So close to the raven’s lair, their assault needed to be flawless. At such a late hour, the back alley offered no distractions, so the master decided to create one. He whispered instructions to Marstan. The shadowman nodded and then slipped into a side street.
The master peered around the corner, keeping his gaze in the vague direction of the lone guard. He watched but he did not stare. Most people could feel a hard stare, even if they could not see the one who stared. He’d sent Marstan to the far side of the alley with orders to fasten a hard stare on the guard.
At first nothing happened, but then the guard began to fidget. Pushing away from the wall, he fingered his halberd, his gaze drawn to the opposite side of the alley. The master slipped a knife from his belt. He could have used the small crossbow, but he preferred the knife’s silence.
The guard took the bait. Unnerved by the hidden shadowman’s hard stare, he stepped from his post, peering into the darkness. “Who’s there?”
The master flowed like liquid darkness. Harrow kept two steps behind. Silent as a wraith, he crept behind the guard. With one deft stroke he severed the guard’s windpipe, holding him upright till his dying spasms ceased. Harrow leaped forward to catch the guard’s halberd. Together they carried the corpse to the far side of the alley while Dartmore worked on the lock. Marstan joined them, keeping watch on the street.
Something moved in the darkness.
The master stilled, listening.
His senses warned him that someone else prowled the street, someone as sure and silent as a shadowman. He motioned his men back toward the alley, wondering if the Flame had assassins of their own. Crouched behind a barrel, he peered into the darkness, seeking the threat, but he saw nothing.
The creak of a bow sounded loud in the night.
The master froze.
Sliding a second dagger from his belt, he tensed, crouched to fight.
Moonlight chose that moment to brighten the alleyway and then he saw them, a dozen men in hunter’s leathers, short swords belted to their sides, longbows nocked with arrows. They stalked the night with the stealth of shadowmen, but it was their eyes that sent a shiver of shock through him. Demon-eyes glowed golden-yellow in the moonlight, like a nightmare sprung to life.
“Why did you kill that guard?” They stared at him, their bows held taut, a finger’s breath away from death.
Beside him, his shadowmen tensed to fight, but he made the hand signal for caution. “We’re enemies of the Flame.” Something made him add, “We’ve come from the castle. We serve the queen.”
“Queen Liandra?”
Her named sounded odd on their lips, yet hope burned within him. “Yes.”
“The Treespeaker sent us to aid the queen, but we do not know this city.”
Allies in the night, unlooked for, yet so very welcome. Perhaps the gods lent a hand after all. “We need to silence the battering ram.” He hesitated, torn between the ram and the raven. Clouds shrouded the moon and darkness returned to the streets, perfect for stealth and surprise. The raven or the ram, the master made his decision.
90
Steffan
Steffan startled awake. Something was wrong. His glance slid to the beveled windows, still dark outside. Beside him, the girl snored softly, exhausted by sex, a rumpled figure beneath the quilts. Steffan considered calling for Pip, but a sixth sense warned him to stay silent. Reaching beneath the pillow, he grasped the jewel-hilted dagger. Armed, he slipped from bed, padding barefoot across the bedroom.
He’d claimed a lord’s mansion, a passing luxury till the castle fell. A comfortable bed, a well-stocked larder, a comely lass, he’d enjoyed the evening but now his senses screamed in warning. Despite the late hour, the house seemed too quiet. Embers glowed in the immense fireplace, a dull red light casting shadows across the four-posted bed. Straining to listen, he crept towards the door.
The doorknob turned.
Steffan ducked behind the door, his back pressed to the wall, holding his breath.
The door eased open.
Steffan waited, his heart pounding, the dagger poised to strike.
A tall lithe man dressed in black glided into the bedchamber.
An assassin, fear shivered down Steffan’s back.
Moving like liquid darkness, the assassin slipped across the room, intent on the figure snoring beneath the quilts. Knowing surprise was his best weapon, Steffan did not hesitate. He leaped, attacking the intruder from behind. The angle was wrong. The blade skittered across leather armor, tearing a harmless slash in the dark cloak.
