S&SS [04] The Poison Priestess

by Karen Azinger

  Danly watched through haze-filled eyes.

  Vengar spoke with the Master Archivist, their backs turned toward him.

  Danly reached for his dagger, revenge or redemption?

  Something stirred in the back of the cages, a churning madness. A handful of red-cloaked soldiers pushed from the rear, desperate to get out. Nearly trampling the others, they burst from the cages, their faces twisted in hate. “Kill the infidels!” Armed with nothing but fists and teeth, they attacked like rabid animals.

  Danly stumbled backwards, staring in disbelief. Prisoners who’d faced torture mere moments ago now fought for the Flame? The insanity staggered him.

  One of the madmen hurtled towards Danly, spittle flying from his mouth. “Die, infidel!”

  Danly reached for his sword, but the scabbard was empty.

  Clutching nothing but air, Danly watched in horror as a fist blazed towards his face. He tried to duck, but shock slowed his reflexes. Pain smashed his face. His nose crunched flat, a sudden spike of agony. Struck with the force of a bull, Danly’s head snapped backwards, hitting the wall. Pain exploded in the back of his skull. His vision dimmed and his legs wobbled. Absolute darkness claimed him.

  66

  The Master Archivist

  The Master Archivist lunged for a weapon, grabbing a sword from the floor. Twisting left, he brought the sword to bear, fighting against rabid men turned monsters. Howling like beasts, they burst from the cages, their eyes crazed with hate. Consumed by a religious contagion, they fought like demons, clawing and kicking, gouging at eyes and biting with their teeth, but flesh is no match for steel. The master slew two of them himself before the fighting came to a sudden halt.

  He staggered to a stop, the torture chamber awash in blood. The other prisoners cringed against the walls, their faces frozen in horror.

  The shadowmaster took stock of the survivors. Danly was down, slumped against the far wall, but Vengar seemed unscathed, surrounded by a handful of his men. He locked stares with the redheaded captain. “Get the prisoners out of here, before this insanity spreads.”

  Vengar nodded, herding the newly freed from the chamber. Sheathing his sword, the master crossed the chamber to kneel by Danly. Blood covered the prince’s face, his nose smashed flat, but he still lived, a sluggish pulse at his throat. The master tried to rouse him, but nothing worked. Blood matted the back of Danly’s head; perhaps the prince was hurt worse than he looked.

  Vengar returned. “Does he live?”

  “Knocked senseless, but he still breathes.” The master eyed the captain, wondering how he’d survived Lingard’s fall, but that was a question for another time. “I assume you have a plan to get out of the city?”

  Vengar gave a curt nod. “We change into soldier’s tabards and march for the south gate. I’ve bribed a sergeant to let us take the morning patrol, but we need eighteen men plus a captain, and we need to look like soldiers.”

  “Bluff and bluster.”

  Vengar gave him a desperate look. “Sometimes that’s all you have.”

  The master nodded. “How many of your men survived?”

  “Nine, counting myself.”

  “Then recruit the rest from the captives, we need to get out of the city.” He gestured toward Danly. “I’ll bring the prince.”

  Vengar stayed his arm. “If you can’t rouse him, he stays.”

  “He deserves another chance.”

  Vengar looked away. “Maybe we all do.”

  So that’s how it was. “We can’t leave him.”

  “If he can’t march then we can’t take him. The ruse will never work with an injured man.”

  Vengar’s words were as cold as iron, but they rang of truth. The master scowled. “If we leave him, he dies.”

  “I’ll take him to Sandra’s.”

  The master raised an eyebrow.

  “A whore who owes me. She’ll keep him hidden. It’s the best we can do.”

  The shadowmaster nodded, struck by the irony. It seemed the eunuch-prince had come full circle, back in the care of whores.

  “I’ll take the prince, you organize the men and get them marching towards the south gate. Trust Kurt, the big blond with the scarred face, he’s my second.” Vengar untied a sack from his belt, thrusting it into the master’s hands. “Take this for bribes.”

  The master nodded. “I’ll see you at the south gate.”

