pigeon’s already been plucked.” Putting his hand on his sword hilt, his voice dripped with menace. “But since we have the numbers, we’ll take the prize, food, coin, and swords, the lot of it. Surrender your gleanings and you just might live.” He laughed, and his men laughed with him, an ugly twisted sound.
Scavengers, Stewart cursed his ill luck. Twenty against eight, the odds were bad, especially without the element of surprise, but staring up at the leader’s nasty grin, Stewart knew death would follow surrender. “No need to fight.” He relaxed his stance, dropping his sword to his side, hoping to gain a measure of surprise.
“I wasn’t talkin’ about fightin’,” the one-eyed leader leered from the saddle, “I was talkin’ about takin’.”
Stewart shrugged, moving a step toward the brigands. “You’ll not find much among us, our true worth’s in our sword arms. Let us join you.”
“Join us!” The leader barked a rude laugh. “As if we need a bunch of half-starved scarecrows. You can’t even feed yourselves.”
“My men feasted on baked potatoes tonight, as many as they could eat,” Stewart kept moving, slowly sidling toward the nearest crossbow, “can your men say the same?”
“Potatoes!” Anger rippled through the brigands, a jangle of armor and snorting horses, a mutter of discontent. “Stop your yammering,” the leader growled at his men, his gaze returning to Stewart. “You sound like trouble.”
Stewart took another step, hoping his men sensed his drift. “No trouble. We’ve plenty of potatoes to share.” Another step and he was almost within striking distance. “Join forces with us.”
“Stop where you are. Clem, Dink, skewer the bugger if he takes another step.”
A pair of crossbows aimed his way. Stewart froze, knowing attack would be suicide.
The leader scowled, “You’re wasting my time. Surrender or die.”
Stewart played his last gambit. “I’ll make you a better offer.”
“I’m losing patience, scarecrow.”
“Your weight in gold.”
“My weight in gold!” The leader roared in laughter. “Where are you hiding it, up your ass?”
Stewart yelled to be heard. “Safe conduct for me and my men to the Rose Army and you’ll be paid your weight in gold. Better wages than you’ll find scavenging farmhouses and burnt villages. You’ll never grow rich off the leavings of the Flame.”
Their laughter stilled. The leader gave him a squinty stare. “And why will they pay such a ransom for the likes of you?”
Owen protested, “No, my lord! Don’t trust them.” but Stewart raised a hand, forestalling him. “Because I’m the prince of Lanverness.”
The brigands snorted with laughter. “Scarecrow thinks he’s the bloody prince of Lanverness!” but the leader kept his one-eyed stare fixed on Stewart. “Prove it.”
“Take me to the Rose Army and they’ll know me. Take me to the Flame and you’ll get nothing but eight corpses.”
“A scarecrow prince?” The leader gave him a scathing look.
“It costs you little to learn the truth and the reward is great.”
The crossbowman muttered, “It ain’t true. Don’t trust him.”
Another brigand said, “Yeah, but think of all that gold.”
“Kill him and be done with it.”
Stewart pressed his argument. “Send a messenger to the Rose Army and you’ll see how keen they are to find me. They’ll meet your price.” His gaze roved the brigands, noting the naked greed on their faces. “A fortune in gold for such a small risk. You know the Spider Queen is good for it.” Stewart’s gaze returned to the one-eyed leader, willing him to agree.
The leader met his stare, cold and calculating.
The waiting seemed to last forever. Stewart could feel his men tense behind him. He gripped his sword, knowing he’d rather die fighting than surrender.
“Alright,” the leader gave Stewart a crooked grin, “drop your weapons and we’ll send the messenger.”
Stewart shook his head, pressing his luck, his heart pounding. “We’re in enemy territory. We’ll keep our weapons,
but we’ll keep them sheathed. Any of my men draws sword on one of yours, you’re free to kill him.”
“Setting terms?”
“Protecting your prize.” Stewart waited, locking stares with the one-eyed brigand. “If trouble finds us, you’ll need our swords. We stay safe or you get nothing.”
The leader scowled. “Alright. Keep your swords, but if any of your men step out of line, your lordship will be payin’ the price.” He flashed an ugly grin. “We’ve got ways of carvin’ a man that don’t involve killin’. Agreed?”
