A cheer went up from the men, but a second scout brought warning. “The caravan is heavily guarded, ten thousand foot marching in ranks behind the wagons.”
Beside him the general groaned, “Ten thousand!” He turned a scathing stare towards Steffan. “You’ve led us on a fool’s chase. They’ve got us outnumbered. Even with the enemy afoot, the odds are too great.”
“Did you expect the queen’s treasury to be lightly guarded?”
“But ten thousand foot?”
Steffan turned his gaze back to the scout. “Tell me about the ten thousand. What banner do they fly?”
“They march under the twin roses, the banner of Lanverness…but the color of their tabards is wrong, pea green instead of emerald.”
“And the device?”
The scout hesitated. “I thought I spied a coiled cobra on their tabards.”
The general swore. “Dark-damned mercenaries from Radagar.”
Steffan flashed a triumphant grin. “Exactly.”
The general growled, “Explain.”
“Sometimes treachery is stronger than swords.” Steffan swiveled in the saddle, looking for his servant. “Pip, bring the ironbound chest.”
“Yes, my lord.” The redheaded lad nosed his mount through the officers, leading a single packhorse laden with a small ironbound chest.
“What’s this?” The general gave him a hooded stare. “Magic?”
“Of a sort.” Steffan smoothed the map across his thigh, studying the lay of the land. “I’ll ride ahead with a small guard of a hundred and meet the caravan here. You flank the road on either side, hiding in the hills. If you hear the clash of steel, come charging.”
“If I hear the clash of steel, you’re dead.”
“Don’t bet on it.” Steffan grinned. “We’ll take the caravan without a fight.”
“So you’ll charm them into submission?”
“Something like that.”
The general gave him a squinty stare. “Treachery is a slippery weapon, even for a bastard like you.”
“Not for me, general. Not for me.” Steffan gave the orders, choosing a hundred of the best men, a troop of Black Flames, half armed with halberds and the rest with crossbows. Setting spurs to his stallion, Steffan asked for a gallop. He led them south, chasing the queen’s gold. Before sunset the treasury would be his, one step closer to victory.
64
Stewart
Stewart found himself retreating to the small lean-to, using it as a sanctuary of sorts. Her scent still lingered on the bearskin rug. His fingers combed the thick fur, hard to believe she was gone, but they both had duties that could not be denied. The Crimson Tower had grown crowded with soldiers, crowded but also empty, so achingly empty. Jordan was two weeks gone, taking the Zward and most of the monks with her, while he remained to plan an assault on Lingard, a chance to foil the Flame. War consumed his waking thoughts, but Jordan filled his dreams at night. He preferred the nights, always shocked to find his arms empty at sunrise.
Someone scratched on the tent flap. It seemed he could never get a moment alone. “Come.”
Owen poked his head inside. The big man had traded his prisoner’s rags for burnished armor and an emerald tabard, a gleam of pride in his dark gaze. “Lord Dane to see you, sir.”
“Dane!” Stewart leaped to his feet. His boyhood friend entered, looking leaner and scruffier since the start of the war. Dane clasped him close in a rough embrace. “I thought you dead!”
“Turns out I’m not that easy to kill.”
Dane stepped back. “We searched for you, but the mud and confusion…”
“I know.”
“How did you get away?”
“Luck and desperation.” Stewart grimaced, “mostly desperation.”
Dane’s gaze roved the lean-to. “What are you now, the hermit prince?”
“No, I’m married.”
Dane’s stare snapped back. “What? To whom, a woodland nymph?”
Stewart smiled. “To Jordan.”
“The seashell princess? You found her? Here?” Dane looked incredulous.
“More like she found me. Sit down. You look like you need a drink.”
They sank to the bearskin rug, sitting cross-legged, a small brazier throwing off heat. Stewart poured wine for both of them. Dane drank his in a single long swallow and then held the cup out for more. “A good vintage. I suppose that was just waiting for you too?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“You best tell me, I’m finding it hard to believe.”
Stewart told his tale in simple words, from his capture, to his escape, to his ordeal with the brigands, to the ambush in the forest.
