“Yet the world never tires of it.”
“Just so.”
Horns blared from the north, a harsh brazen sound. Liandra balled her gauntleted hands into fists. “And so it begins.”
Cries of panic raced through the streets below, yet the queen stood firm upon the barbican, sword-straight, sunlight glinting on armor, a symbol to her people. She stared to the north, praying for the outer wall to hold. So hard to be far from the action, yet this was where she belonged. The day of destiny but all she could do was wait.
82
Steffan
The day dawned bright and crisp and clear, a perfect day for war. Pip served as Steffan’s squire, arming his lord for victory. Black chainmail settled over dark leathers, the raven badge emblazoned on his chest, Steffan flexed beneath the weight, testing the fit. The weight felt comfortable, he’d grown accustom to war. He pulled on a pair of leather gauntlets studded with garnets while Pip affixed his black cloak to his shoulders. At his belt, he wore a rapier with a gleaming double-ringed hilt of gold and a pair of jeweled daggers, all of the finest steel. For a helm, he’d commissioned a special piece in Balor, an open-faced helm of dark metal with raven’s feathers patterned in the steel. A golden beak protruded like a visor to shade his vision, a pair of garnets embedded in the steel feathers for the raven’s eyes. Fierce and proud and forbidding, the helmet screamed of martial splendor. He’d saved the helm to mark a special victory. By day’s end, he planned to despoil a queen and claim a crown.
Horns blared through the wood, calling his army to war.
His sorrel warhorse stood picketed outside his pavilion. Caparisoned in deepest black, the big horse breathed plumes of mist into the chill morning air. A major snapped a salute and Steffan swung into the saddle. Pip rode beside him, serving as his bannerman. A hundred Black Flames followed, a handpicked honor guard assigned to protect the future king of Lanverness.
The woods thrummed like a kicked hornet’s nest, men arming for war, sergeants bellowing orders.
Steffan threaded his way through the camp, riding to the very edge of the winter-naked woods. He took a position on a small hilltop overlooking the queen’s city, a perfect perch for the Lord Raven. Steffan was lucky at dice, but he felt no need to risk his life in battle. General Caylib and General Xanos were both paid to fight; he’d let them lead the charge. Besides, the sword was never Steffan’s best weapon, always preferring to stab a dagger in his enemy’s back. Leading from the rear had so many advantages. First among them was survival. Content to watch, Steffan settled in to wait.
Snow-covered fields surrounded the city, a perfect canvas for war. Even from a distance, Pellanor’s patchwork walls presented a pitiful defense. Instead of battlements and a gatehouse, the soldiers of Lanverness stood on rooftops. The city’s defenses were laughable. More proof the queen had little knowledge of war.
A flock of ravens landed in a nearby oak, releasing a raucous chorus. It seemed his namesake could sense the coming war. Steffan took it as an omen of victory.
Horns blared a second time. Soldiers of the Cobra and the Flame swarmed down out of the woods to assemble on the field. Ten thousand infantry supported by nearly six thousand cavalry, a formidable army drawn up in ranks, their tabards bright against the snow. Battle banners snapped overhead and burnished armor glistened in the morning light. Only in war did so many men work as one, a powerful force for death and destruction. Little wonder the Dark Lord loved it so. Yet seen from afar, there was a certain glory about it, the very image of the bards’ heroic songs. The sight stirred Steffan’s blood, especially with Erdhe’s richest kingdom as the prize. His ambition soared, the crown nearly within his grasp.
Steffan’s warhorse pawed the ground, as if eager for the charge. He settled the horse with his knees. “Watch, Pip, history is about to be made.”
A horn sounded, shattering the romantic illusion. Loosed from their ranks, the mercenaries hefted ladders and charged. Howling like demons, they raced toward the city’s walls. Defenders loosed arrows, staggering the line, leaving a trail of bloody corpses strewn across the snow, but the weight of numbers prevailed. Sidestepping the dead, the Cobra swarmed the walls, throwing up fresh-made ladders. Gouts of flame erupted along the walls, the defenders fought back with oil, a nasty weapon. Doused in burning oil, soldiers ran screaming through the lines, human torches spreading chaos across the field. The attack faltered, a stalemate of death. For a while, the outcome hung in the balance, the mud-churned snow spattered with bloody and burned corpses. The defenders put up a brave fight, repulsing the ladders, but the waves of mercenaries never slowed. Swords and ladders battled flames and arrows…but then the enemy ran out of oil. A shout of triumph rose from the attackers, a third wave charging the wall.
