S&SS [04] The Poison Priestess

by Karen Azinger

  On the third try, the flask sailed high over the walls, deep into the city’s heart.

  Stewart nodded. “Bring up the Napthos.”

  One at a time, flasks of Napthos were carefully carried to the scorpions. A soldier held a torch to the Napthos-soaked wick embedded in the stopper. The wick blazed bright, spitting flames. A lone soldier wearing blacksmith’s gloves gingerly set the flaming flask in the firing slot. Another soldier released the tickler. The scorpion bucked, hurling its charge aloft. A flaming meteor soared over the fortress walls, sailing deep into the heart of the city.

  Stewart waited, watching.

  Flame erupted from the city, licking skyward. Screams followed the flames, a wail of pain and suffering.

  Soldiers stationed in the woods remained statue still, as if captured by a premonition of dread.

  Beside him, Ronald swore, “By the gods!”

  Stewart worked the saliva back into his mouth. “Finish it! Set the city aflame!”

  Soldiers sprang to their work, feeding the scorpions. The night sky became a weave of flaming meteors, arching a deadly path into the city. Stewart watched from the edge of the wood. From the north, the southeast, and the west, flaming meteors scored the night sky, as if a hoard of fire-breathing dragons attacked the city. It might have been beautiful, if not for the screams.

  The Napthos quickly ran out, the scorpions stilled to silence.

  The city burned. Towering flames licked skyward, bright as a false dawn.

  A deep pounding throbbed through the night, as if the enemy took a battering ram against their own gates, but the moon-weaving held, keeping the fortress bound shut.

  Enemy soldiers scrambled onto the ramparts. Shedding their armor, they leaped from the battlements, plunging into the moat. Others crowded the walls, poised to jump till they saw bloody bodies rippling the moat. Fresh screams rose from the murky waters, adding to the night’s horror. Stewart cast a questioning glance towards Ronald.

  “Razor eels.”

  Stewart shuddered, such a horrible way to die.

  They kept vigil through the night, watching the great fortress-city burn. Stewart sickened at the sight, wondering if the monk had the truth of it, wondering if he’d loosed a great evil on the kingdoms of Erdhe.

  Ronald stood by his side. “It was the only way, my lord. Evil consumed by evil. As if the Flame priests summoned their own doom.”

  “Thank the gods there’s no more Napthos.”

  Ronald nodded. “Thank the gods the enemy never had it.”

  Their stares crossed, chilled by the thought. “Just so.”

  The fires burned till the small hours of the morning. A great black cloud belched over the fortress like a doom. At dawn’s first light, the rope of moonlight dissolved, but none on the walls seemed to notice.

  Stewart sent heralds cantering toward the gate. Horns blared into the grim stillness. Soldiers appeared on the walls. The heralds returned unharmed and the great drawbridge slowly lowered. The gates of mighty Lingard swung open. Soldiers and citizens staggered from the fortress. Their faces blackened with soot, they dropped to the snow-covered greensward, a total surrender to weariness.

  Stewart mounted his stallion, appalled by the god-awful reek in the air. “Let’s see what we’ve wrought.” He rode towards Lingard. It did not feel like a victory yet it had to be done. The prince spurred his stallion toward the gate, claiming a fortress defeated by a single night of horror.

  74

  Danly

  A meteor blazed across the night sky, falling into the city. Danly straightened, staring skyward. Bound to the iron stake, he watched from atop the pyre, wondering if he’d imagined the fiery streak.

  Screams erupted from the city, a lick of fire belching toward the heavens. A second flaming meteor scored the night, and then a third. Like the wrath of an angry god, a storm of meteors fell upon the city. The fireballs came from three directions, arching across the ramparts, raining fire upon the rooftops and streets. Screams echoed through the city, the sound of a trumpet blaring from the outer walls.

  Lingard was under attack! Hope thrummed through Danly; the enemy of his enemy had to be his friend. If he could just survive the attack, he’d be saved!

  People rushed pell-mell through the square, bleating like frightened sheep.

  “Release me! Release me!” Danly screamed, straining against his chains, but no one looked his way, intent on their own panic.

