Jordan turned her horse toward the castle, riding dead center between the two massive ospreys. Whispering words of encouragement, she urged her mare forward, but the horse balked, frightened by the sea. Running out of time, she jammed her spurs into the mare. Squealing in fear, the small horse leaped forward, bolting into the frothing waves. Finding solid footing just beneath the sea foam, the pale mare settled to a gallop, striding across the ocean like a horse sprung from legend.
Her host followed, racing the tide across the causeway, galloping hooves throwing up a salty spray. Ahead, the castle reared from the sea, a slime-slick ramp climbing to the ironshod gates. Jordan whispered to her mare, urging the horse across the churning causeway. They reached the base, the sea crashing against the breakwater. Her mare clattered up the ramp, but the gates were closed, barred from within. Unsheathing her sword, she pounded the hilt against the gate. “Open the gates!” but no one answered. Fear gripped her. Just like her visions, the gates were barred, the soldiers deaf to her entreaties. But then she realized there was one major difference. In her dreams the causeway hadn’t been submerged. Either she was too late or something had changed.
Jordan erupted in cold sweat. She turned to the Zward. “We need the grappling hooks.”
Thaddeus and Benjin dismounted. Removing ropes and grappling hooks from their saddle packs, the two Zward stepped away from the gates. Spinning the hooks in a deadly arc, they loosed the grapples towards the rampart walls. Thaddeus’s caught on the first try, Benjin’s on the second. Hand over hand, the two men began to scale the walls.
Jordan moved the horses closer to the castle gates, making room for others on the sea-slick ramp. Horses and soldiers crowded close, shivering against the cold. Strung out in a line along the causeway, the bulk of her host stood vulnerable to the tides. Dark waves lapped closer, climbing the ramp, greedy for land. The horses whinnied in fear, their eyes showing white in the moonlight. A soldier yelled, “There’s something in the water!” A horse reared, falling backward off the causeway, man and beast spilling into the waves.
Fins sliced the dark water, a frenzied froth surrounding the swimmers.
Screams pierced the night.
“There’s monsters in the sea!”
A rogue wave burst across the causeway, sweeping twenty men and their mounts into the frothing foam.
“Get back to the causeway!” Standing in the stirrups, Jordan yelled to be heard. “Hold your positions! Stand your ground!” Trapped between the waves and the castle, Jordan prayed she hadn’t brought her men to a watery death.
Beside her, Yarl yelled. “Send the others back, before the sea claims them.”
Jordan considered giving the order, but she knew they’d need the numbers to prevail. “I can’t.”
A grating noise came from the far side of the gate. “Stand back.”
They forced the horses back down the ramp, into the swirling sea. Cold water crept up her leg, reaching halfway to her knee. The mare whinnied, close to panic, but then the gates began to creak open. She drew her sword, praying the Zward opened the gates and not the enemy.
Thad and Benjin pushed the gates wide, a welcome sight. Jordan spurred the mare forward, up the ramp and into the courtyard. Soldiers in the checkered tabards lay slumped at their posts, but she saw no signs of fighting.
Thaddeus rushed to her side. “All the soldiers are either asleep or dead drunk, just as you said. It’s as if the castle’s under a spell.”
Instead of comfort, his words spurred panic. “We may be too late.” Jordan swung from the saddle, pulling her sword from its sheath. “Time is against us, we need to get to the great hall.” She sprinted for the nearest door, desperate to save her family.
87
The Priestess
The Priestess fondled the alchemical flask, life or death held within her hands. She watched her royal siblings, savoring their fear. They sat at the banquet table, glances passing between them, their faces full of questions, longings, pleas, and wavering resolve. Tension heated the room, like a cauldron set to boil.
Ian was the first to break. “Will you let Mary drink from the flask?”
His dark-haired wife flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and hope. “Not unless you drink as well.”
The Priestess smiled. “Such devotion. Your wife has the truth of it. You are the royal, not her. Bend the knee, swear to me, and you shall both live.”