General Xanos ordered the battering ram forward, a massive oak felled from the queen’s own forest. Twenty men carried the ram, shields strapped to their backs. They labored forward, defying the enemy’s arrows. Like a giant’s fist, the ram pounded the gate, demanding entry. Emerald archers swarmed the walls, raining a blistering hail of arrows. Men fell and others sprang to take their place, but the hail of arrows proved too fierce. Cowering under their shields, the men dropped the ram and fled. A mighty cheer rose from the defenders, but in truth, the ram was merely a diversion. While the enemy concentrated their archers at the gate, the mercenaries scaled ladders further down the wall. This time the ladders did not come down. Steffan watched as the Cobra swarmed over the western wall, like cockroaches raiding a larder. “It won’t be long now. Unfurl my banner.”
Pip obeyed, unfurling the silken banner, deepest black to honor the Dark Lord. In the center rode a blood red circle, and in the circle a black raven with wings spread wide, a golden crown upon its head. The wind caught the banner, snapping proudly against the sky, fresh colors for defeated Lanverness. Steffan laughed, feeling the Dark Lord’s pleasure.
Shouts of triumph rang from the battlefield.
The gates swung open, captured from within.
A tide of mercenaries flooded the gate, poised to rape and sack a great city.
Beside him, Pip said, “Shall we go, lord?”
“Not yet, give them time to sweep the streets.”
The Raven banner snapped overhead, dark against the pale winter sky. Destiny called to Steffan, finally a crown for his brow, another triumph for the Dark Lord.
83
Liandra
The sounds of battle carried, but not well enough. Fraught with worry, the queen stood high upon the northern barbican, straining to listen, desperate to discern the battle’s ebb and flow. The castle ramparts overlooked a vast web of rooftops and cobbled streets. Her city sprawled in every direction, putting the battle almost half a league away. Banished from the outer walls by her commanders, the queen fretted at the heart of her city, a defiant symbol atop the castle ramparts. The waiting proved hard, yet the queen stood statue-still, her silver armor glinting in the cold morning light.
Enemy horns blared from the north, an ominous sound. Liandra strained to listen, imagining the clash of weapons and the rabid howl of attack. So far from the wall, she felt blind, straining to interpret every sound. Tension gripped her, uncertainty gnawing at her imagination. Liandra longed to pace, but she resisted the urge, intent on chaining her worry.
The sun climbed the sky to midmorning and still they fought. Every hour that passed was a victory for her side.
Below, her people continued to stream through the streets, seeking sanctuary in the castle. At least they did not run, families holding their children’s hands, maintaining a sense of order, holding panic at bay.
Gouts of flames erupted in the distance, belching columns of black smoke. Her soldiers used the oil, a terrible weapon, but war was a terrible business. Liandra wondered if she should have saved the monk’s Napthos for Pellanor, but that gambit was long spent. She stared towards the north, hoping the oil prevailed. All too soon the flames stopped, leaving a lingering pall above the north wall.
Her men were out of oil. A sick feeling pervaded her stomach. The queen clenched her fists, waiting.
A dull boom echoed from the north, a ram at the gates. Boom, boom, boom, the relentlessness pounding shuddered through the morning. A shiver of fear raced down her spine, as if the Dark Lord came knocking. The queen lost track of the beat…but then the ram fell silent. Either the gates were breached or the ram defeated. She waited poised on a knife-edge. A tease of sounds came her way. Liandra thought she heard a distant cheer; perhaps her men prevailed.
The queen sent a prayer to Valin, but something ominous stirred in the north.
An omen of fear gripped her. “What’s happening?” But none around her knew.
The answer came from her people. Panic erupted in the streets. People dropped their scant processions, running pell-mell for the castle gates.
The truth was in her streets. “The wall has fallen.” The words sounded like a death knell, yet the queen waited upon the barbican, needing to witness it all.