The assassin whirled, an angry snarl on his blackened face. A knife slashed towards Steffan’s stomach, but he twisted away. The assassin pulled a second blade from his belt, two knives against one, but Steffan was no stranger to knife fighting. He feinted left and slashed right. The assassin was good, evading Steffan’s attack. They circled the floor in a deadly dance, two scorpions poised to strike. Twice Steffan took cuts on his arms, but he always whirled away, staying a hair’s breath from death. “Who are you?”
“The queen’s assassin.”
For a fleeting moment, Steffan worried about poison.
The girl woke screaming.
Steffan lunged towards the hearth. Grabbing the poker, he hurled it at the assassin’s head. The assassin ducked, slinking left. Steffan charged, barreling into the man with his shoulder. They fell hard with Steffan on top. Grappling for control, Steffan pinned the man’s left hand with his knee, while thrusting his blade towards the assassin’s throat. The assassin parried the attack, blade against blade. The man was strong, keeping the jeweled dagger at bay, slowly forcing it away, but the dagger was a feint. Steffan pulled a second blade from the assassin’s own belt and drove it into the man’s groin. Close enough to kiss, he watched as the assassin’s eyes widened in surprise, a gurgle of pain on his lips. Steffan drove the dagger deeper, twisting the blade. The assassin fell limp, the spark of life extinguished.
Breathing hard, Steffan rolled onto the floor, a puddle of blood staining the carpet.
The girl screamed, clutching the quilt to hide her nakedness.
“Shut your mouth!”
But the bitch continued to wail. Steffan grabbed a dagger and leaped toward her. With one quick slice, he silenced her. “Stupid bitch,” his voice was a harsh whisper, “where there’s one assassin there’s likely another.”
Keeping watch on the open door, Steffan quickly dressed. His breathing sounded loud in his ears. Fear gripped his throat. Impossible to understand how the assassin had gotten past his guards…or out of the castle; perhaps Pellanor was far more dangerous than he’d thought. He grabbed the assassin’s belt, five knives and a garrote, and then reached for his own sword. Swirling his raven cloak around his shoulders, he crept from the chamber.
Death filled the hallway.
A guard lay slumped outside his door, his throat cut, a puddle of blood on the floor. He found Pip dead in the next room, strangled by a garrote. Further down the hallway, he found another dead guard, a dagger in his back. Frantic to find allies, he raced to the stairs. Three more guards lay dead on the staircase, but at least they’d taken an assassin with them. Steffan kicked the black-cloaked body, making sure it was dead. Crouched in the shadows, he strained to listen, fearing more assassins lurked in the hallways.
Torchlight flickered from outside, a brace of guards standing at the front door. But were they guards or assassins? Needing to be certain, he crept towards the window and peer out. Red tabards, the guards wore red. Relief washed through him. But even as he watched, arrows thrummed through the night. The guards fell screaming, clutching their throats.
Steffan staggered away from the door. The mansion was a deathtrap! Shock warred with fear, but survival triumphed. He raced through the mansion, seeking the back door. More dead soldiers clogged the hallway, but Steffan did not stop. Desperate to escape, he burst through the back door into the night.
Trumpets blared a warning. He heard shouts and screams a
nd a clash of steel. His city was under attack! Alone in the alleyway, he suddenly felt exposed, the darkness stalking him like a threat. Unease shivered down his back. He whirled, a sword in his hand, but no one was there. Needing to see the enemy, Steffan swallowed his fear and crept toward the front of the mansion. Hiding in the shadows, he peered into the street.
His guards were all dead, riddled with arrows, but he saw no sign of the enemy.
The crescent moon slipped from behind the clouds and then he saw them, archers slinking through the street, their golden-yellow eyes glowing in the moonlight.
Cat-eyed archers! Fear shivered down his back. Having grown up in Wyeth, he’d heard tales of the cat-eyed archers, the type of stories to seed nightmares in a young boy’s mind. But how could this happen? His heartbeat hammered, a sheen of sweat erupting on his skin. Instead of a conqueror, he suddenly felt hunted. Assassins and cat-eyed archers, he needed to find a safe haven. Gripping his sword, Steffan slipped into a side alleyway, seeking to save his own life.