Ian flared in anger. “But why kill her? It’s senseless murder!”
“Anything but senseless.” She flashed a cruel smile. “Your wife becomes a dagger at your throat. For the sake of love, will you swear an oath? Where do your loyalties lie? It’s time to test the truth of your convictions.” She held the flask aloft, sloshing the contents. “Time to choose.”
“This is madness.” Isador glared at her. “You’re lying about the poison.”
“Am I?”
Igraine chose that moment to choke, her face turning bright red. Clutching at her throat, her eyes went wide in surprise. “Help me!” Isador and Ivor leaped from their chairs, but it was too late. Poison claimed the scholarly woman. Her face turned purple, foam frothing at her mouth. She fell from the chair, writhing in agony.
Isador leaped toward the Priestess but Hugo barred the way, a sword held to the commander’s throat.
Isador glared across the blade, his voice a snarl. “Save her!”
The Priestess shook her head. “Too late. The poison has her.”
Igraine spasmed, bent nearly double with convulsions, her face twisted in torment. She gave a startled gasp and then fell dead, sprawled across the floor, the spark of life snuffed from her open eyes.
“You killed her!”
“She killed herself. She could have bent the knee and saved her own life.” The Priestess stared at her dead sibling. “A shame about Igraine. I was hoping Isador would die first.”
Isador snarled. “I’ll kill you for this.”
“You’ll never get the chance. Now sit down and make your decision. Bend the knee or die by poison…or the sword.”
The commander returned to his chair.
A brooding silence strangled the chamber. The royals sat hunched at the dining table. Death stood at their shoulders, stalking them one by one. The king broke the silence. “Let Megan drink from the flask.”
The Priestess smiled. “Yes, if she swears allegiance to me.”
Ian protested. “Why her and not my wife?”
The Priestess answered. “Because if the mother swears, if her life is held forfeit, then the Royal Js will follow.”
The king speared her with his stare. “What will you do with the children?”
The Priestess gave him a benevolent smile. “One of them will be my heir.” Her smile deepened at his surprise. “You see, my brother, the choice is not as hard as you think. Since I have no intention of ever playing the broodmare, I need an heir. So if you swear homage, your line will still inherit. Of course, it will be a long time before any of them ever gains the throne.” She raised the flask, her voice filled with warning. “If you want to see your grandchildren born, you need to bend the knee. Time is wasting. Swear and save your life.”
The king stared at his queen. “Do it for me. And for the children. I cannot bear to watch you die.”
The queen stifled a sob. She hugged her husband and then stepped toward the Priestess. “What must I do?”
The Priestess leaned forward, suppressing a feral grin. “Kneel before me, and swear homage. Accept me as the rightwise queen of Navarre, and you shall live.”
The queen crossed the distance, a frumpy woman in a gown of chestnut brown. She sent a questioning glance toward her husband and then knelt, her voice a hoarse whisper. “I, Megan of Navarre, acknowledge Iris as the rightwise queen of Navarre, and pledge…and pledge my loyalty to you.”
The Priestess smiled, savoring the triumph. “Well done. Otham, a goblet.”
The big man crossed the room. Snatching a pewter goblet from the tabl
e, he dashed the red wine to the floor. The Priestess uncorked the alchemical flask and poured a thumb’s width of amber liquid into the goblet. “This should be enough.” Like a holy celebrant, she handed the goblet to the queen. “Drink and live.”
The queen drank the potion, her hands trembling as she lowered the goblet.
“Good.” The Priestess swept the others with her gaze. “Now for the rest of you. Time is running out, for as surely as Igraine lies dead upon the floor, the poison works its will among you.” She gave them a venomous smile. “Decide or die.”
