S&SS [04] The Poison Priestess

by Karen Azinger

  The bishop barked a laugh. “You have nothing!”

  “But I’ve served the Flame! I proved my loyalty by giving you Lingard!”

  “Yet your heart is impure. I can smell a heretic, prince. You reek of disbelief.”

  “I took your oath! I’m sworn to the Flame God.”

  The bishop laughed, an ugly sound. “Then it’s past time you took the Test of Faith.”

  “No!” A stream of hot urine ran down his leg. “Not that!”

  “The Flame God will judge ye. The path to heaven is paved with the ashes of infidels.” The bishop turned away. “Take him to the pyres. I’ll conduct the rites myself, a royal offering to the Flame God.”

  Soldiers saluted, while others grabbed Danly by the arms, hauling him to his feet.

  “No! I know things! I know things that can help you!” Danly screamed, but no one listened. Soldiers half carried, half dragged him out of the keep, across the courtyard, and through the streets. They took him to the square in the western quarter of the city, pyres of tinder already built, awaiting the nightly offering. Danly struggled and kicked, but it made no difference. The soldiers bore him to the central pyre. Forcing him up the mound of kindling, they chained him to the iron stake. Thick chains looped around his waist and ankles, binding him like a sacrificial offering, a prince chained atop the pyre.

  “Let me go! Take the silver crown and let me go!”

  The soldiers ignored him. Securing the chains, they left him screaming.

  71

  Stewart

  Secrecy and stealth were essential to his plan. Stewart marshaled his forces for a desperate gamble. Deploying a screen of scouts, he marched his men hard by night, drawing a stealthy noose around Lingard. He split his army into three parts, dividing them between the three woods surrounding the fortress. Dane commanded the north wood, Major Batton the southeast, while Stewart took the west wood. The prince kept Ronald, the heir to Lingard, close by his side. Only three men in all of his army wore the golden surcoat emblazoned with the Rognald’s iron fist. A proud emblem nearly extinguished by royal treachery, Stewart hoped it would once more reign in the fortress of Lingard.

  Flanked by scouts, the prince crept through the forest, his sword in his hand. Snow crunched beneath his boots, the bows of the scouts pulled taut. They reached the forest’s edge, gaining a clear view across the snow-dusted greensward. Viewed from an attacker’s perspective, the mighty fortress looked damn near invincible. Tall walls surrounded by a deep moat, the crenellated battlements bristled with trebuchets. Rearing from the greensward, the fortress stood solid and defiant, a vision of martial strength reflected in still waters. Stewart studied the walls, finding no weaknesses. Lingard might fall to a lengthy siege but never to a conventional attack. Trickery or magic were his only options. His brother had tried the one, Stewart would try the other.

  Surrounded by scouts and accompanied by his captains, Stewart crouched behind an oak tree. He scanned the sky, noting the scant hours till twilight. The wind shifted and he nearly choked on the stench. “What is that god-awful reek?”

  Beside him, Ronald answered, “Heretics. They burn heretics at dawn and at dusk. The stench hangs over the city like a pall. It’s been that way since the priests first took the city.”

  Stewart sketched the hand sign against evil, recalling how he’d been bound for the Flames. “Tonight we’ll give them a taste of fire. We’ll see how much they love the flames.”

  A steady clop of hooves approached, a lone rider on a dark horse threading her way through the winter forest. Stewart rose to greet the lady. Clad in midnight blue robes, Ellis wore her dark hair unbound falling below her shoulders, her face pale as ice in the waning daylight. Wrapped in an aura of power, she carried herself with a reserved dignity, as if a warrior-priestess of legend had sprung from history to ride among them.

  Awed by the vision, Stewart gave her a courtly bow. “Thank you for coming.”

  Ellis gave him a cold stare. “I will ask you again to set aside this plan.”

  “There is no other way. Swords alone will not succeed.”

  She pursed her lips, her face stern, her voice as cold as a sepulcher. “Magic was not meant to be used in this fashion. It harkens back to the War of Wizards, to a time of great evil.”