“So she really was waiting for you?”
Stewart smiled. “Sent by the gods.”
“And you really married her?”
His smile deepened. “Let no man put asunder.”
“Without the queen’s consent?”
The question struck like a sword blow. Stewart winced. “I’ll tell her after we win the war.”
Dane barked a laugh. “Take the coward’s way and send a messenger.”
“You think?”
“It’s your head.”
Stewart considered the advice, but then his friend’s face turned grim.
“My lord, I beg your pardon.” Dane got to one knee, his voice full of remorse. “I should have never left your side. And afterwards,” his dark eyes brimmed with pain, “we searched but there were too many footprints, too many directions. We attacked every convoy of prisoners, but you were never among them.” His voice choked to silence.
Stewart clasped his friend’s arm. “You only followed orders. I ordered you to leave, to lead the men out of ambush.”
“But everything you endured…”
“Perhaps it was meant to be, now more than ever I know what we’re fighting for.”
“But…”
He gripped his friend’s arm. “It’s over. Let it go.”
Dane sank back down to the bearskin rug. Stewart refilled their cups. They drank in silence, the brazier providing a comfortable heat.
“So why are you hiding here instead of returning to the army?” Dane’s gaze sharpened. “And how did your messenger find us anyway?”
Stewart hated to lie but he’d sworn to keep the owl-man’s secret safe. “I made a few guesses and sent out messengers. There’s only so many places for an army to hide.”
Dane’s gaze narrowed. “And the ruins, why here?”
“As good a place as any to plan an attack on Lingard.”
“Lingard!” Dane hissed in disbelief. “That fortress is damn near impregnable.”
“The Flame took it.”
“By treachery, I’ve heard the tale of your brother.”
Stewart grimaced, like opening a raw wound.
“So are you planning some treachery of your own?”
“Not treachery, something else. We’ll take the fortress with magic.”
“Magic!” Dane made the hand sign against evil. “So now you’re a wizard?”
“Not me. Did you see the woman down in the stables, the dark-haired monk in blue robes?”
Dane nodded. “The prickly one? Couldn’t help but notice the comely curves, but her tongue’s as thorny as a nettle bush.”
“It’s her magic.”
Dane’s eyes widened. “A sorceress?”
“And you best treat her with respect.” Stewart ran his hand through his hair. “I’m still not sure if she’s going to help. She claims magic should not be used as a weapon, but it’s our only hope. That and the wagons.”
“What wagons?”
“A gift from the monks. Clay flagons filled with some kind of rare potion that burns like hellfire, but there’s only enough for one battle. The queen’s agreed to send the wagons to Lingard, but it’s a risky gambit.” A kernel of fear gnawed at him. “It leaves Pellanor undefended, nothing but makeshift walls and a small force of knights. If the Flame captures t
he queen, the war’s over.” Stewart stared at Dane seeking reassurance. “And then there’s Lingard. By using fire we risk killing our own people, but it’s the only way to even the numbers. We dare not fight their army in a pitched battle.” Stewart sighed, the weight of decision lying heavy on his shoulders. “Despite the risks, we have only this one chance to strike at Lingard, to tip the balance of the war, but if we fail…” He shook his head, not trusting his voice.
“Then don’t fail.” Dane’s gaze was full of conviction, his boyhood friend and sparring partner, his brother-in-arms. “Tell me your plan.”
Stewart unrolled a map, setting it between them. “We need to take them by surprise, and it must be done at night.” He ran his hand through his hair. “It’s all a matter of timing, timing, magic and luck.”
Dane nodded. “I don’t know about magic, but it seems the gods owe us some luck.”
“Perhaps they do.” Stewart stared at the map, desperate for a way to end the war. “We dare not lose.”
65
Danly
The streets were most dangerous in the small hours. Danly’s neck prickled in warning. He crept through the back alleys, straining to see in the darkness. Patrols prowled the city like starving wolf packs, as if they knew something was afoot. Danly dodged into a side street, a bugling sack hidden beneath his cloak. He’d ransacked the keep, taking everything of value. Coins, jewels, and silken finery, even the silver circlet he’d worn as a crown the day he’d brought down Lingard. His crown, mad laughter bubbled in his throat, but Danly choked it down. If the patrols caught him now he’d wear that crown to the pyre.