88
Liandra
Liandra should have been exhausted, but somehow danger sharpened every sense. Colors seemed brighter, the cold air seemed crisper, her lavender perfume more pungent, everything intensified, as if the nearness of death made life all the dearer. She climbed the castle’s tallest tower, seeking an eagle’s view of her city. Leaning on the battlement, she took stock of the situation below. Soldiers in red clogged the streets, a mortal blight upon her city, a bloody strangle choking her castle. An occasional scream drifted upwards, the sounds of battle drowned by an endless incessant pounding, the massive ram bludgeoning her gates, minions of the Dark Lord come calling. The queen shuddered at the thought. At least she’d had the foresight to strengthen all the gates with steel, but nothing was invincible. Given time, even steel failed.
“May I join you?”
His voice was a balm to her fears. Liandra turned to give him a welcoming smile. “So you found us.”
“My shadowmen are never far from the queen.” Dashing in emerald and armor despite the weariness etched in his face, Robert took his place by her side, staring down at the beleaguered city. They stood in silence, a bitter wind snatching at their cloaks, the grim truth blatant in the cold morning light.
She dared the question that hung between them. “How much time do you think we have?”
“Perhaps a day. Two at the most. Less if they dare use fire.”
“They won’t.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“They want the prize intact, the castle and the queen.”
He stiffened beside her. “They can have the one, but never the other.”
She laid a gauntleted hand upon his, but armor was not meant for tenderness. Liandra was so weary of wearing steel. “And so it comes to this.”
“There’s always Tandroth’s Gate.”
So he remembered the secret of the passageways. She gave him a sharp look, the weight of the monarchy heavy upon her shoulders. “We will not abandon our people.”
“No, I did not think you would.” His voice held a tinge of sadness. “But I might.”
“What?” She stared in shock.
He turned to face her, his gaze as keen as a blade. “I can serve you better from the shadows than the castle ramparts. Send me into the city and I will slay the one who wears the raven helm. Cut the head from the snake and the snake will surely die.”
Her breath caught yet she listened. “One man?”
“In Lingard they spoke of a Lord Raven, although the bishop seemed the true monster in Rognald’s city. Yet from Pellanor’s outer walls, I spied a raven banner. He stood apart, surrounded by a troop of Black Flames, a raven helm upon his head. I believe the raven is the will behind the enemy. Send me to slay him. If we strike from the shadows, we may yet gain a victory.”
It was something to consider, yet the thought of sending him once more into harm’s way squeezed her heart. Twice she’d watched him escape death. A third time would be too much. “I don’t think I could bear it.”
“What, to send an assassin against the enemy?”
“No, to risk losing you.”
His breath caught, understanding softening his face. “You will not lose me, my queen.” He gestured to the city spread below. “This is our city. Shadows and secrets serve us, not them.” His voice deepened. “Loose your shadowmen. Let us serve you.”
“Send another.”
“Yet I am your master of shadows.”
Still she hesitated.
“Surprise will be our best weapon. One mistake and he will be surrounded by guards. You dare not let this chance pass by.”
The woman in her wanted to refuse, but the queen could not. “For the sake of our people, we will send you. But you must not go alone. Take the best of our shadowmen. Slay the beast and return to us.”
He knelt, kissing her gauntleted hand. “As you command.”
A deep hunger surged through her. When he stood, she stepped close, wanting the strength of his arms around her. His chainmail clanked against her breastplate. A desperate laugh bubbled out of her. “There is always something between us.”
He shared her mirth. “Armor has its drawbacks.” His gaze sobered. “Yet you are a vision.”
“Majesty!” A messenger burst upon the parapet.
Liandra stepped away from her shadowmaster. “What news?”
The lad sketched a hasty bow. “Major Ranoth sent me to find you. The mercenaries are leaving by the city’s western gate!”
Hope sparked within her. Liandra rushed around the tower till she gained a view of the west. “It’s true!” A long snake of pea-green marched from the city, battle banners streaming in the winter wind. “So the Cobra parts from the Flame, mercenaries deserting the fight.” Hope beat wild within her heart. “That should even the odds.”
Beside her, the Master Archivist said, “Now it’s only five to one.”
She gave him a silencing glare and then dismissed the messenger. “Tell the major, we will join him shortly.”
The lad bowed and disappeared through the tower door.