  “Yet evil must be confronted. And somehow it must be defeated.” Stewart pressed his argument, passion giving force to his words. “I’ve seen the depths of their depravity.” His voice turned hard. “Take a deep breath. The very air carries the stench of their victims turned to ashes. How many more will die if you don’t help?”

  “Their deaths are not my doing.”

  “Yet you could save many.”

  Her stare pierced him, as if studying his soul.

  Stewart held his breath, as if all of Erdhe depended on her answer.

  Ellis sighed. “Two truths crossed like swords. We are both right, yet I fear what this night will unleash.” She gave him the smallest of nods. “Evil must be confronted and the Flame defeated. My magic will join your cause for this one night, but in recompense, the prince of Lanverness shall swear to be beholden to the Kiralynn Order, required to grant a boon, any boon, to our Grand Master.” Her voice turned cold as winter. “Do you so swear?”

  A warning shivered down Stewart’s back. He did not like the open-ended nature of the boon, but he needed her magic. He gripped his sword hilt. “I so swear.”

  “So be it.”

  Stewart’s skin prickled as if a geas had been laid upon him.

  Ellis’s horse stamped and snorted, but she controlled him with the pressure of her knees. “Know this, prince, the magic of the moon weaving will last till dawn’s first light. You have but one night to retake the fortress and then the enemy will be able to open the gates.”

  “One night will be enough.” Stewart prayed he had the truth of it.

  “We shall not meet again.” She gave him a piercing stare. “Once the weave is set, I will return to our monastery in the Southern Mountains. My magic is too strong for the lands of Erdhe.”

  “I will grant you an escort.”

  “I want none.”

  “As you wish.”

  She turned her horse towards the depths of the woods.

  Beside him, Ronald said, “Will it work?”

  “Pray that it does, else we’ll lose the war, not just Lingard.” Stewart issued orders to his scouts, birdcalls whispering through the woods, and then he settled down to wait for the moon’s rising.

  72

  Danly

  Seven pyres for seven heretics, Danly stood bound to the central stake, railing against his fate. The others were chained to smaller pyres, four men and two women. They hung their heads in sullen silence, like sheep awaiting the slaughter, but Danly fought against his bonds. “I don’t deserve this! I’m a prince of royal blood! Release me or be damned!” He howled his rage, and yelled his fear, but no one came to his rescue. Driven hoarse by his screams, he fell silent.

  Staring at the sky, Danly watched the sun sink towards darkness, like watching his life slip through an hourglass, but the sun waits for no man. The fiery orb sank into the horizon, a blaze of red fading to purple, such a bloody sunset, such a bloody waste.

  A crowd began to gather, come to witness the sacrifice.

  Danly glared at them, hatred in his stare.

  A small dark-haired lad crept to the base of Danly’s pyre. “Look, mother, he wears a crown! It’s the traitor prince!”

  A rumble of anger swept through the watchers.

  “He’s the one!”

  “You did this to us!”

  “You gave us to the Flame!”

  Someone hurled a rock, hitting him in the cheek. Danly shook with rage, screaming his hate. “You did this to yourselves! Did you fight? Are you fighting now? You’re all sheep! You all deserve to die! At least I dared to reach for a crown!”

  Someone yelled, “Traitor prince!” and the crowd took it up as a chant, “traitor-prince, tra
itor-prince, traitor-prince.”

  Danly sobbed, always the same accusation. He strained against his bonds, desperate to escape, but the chains held him fast.

  Torches appeared in the far street, a procession of red-robed priests chanting prayers to the Flame God. Death paraded towards him.

  The crowd stilled to a hush, parting to give passage to the priests. The procession circled the pyres, intoning prayers to the Flame God. Waving braziers smoking with incense, they muttered a litany of chants. Danly watched, his mouth as dry as a desert, desperate for a reprieve. After the third circuit, individual priests broke away from the others to climb the pyres.

  A portly priest struggled towards Danly, drawing close enough to whisper. “Repent, my son. Repent and the Flames may spare you.”

  Wild laughter burst from Danly, ending in a strangled sob.

  “Confess your sins, confess the names of your fellow heretics and go to the Flames shriven of your deeds.” The priest reached out, dabbing Danly’s face with holy ashes. “Confess and the Flame God will know you as one of his own!”