  A flaming figure staggered into the square, his clothes alight, screaming like a banshee. A human torch, fear shivered through Danly. He watched the flaming drunk lurch across the square, like a figure sprung from the depths of hell. “Keep away, keep away,” Danly repeated the words like a prayer. The gods must have heard, for the man collapsed, a flaming outline twitching against the cobbles.

  Another meteor hissed from the sky, hitting a nearby tavern. Danly watched in horror as fire burst across the rooftop. The flames spread like starving demons. In the blink of an eye, the entire tavern was ablaze. Heat beat across the square, fierce as a blacksmith’s forge. Danly stared in awe, amazed by the fire’s ferocious appetite. Appalled by its nearness, he strained against his bonds. Flames consumed the building and then leaped to another, but they did not enter the square. They did not enter the square! Surrounded by a moat of cobblestones, Danly realized he was safe atop his pyre. Fate had spared him! He laughed until he cried. All around him, the city burned, but not the square. He stared aloft, the rain of fireballs becoming a thing of beauty. Meteors scored the night sky, brighter than falling stars. Screams embraced the city. Lingard burned like hell come calling, but he was spared.

  Danly grinned, reveling in the destruction. Relief and hatred broiled within him, an upwelling of wild emotions. Chained atop the pyre, he screamed his wrath at the city, damning them all to hell. “You worshiped the Flames and now your vengeful God has found you! He’s found you! Take your Test of Faith! Justice has come calling!”

  Like a brief summer storm, the rain of meteors came to an end. Danly stared skyward, the stars hidden by belching smoke. All around him, the city burned, yet he was safe, spared by the gods. Chained atop a pyre, he was going to live, while everyone else died! Danly burst with laughter. He’d cheated fate! He’d survived the pyre! The Bloody Bishop was wrong; he wasn’t meant to die in the flames, he was meant to live!

  One last fireball rose from the north, streaking across the smoke-filled sky.

  It came towards him.

  “No!” Danly stared in horror. “You spared me! I don’t deserve this!”

  The fireball ignored his plea. Like the flaming hand of god, it struck the square. Fire belched across the cobbles, licking towards his pyre.

  “No!”

  The flames found his pyre. Wood exploded in fire. Crackling flames raced up the mound, opening a portal to hell. “No, not me!” Embraced by fire, Danly screamed till Darkness came calling.

  75

  Stewart

  Smoke blunted the rising sun to a dull orange. In the dawn’s eerie light, Stewart led his men from the woods. The gates of Lingard gaped open. Beyond the battlements, the city fumed and hissed like a pit from hell. Stewart urged his horse to a walk, leading his troops toward the fortress. They crossed the drawbridge, a hollow clop of hooves announcing the victors. Stewart’s gaze was drawn to the gates. Deep dents in the ironshod wood proved the enemy had taken a battering ram to their own defenses, yet the gates had remained shut. Magic, such an awesome and mysterious force, for the hundredth time Stewart thanked the gods the monks were on their side.

  They passed beneath the iron teeth of the portcullis and entered the city. Stewart unsheathed his sword, but there was no need. Citizens and soldiers lay collapsed in the cobbled streets, their faces blackened with soot, their clothes singed, succumbed to horror. Staring at him with hollow gazes, most did not bother to move.

  Stewart drew his horse to a halt. “Who’s in charge here?”

  A soldier stirred. “The Bloody Bish
op, Bishop Taniff, but I saw a fireball take him. The bastard burned to death, screaming like any sinner.”

  “And do you still believe in the Flame God?”

  The soldier stammered, staring wide-eyed. “No sir, not any more, the god deserted us, if he ever was a god.”

  Stewart gave the soldier a steely stare and then nudged his horse to a walk, moving deeper into the city. Smoke billowed from blackened buildings, embers glowing in the depths like glimmers from hell. The dead were everywhere, blackened and burnt, raising a horrible stench. Most of the city was burned, glass and iron melted to distorted shapes, giving proof to the fierce heat of the flames. But amongst the cinders were islands of unscathed buildings, as if the flames had a selective appetite. So eerie to see homes and shops untouched, standing amongst the charred ruins, perhaps the gods had a way of protecting their own.

  The cobbled street opened up into a large square, offering a nightmare of another sort. Pyres of sacrifice filled the square. Three were blackened and burnt, but on four of the pyres the prisoners still lived, their faces streaked with tears. “Release them.” Shuddering, Stewart made the hand sign against evil. “So this is how they worship their twisted god.”

