S&SS [04] The Poison Priestess

by Karen Azinger

  93

  Liandra

  Liandra paced her castle ramparts, keeping watch through the long night. A crescent moon slipped from behind the clouds, illuminating her city. Such a jovial moon for such a dire night. The smiling crescent seemed to mock her, a sickle moon, a reaper’s moon, an ill omen for a god-cursed night. She’d sent Robert into danger before, but this time seemed different. It seemed worse. An assassin sent to kill a raven, a desperate gambit for a cornered queen, yet she could not bear to lose him. Liandra wondered if desperation had made her foolhardy, leaving Robert to take the risk. For the thousandth time she considered the chessboard in her mind, wondering if she’d missed something. Pacing the ramparts, she cursed the necessities of war, so weary of waiting, so desperate to hold the enemy’s checkmate at bay. “Stewart, where are you?” The question whispered out of her, as much a prayer as a plea.

  An incessant pounding was the only answer. The battering ram boomed through the night, beating at the castle’s northern gate, a relentless threat. Liandra massaged her temples, plagued by a throbbing headache. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept.

  “May I join you?”

  A feminine voice, the petite princess hovered at the rampart’s doorway. Still dressed in archer’s leathers, Princess Jemma clutched her shortbow yet her quiver was empty.

  Liandra offered her a smile. “Your company is always welcome.”

  The two women stood at the battlement, staring down at the incessant ram.

  “Are you sorry you did not leave?”

  The princess arched an eyebrow. “There’s still hope.”

  Youth was ever optimistic. “Yet your quiver is empty.”

  She glanced down. “Yes, it seems we’ve run out of arrows.”

  More good news. “And the enemy?”

  “Their archers have stopped as well. Perhaps they realize we only send their arrows back.”

  “Yet the ram never stops, never sleeps. How many soldiers will they spend to take one gate? How relentless is their evil?”

  “Surely you have a plan?”

  Liandra answered with a bitter laugh. “We have many plans. The question is, will any bear fruit, and do we have time to reap the harvest?”

  “Help will come.”

  “We like your confidence.”

  Liandra continued to pace, roving the ramparts like a silvery ghost. The princess kept pace beside her, a reassuring shadow. The night seemed to last for an eternity, the ram pounding the gate, the sickle moon slipping in and out of the clouds. And then the ram stopped. It stopped! Liandra clutched the rampart, listening. Silence seemed to pound against her, and then she heard shouting. Fear shivered through her, has the gate fallen? Yet she’d heard no trumpet blaring a warning. Horns pierced the night, shrieking an alarm. The horns of the enemy! Hope burst through her. “Come, something stirs in the night!”

  The queen led the way to the nearest door. They hurried down an endless spiral of steps, finally reaching the barbican above the northern gate. The queen stepped out onto the rampart, only to find the battlement clogged with soldiers, a crush of emerald staring down into cobbled street. One soldier saw her and snapped a salute. “The queen!” More soldiers turned, opening a path across the barbican.

  Major Ranoth strode toward her. “My queen, the ram is down!”

  “But who has come to our aid? Is it Prince Stewart and the army from the north?”

  “I’ve seen no battle banners, only archers in huntsman’s leathers.”

  Archers in leathers? A riddle in the night, yet any aid was welcome. She stared down into the street. A slaughter of red soldiers surrounded the ram. Skewered with arrows, they sprawled before the gate, the ram abandoned on the cobbles. If this was a ruse, it was a strange one, yet the queen refused to miss an opportunity. “Open the gate and lead the men out. This is our chance to defeat the Flame. Join the archers and take back our city!”

  The major saluted, a wolf’s grin on his face. “As you command.”

  Trumpets blared, calling the men to arms. Expecting a bitter defense, they assembled in the courtyard. When they learned the news, their cheers shook the castle. The gates opened and her soldiers rushed out, their swords flashing in the moonlight.

  The queen stood upon the barbican, encased in steel, watching the battle for her city. She breathed deep the night scents, knowing dawn held all the answer. The last gambit was played, one night to wait, one night to win. The queen prayed for victory…while the woman in her prayed for Robert.