Her people rushed the gates, desperate for sanctuary, some trampling others, a riot of death. The clog at the gates slowed to a grind. Behind the crush of citizens, came the wounded, soldiers limping and bloody, their emerald tabards disheveled by war, their faces shocked by defeat. Liandra stared beyond them, fearing for Robert.
Horns blared, the awful sound of retreat.
And then the deluge came, a river of emerald retreating to the castle like a flood in ebb.
Liandra gripped the rampart, frantic for a glimpse of Robert.
And then she heard the clash of steel; fighting in her streets, proof her city was lost.
The sound pierced her heart like a cold lance of despair.
Sir Durnheart stepped to her side. “Majesty, we should close the gates.”
“Not yet. They fought for us. Give them a chance to reach safety.”
“But majesty, you risk the castle.”
Anger pulsed through her. “They risked their lives for us. The gates stay open.”
Beside her, Princess Jemma strung her bow, nocking an arrow. “The archers will buy them time.”
The streets began to clear, like the awful calm before a terrible storm. The queen waited, a steel fist clamped around her heart.
The battle drew near, a terrible clash of steel. And then she saw them, a thin line of emerald, some mounted, some on foot, holding back a tidal wave of foes. Red mixed with pea-green, the traitorous Cobra fought along side the Flame. The soldiers in emerald battled like heroes, buying every step of ground, staining the cobbles with blood. Citizens joined the fray, wielding staves and rods, a frenzy of courage to protect their city. Liandra even saw a few women wielding cast iron skillets and rolling pins. The stalwart courage of her people sent a fierce shiver of pride through Liandra, but the outcome was inevitable, the weight of numbers too much to bear.
The queen gave the order. “Archers loose! Trumpeters sound the retreat!”
Princess Jemma raised her bow.
Arrows arched toward the enemy, a hail of death falling in the streets.
Trumpets blared, sounding the retreat.
Under the hail of arrows, the enemy faltered, while the thin emerald line turned and raced for the castle gates.
The queen gripped the stone ramparts, staring down at them, willing them to hurry. And then she saw him, fighting near the rear, a sword in one hand, a dagger in the other. So gallant, so brave, she watched him slay an enemy, her heart clenched in mixture of pride and fear. “Hurry, Robert!” One of the last to retreat, he put spurs to his dappled stallion, racing for the gates.
Sir Durnheart bellowed, “More arrows!”
A twang of bows loosed, a whistle of death skewering the air.
The enemy hesitated. Dead clogged the streets, but then a hungry roar burst from their ranks. They surged forward, chasing the stragglers to the gate.
“Hurry, Robert, hurry!”
Hoof beats on cobblestones, lathered horses raced for the gates.
“Majesty, you must…”
“Yes, begin to close the gates!”
The trumpeter called the signal.
The queen leaned forward, willing him to safety.
Robert rode at the rear, a handful of emerald riders racing through the streets, but the Flame was not far behind, death charging at their heels.
“Save them!”
Every detail was painstakingly clear, the racing horses, the swords poised to strike, the closing distance, a slim margin of life.
Beside her, Princess Jemma took aim. Her bow twanged and the lead rider for the Flame fell, tumbling in front of the others, slowing the chase.
The gap widened.
The emerald riders reached the gates, a thunder of hooves galloping into the courtyard.
Below, the ironclad gates clanged closed, a massive bar sealing them shut.
The enemy swarmed the gate, but her love had made it, he’d made it.
The queen’s archers took aim, raining arrows on the clogged streets, but the enemy was too numerous, a sea of soldiers frothing at her gates.
Enemy archers answered, arrows soaring toward the ramparts. Liandra’s guards rushed forward, shields raised to protect the queen. Arrows thunked among them, a guard screaming in agony.
“Majesty, you must leave the rampart!”
Liandra nodded, letting her guards lead her towards the tower door. A grim truth gripped her mind. The enemy was at the gates. Her city had fallen. The siege of Castle Tandroth had begun.
84
The Priestess
The secret door slid open and the Priestess entered the castle. Her soldiers followed, their swords drawn, but just as she predicted the corridor was empty. Trusting to their secrets, the Navarrens left the sea gate unguarded. Their trust would be their undoing.
