S&SS [04] The Poison Priestess

by Karen Azinger

  His horse perked up, increasing the pace, as if it sensed home. Stewart gripped the pommel, trying to keep his balance, while sawing at his bonds. The snow fell harder, obscuring the sky, a blur of white dimming to dusk. They cantered across a fallow farm field and entered a forest thick with old growth trees.

  Pale light speared through gnarled branches, cold and forbidding, almost twilight. A breeze carried the faint stench of rotting bodies. The forest stank of death yet the snow was unsullied. Stewart shivered, glancing left and right, but the brigands seemed unconcerned. Skarn forged ahead, winding a path through the forest while the others fanned out behind, a jangle of armor and weapons. Stewart could only follow, his horse on a lead, his mouth gagged, his hands bound to the saddle, but a sixth sense screamed of danger.

  A loud crack broke the snowy silence.

  A huge log swung down from the branches. Suspended on ropes, it cut through the brigands like a battering ram. Three men went down in a bone-crunching thud. Horses reared and kicked, wounded men screamed, sparking a pandemonium of fear. The log swung back for a second blow, punching through their ranks like a massive fist. Men scrambled to get out of the way. Skarn yelled, “Ambush! Scatter!”

  Roland yanked Stewart’s horse to the left. The sudden swerve nearly threw Stewart from the saddle. He dropped his stone, clinging to the pommel. Branches wet with snow whipped across his face. Stewart ducked, desperate to keep his seat. They plunged through the forest at breakneck speed, the horses mad with panic. Suddenly the ground in front gave way, exposing a deep pit lined with stakes. Six men disappeared, horses and riders swallowed by the toothy maw. Tortured screams rose from the pit, the dying impaled amongst the dead. Stewart’s horse reared, teetering on the edge. He felt the horse begin to topple, the ground crumbling beneath its hooves, a deadly fall toward the spikes. Stewart threw himself from the saddle, but the rope pulled short, tethering him to the horse. He dug his heels in, straining against the horse’s weight. The mare screamed, eyes wide with fright, slowly toppling into the pit. Pulled towards death, his boots found purchase against a root. Every muscle screaming with strain, he fought to keep his footing…and then the rope snapped. It snapped! Flung backwards, he hit the ground hard, watching as the hapless mare fell into the pit. Squeals of pain pierced the forest, but he was alive.

  He was alive!

  Clawing apart the last of his bonds, he threw the hated gag into the woods. Finally free, he stretched his arms wide, gulping the chilly air. The brigands had wandered into an ambush but was it set by friends or foe? Crouching low, he tried to make sense of the chaos. Snow shrouded the forest, screams coming from every direction. Twilight fell hard, the dim light adding to the confusion. A drum of hooves approached. Stewart drifted to the left, keeping low, trying to stay out of sight. He tripped and fell, landing on something soft rotting beneath the snow. A bloated corpse half eaten by predators stared back at him. He stifled a scream and then looked again. The fading light revealed a hint of red, a soldier of the Flame. Desperate for a weapon, he searched the corpse. He found a sword belt, but the scabbard was empty. Swearing softly, he searched the ground.

  Steel clashed nearby, the sound of swords clanging on swords.

  Unarmed and vulnerable, his search grew frantic. He scrabbled through the snow, his bare hands numbed by cold. Just as the fighting drew near his hand closed on something sharp. He tugged hard, freeing it from the forest floor, and found himself holding an antler shed last spring. Three feet long with six sharp tines, he hefted it like a battleaxe. A snarl rose in his throat. Perhaps it was being armed, or the primitiveness of his weapon, either way he hungered for vengeance. Keeping low, he slunk through the woods, the clash of swords luring him toward the heart of the fight.

  The gods must have heard his prayer.

  He came up behind Skarn. The brigand leader battled a brown-cloaked stranger, a sword against a quarterstaff. Skarn fought with a feral intensity, the curved sword hacking bites from the quarterstaff, driving the stranger to the ground. Laughing, he raised his sword for the killing blow; moonlight glinting on his mitered helm.

  Stewart stepped from the brush. “Fight me, Skarn.”