  Vengar hoisted Danly onto his shoulder, carrying the prince like a sack of potatoes. The big captain made the prince look small. They made their way back through the carnage to the front room. Vengar whispered orders to Kurt and then slipped out into the street. The queen’s shadowmaster took charge. He turned to face the released prisoners. “We’re looking for men who want to escape the city.” A few stepped forward, eager to flee the madness, but others had to be cajoled. In the end, he took two young women to fill out the numbers. “Bind your breasts tight and cut your hair and don’t say a word. If just one of you looks wrong, we all die.”

  They ransacked the barracks for armor and tabards, sword belts and helms. Dawning a sergeant’s tabard, the master urged them to hurry, every moment a strike against them.

  Lining them up for inspection, he studied their appearance, straightening sword belts and adjusting armor. The red tabards proved fortunate, hiding more than a few bloodstains. “Pathetic, but it will have to serve.” He hid the women at the rear. “March smart, hold yourselves like soldiers, and don’t stop unless ordered.”

  They nodded, more than one face flushed with fear.

  Darkness still held sway in the streets, a reluctant dawn creeping across the sky. Bold as brass, he marched them out of the barracks, two abreast, setting a quick pace. At first they stumbled, but he barked a cadence and the rhythm soon claimed them.

  Another patrol approached, hobnailed boots pounding the cobbles.

  With no choice but to brazen it out, the master snapped a salute and kept his troops marching. Feeling the chill of fear sweep through his men, he bellowed commands like a drill sergeant. “Backs straight, march tall, you serve the Flame God!” Their rhythm faltered, but then steadied under the tongue-lashing. They marched passed without incident. The master sighed, whispering thanks to the gods for the darkness.

  They stayed on the main street, making their way toward the southern gates. Except for patrols, the streets stood empty, the storefronts shuttered, doors locked and windows barred, the city cowering in fear. He could almost smell oppression riding the air, the reek of religion run amok.

  A shiver of warning pricked his neck, as if informers watched from the shuttered windows. He’d lost three shadowmen to the heretic hunters. Lingard was a dangerous tinderbox of desperate survivors and rabid believers. He’d come to stir the pot, hoping to ignite a revolt with word of the Pontifax’s death, but the Flame religion proved impervious to the truth. Instead of an uprising, a fanatical frenzy gripped the city, inciting the clerics to rampant cruelty. Patrols combed the streets scrounging for heretics. The pyres burned day and night, choking the city with death. He’d spread the word but now it was time to get out. Religion coiled around Lingard in a deadly stranglehold. Swords would have to prevail where words could not.

  The shadowmaster scanned the streets, searching for threats, every sense stretched taut. Taking a deep breath, he surveyed his men, yelling a cadence to bolster their courage. The march to the gate seemed to take forever.

  Another patrol approached, the tramp of boots pounding a warning.

  “Steady! Eyes straight!” They marched past, following the curve of the main street, gaining their first glimpse of the southern gates. Crenellated battlements soared towards the brightening sky, but the gates were closed, the drawbridge raised, the fortress-city shut tight as a madhouse.

  Vengar slipped from a side street. Clad in a captain’s tabard and red cloak, he joined their ranks, barking a command. “Patrol, halt.”

  They came to a raggedy halt, standing at attention. A poor showing, but given the
early hour no one seemed to notice.

  Vengar reclaimed the sack of bribes and then disappeared into the guard tower. A cold wind blew from the north ruffling their cloaks, more snow threatening the air. The waiting grew hard, giving his men too much time to think. They stood beneath the scrutiny of guards walking the battlements, knowing a single mistake could be their death. The master gripped his sword hilt. If caught, he’d fight to the death. Better a clean death under the morning sky than a trip to the torturer’s table. He fingered the small signet ring on his left hand, a love token from the queen. Memories washed across him like a balm. He longed to hold her, but duty was a harsh taskmaster, the needs of the kingdom outweighing them all.

  One of the men began to quiver and shake.

  “Stand tall!” His words hissed like an arrow. They found their mark and the man straightened. The master scowled, willing Vengar to hurry, time was against them.

  The door to the guard tower creaked open, drawing the master’s stare. A stranger emerged, a captain from the look of his tabard. Casting a cursory glance their way, the captain sauntered towards the far wall. Turning his back on the street, he adjusted his clothes and then arched a golden stream towards the wall.