  94

  Steffan

  Chaos ruled the night, horns blaring from every direction. Steffan kept to the back alleyways, but he did not know the city. Like a blind man, he groped his way through the streets, desperately seeking a safe haven. Twice he came across battles and had to double back. All too often emerald soldiers and leather-clad archers clogged the streets, but never just soldiers in red, as if all the red had bled from the city. Steffan cursed his ill luck, and then he realized the ram had fallen silent. Too soon for the gates to fall, his plans were crumbling into chaos, like some misbegotten nightmare. Anger and rage warred with disbelief, this couldn’t be happening.

  Steffan stumbled and tripped, landing on something soft and putrid. Old corpses, the sickening stench assaulted his senses, so revolting, but then he froze.

  Something prowled the street, a shadow against shadows.

  Steffan hugged the ground, playing dead, a possum hiding amongst the slain. He held his breath, a trickle of sweat beading his neck. Born and raised in Wyeth, he’d heard tales of the cursed cat-eyed people, a foul crossbreed of man and animal, an abomination against the gods, yet rumors said they were uncanny hunters, especially in the dark. Taking shallow breathes, Steffan kept his head pressed to the corpse, resisting the urge to look.

  The shadows passed him by.

  He waited, counting to a hundred, and then he ran, the stink of the dead clinging to his clothes. Three streets later his luck changed and he found a cluster of red-clad soldiers. Steffan slowed to a walk, trying to keep the relief from his voice. “Who’s in command?”

  The soldiers bristled, swords raised until they saw his raven cloak. “Lord Raven,” a young captain stepped forward, “Captain Bremmer at your service.”

  “Report, captain.”

  “We were billeted in a tavern when we heard the alarms.” A bewildered look filled his face, his eyes shifting to scan the dark. “We reported to our post, but everyone was dead.” His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “There’s demons stalking the streets, cat-eyed archers, and the hell spawn don’t miss.” The soldiers stood in a huddle, facing outward, as if they expected an attack from any direction.

  “And the general?”

  “He was at the ram.” The captain shook his head, his face grim. “We heard they’re all dead, slaughtered by archers.”

  Fear gripped Steffan; it was worse than he thought, but at least he’d found protection. “We need to get to the stables. Do you know where they are?”

  The captain nodded. “This way.”

  They set off at a run, Steffan keeping to the center of a dozen soldiers. Swords poised to strike, they raced through the back ways, every shadow laden with threat. It seemed to take forever, but in truth the stables were only a few streets away. The big doors gaped open, the guards gone, the stables deserted, but the horses remained. A horse whinnied in fright while others kicked at their stalls, as if sensing danger. “Saddle the horses and take spares.” Steffan worked with the others, throwing a saddle on a piebald mare. Shouldering the horse, he cinched the girth, a flood of questions racing through his mind. Fight or flee? Should he rally his forces and try to retake the city, or should he flee and wait for dawn to learn the truth? Rumors said the cat-eyed people were most dangerous at night, attacking like demons in the dark. Adjusting the stirrups, Steffan vaulted into the saddle. Turning the horse, he faced the gaping doors, darkness brooding in the streets like a trap. His shoulder’s twitched as if expecti
ng an arrow. Fear forced his decision. “To me!” He drew his sword. “We ride for the north gates and the woods beyond! Stop for nothing! The enemy be damned!”

  Steffan slapped the mare with the flat of his sword. Startled, the small horse burst from the stables. Running at a full gallop, they raced through the streets at a breakneck speed, hoof beats drumming on cobblestones. Arrows thrummed in the darkness. A soldier riding beside him fell screaming. Steffan bent low, urging his horse to a lathered sprint. The night was awash in confusion. Horns blared, soldiers shouted, and corpses sprawled the streets like barriers. Twice they rode through battles. Steffan hacked left and right with his sword, refusing to be slowed. Desperation lent him strength. They broke through and raced for the gates. Beyond the gaping gates, moonlight silvered the snowy countryside with the illusion of safety.