  Soldiers scrambled to obey, steel swords ringing against iron chains.

  Stewart’s gaze was drawn to the central pyre, so consumed by heat that the iron stake was distorted into a tortured sculpture of pain, chains melted at its base, the very bones of its victim devoured by flames, nothing left but ash. Stewart wondered what the poor soul had done to earn such a hellish fate. “Such a horrible way to die. Let’s hope the Flame religion dies with you.” Stewart turned away, his gaze falling on Ronald, the rightwise heir to Lingard. “You have much to rebuild. Lingard will rise from the enemy’s ashes, a mighty fortress once more.”

  Ronald nodded, staring at the devastation, his face stunned. “At least the Flame is defeated.”

  “If any priests survived, have them beheaded. The queen will not suffer this foul religion in her kingdom.”

  Ronald saluted. “It will be done.”

  An emerald-cloaked messenger came running, “Lord Prince!”

  Stewart recognized the young man, Cleary, a messenger from the queen’s court. “Why are you here?

  The young man thrust a sealed scroll towards the prince. “An urgent message from the queen. I was sworn not to deliver it till Lingard fell.”

  Fear spiked through Stewart. He checked the royal seal and then ripped the scroll opened. Reading it, he hissed in anger, his worst fears confirmed. “Trumpeter, sound the alert! The army rides for Pellanor and pray we’re not too late.”

  76

  Jordan

  Jordan spurred the gelding, desperate for more speed. A cold wind lashed her face, the snow-dusted countryside passing in a blur, but it was not fast enough, not nearly fast enough. Her dreams chased her like wraiths, visions of death and betrayal hounding her forward. She dare not be late.

  A gloved hand reached across, yanking her reins.

  Startled, Jordan reached for her sword, but then the shouted words pierced her mind. “You’re killing the horses!”

  Shame struck like lightning. Jordan slowed her mount to a walk, shocked by the gelding’s condition. Lathered in sweat, foam flecking his mouth, his lungs worked like a blacksmith’s bellows, her mount staggered to a walk. She’d nearly ridden him to death. Jordan shuddered. “I did not know. I did not see…”

  “Lass, you ride us all too hard, yourself most of all.” Thaddeus rode beside her, his voice a soothing balm.

  Her horse hung his head low, blowing hard. Chagrinned, she dismounted, loosening his girth. The others joined her, walking their lathered mounts.

  Thaddeus kept pace beside her. “You ride like a banshee loosed from hell. What troubles you?”

  Jordan flushed with shame. “My dreams are getting worse. Sometimes I get caught in them.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “If we don’t get there soon, it will all be for naught.”

  “We’ll get there, lass, the gods are on our side.”

  The swordmaster was so confident, she almost believed him.

  Thad gestured to the north. “Chimney smoke scoring the sky, marking a small village or a large farmstead. Perhaps a chance to buy fresh mounts. These are spent.”

  “Perhaps.” Radagar was a chancy kingdom to traverse. Jordan was never certain if she’d find a warm welcome or a sword held to her throat, but the Zward had a knack for avoiding trouble. For the thousandth time she thanked the gods for their company.

  They kept the horses to a walk, breathing bellows of mist into the cold morning air. Four swordsmen, two monks, and a princess plagued by nightmares, they seemed a pitiful force in the face of her dreams, but she had to try.

  Thad matched her stride. “What do you see that drives you so hard?”

  She owed him an answer. Taking a deep breath, she struggled to explain. “My family, my home, a threat in the night, but the images always change, different nightmares, different outcomes. I just know I need to get to Castle Seamount by Royal Nachte or Darkness will prevail.”

  “Royal Nachte?”

  “Founder’s Night.”

  “And once we get there?”

  She took a deep breath. “We fight.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Just the seven of us?”

  “We’ll have better odds once we reach Navarre.” She raised her right hand, the silver signet of Navarre gleaming in the morning light. “With this ring I can command fresh mounts and men from the border garrisons. By the time we reach the castle, we won’t be riding alone.”

  “Will it be enough?” He gave her a shrewd stare, “or are you counting on magic?”

  Her breath caught, as if he’d read her mind. Her gaze strayed to the two monks. “Does Yarl or Rafe wield magic?”