  The brigand leader swung around, but Stewart did not wait. Bellowing a fearsome yell, he charged with the antlers held high, driving the tines deep into the brigand’s throat. Skarn gagged, frothing a gurgle of blood. “You!”

  Stewart twisted the antlers. “Choke on this!” Skarn’s sword fell from his hand, death glazing his eyes.

  Stewart wrenched the antlers free, but something snapped within him. A pent-up rage erupted like molten lava. Standing over the body, he plunged the antlers down, over and over again, rending flesh, spattering blood, shredding his enemy like a beast run amok.

  “It’s over.”

  A hand gripped his arm.

  Stewart whirled, the bloody antlers poised for battle. But instead of an enemy he saw a familiar face, a vision of pale blond hair framing a face from his dreams. Stunned, he staggered backwards. “Is it you?” His hand sought his seashell broach, as if caught in a dream, or perhaps battle madness. “Is it really you?” His voice sounded hoarse, gruff as a beast.

  She gave a tentative smile. “The fighting’s over, you’re among friends.”

  Her voice, the vision had her voice, but she couldn’t be here. He stumbled towards her, half afraid to hope. “Jordan, is it really you?”

  57

  Jordan

  Jordan gaped at the wild man standing before her. Spattered with blood and holding an antler like a weapon, he looked more beast than man. Dead leaves tangled his dark hair like an avatar of the forest. His beard was matted with filth, his clothes little more than dirt encrusted rags, his face gaunt with hunger, and the stench, she held her breath against the stench…but his eyes, something in his eyes reminded her of the prince she loved. “Stewart?”

  “My love!” He threw the antler aside. Rushing toward her, he scooped her into his arms, his beard rough against her face. The first kiss was tender, the second fierce. His arms held her tight, nothing but sinew and bone, more proof of his ordeal. A sob escaped her, wondering what trials he must have endured.

  He stepped away, looking abashed. “I’m sorry.”

  She stared at him, her arms bereft. “Why?”

  “I’m so…” he grimaced, looking down at himself and then at her, “I’ve gotten blood on you.” He took a deep breath. “And I stink.”

  “Nothing water can’t fix.” His ordeal suddenly seemed like a wall between them.

  He stared at her, a haunted look in his eyes.

  She reached out, shyly taking his hand. “I’m not used to your beard.” His hand was encrusted with dirt, the nails chipped and broken, so different from the hands of a prince, yet their fingers entwined, still a perfect fit. “We’re together now.”

  “Yes!” His reply held a fierce longing, his hand gripping hers, an electric touch.

  Need shivered through her. She drifted toward him, like iron to a loadstone. They might have kissed again, but Rafe stumbled towards them, his quarterstaff nicked and battered, his face bruised. “I owe you my life,” his gaze dropped to their linked hands, his eyes flaring wide. “So this is your bonny prince!” He clapped Stewart on the back. “Never saw a man wield a better antler.” The breeze shifted and the monk took a step backwards. “What’s that smell? Like cheese gone bad…or something worse.”

  Stewart’s gaze hardened. “My men! I need to see to my men.”

  The others emerged from the woods, Thaddeus gripping a bloodied sword, Ellis holding an orb of moonlight, Ronald looking stern in his golden tabard emblazoned with a mailed fist. And with them came three men in filthy rags, tattered scarecrows with haunted eyes. The largest strode towards Stewart and knelt. “My lord, we owe you our lives.” The other two knelt as well, their heads bent in homage.

  Stewart said, “Only three?”

  The big man nodded. “Percy died in one of the pits. Dalt was crushed by the ram.�
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  “Then arise, for henceforth, you three shall be my royal guard.”

  Jordan watched as pride transformed their faces. They’d knelt as wretched scarecrows, mere shadows of men, but they arose as royal guards, taking places of honor behind their rightwise prince. Jordan swelled with love. Despite his ordeal, Stewart had kept his honor and saved his men. Beneath the filth, he was still the man she loved. She offered him her hand. “Come, we have much to share.” She gave him a wry smile. “And you need to bathe.” She drew him towards the ruined tower, their hands locked, their fingers entwined.