  Steffan urged his mare to a desperate gallop. They burst through the gates, riding across the winter-white farmland. A cold wind flared his cloak, clearing the stink of the dead from his nostrils. Steffan reveled in the wind, urging his horse for more speed. Exhilaration rushed through him; he’d escaped the city and survived. But his elation was short-lived. Reality hit like a hammer stroke. Just yesterday, he’d entered the city as a conqueror, an army at his back. Now he fled the city with nothing but a handful of guards. Steffan slowed the mare to a trot. The small horse was lathered with sweat and breathing like a bellows.

  He turned the spent mare toward the hillside, letting the winded horse pick its own path to the crest. Dismounting, Steffan tossed the reins to the captain. No one spoke. No one met his stare. He stood on the hilltop overlooking the city. Some of the soldiers slept curled in their cloaks, but Steffan stood vigil, waiting for the dawn.

  Horns blared and the sound of clashing steel rose from the city, proof the fighting persisted. The sun rose in a bloody dawn and still he waited. He half expected to see battle banners raised above the gate, red or green proclaiming the victor, but the city walls remained barren. The waiting grew hard, doubt gnawing on his mind. Steffan was tempted to send a soldier to investigate, but he decided to be cautious, keeping his guard close.

  “My lord, look!” The captain pointed toward the north.

  Armor gleamed in the dim morning light, the tramp of thousands marching south.

  The bishop, it had to be the Bloody Bishop! Elation thrummed through Steffan, expecting the army from Lingard…but then the colors became clear. Emerald green, the color choked his hope. Emerald battle banners fluttered above an emerald host, damning his fate. No matter the outcome of the fight in the city, he’d lost Lanverness. He’d lost.

  His guards began to slip away, disappearing into the woods. Steffan did not try to stop them. Standing atop the hill, he watched the emerald host march south, the taste of ashes in his mouth. He’d failed!

  He felt the Dark Lord draw near.

  Retribution came swift and sure. A mighty fist of molten metal gripped Steffan’s heart, the hand of the Dark Lord. “No!” Steffan clutched his chest, falling to his knees. Waves of agony poured through him. Steffan groveled on the ground, convulsing in pain. “No!”

  You failed me. Defeated by a mere woman, now you pay with your soul.

  Pain claimed him, assaulted by all the agonies of hell. His skin burned as if being torn in strips from his body. His back bent as if being racked. Every breath hurt as if his lungs were filled with fire. Writhing in agony, he begged for his life, for his very soul. “No! Spare me, Lord, give me another chance!” Steffan screamed as if his very blood boiled. The immortal fist closed tight, searing his heart…and then it released him.

  One last chance. Do not disappoint.

  Steffan lay sprawled in the snow, shivering from the nearness of hell. His mouth tasted like ashes, his muscles quivering in remembered agony, yet he was unharmed. Shuddering, he ate snow, desperate for moisture, desperate to cleanse the taste of hell. When he finally recovered, the sun was halfway across the sky. The others had deserted him; only the piebald mare remained. Wiping his face with snow, he struggled to his feet and then climbed to the saddle. At least he lived to fight another day. Darkness would never forgive, nor forget, but Steffan swore he’d find a way to reclaim his lost glory. Cursing the queen, he turned his horse toward the west and nudged the mare to a trot.

  95

  Jordan

  The baldheaded giant blocked the stairwell, a mountainous man welding a sword in both hands. He straddled the stairs, a snarl of hatred in his voice. “For the mistress!”

  Wary of the giant’s strength, Jordan ducked the first strike. The second sword whistled towards her head. She parried the blow, hammered to her knees by the stroke’s massive power. The second sword snaked towards her stomach. Jordan lurched sideways, the sword screeching a scar across her armor. Sweat bled down her back. Fearing his unnatural strength, she disengaged. Feinting left, she made a desperate lunge for his heart. Steel rang against steel. He parried her blow, forcing her sword to the stairs. Sneering, the giant trod on her blade, a snarl twisting his face. “Now you die!”

  A crossbow thrummed from behind.

  A feathered bolt sank into the giant’s neck. Dropping his swords, he crumpled to his knees, his eyes wide in surprise.

  Jordan yanked her sword free and struck the killing blow. “For Isador!”

  Blood fountained across the stairs. The giant toppled sideways. Behind him, the enemy soldiers broke and ran.

