“No!” Steffan leaped from the saddle onto the wagon. Pushing Pip aside, he dug through the chest, hurling lead bars onto the wagon bed. “No!” His mind refused to believe. “Try another!” He grabbed the keys, jamming them into a lock till he found another match. The lock clicked and he threw back the lid. Nothing but lead. Rage roared through him. “No! The bitch tricked me! The god-damned Spider Queen!”
Laughter erupted from the nobles.
Steffan’s rage found a focus. Cold as midnight, he turned his gaze on the nobles. “You knew.”
Their laughter sputtered to silence. Lord Quince paled. “None of us knew, I swear by all the gods, we did not know. She tricked us, she tricked us all.”
“She tricked you.” His plans foiled by a woman, his rage turned deadly. “Kill them, kill them all!”
Soldiers of the Flame sprang to the attack, falling on the nobles.
Steffan drew his sword. Pulling the fat Lord Quince from the saddle, he attacked, striking over and over again. “She tricked you!” Screaming his rage, he slashed and hacked at the mewing lord till there was nothing left but bloody bits.
Gore splattered his face. Steffan staggered to a halt.
A grim silence pooled around him.
Sticky with blood, he stayed his sword. Dead nobles littered the ground, hacked to death in a fit of fury.
Someone clapped.
He whirled to find the general staring down at him. “So there really is a barbarian in you.” The general’s smile twisted to a malicious grin. “It just took the right woman to bring it out.”
“The Spider Queen,” the words hissed out of Steffan like a curse. He shuddered, drawing a deep breath, trying to quell his anger.
“Now what?” The general’s voice was full of challenge.
Steffan stared at the dead nobles, at the wagons full of useless lead, and then his stare turned towards the mercenary captain. “Who leads your men?”
“I do.” A tall bearded man in a gold-trimmed cloak stepped forward. “General Xanos at your service.”
Steffan met his dark gaze. “I hold the scorpion banner. Do you know what that means?”
General Xanos nodded. “To turn our cloaks at first sight of the banner of House Razzur. To give the banner bearer one battle, one victory, and then return home.”
“Will you honor those terms?” Steffan waited, knowing much depended on the answer.
The general glanced at the dead nobles.
Steffan said. “This hardly counts as a victory. You’ve not even bloodied your sword.”
General Xanos gave a measured nod, his face solemn. “You’ll have our scimitars for one battle…just one battle.”
“One is all I need.” Steffan raised his voice to a shout. “We march on Pellanor! Death to the Spider Queen!” The men cheered like wolves slavering for blood. Composed once more, Steffan swung into the saddle, his face a mask of stone, but in his soul he seethed.
68
Danly
Pain thundered through his head and his nose ached. Danly woke in a strange bed, naked beneath the sheets. Naked! The realization hit like a douse of cold water. Repulsed by his lost manhood, he never slept naked. Leaping from the bed, he found his clothes tossed on a chair. Rumpled and filthy, he hurriedly pulled them on despite the overpowering stink. Reeking of sweat and blood and fear, the clothes released an avalanche of memories. Vengar and the shadowmaster! His mind groped for more. Was he free of Lingard…or had they left him behind? Fear throbbed through him. After all he’d done, they couldn’t have left him.
The door squeaked opened, admitting mingled scents of stale ale and cheap perfume.
“Well, deary, I see yer up.” She gave him a gap-toothed smile, the same whore from the other night.
They’d left him! Horror drenched Danly. Shaking his head, he backed away, trapped in a nightmare. “I’m in Lingard.”
“Where else would ya be?” The whore gave him a knowing wink, her gaze dropping to his crotch. “Now I know why ya only want to watch. Don’t have the stones for it.”
The bitch maligned his manhood, and worse, she dared to wear his crown. His silver circlet gleamed against her mouse-brown hair, an insult and a travesty.
Noticing his stare, she struck a pose, a despoiled vixen pretending at beauty. A cackle of laughter rolled out of her. “I look good in a crown, don’t ya think?”