Another patrol tramped through the street, hobnailed boots striking the cobblestones. Danly hid behind a rain barrel, sweat running in rivulets down his back. In the dark of the morning, the soldiers’ red cloaks looked almost black, sinister wraiths hunting for victims.
Danly shivered, making the hand sign against evil. Crouched behind the barrel, he waited a hundred heartbeats and then sprinted for the brothel, tapping the code on the scarred oak door. Relief rushed through him when it opened. He slipped inside to find Vengar waiting for him. The red-haired captain had shaved his bushy beard, taking ten years off his face. Danly almost didn’t recognize him.
Vengar must have felt his stare. “Yeah, the beard.” He fingered his smooth shaven face. “Too many turn-cloak converts guarding the walls. Without the beard they might not recognize me.” Vengar turned. “Come on, the others are waiting.”
They entered the back room to find eleven strangers bristling with weapons. Eleven, Danly counted again, his gaze turning to Vengar. “I thought you said fourteen, counting the two of us?”
Vengar gave a grim nod. “Kirkby has the flux.”
Danly got a sick feeling in his stomach. “The flux or a turn-cloak?”
Vengar shrugged, his eyes bleak. “We’ll know if we’re caught.”
It was not the answer he wanted.
Vengar turned away, his voice brisk with command. “Come on lads, check your weapons, take a last swill of ale, and we’re on our way.”
Danly felt like heaving. He sidled towards the door, but Vengar grabbed his shoulder, thrusting a sword belt into his hands. “For you.”
So they expected me to fight, a chill shivered down his back. Danly took the belt, reluctantly buckling it around his waist. He’d never been much of a swordsman, relying on his guards to do the wet work. This plan kept getting worse.
“Alright lads, two at a time, out the back door, we’ll meet at the barracks.” Vengar surveyed his men. “Look sharp and keep to the shadows. By tomorrow we’ll be free of the Flame.”
A growl of approval echoed through the men, a desperate glint in their eyes.
The first two slipped out the door, a gust of cold wind blowing through the room like an ill omen.
Vengar turned towards Danly. “We’ll go last. Stay close.” His gaze narrowed. “What’ve you got there?” Vengar grabbed Danly’s sack, rummaging through it, tossing the silken finery to the floor.
“My things.” Danly watched as a samite cloak fell beneath the careless tramp of a muddy boot.
“Can’t fight with a sack bulging beneath your cloak.” Vengar found the silver circlet and held it aloft. Their eyes met like crossed daggers. “Can’t use this as a bribe, not in Lingard. Show this to the wrong man and you’ll buy yourself a bad death.” Vengar thrust the circlet at Danly, his voice a low growl. “Best leave it.”
Danly clutched the crown, watching as Vengar tied the sack to his own belt.
The big man flashed a wolfish grin. “The rest will be needed for bribes.”
Danly felt like he’d just been robbed. He stared at the silver circlet, smooth beneath his hands, his only symbol of royalty. Bereft of everything else, he could not part with it. Snatching the samite cloak from the floor, he slashed a small square and bundled the crown into the cloth, tying the makeshift pouch to his belt.
Vengar watched, disapproval in his gaze. “That thing will be the death of you.”
Danly refused to listen. Grabbing a flagon, he took a long swill of liquid courage. The ale tasted like piss but it settled his nerves.
The last man slipped out the door.
“Time to go, prince.” Vengar twirled a brown cloak across his shoulders, his face hidden in a deep cowl. Opening the back door a crack, he peered outside. “Looks good.” They plunged into the alley way. Vengar led, weaving a path through the back streets. Danly stayed close, his hand on his sword hilt. Darkness cloaked the city, still hours from dawn. The streets were eerily empty; Vengar had a gift for evading the patrols. All too soon, they reached the barracks. The others crouched in a side alleyway. One man carried a large sack, the others gripped their swords. Vengar grinned. “Time for a bit of revenge, lads. We attack hard and show no mercy. Kill every guard, release the prisoners and we’re gone.” Vengar stood, a sword whispering to his hand. “Let’s go!”