  Thad’s voice was sharp, cutting off her question. “That’s their secrets. Theirs to share or to keep.” His voice softened. “But lass, I must warn you, magic is rare, even among the monks. Their best weapon is knowledge. But I don’t think it’ll be knowledge that helps you defeat your nightmares.”

  “No, I guess not.” She’d hoped for magic, but it seemed she’d have to prevail by swords and wits, yet her gaze kept straying to the two monks. “Why do the monks have such strange magics?”

  He gave her a puzzled look.

  “Lenore turning into an owl? Ellis with her moon weaving? They’re not what I expected.”

  “You mean they’re not lightning bolts and fire balls? Not the stuff of bard’s songs?”

  His question made her feel silly, yet she persisted. “Yeah, I guess so.”

  Thaddeus shrugged, his face thoughtful. “From what I hear tell, magic was plentiful before the War of Wizards, most of it better suited to peace than to war. Perhaps the peaceful magic survived.” His face darkened. “But tales of the Mordant tell a different story. From what I’ve heard, the dark bastard’s been collecting magic for nigh on a thousand years.”

  A chill shivered down Jordan’s spine. “So he’s got the fireballs and lightning bolts?”

  “Mayhap.”

  His words seemed like a doom. “But surely the monks have powerful magic too?”

  He gave her a steely-eyed stare. “The monks keep their secrets close.”

  “But owl-men and moon weavings?”

  “You thought of a plan to retake Lingard using a moon weaver’s power.”

  Her breath caught, thinking of Stewart, praying the gods kept him safe. “I wonder if it worked.”

  “So do I.”

  Jordan smiled, hearing the fervor beneath his words. “You like her don’t you, you like Ellis?”

  The big swordmaster turned as red as his russet beard. “She’s a flinty woman, yet she knows how to strike sparks off a man.”

  “Sparks of anger, or passion?”

  He grinned. “Both.”

  “Yet you’re with me, instead of her.”

  His voice turned gruff. “The Grand Master tasked
me with keeping you safe. The Zward lives to serve.”

  “Thank you.”

  He nodded, pulling a bramble from his horse’s mane. “We’ve walked the horses long enough. I think they’ll bear a trot.”

  They tightened the girths and swung back into their saddles. Nudging their horses to a weary trot, they rode towards the smoke piercing the sky. Jordan stared ahead, her mind beset by worries. Magic and nightmares, she tried to make sense of her visions. A feeling of doom cloaked her shoulders, a stranglehold of fate. Jordan clutched the reins, needing more speed. The gods gave warnings, but they never made it easy.

  77

  Steffan

  Steffan drove his army hard, keen for vengeance. Tricked by a mere woman, the insult raged in his soul. Empty treasury chests! The memory ate like acid at his mind, but the gold had to be somewhere, most likely hidden in the bowels of Castle Tandroth. The Spider Queen had tricked him once, but vengeance would be his. He’d sack her city and rape the royal bitch, claiming the gold and the crown. Victory was his for the taking. He grew hard just thinking about it.

  Ten thousand boots beat a fearsome rhythm at his back, the sound of invincibility heralding his victory. The numbers were still his, a mighty host claimed by treachery. Steffan rode in the vanguard with the general, red battle banners snapping overhead. By mid afternoon they topped a rise, gaining a view of the queen’s capital city.

  General Caylib barked a rude laugh. “So this is Pellanor! The Spider Queen is a fool! The woman has no sense for war. I’ve seen hill forts with better defenses.”

  “A prize waiting for a conqueror’s fist.” Steffan grinned, remembering the soft luxury of the queen’s city. Spurring his horse off the road, he followed the general to the hilltop. They studied the capital from a conqueror’s viewpoint. Castle Tandroth sat like a spider in a web of prosperity, shops and buildings sprawling around the castle walls, radiating in all directions. In times of peace, Pellanor was an impressive sight, the largest and most prosperous city in Erdhe, but in times of war it was laughable. Without battlements or a moat, the city was protected by nothing more than a series of blocky buildings strung together with hastily erected walls. The mortar was still fresh upon the walls, white glaring against the gray stone. Steffan smirked at the queen’s shoddy attempt to erect a defense. The general had the truth of it. Pellanor had less protection than a hill fort, a ripe plum waiting to be plucked.