  Jordan withdrew her sword from the giant’s chest. Sparing a glance behind, she was relieved to find Thaddeus and the Zward at her back. “Come on!” She raced up the stairs, needing to find her aunt, confused by the woman’s choices. Retreating to the castle heights made little sense. Osprey Tower left her aunt no way to escape. Jordan climbed the stairs two at a time. A breeze laden with the sea’s salty tang blew in from an open door. The doorway led to a battlement overlooking the sea, a trap of another sort. Jordan raced through the door and slid to a halt.

  Iris stood balanced upon the castle ramparts. Her arms spread wide, her long hair billowing in the wind; she stood poised above the storm-clashed sea like a dark goddess. Her liegeman crouched beside her, divested of armor, a sword clutched in his hand.

  Jordan took two steps toward her aunt. “Don’t!”

  Iris turned, her voice full of silken cruelty. “Why not?”

  “I need more antidote.”

  “Your loss, my victory.” Her eyes gleamed with dark malice. “Despite your swords, my poison works my will.”

  Jordan struggled for another argument. “It doesn’t have to end like this.”

  “Who said it would end?” Her aunt gave a throaty laugh, but her eyes glittered cold as the sea. “Tempting death is all you’ve left me. I trust in the Dark Lord.” She leaped from the rampart, like a cormorant diving for the sea. Her liegeman hurled his sword towards Jordan and then jumped.

  Jordan ducked the sword and then raced for the ramparts. Clutching the cold stone, she stared below. Waves battered the tower’s base, an impossible drop. Two bodies struck the frothing sea, one as clean as a knife, the other like a stone.

  “Do they live?” Thaddeus crowded the rampart beside her. “Look there.” Three small ships plowed the night-dark waters, rowers maneuvering towards the swimmers.

  Jordan swore, a mixture of admiration and bitter regret. She’d hoped to capture her aunt, but Darkness proved slippery as an eel. She watched as the boats snatched the swimmers from the sea. Evil lived to hunt another day.

  Struck by weariness, Jordan slumped against the battlement. She’d chased her aunt from the castle but the victory felt hollow. Dread claimed her, cinching her stomach, knowing the antidote was lost. Poison was such an insidious way to die. Turning from the battlement, she returned to the great hall, praying to Valin to spare her family.

  96

  Liandra

  The night seemed to last forever, one long vigil plagued with a thousand worries. The queen paced the barbican, listening to the tides of battle, desperate to lear
n the outcome. Her imagination ran rampant, fraught with worry. She feared for Robert, she feared for her city, yet all she could do was wait. Waiting was a woman’s lot, but as a monarch, Liandra found it nearly intolerable. She paced the castle ramparts, replaying the chessboard in her mind. All the pieces were in play, the endgame in motion, a desperate gambit to save her kingdom.

  Dawn came in a rush of reds and golds bursting across the eastern sky and still the fighting continued. She’d ordered the castle gates closed, a precaution against the enemy, but that left her soldiers vulnerable, another worry to add to her burden. Clad in mirror-bright armor, she kept her face a confident mask, standing vigil upon the barbican, a symbol to her people.

  At midday, the tenor of the fighting changed. Trumpets blared, a cavalcade of riders forging a path through the streets. Liandra strained to see their colors. Emerald! Elation thrummed through her. Emerald cloaks and emerald battle banners, Liandra clutched the ramparts, certain it was Stewart, but the battle remained a stalemate. Red-cloaked soldiers rushed to clog the streets, waging a fearsome fight. They pushed the emerald back, a broil of red surrounding the castle. Swords clashed and men screamed, the dead and the dying trampled beneath the fighting, a bitter struggle before the gates. The queen stood upon the ramparts, watching the battle tides ebb and flow, a desperate hope warring against a terrible fear. Twice the emerald guard surged for the castle, and twice they were thrown back, but on the third charge, the red broke and ran.

  “Open the gates!” The queen issued orders from the battlement. And then she saw him, her royal son leading the final cavalry charge. Bloody and battered, yet he rode like a hero sprung from a bard’s tale. Liandra closed her eyes and whispered a hundred prayers of thanks. Her city was saved; her son was safe.