Liandra turned back to the parapet, staring down at the enemy. “Finally the gods show us their favor.”
“Yet a dagger in the back is still your best gambit.”
“Perhaps.”
His voice held an edge. “You must let me try.”
She stood beside him, feeling duty come between them. “When will you leave?”
“In the dead of night, when shadows hold sway.”
She nodded, knowing she would not sleep this night. “Who will you take?”
He did not hesitate. “Dartmore, Harrow, and Marstan.”
“Send them to us before you go. We will speak to each of them.”
“As you wish.” His hand covered hers, gauntlet to gauntlet.
Below, the ram pounded the gate, an incessant threat of doom. Threats and risk tumbled through her mind. Liandra did not want to send him, yet his plan had merit. The queen stared toward the horizon, hoping for a better solution. She’d sent messengers in every direction, begging for aid. Time was running out, like sand slipping through an hourglass. If the gods owed her any favors, she needed them now.
89
The Master Archivist
The Master Archivist crouched in the doorway, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dark. A crescent moon hung low on the night sky, winking in and out of a cloudbank. The heavens shifted and the clouds claimed the crescent. A rich velvety darkness settled across the queen’s city, a perfect night for assassination.
Keen for the hunt, a feeling of exhilaration flowed through him, his senses stretched to a razor’s edge. A feral smile filled his face, knowing his shadowmen owned the night. Clad in dark leathers and a cloak of deepest black, his face and hands were blackened with charcoal. He carried seven throwing knives and a garrote on his belt. A small crossbow hung across his back, but he carried no sword since he intended no fair fights. Stealth and secrecy were his best weapons, a queen’s assassin sent to kill a single enemy.
A deep booming sound filled the city. Even in the dead of night, the battering ram kept up its infernal pounding. Like a malevolent heartbeat, the sound gave warning that he dared not fail. Time was running out.
He’d brought three of his best with him, Marstan, Harrow and Dartmore, a promise to the queen and a certainty to see the task done. Checking the alley one last time, he signaled the others to follo
w. Silent as death, four shadowmen crept through a city infested with red.
The master led them away from the castle, skirting the soldiers and the infernal battering ram. Despite the darkness, he knew every street and alleyway near the castle. Some he recognized by scent, the smell of fresh baked bread always lingering by the bakery regardless of the hour, the scent of heated charcoal by the blacksmith shop, but all too often the streets reeked of death. Entire families lay butchered in the streets, sprawled across the cobbles, left to rot. Anger burned within him, he would not let Pellanor become a second Lingard. The evil of Flame must be snuffed out, starting with the Lord Raven.
The crescent moon crept from behind the clouds, silvering the streets. Shunning the light, the master hugged the shadows. Crouched in an alleyway, he waited for darkness to return.
A patrol marched passed, halberds perched on their shoulders, enough moonlight to see the red of their tabards. They turned down a side street, but he waited till the tramp of boots fell silent. Clouds swallowed the sickle moon and the silky darkness returned.
Keeping to a crouch, he led his shadowmen through the craft district, heading for a single mansion in the city’s affluent section. From the castle ramparts he’d kept watch on the Lord Raven till he found his lair. It seemed the raven had a penchant for luxury. Instead of barracking with his soldiers, he chose the opulence of a lord’s mansion. The master smiled, hoping greed would be the raven’s undoing, a trap of gilded luxury to catch a dark-turned bird.
Patrols appeared with greater frequency, more proof they neared the raven’s lair. Twice they ducked into side alleyways, waiting for soldiers to pass, but they reached mansion undetected. Candlelight glowed from behind glass-paned windows, a half dozen guards picketed at the front door. The master led his men to the rear, seeking the servant’s entrance. A single guard kept watch, a big man leaning against the side wall, his hands gripping a halberd. The master smiled. Just as he expected, the servant’s entrance was neglected, proof the arrogant raven did not expect the conquered city to mount a threat. His confidence would be his undoing.
S&SS [04] The Poison Priestess Page 52