91
Jordan
Yanking the carved doors open, Jordan stepped into nightmares. Bodies littered the entranceway. At first she thought they were dead, but then the truth became clear. Soldiers slept at their posts, pale as candle wax, their faces slack, their breathing imperceptible, their bodies slumped across the floor like spent wax. She tired to rouse them to no avail. Poison! Fearing she’d come too late, she threaded a path between the fallen, the Zward and the two monks close behind.
Deeper into the castle, she found servants, pages, cooks and retainers, all sprawled across the floor, as if struck down by a terrible curse, the Curse of the Vowels. Jordan shivered, feeling evil reach across the generations.
So eerie and silent, the castle was still as a sepulcher, yet it all made a strange kind of sense. It was only a week ago that Jordan finally understood her dreams, like pieces of a puzzle falling into place. She knew the attack would come on Founder’s Night, treachery used to disarm the castle. An insidious poison laced into the King’s Dram, a toast made by every soldier and servant on Royal Nachte, their loyalty rewarded with a sleeping death. Jordan shuddered at the malevolence, fearing she was too late.
Setting off at a run, she led the Zward and the monks through the twisting corridors, leaving the others to follow. Tantalizing smells drifted through the hallways, like the remnants of a ghostly feast, yet the castle was eerily silent. So strange to return home in such a fashion, like an invader in the night. Jordan slowed her steps to a hush, needing the element of surprise. Rounding a corner, she slid to a stop, a pair of dark-cloaked soldiers guarding the hallway.
Startled, the guards looked her way, reaching for their swords.
Thaddeus and Benjin stepped forward, hurling throwing knives.
One of the guards issued a strangled gasp. The other crumpled forward. The two Zward raced forward. Finishing the kill, they lowered the dead to the floor.
Jordan froze, crouched sword in hand, expecting an attack, but the hallways remained quiet. Relieved, she gave the two Zward a grateful look. “We’re nearly at the great hall. We have to take them by surprise.” She turned to Thaddeus. “Keep the others back till you hear my call.” Her gaze turned to the two monks. “Stay close. We need to take her alive and save the flask.”
They gave her a grim nod.
Saying a swift prayer to Valin, she crept towards the open doorway, spying from the shadows. Soldiers ringed the great hall, perhaps sixty or more surrounding the chamber. Sixty! Jordan knew she needed to wait for own men, but the empty serving platters proved she was already too late. Her family sat at the high table, looking pale and drawn, the remnants of a forgotten feast spread before them. Aunt Igraine was already down, sprawled across the floor, claimed by poison. A sob caught in Jordan’s throat. In her dreams, her scholarly aunt had still lived. Jordan’s heart thundered, fearing she’d already failed. Her gaze fixed on the woman in black leathers, sitting like a queen on the far side of the room. So this was Aunt Iris, the cursed one. The family resemblance was uncanny, like a twisted version of Jemma writ on a larger, more voluptuous scale. Beautiful and malevolent, she exuded a sinister sexuality. Jordan shivered, making the hand sign against evil, wondering how someone from her own family could fall so far into Darkness.
Even as she watched, her father the king rose from his chair, moving towards the seductress like a supplicant.
Jordan took a deep breath, knowing it was time to act, praying her gambit would work.
92
The Priestess
The Priestess fondled the flask, playing a waiting game with death. She watched her siblings fret at the table, wondering who would break next.
Ian began to tremble, a hint of panic in his voice. “I feel it! I feel the poison!” He bent double in his chair, groaning in pain.
The king took a step toward the Priestess, his voice as cold as a tomb. “If I swear, will you save the others?”
The Priestess swallowed a smile. Such a delicious moment, the culmination of so many dreams, so many plans, retribution finally at hand. “If you and Isador both swear, then all of you will live.”
The king nodded, his face solemn. “For the sake of my family, I will swear.”
The Priestess stood, feeling the pleasure of the Dark Lord surge through her like an elixir. “Then bend the knee and swear fealty to me.”
“Don’t father!”