  The master scowled, praying for the captain to leave.

  Finished, the captain sidled over, his gaze drawn toward the sergeant’s stripes on the master’s tabard. “Haven’t seen you before.” He cast a questioning glance at the troops. “I thought Rothwell’s boys had the dawn patrol?”

  The name held no meaning for him. The master’s mind raced, desperate for an answer. Religion came to his rescue. “Didn’t you hear? Rothwell was named a heretic. Bishop Taniff ordered his arrest.” The master gave the captain a piercing stare. “You a friend of Rothwell’s?”

  The captain backed away, his face turning ghost-pale. “No, not a friend, just asking.” The captain fled towards the tower as if a plague nipped at his heels.

  Sinners proved a contagion in a city ruled by religion. The master took a deep breath, staring at the brightening sky, praying they made their escape before the real patrol appeared.

  The tower door banged open. Soldiers spilled into the courtyard, swarming the gate. Something was happening on the battlements. The master tensed, his hand gripping his sword, but then he heard a distinctive sound. Chains began to rattle, the creak of wood bearing a heavy strain, the sounds of the drawbridge being lowered. The master watched as soldiers shouldered the heavy crossbar unbarring the gate.

  Vengar emerged from the tower without the sack. The red-haired captain took his place at the head of the troop. “Attention!”

  The troop snapped to attention, hope threading through them like a current.

  The city gates swung open, the drawbridge lowered across the moat.

  Dawn cracked the sky, red and gold spearing the snow-laden clouds.

  They began to march. They passed through the gates, beneath the iron portcullis, across the drawbridge and out into the snow-dusted greensward. Halfway between the fortress and freedom, the master’s shoulders began to twitch, expecting an arrow, but none came. A shout rang out from the fortress, but they did not stop. They marched across the greensward and into the woods and then they ran, running for their lives, running from the Flame.

  67

  Steffan

  Steffan chose the highest vantage point along the southbound road, a fitting stage for his latest treachery. Clad in black chainmail, his raven cloak billowing in the wind, he spurred his sorrel stallion to the hilltop. Pip rode beside him, serving as his bannerman, a troop of Black Flames at his back. Reaching the snowy crest, he pulled his stallion to halt.

  A caravan snaked through the valley below, toiling along the mud-churned road. A handful of nobles on caparisoned horses rode in the vanguard, glittering in their silvered armor and brightly colored silks. Shiny guards and a flutter of banners surrounded the nobles, a testament to their rank. Behind the nobility came the prize, twelve wagons piled high with ironbound chests. Pulled by teams of oxen, the wagons struggled through the mud, plowing deep ruts in the road, telltale proof of the gold within. Behind the treasure wagons came the muscle, a long tail of infantry marching smartly in ranks of four abreast, their pea-green tabards emblazoned with red cobras. Drummers beat a cadence and the wagons creaked with strain, the oxen blowing plumes of mist into the cold. The mercenaries of Radagar marched to the drum beat, an impressive show of strength and discipline. Even from the hilltop, Steffan could hear the tramp of their boots.

  “A sight to behold.” Steffan smiled. “Unfurl the banner, and make sure they see it.”

  The red-haired lad loosed the banner, a crisp snap of sky-blue silk adorned with a black scorpion. Pip held the banner aloft, catching the wind. “Why a scorpion instead of a cobra?”

  “A change of kings in Radagar. Make sure they see the banner.”

  Pip stood in the stirrups, waving the banner high, a flutter of silk against the pale winter sky.

  Needing to be seen, Steffan asked for a rear from his stallion. Unsheathing his sword, he brandished the blade to the heavens, a promise and a threat.

  A shout rang from the road below. The nobles pulled their horses to a stop and the wagons ground to a halt, but Steffan kept his gaze on the mercenaries, a group of officers huddled in a knot, staring at the hilltop. Steffan grinned; it was time to roll the dice. He nudged his stallion to a walk, ambling down the hillside, giving the mercenaries plenty of time to decide. Pip kept pace beside him, the sky-blue banner snapping in the breeze. A handful of Black Flames armed with crossbows rode at his back, a surety against the nobles’ misplaced pride.

  Steffan kept his stallion to a slow walk, his hand away from his sheathed sword, an amiable smile on his face.