A dank mustiness pervaded the rarely used hallway. So close to the sea, the walls wept moisture, clear as tears, as if the castle mourned her return. Her men raised their torches, the light flickering against black basalt walls, striping the halls with shadow. She led them deeper into the castle to an intersection of stairs going up and down. The lower ones led to the dungeons, the upper to the kitchens. She climbed the stairs to find a slight figure lurking in the shadows. The Priestess whispered a name. “Lydia?”
A dark-haired woman dressed as a cook’s servant stepped into the torchlight, her handmaiden sent to poison the castle. “Here, mistress.”
“Is it done?”
“Yes, mistress. A tincture of henbane added to the soldiers’ ale. If they’re not asleep by now, they soon will be.”
“And the royals?”
“In the great hall, feasting. Tara was assigned as one of the servers to the high table.”
“Good,” the word was a purr, so easy to slip her handmaidens in amongst the extra help. Women were always overlooked, especially the servants. “What course are they on?”
“The seventh, mistress.”
“Plenty of time for the royals to be truly entangled.” The Priestess smiled. “You’ve done well, but now it is past time I joined the royals at their feast. So rude of them not to invite me.”
Dismissing her handmaiden, the Priestess led her men through the winding corridors.
A soldier approached, wearing the checkered tabard of Navarre. Tottering in the hallway, he wobbled back and forth like a drunk. “Who are you?”
Hugo stepped past her, landing a solid punch on the soldier’s jaw. The man flopped to the floor like a boneless fish.
The Priestess smiled. “Henbane, so reliable. Lydia did her work well.” Sidestepping the soldier, she followed the succulent scents of roast sea bass and garlic scallops, a feast fit for royals. Torches began lining the hallways as they moved deeper into the castle, yet they met no opposition. Servants, pages, and soldiers began to appear, always slumped at their posts. A few white-smocked cooks sprawled across the floor, caught in the spell of henbane. The Priestess smiled, enjoying the proof of her plan, an entire castle caught in a drug
ged stupor, like a dark curse in a fairy tale run amok. Everyone slept except the royals. For the royals, the Priestess had something special in mind.
Led by memory, she strode through the castle’s twists and turns. The hallways became more opulent. Rich tapestries adorned the walls, portraying scenes of conquest on the high seas, but the Priestess paid scant attention to the embroidered details, intent on reaching her prey. A cheerful melody echoed through the hallways, the soft strains of a lute pulling her forward. The royals dined by music, the merrymaking soon to become a dirge. She paused at the entrance to the great hall. Hiding in the shadows, the Priestess spied on the feast.
Tantalizing smells swirled through the chamber, belying the truth of the banquet. The royals feasted at the high table, an intimate family gathering celebrating the founding of the seaside kingdom. King Ivor sat in a throne-like chair, his frumpy queen sitting next to him. Such a pathetic pair, no style, no grace, no sense of royalty, not even a crown amongst them. And then there was Isador, the commander of the guard. He still cut a fine figure in his checkered surcoat, but his dark hair was salted with too much gray. Next to Isador sat Igraine, a mousy little woman with dreary scholar’s eyes, always so boorish. Ian and Ivy sat on the far side of the table flanked by their spouses. Laughing at some shared amusement, the bowyer and the merchant captain sat close together, always thick as thieves. The Priestess swallowed her contempt. One big happy family, Royal Nachte brought them together, all the Royal Is seated at one table, but none of the youngsters. The heirs were missing. She’d so wanted to meet the Royal Js. The youngsters must be on their Wayfarings, a pity since she’d hoped to catch them all in one fell coup.
The Priestess lingered in the shadows, watching them feast and laugh and talk, as if they had not a care in the world. How foolish and how naïve, especially given the truth writ large on their faces. Time had nearly caught them. They all looked old. Gray dimmed their hair, lines creased their faces, and paunches bloated their waists, all of them worn by time while she remained forever young. Giving thanks to the Dark Lord, the Priestess ran her hands down a firm figure of sultry curves, reveling in her seductive allure. She laughed and the silken sound carried into the great hall.
S&SS [04] The Poison Priestess Page 50