  58

  Danly

  Lingard’s streets had grown dangerous, a hunting ground for fanatics chasing heretics, the blood sport of a religion run amok. Danly shivered against the cold, slinking down a back alleyway, a dagger clutched beneath a plain brown cloak. Every footfall seemed a threat. Soldiers turned fanatics, citizens turned informers, heretics turned rabid prey, Danly didn’t trust the lot of them. Escape was the only thing that mattered. Somehow he had to find a way out of this religious cauldron, but his luck had soured. Even the weather had turned against him, snow dusting the streets, as if the gods tracked his very steps. Danly cursed under his breath, scurrying down a moonlit street.

  The rhythmic tramp of hobnailed boots gave warning, a red-cloaked patrol searching the quarter. Danly scuttled back into the shadows. Hiding in a doorway, he held his breath, praying for the patrol to pass. Sweat trickled down his back despite the cold. Every foray into the streets seemed more perilous. Time was against him; he had to find a way out.

  The tramp of boots receded, but Danly counted half a hundred heartbeats before venturing back into the street. Patrols randomly gathered fodder from the streets, keeping the dungeons full and the pyres fueled. With the Lord Raven gone, the Bloody Bishop was on a rampage. No one was safe, not even red-cloaked soldiers or a turned-cloak prince.

  Danly crossed the street and slipped into the tavern, repulsed by the reek. Spilled ale and sweaty bodies, the vile smells clamped around him like a suffocating hand. The room was crowded, mostly with soldiers. It seemed hunting heretics was a thirsty sport. Keeping his hood raised and his shoulders hunched, he wove his way toward the back. Vengar sat in the corner, a flagon of ale on the table, more of Danly’s gold wasted on drink.

  Swallowing his anger, he took a seat opposite the red-haired captain.

  “What kept you?” Vengar’s words were slurred, but the captain’s eyes were not bloodshot, perhaps he only feigned being drunk.

  Danly kept his voice to a low whisper. “Why this place?” Vengar varied their meeting places, always a different tavern or a low-class brothel.

  “Safer.” Vengar poured another mug, spilling ale onto the table.

  “Safer!” His voice hissed with anger. “Are you mad? This place is crawling with red-cloaks.”

  “Better to hide among the cats than the mice.”

  The captain had a point. Mollified, Danly reached for the flagon, pouring himself a mug. “When do we leave?” Danly took a long swallow and nearly gagged, spewing a mouthful onto the floor. Cheap ale cut with water, a foul combination.

  Vengar laughed, slapping the table with a meaty hand. “Can’t hold yer ale!” Lowering his voice, he hissed, “Don’t make a spectacle of yourself.”

  Fear sliced through Danly like a knife. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he hunched in his chair, but his eyes shot daggers at the captain. “When do we leave?”

  “Plans have changed. I need more gold.”

  “More!”

  “Keep your voice down.”

  Danly gripped the table. “What do you mean more?”

  Vengar leaned forward, holding his mug in front of his mouth. “The Lord Raven emptied the city of horses. None left except for the messengers and the high ranking bishops.”

  “So?”

  “So it means we’ll have to leave on foot.”

  On foot, in winter, the plan kept getting worse, but Danly was desperate. Religious mania gripped the city, a rabid dog capable of turning on anyone. And then there was the queen’s shadowmaster. Danly shivered. “So when do we leave?”

  “The Bloody Bishop has the fortress shut tight as a virgin’s ass. The only way out is with one of the patrols.”

  Danly didn’t like the sound of this. “A patrol?”

  “A patrol is twenty men led by a sergeant or a captain. That means finding eighteen men I trust enough to bribe, plus a sergeant or a captain. That means more gold.”

  Eighteen men, the number felt like a noose around Danly’s neck. “The more men, the more risk.” One informant and they’d both burn in the flames.

  Vengar sneered. “Yah, but it’s my neck being risked, my lord.”

  Danly didn’t like the man’s tone…but he didn’t have much choice. “I’ll find a way to get the gold.”

  “Good. And you can pay for the ale.”

  Danly tossed a coin on the table while slipping a purse of golds onto the chair. The captain scooped the purse with a deft hand. They agreed on their next meeting place and then Danly left the captain to nurse his watered ale. Keeping his head down and his hood raised, he passed through the gauntlet of soldiers without attracting noticed. Reaching the door, he stepped outside, relieved by the cold kiss of night air.