  Danly flinched from the priest’s touch. Straining against his bonds, he shouted his answer. “I gave you Lingard! I’m a prince of the realm! How can you do this to me?”

  “It is written that all heretics shall face the judgment of the Flame. Your time has come.”

  Danly yelled, “Do you see this crown! I’m a prince of the realm! Release me!”

  “Meet the Flame God with repentance in your heart and your end will be swift.”

  Sickened, Danly looked away, ignoring the blather. The priest made a final sign of blessing and then stumbled back down the pyre.

  Hoof beats drummed on the cobblestone street. Bishop Taniff and his holy entourage thundered into the square. The crowd shrank backwards, like sheep before the wolf. Danly might have laughed if he wasn’t so scared.

  The Bloody Bishop dismounted, a mitered helm shining on his head, his red cloak billowing in the breeze, his great mace affixed to his belt. Tall and imposing, the warrior-cleric looked like an avatar of the Flame God. A priest held the bishop’s smoke-gray stallion while another handed him a flaming torch. Raising the torch to the darkening sky, the bishop made the sign of blessing, his voice booming through the square. “And the Flame God shall know his own, separating the infidel from the faithful. For he that walks through the Flame without sin, shall be spared by the Fire, and those who sin shall be consumed.”

  The crowd murmured, “The Test of Faith.”

  The bishop strode toward the pyres, stopping below Danly. “Are you ready to be judged?”

  Danly felt like pissing but his bladder was empty.

  The bishop laughed, an ugly sound. “I’ll save you for last, prince, a royal offering to our most righteous God. Watch the others as they burn. Hear their screams, smell their roasting flesh, enjoy their torment. May you find justice in the Flame God’s embrace.”

  “You can’t do this to me!”

  The bishop laughed. “There’s darkness in your soul, prince. You’ve always been destined for the Flames.”

  The words struck like a sword to his bowels. Danly emptied himself, quaking with fear. “I can be useful! I know things!”

  But the bishop had already turned away. Striding to the first pyre, he set his torch to the kindling. Fire leaped to the wood, a hungry crackle of flames. The flames embraced the kindling, racing up the pyre toward the sacrifice. The woman screamed and flinched away but she was bound fast. Fire touched flesh, releasing a tortured howl.

  Fear pulsed through Danly. Sobbing, he heaved against his bonds, rattling the chains. Bound tight, he watched as the flames consumed the first and second pyres. Tears streaked his face, forgotten prayers on his lips.

  Hooves drummed on the cobblestones. A red-cloaked messenger burst into the square. Dismounting, he rushed towards the bishop. “My lord bishop!”

  Bishop Taniff turned, annoyance on his face, yet he paused to listen.

  Danly strained to hear, but their words were drowned by tortured screams.

  Whatever was said, it galvanized the bishop to action. “My horse!” A priest rushed forward, leading the bishop’s smoke-gray stallion. Tossing his torch to the cobblestones, Bishop Taniff vaulted into the saddle, bellowing orders.

  Danly’s stare followed the torch. It landed a hand-span from his pyre. Horrified, he watched the flames, willing the wind to snuff them out.

  The Bloody Bishop put spurs to his stallion, leading his entourage from the square. The remaining priests conferred in a huddle, while the screams of the heretics shrank to silence, consumed by the flames. A terrible stench filled the square, a lingering cloud of burnt flesh. The crowd began to mill, uncertain whether to stay or leave.

  Danly’s stare fixed on the burning torch, flickering flames reaching toward his pyre.

  A soldier approached, stamping out the flaming torch.

  Danly sagged in relief, wondering if it was a sign. Something had saved him, though he knew not what. Perhaps the gods had forgiven him, granting him a second chance. He watched from atop the pyre as the crowd melted away. Danly laughed and then cried, tears streaming down his face. “See, I told you I was innocent!” Bound atop the pyre, Danly muttered prayers to every god he’d ever heard of, begging for a second chance, begging to be released.

  73

  Stewart

  Night fell hard, a harvest moon rising bright over Lingard. The fortress was shut tight as a coffin, the gates closed, the drawbridge raised, secured for the night, but the night would prove their downfall. Stewart gave the signal and bird calls trilled through the woods.