  Twenty guards surrounded the nobles, swords bristling with threat, their emerald tabards bright against the snowy fields. “Halt or die.”

  Steffan ignored the threat, stopping within easy talking distance of the nobles. “Who leads this caravan?”

  A pinch-faced lord clad in a showy surcoat, gold cockatrices prancing on a field of burnt orange, eased his horse forward. The gray-haired noble looked foolish in a knight’s surcoat. “I lead here, Lord Lenox, the treasurer to the queen. Your banner is not known to me. Yield the road or face the consequences.”

  Another haughty lordling, drunk on too much pride. “I’ll ask you again, who leads this caravan?”

  A jangle of armor approached. Mercenary soldiers jogged from the back, taking a protective stance around the nobles. Bolstered by more swords, the Lord Lenox flashed a haughty smile. “I lead here. Now state your business or yield the road.”

  The lordling was quickly becoming annoying, but Steffan had the perfect remedy. “Wrong answer.” He signaled with a flick of his hand. “The Lord Raven leads here.”

  Behind him, a crossbow hissed.

  Thunk, the feathered bolt embedded deep in the Lord Lenox’s chest, a trickle of blood on his surcoat. Surprise washed across the lord’s face. He glanced down and then slid from the saddle, a fresh corpse sprawled in the road.

  Panic erupted amongst the nobles. “Seize him!”

  “Kill the rogue!”

  “Capture him!”

  But the mercenaries did not obey. To a man, they drew their curved swords and turned, encircling the nobles and their guards in a ring of steel.

  The lords’ bluster melted to silence.

  Outrage changed to disbelief. The nobles stared in shock, their gaze bouncing from the Lord Raven, to the mercenaries, to the dead lord, and back again. A heavy-set lord in a plum-colored surcoat dared to break the silence. “Who are you?”

  “Finally a question worth answering.” Steffan made a mocking bow. “The Lord Steffan Raven, counselor to the Pontifax, and now your captor.”

  “And the mercenaries serve you?”

  Steffan shrugged. “Deals change.”

  The lord seemed to consider the answer. “Our families will pay a rich ransom.”


  At least one of the nobles had a lick of sense. “And your name?”

  “Lord Quince.”

  “Just a name, no fancy titles, I like that.” The plump lordling was actually growing on Steffan. “I suppose one of you has the keys to the treasury?”

  “In the saddlebag of Lord Lenox.” Lord Quince paled. “The one you killed.”

  Pip scrambled from his horse and ransacked the dead lord’s saddlebags, holding a thick ring of keys aloft. “Got em!”

  A lone trumpet echoed through the valley, a mournful call. Riders in red tabards appeared on the two hills flanking the road, battle banners snapping overhead. Surrounded by the Flame, the nobles cringed together, drawing close like a hedgehog curled into a ball.

  The mercenary captain tensed, stepping towards Steffan. “Trouble, my lord?”

  “No, just the rest of my army. Keep the nobles penned and tell the rest of your men to stand down.”

  The captain saluted, snapping orders to his men.

  A detachment of red-cloaked riders thundered down the hillside. They cantered towards Steffan, General Caylib in the lead. “So your ruse worked.”

  “Oh ye of little faith. The queen’s treasury falls without a fight.” Steffan flashed a triumphant grin. “Your timing is perfect. We were just about to inspect the gold. Pip, pick a wagon.”

  Pip chose the third wagon. Climbing onto the bed, he used a knife to cut the oilcloth. Three enormous ironbound chests filled the wagon bed, the seal of Lanverness emblazoned on their lids. Steffan began to salivate, imagining the wealth and power within his grasp. “Pick one.”

  The lad chose the middle chest, trying the keys one by one.

  Soldiers gathered around, a mixture of the Flame and the Cobra. Even the captured nobles came to look, everyone gathered to witness the queen’s treasure.

  Steffan remained on his stallion, his manhood stiff with anticipation.

  Pip worked through the keys. “Got it!” The key turned and the lock clicked open. Pip raised the heavy lid, throwing it back with a loud thunk. A stunned silence hissed through the men. Instead of gleaming gold…the chest held nothing but dull lead bars, dull, worthless, lead.