Something broke inside of him, a swell of madness compelling him to act. He lunged at her, his hands wrapping around her scrawny neck. He took her by surprise, his rage propelling them back through the door, into the hallway. They landed hard, Danly on top, a twisted parody of lovers. “My crown! You dare wear my crown!” His hands squeezed hard, choking her neck, banging her head against the floor, but she would not shut up. She thrashed beneath him, her screams beating against him.
Rage roared through him. “Shut up and die!”
Doors flew open, a rush of footsteps in the hall.
A pack of whores descended on him, kicking and screaming and biting. Like a plague of mosquitoes they penetrated his rage. He released the bitch, snatching the crown from her head, and then he ran. Down the hallway, down the stairs, he pushed his way through the tavern, desperate to escape. He catapulted through the outer door, into the cold light of morning, running straight into the arms of a red-cloaked patrol.
69
Liandra
Liandra knelt in the front pew, staring up at the many faces of the gods. Built long ago by her ancestors, the royal chapel was exquisite. A delicate confection of lace-work stone fanned across the soaring vault, giving the chapel an airy lightness, a masterpiece of masonry. Sunlight slanted through stained glass windows, casting rainbows of light across the marble floor. A faint cloud of incense hushed though the air, a hundred candles defeating the darkness. She prayed alone, only her ancestors for company, stone effigies of kings and queens and fabled knights topping their tombs. So much history, so much glory, yet it fell to Liandra to save her kingdom, a queen who ruled alone.
Destiny had almost caught her. She sighed and the sound echoed through the stonework. She’d played the game of war as well as she could, putting all her pieces in motion, plots within plots, but now all she could do was wait. The waiting proved hard, so much at stake, crowns and kingdoms, lives and loves, all hanging in the balance.
She felt the stare of the gods, their stone statues crowding the sanctuary. Perhaps they rebuked her for her laxness at devotions. She seldom came to pray, believing the gods helped those who helped themselves, but she’d done all she could, and now she needed more.
Her stare roved the pantheon, statues carved of luminous marble. Most people probably thought she prayed to Prosporo, the horned god of wealth and prosperity, but her gaze always sought winged Marut, the goddess of justice. It seemed to Liandra that women held a special place in their hearts for the winged goddess, feeling a keening need for justice. There was never enough justice in a world ruled by swords.
Liandra rose from the pew, sunlight glinting off her bejeweled hands. “We are not meant to kneel.” She faced the gods as a queen, silently asking for succor, for victory, for justice.
The doors of the chapel creaked open. So they found her even here. Liandra turned, a whisper of emerald velvet across the marble floor. She waited in the sanctuary, the gods at her back.
Master Raddock and two shadowmen approached, striding down the short nave, three crows in black robes. “Majesty, forgive me, but we have urgent word. An army marches on Pellanor.”
So her worst fears came calling. “How long?”
“Ten days.”
She waited knowing there was more.
“Our scouts estimate nearly six thousand mounted soldiers of the Flame and ten thousand foot.”
The numbers alone were damning, more than enough to take Pellanor, but the queen sensed there was more. “And?”
Her deputy shadowmaster cringed, the reluctant bearer of bad tidings. “The ten thousand foot are Radagar’s mercenari
es. They’ve turned cloak against us.”
So her royal son was right not to trust mercenaries. “At least they are outside our walls rather than within.” She considered the news, adding moves to the chessboard in her mind. “So they took the bait of our treasury, but our plot was only half successful.” She began to pace, wearing a path beneath the gods. “We’d hoped the mercenaries might obliterate the Flame, but now it seems they’re joined forces, turning against us. At least we succeeded in splitting their army.”
“Majesty,” Master Raddock interrupted, “you must recall the prince at once, the army needs to protect Pellanor.”
The queen stilled, considering. “No.”
“No?” The master made a strangled sound.
His shortsightedness irked her. “We expect our shadowmasters to look more moves ahead. We dared this gambit to split their army. If we recall the prince before Lingard is taken, then the Flame Army will surely give chase to the prince. Even divided, they have superior numbers. If the Rose Army is lost then the game is over.” She considered the board from all angles. “Better the enemy comes to Pellanor than returns to Lingard before the fortress is taken.”