  A lone rider cantered into the moonlight.

  All along the wood, battle-hardened men crept to the forest’s edge, come to watch a lone woman take on a fortress filled with evil.

  Dark as midnight against the snow covered ground, the monk sat straight in the saddle, staring up at the moon-drenched sky. Horse and rider stilled. Cloaked in robes of midnight blue, the woman and the dark horse seemed melded together, like a mythical figure come to champion the Light. The moon hung low in the sky, full and bright and tinged with orange, a bloody moon, a harvest moon, rising like an omen of death. The wind died and the night stilled, as if the world held its breath. Ellis threw her head back, her right fist thrust toward the heavens. Stewart watched spellbound, his breath held in wonder. An ancient power seemed to shimmer around the monk. A gleam of moonlight appeared in her raised fist. A faint flicker at first, quickly growing in strength till the orb blazed star-bright.

  Gasps of awe rippled through the forest.

  Cries of alarm rang from the fortress.

  Ellis drummed her heels against the stallion’s flank. The horse leaped forward, galloping across the snow-crusted greensward. The monk circled the fortress, holding the glittering orb aloft, weaving a noose of moonlight in her wake. Thick as a man’s arm, a shimmering strand of light trailed behind her, encircling the fortress. Magic, Stewart shivered in awe, knowing the moon weaving was stronger than steel.

  Arrows thrummed from the fortress, arcing into the night sky, but none hit the lone rider.

  Soldiers crouched at the forest’s edge cheered as the monk rode out of sight.

  A silence descended over the woods, nothing to do but wait. Stewart gripped his sword hilt, knowing everything depended on the monk. He began to pace, wearing a path between two trees. Time seemed to drag, an eternity of waiting. A shout rose from the woods. He turned to watch the monk emerge from the far side of the fortress, galloping across the moonlit greensward. Her dark hair streamed like a battle banner, her fist raised in defiance, a rope of light shimmered in her wake. Ellis blazed like a warrior-priestess anointed by moonlight. Completing the circuit, she returned to the start of the moon weave. Leaping from the saddle, she worked to bind a knot in the moonlight.

  Arrows arched from the fortress, a deadly hail falling around her.

  “Guard her!” Stewart roared the order and a dozen soldiers with shield
s ran towards Ellis. Standing in a crescent, they raised their oaken shields, a stout barrier protecting the monk.

  Arrows thunked into upturned shields, skewering the ground, but the monk never faltered. Ellis finished the knot and then gathered the moon weave. Like a noose she pulled the moonlight rope taut against Lingard’s walls, sealing the fortress. A shimmering ring of moonlight strangled the battlements, holding the drawbridges shut with magic. Ellis remounted her stallion. For a dozen heartbeats, she slumped in the saddle. Stewart feared she was shot, but then she straightened. Sending one last stare in Stewart’s direction, she gathered her reins and rode south.

  A hush descended on the woods, a reverence for courage melded with magic.

  Stewart felt the awe as much as his men, but he had a fortress to reclaim. It was time for his men to do their part. He bellowed orders, “Bring up the scorpions! It’s time to retake Lingard!”

  An earth-shattering cheer erupted from his men.

  Three wagons trundled through the forest, coming to a stop at the wood’s edge. Soldiers leaped from the wagons, setting chocks to the wheels. Scorpions were affixed to the wagon beds. Giant crossbows fashioned of wood and sinew and steel, the scorpions were a marvel of military craftsmanship, another gift from the monks.

  Stewart took a position near the center scorpion. “Test the range before you risk the Napthos.” They dared not waste a single flask of the fiery brew. The queen had sent the entire hoard north, ninety-two ceramic flasks full of the ancient potion. Stewart prayed it would be enough.

  A pair of soldiers muscled the scorpion into the bent position. A third loaded a ceramic flask filled with water. The captain yelled, “Loose!” A soldier released the tickler. The scorpion bucked with a mighty shudder, hurling the flask toward the fortress. Sailing like an arrow, the flask shattered against the ramparts, raising a cheer from the men, but Stewart knew the walls were not the target. “Reset the scorpion and try again.”