Stewart nodded. “Agreed.” He sheathed his sword, and turned to watch as his men did the same.
The brigand leader swung down from the saddle, a jangle of arms and armor. “Name’s Skarn the Bold, and now I’ll be havin’ some of your potatoes.” They trooped back inside, crowding the small cottage. Stewart stood in the far corner with his men, watching as the brigands feasted on their potatoes. He’d taken a risk, making a bargain with the devil, but sometimes the devil was better than death.
44
Steffan
A delegation appeared at the gates of Lingard. Twenty men rode under twin banners, emerald green for Lanverness and snow white for parlay. Steffan watched from the tower window as a troop of Black Flames escorted them to the inner courtyard. The Priestess joined him, leaning on the sill, luscious in a low-cut gown of smoky velvet.
She gave him a sloe-eyed glance. “Surrender?”
Steffan chuckled. “Doubtful. It’s too soon for the blue sword to have reached Pellanor, let alone for the heralds to bring a reply. Besides, they don’t look like soldiers, more like a bunch of nobles and their guards. The heralds must have passed them in the dark.”
She pursed her lips in a tempting pout. “If not surrender, then what?”
He grinned. “Mischief, skullduggery, deception. Whatever it is, we’ll turn it to our advantage.”
“Shall I summon the prince?”
Steffan considered her suggestion. “If he’s not drunk in his cups, why not? A show of force, or perhaps deviousness.” He flashed a grin. “Let them see the prince sitting at my left hand and let them wonder.”
She gave him a siren’s smile. “Lingard captured and Prince Danly turned, it should be more than enough to make them tremble.”
“Just so,” he considered the possibilities, “but tell the prince to hold his tongue. I won’t tolerate his interference.”
“As you wish.” She left him to summon the others, while he sipped a goblet of merlot, a tasty vintage from the baron’s own cellar.
Steffan kept the delegation waiting for two full turns of the hourglass, long enough for the loss of Lingard to be appreciated. Taking the lord’s seat at the table’s head, he put the Priestess on his right and Prince Danly on his left. The bishops and the general were excluded from the in the parlay. Sometimes subtlety was better left to small numbers. With a wave of his hand, the guards admitted the lords of the delegation, three men, all of them in their early thirties, ambition gleaming from their eyes despite their dust-stained doublets. From the cut of their cloaks, Steffan assumed they had money, or at least a rich patron, wealthy noblemen come to play at politics.
“Welcome to Lingard. My name is Lord Steffan Raven, the councilor to the Pontifax.” He gave a careful introduction, claiming power while keeping his position vague. Sometimes murkiness had its advantages. “What brings you to the gates of Lingard?”
The tall blond-haired lord with a jowly face and thick whiskers stepped forward, offering a cautious nod instead of a bow. “My name is Lord Evon.” He gestured to the other two. “With me are Masters Holton and Spitzer. We’ve come from Pellanor on a matter of great delicacy.” His gaze darted to the prince and then snapped back to Steffan.
Delicacy, a word that so often doubles for betrayal. Steffan hid his smile. “Parlay deserves a certain careful consideration, thus I’ve kept my council small.”
The lord glowered. “We did not expect to see Prince Danly at your table.”
“Surprises are just as much a part of negotiations as war.” Steffan’s smile deepened. “I’ll wager you did not expect to find me in Lingard either?”
The lord’s face flamed red. “No.”
“Yet here I sit.” Steffan grinned. “Imagine where you’ll find me in another moon turn?”
The lord’s eyes bulged. “But war is so wasteful.”
“That depends on your point of view.”
Lord Evon lowered his chin, like a man about to take a punch. “There are some in Pellanor who view this war as a great waste, a senseless destruction of lives and property. Wars are always costly, for both sides. The lords of Pellanor wonder if it might be possible to find a more peaceful accommodation.”
“The cost of war is always born by the loser.” Steffan sipped the merlot, letting the lordlings sweat.
“Yes, but so much death and destruction, surely there must be a better way?”
“What do you have in mind?”
Lord Evon hesitated, sweat beading his brow. “Lanverness is wealthy, a treasury filled with gold beyond the telling. Perhaps a peace could be brokered in exchange for coin.”