Her shadowmaster sputtered. “But if they take the queen?”
“The queen must be the bait and Pellanor must hold.”
“But the outer walls…”
The queen forestalled him with a raised hand. “It all comes down to timing. Timing, and luck, and an iron will. We shall send a royal scroll to the prince, but the messenger will be sworn to only deliver the message once Lingard falls. Till then, Pellanor must hold.”
Her shadowmaster stared slack-mouthed, his shoulders hunched as if he walked into a storm.
“Alert Major Ranoth. And scour the city for food, moving everything into Castle Tandroth. If the outer walls fall, we shall hold siege within the castle.”
“But majesty, Castle Tandroth cannot hold.”
She gave him an implacable stare. “The castle walls will buy us time. While we have time, we have hope
“Majesty, as your deputy shadowmaster I must advise you to leave Pellanor. It is not too late to retreat. Seek safety in the fortress of Graymaris, where your knights can better protect you.”
She felt as if her ancestors gathered close to listen. “Do you think us less than a king because we are a woman?” She pierced him with a winter-cold stare. “Would a king flee his people? Or would he stay and lead them to victory?”
Her shadowmaster retreated a step, his face flustered. “I think only of your safety.”
“You have advised, we have considered. The queen stays.”
“Yes, majesty.”
“Now go, and ready our people for battle.”
He sketched a hasty bow and turned to leave but she called him back.
“Master Raddock,” her voice was as cold as a grave. “It is time to settle accounts with the traitors.”
Her shadowmaster paled, his face hesitant. “But you said there was not enough evidence?”
“We gave them rope and they hanged themselves. How do you think the Flame learned of our caravan laden with treasury chests?”
A calculated look crossed his face. “You used them. You knew he would betray you!”
“We predicted their moves and wove them into our gambit. A good chess master never wastes a single piece, even a slimy traitor.” Her voice turned chilly. “But our handsome lord must pay for his treason. It is time for accounts to be settled in full. Arrest Lord Mills and all of his associates. Consign them to the dungeons. Put Lord Mills in the traitor’s hole.”
“Without a trial?”
“The queen has tried them and found them guilty.” She gave him a steely-eyed stare. “Justice will be served.”
His face paled. “As you command.”
“And one more thing,” her shadowmaster waited on her word. “Assign one of your best men to guard Lord Mills. If Pellanor falls, the traitor shall not live to see it.”
“It will be done.”
She extended her hand and he knelt to kiss her ring. He stared up at her, his voice fervent. “Long live the queen!” Rising, he gave her a bow and then turned and strode down the nave, a flap of black robes in the chapel.
The doors closed and she was once more alone with the gods. The silence weighed heavy on her shoulders. She’d risked everything on this one gambit, a chance to snatch victory from defeat. Liandra turned to stare up at the god’s faces chiseled in cold hard marble. “Victory or death, which shall it be?” But if the gods had an answer, they did not share it.
70
Danly
Danly skidded to a stop.
Red-cloaked soldiers surrounded him, swords drawn in a ring of steel. “Well, well, what’ll we have here? An early morning heretic?”
“No!” Danly cringed beneath their stares, fear slithering down his back. “I was just…just visiting a brothel.”
The sergeant grinned. “Yeah right, broken nose, black eye, disheveled clothes, tell it to the priests.” He made a rude gesture. “Take him, lads. One less heretic for our quota.”
“No!” Danly flinched from their grasp. “I’m under the protection of Lord Raven!”
The sergeant barked a laugh. “Yeah, and my uncle is the Pontifax.”
Another soldier said, “Sergeant, look at his right hand.”
Danly stared along with the others; he’d forgotten the silver crown.
Several soldiers hissed, “The traitor prince!”
The sergeant reconsidered. “Maybe he does have the Raven’s protection.”
Relief washed through Danly, but it was short-lived.