A young woman dressed as a warrior strode into the great hall, a checkered cloak at her shoulders, a sword in her hand. Behind her stood two men, both cloaked in brown, one big and burly, gripping a quarterstaff, the other tall and thin and empty handed.
“Who dares to interrupt?”
“It’s over, Aunt. Give them the potion and your life will be spared.”
She studied the girl’s features, finding familiarity in her face. “One of the Royal Js. You must be Jordan, the swordish one.” The Priestess held the flask aloft, venom in her voice. “Don’t meddle, child. Deeper powers are at work here.” Her men stepped towards her niece, their swords raised, their crossbows cocked. “You’re surrounded, you’re outnumbered, and you’re too late. The poison already works my will upon your family. I need but drop this flask and they’ll all die. And then the crown will be mine, claimed by right of conquest. But you can save them. Bend the knee, and I will spare them.”
Jordan pressed further into the room, the two brown robed men shadowing her. “Navarre will never kneel to Darkness.”
The Priestess marveled at the girl’s artless audacity, as if three could defeat seventy. “How naïve.” She laughed, a chilling sound. “You think this is about swords, child? It’s about wits. It’s about power. I alone hold the power of life and death.” She shook the flask, swirling the amber fluid. “Threaten me, and they all die. Bend the knee and they live.”
Jordan shook her head, her face as pale as sea foam. “Navarre will never yield.”
The Priestess narrowed her gaze. “Navarre has always been mine. Bend the knee and live.”
“I did not come alone.” The girl gestured and armed men crowded the far door. “Surrender and live.”
“How dare you threaten me!” The Priestess raised the flask. “I hold the king’s life in my hand!”
The girl yelled, “Now!” and lunged forward, as if to grab the flask.
Otham stepped in front. Grabbing the girl by the throat, he tossed her halfway across the room.
The Priestess stared in shock, surprised by the girl’s recklessness attack, but then hatred claimed her. “You dare threaten me!” Screaming her vengeance, she hurled the flask to the stone floor. “Then die!”
A brown-robed man dove for the flask but he was too late. Glass shattered against stone.
Soldiers in motley armor burst through the far doorway.
A killing rage claimed the Priestess. “Kill them! Kill them all!”
Her men leaped to the attack, crossbow bolts thrumming the air.
More soldiers poured through
the doorway, outnumbering her own. Treachery, the realization twisted in her mind like a dagger. The great hall erupted in fighting. At least her loyal men remembered her orders, aiming for the royals. She saw Isador take a bolt in the throat. Her hated brother died screaming, a minor consolation, while the others were doomed to death by poison, a pity she could not stay and watch. Turning, the Priestess fled toward the far doorway, Otham and Hugo and a handful of guards protecting her back.
Swords were never her forte. The Priestess raced up the steps, climbing towards Osprey Tower, but then she paused on the landing, listening to the battle below. She’d only brought seventy men; the rest of her army camped south of the city’s hills, awaiting her signal. With the tides flooding the causeway, her army was beyond reach. She paced the landing, listening to the bloodbath below, wondering how her plans could have gone so awry.
Footsteps rang on the stairs. The Priestess whirled to face the victors. Bitterness gripped her throat.
Jordan paused on the stairwell, blood staining her sword. “Yield!”
For a moment, their stares locked, hard-won experience dueling with youth’s foolish idealism. The Priestess sneered. “How little you understand.”
Jordan hesitated, her face full of questions.
“As queen I could have protected Navarre.” Irony riddled her voice. “I would have saved you all from a greater Darkness. A Darkness that is still to come.” The Priestess saw doubt bloom in her niece’s face. “You know of what I speak. You’ve seen it in your dreams…in your nightmares.”
Jordan gasped, but then she shook her head, brimming with stubborn denial. “Surrender, Aunt.”
The Priestess laughed, a tinge of madness in her voice. “You don’t understand Darkness, child. There is never any surrender, only success or death.” The Priestess whirled, Hugo by her side. The others stayed behind, a thin ring of swords blocking the stairs, buying her time.
S&SS [04] The Poison Priestess Page 53