  The tromp of boots made his blood freeze.

  Danly skulked in the doorway, tempted to slip back inside, but something made him wait. A patrol returned from a late-night round-up, thirty prisoners herded before them, a fresh catch for the dungeons. Danly watched the poor bastards as they passed, their faces stunned, marching towards torture and death. Most were soldiers, caught in the wrong place at the wrong time without gold enough for a bribe, but a few were citizens, even one woman, probably a low-class whore by the look of her. Perhaps she’d provide a bribe of another sort. He stared at the damned, startled when the torchlight gleamed on silver-gray hair. Danly’s breath hissed. Among the prisoners he saw a familiar face, a hated face. They’d caught the Master Archivist. Triumph shivered through Danly, but then he stilled, considering. He wondered if the soldiers knew what they’d caught. The queen’s spymaster appeared to be just another prisoner, a shark swimming with minnows, caught in a fisherman’s net. Danly wondered how much the Flame might pay to learn the truth of their catch.

  The tromp of boots receded. Danly felt compelled to follow. At first he thought the patrol was heading back to the dungeons at the keep, but then they turned into a side street, stopping at a guard barracks. So the rumors were true. Lingard’s dungeons overflowed with heretics, so the soldiers had started keeping prisoners in the barracks, a way station to hell. Danly hid in the shadows, watching. The queen’s shadowmaster was a valuable prize and a dangerous threat, yet the choice of prison proved the soldiers were ignorant of their catch. Danly grinned, feeling like his luck had change. Knowledge was power, the question was, who would pay more, the queen or the Flame?

  59

  Stewart

  Stewart couldn’t stop touching her. Couldn’t believe he was free, and whole, and with her. Intoxicated by her nearness, he gently eased her pale blond hair behind her ear. “But however did you find me?”

  They sat cross-legged on a bearskin rug, huddled beneath a tarp angled against the tower wall. Jordan’s companions had hastily assembled the small shelter, giving the couple the boon of privacy. A brazier of coals emitted light and warmth while Jordan used a cloth to clean his wounds. She’d cried the first time she saw his ruined back, a crisscross of scars more suited to a slave than a prince. Her tears touched him, easing his own pent-up pain. Despite the ugliness of his ordeal, she never once shrank from him, even when he’d appeared like a wild man wielding an antler. Now, clean and shaven, he stared at her, unable to believe his own luck.

  “It’s a long story.”

  “I want to hear it.”

  She told him about the attack in the monastery and the monks’ healing magic. He’d seen the jagged scar during their love making
and he knew it should have been fatal. Stewart shuddered to think of how close he’d come to losing her.

  “Once I woke from the healing spell, I started to have visions.” She hesitated. “Some of the monks name it a gift from the gods.” Jordan shivered, a mantle of weariness falling across her shoulders. “But all my visions are nightmares, warnings of treachery and death. Somehow I’m supposed to use the visions to make a difference but they don’t always make sense.” She stared at him, a tentative question in her gaze. “I feel pulled in a hundred different directions.”

  Visions and magic, it seemed like something from a bard’s song, yet how else could she be here, waiting to rescue him. “I believe you.”

  Her eyes widened, searching his face.

  “How else could you have found me?” He reached for her, pulling her close, needing to touch all of her. Sheltered from the snow, from the howling cares of the world, they talked and touched and talked again, consumed with the need to fill all the empty spaces. Their first coupling had been rushed, a desperate collision of needs, a primal proof of life. Their second was slow and tender and full of soft kisses building to a profound soul-shuddering ecstasy, like nothing he’d ever known before. Sated, they drank a rich red wine and ate slivers of salted ham. Stewart used a dagger to cut another slice, feeding it to Jordan. “And ham? Wherever did you get this ham?” He took another bite, nearly swooning at the rich salty taste, ambrosia to his starving body.

  “Yarl found it.” Jordan laughed, clearly sharing his delight. “Sometimes I think the monks are magicians, conjuring stuff from thin air.”

  He took another slice. “No, seriously, I really want to know.”