Steffan smiled. “It’s something to be considered, but whom do you represent? The queen?”
“No,” the lordling blustered, “but my patron sits upon the queen’s council and is privy to information that could be of great value.”
“Great value? Enough to end a war?”
“It is hoped.”
“That would take a great deal of coin, more than most men could imagine, especially since the Flame is winning.” Steffan fondled the golden goblet. “Tell me gentlemen, how much gold can you imagine?”
“The treasury of Lanverness.”
Beside him, Prince Danly gasped. Steffan shot the prince a warning glance and then turned his attention back to the lord. “A tempting offer, if you assume that’s all we’ve come for.”
Lord Evon looked confused. “What more could you want?”
“The souls of your people.”
The lordling’s eyes went wide, like a horse about to bolt.
Steffan used his most soothing voice. “But enough gold might assuage the fervor of my bishops.”
“Let us hope so.” The lordling mopped a sheen of sweat from his brow. “We have no wish to live under the Flame, but we do seek an accord.”
“You decry our god yet you’d make an agreement with us?”
“The affairs of other kingdoms are not our concern.”
The lordling actually managed to sound offended. “What terms does your patron offer?”
Lord Evon hesitated. “The treasury of Lanverness is uniquely vulnerable. In exchange for the details, you will claim the treasury and then retreat back across the border, returning to Coronth to trouble us no more.”
“But the Flame Army has already claimed a full quarter of Lanverness.”
“Then keep what you’ve claimed but take no more.”
How easily he ceded the northern farmland. “Including Lingard?”
Lord Evon spit the answer. “Yes.”
“An interesting offer, but we suspect the difficulties might lie in the details.” Steffan leaned forward, refilling his goblet with a deep rich merlot. “There are details, aren’t there?”
“Yes.” Lord Evon looked like he longed for a cup, yet Steffan offered none.
“You were about to tell me the details?”
“A handful of lords travel with the treasury, my patron wants them out of the way.”
Now they were getting to the good part. “He wants them killed.”
“Yes.”
“And how many soldiers protect the treasury?”
“Two thousand.”
A bold-faced lie, but Steffan let it pass. “And what else?”
“We’ve brought documents, a treaty for you to sign, ensuring peace between our two kingdoms.” The man to the lord’s left produced a sheaf of documents bound with an emerald ribbon. He laid them on the table lik
e an offering upon an altar.
Steffan hid a grin, as if mere parchments would ever bind him. “And what is the name of your patron, this paragon of peace?”
Once more the lord hesitated, proving they’d finally reached the delicate part. “I prefer to tell you in private.”
“This is as private as you’re like to get.”
The lord glowered, but relented in the face of stubborn silence. “His name is…Lord Mills, a member of the queen’s high council.”
Beside him, the prince did not stir, as if the name meant nothing to him. Steffan sent a questing glance toward the Priestess and received a knowing smile. So the Lord Mills really was a traitor, Steffan smiled, considering the possibilities. “An interesting offer, but we sense there is something else.”
“Something else?” Lord Evon looked confused.
“What does your patron gain by such an accord?”
“Peace for Lanverness.”
“How noble, but what does he gain for himself?”
The lordling darted a furtive glance toward Danly and back.
Steffan waited, making him say it.
“He seeks the crown.”
“No!” Danly shot to his feet, his face a boil of anger. “I am the rightwise heir to Lanverness!”
The delegates retreated a step, but otherwise silence reigned. Danly turned on Steffan, frothing with anger. “I want these men arrested! They’re traitors to my throne.” Red-faced, the prince bellowed at the guards. “Arrest these men!”
But the guards did not move.
Steffan waited, letting the lesson sink in, a revenge of sorts for sharing the Priestess, and then he turned on Danly, his voice as cold as steel. “Sit and listen and earn a place among the new order…or the guards will have you removed.”
Danly sputtered like a fish out of water, but he slowly sank into the chair.
Stifling a smile, Steffan turned his gaze back to the delegates. “The queen still lives. How does Lord Mills plan to claim the throne?”
“Peace will earn him the gratitude of the people, and the loss of the treasury will be blamed on the queen, turning the nobles against her.”
S&SS [04] The Poison Priestess Page 34