“Take him to the Bloody Bishop. The bishop will know what to do with him.”
Danly protested. “No, just take me back to the keep,” but the sergeant had already turned away, leading his patrol up the street. A pair of red-cloaked soldiers grabbed Danly by the arms. “March, traitor!”
Convert soldiers! Brands marked their foreheads, a sure sign of cruelty. “No, leave me alone.” He tried to pull away but the soldiers dragged him forward. A cold fist gripped Danly’s stomach, wondering if they’d murder him in some back alleyway, a sword slit to his throat, leaving his body for rats. Slick with fear, he dragged his feet, but the soldiers pulled him forward.
They muscled him towards a shadow-shrouded alleyway. “In here.”
“No!” Danly resisted till a sword changed his mind.
The stink of stale piss clogged the lane. A soldier shoved him forward. Danly staggered and almost fell. Pressing his back against a stone wall, he turned to face them. “Wait, you don’t want to do this.”
The soldiers sheathed their swords, their faces twisted in hate. “You betrayed our city! We opened the gates for you, traitor-prince.”
Flush with fear, Danly raised the silver crown like a talisman. “Take it, it’s yours, just don’t hurt me!”
One of the soldiers sneered. “You think we can be bought for silver?”
He wanted to rail at them, to say that they’d already been bought, selling their lives to the Flames, but he bit back the words, fearing retribution.
The first punch took his breath away. The second bent him double. Danly puked, hurling sour ale onto the muddy lane, but the soldiers did not let up. Blow after blow rained against him, a storm of hate. Danly fell to the ground, curling into the ball. And then they started kicking.
“Enough!”
The kicking stopped. The soldiers drew back.
“Get him on his feet.”
Hands grabbed him, pulling him erect. Danly hung between the soldiers, wracked by pain.
A red-cloaked captain glared at him. “The bishop will be wanting his prize.”
They lashed his wrists behind his back. One of them smashed the silver circlet down onto his head. “Your crown, your majesty.” They dragged him out into the street.
People turned to stare, but no one raised a voice in protest.
“Help me!”
More people turne
d his way. A few hurled curses. Others made the hand sign against evil. “It’s the prince!” Recognition bloomed in the crowd, their faces twisted with hate. Emboldened, an old man hawked a wad of spit.
The spit hit Danly in the cheek, running down his face. Outraged, he screamed. “I’ve done nothing to you!” Their hate filled stares said otherwise. Confronted by the truth, Danly began to shake, wondering if he had a single friend in the hell-damned city.
“Move, prince.” A sword prodded his back.
Danly stumbled toward the keep, lost in a haze of pain. A flock of crows cawed a welcome, the dark birds pecking the spiked heads rotting on the keep’s battlement. Danly refused to look aloft, refused to see the baron’s desiccated head. His gaze scanned the gates, relieved to recognize one of the guards. “Hester, you know me! I don’t deserve such treatment. Release me!”
But the guard looked away, a smirk on his face.
A sword pricked Danly’s back. “Keep moving, prince.”
Shattered, he stumbled through the gates, across the courtyard and up the steps to the keep. Instead of taking him to the bishop’s chambers, they prodded him to a side alcove. “Wait here.” Danly sank to the floor, his back against the wall. Leaning his head against the cold stones, he closed his eyes, lost in a blur of pain. He must have dozed. When he woke, beams of sunlight were slanting low through the arrow-slit windows, marking the lateness of the day.
A boot nudged his side. “On your feet, prince.”
Danly struggled to stand, every part of him stiff and aching.
“So you caught a royal heretic.”
The bishop’s deep voice sent a chill down Danly’s spine.
“On your knees, heretic.”
A soldier pushed him to the floor, the flagstones hard beneath his knees. Danly gazed up at Bishop Taniff, desperate for a reprieve, but the cleric’s dark gaze gleamed with the pious bloodlust of a fanatic. Danly struggled to swallow, his voice a hoarse croak. “I have the protection of Lord Raven.”
S&SS [04] The Poison Priestess Page 45