The suddenness took Danly by surprise, but he dared not be left behind. Hurrying to catch up, he ran in the middle of the pack, his hand sweaty on his sword hilt, his heartbeat thundering in his ears. Vengar reached the barracks first. The door stood unguarded, more proof that fear ruled the city. Vengar eased the door open and slipped inside. A red-cloaked soldier sat slumped at a table, issuing soft snores. The big man crossed the room like a prowling lion. A single blow and the soldier died without a sound.
Danly followed the others, crowding into the room. Shutting the outer door, they listened. Muffled screams came from deep within the barracks, screams mixed with laughter. Torture, the word shivered through Danly’s mind, threatening to loose his bowels.
“Let’s go!” Vengar crashed through the inner door. The raid became a blur. Soldiers startled awake, fumbling for weapons while desperate brigands rushed to make the kill. Surprise availed them. Cutting a deadly swath through the barrack, they finally stumbled into a large room with iron cages affixed to the far wall. Tortured screams echoed through the chamber, masking the sounds of fighting. A trio of red-robed priests hovered over a shackled prisoner, the smell of roast flesh hanging heavy in the air.
Vengar snarled, “Kill them!”
Howling like demons, the brigands attacked. The priests tried to flee but there was nowhere to hide. The room became a slaughterhouse. Blood spattered the walls as the men slew the priests, dismembering their bodies.
Danly stood with his back to a wall, horrified by the slaughter. When the killing finally stopped, his sword was still clean.
Vengar turned towards him, his gaze flicking toward the prisoner chained to the table. “Is it him?”
The thing on the table was hardly a man. His nose was cut off, his eyes burnt out with coals. He writhed on the table like a worm, keening a twisted scream. The tortured mess had silver hair, but the chin was wrong and the body too flabby. Danly looked away. “Not him.”
Vengar hefted his sword. A quick stroke and the screaming stopped. The sudden silence was horrible, a skin-craw
ling stillness. “Sometimes death is a mercy.”
No one spoke.
Cool as night, Vengar surveyed his men. “Find the keys, open the gates and let the prisoners out.”
Danly felt a hard stare burning into his back. He whirled, impaled by the daggered glare of the Master Archivist. The queen’s shadowmaster gripped the cage bars, his soldier’s tabard rumpled and soiled, but otherwise he seemed unharmed. Even imprisoned, he looked dangerous.
Hatred snarled through Danly. He crossed the room, thrusting his sword between the bars, the point pressed to the spymaster’s throat. “Your manhood or your life!”
The master never flinched, never pulled away, his voice annoyingly calm. “I wondered if you saw me.”
Danly pressed the point, drawing blood. “Your manhood or your life!”
“You gave Lingard to the Flame.”
Danly sucked air like a bellows about to explode.
“You’re still the queen’s son. Have you come for revenge or redemption?”
The words struck like a slap. His sword began to shake. Revenge or redemption? Danly longed for revenge…but was redemption even possible? Aiding the Flame was wrong; he saw that now…yet he finally had a chance for revenge. His sword wavered.
Vengar yanked Danly’s arm, pulling the sword away from the prisoner. “What are you doing?” Vengar hissed in surprise. “The queen’s Archivist?” The big man sketched a half bow. “The prince never said it was you. We’ll have you out of there in a nonce, my lord.”
“No need for keys.” The shadowmaster thrust his hands through the bars, plumbing the lock with a set of iron picks.
Defeated, Danly dropped his sword, the impotent steel clattering on the flagstones.
The lock clicked open and the shadowmaster stepped from the cage.
Kurt returned with the keys, releasing the other prisoners. Most were ordinary citizens, men of all ages, even women and children, scared and bedraggled, but mixed among them were soldiers in red tabards. The prisoners poured into the chamber, some stunned, staring with vacant eyes, others crying with gratitude.
S&SS [04] The Poison Priestess Page 43