The Flame Priest (The Silk & Steel Saga)

by Karen Azinger

  He reached the top and found Kath and the two knights waiting, their swords drawn.

  Pulling even with Sir Tyrone’s charger, Duncan yelled, “I’ll hold them from the ridge. You keep the rest going. Ride for the Mother Forest, the sellswords won’t dare follow you there.” Seeing puzzlement on the black knight’s face, Duncan yelled, “Cross over the ridge and ride to the east. You’ll know the forest when you see it. Don’t stop for anything.”

  The black knight nodded.

  Duncan dismounted and pulling two quivers of arrows from his saddle.

  Danya and the monk rode passed, but Kath wheeled her horse around, riding back to Duncan’s side.

  The archer set an arrow to the string.

  The sellswords galloped hard across the field.

  Kath yelled, “What are you doing? There’s too many of them!”

  “The mountain horses can’t outrun the sellswords. A single archer can hold them from here. Follow the others.”

  He took aim at the lead sellsword and let the arrow fly.

  Kath dismounted. “I’ll not leave you!”

  The arrow found its mark and the lead horse crumpled.

  Duncan reached for a second arrow.

  Kath grabbed his arm. “I won’t let you fight alone!”

  Angry, he turned on her, but he bit back his words, shocked to find a woman instead of a girl, a woman with fire in her stare, one who cared enough to fight beside him. His breath caught in his throat. Perhaps he’d found the one thing he’d never had…but it came too late. He banished the thought. “No, you don’t know me!”

  Her green-eyed gaze consumed him. “I know enough!”

  He heard the sellswords galloping up the ridge. “No time for this, you have to ride!” He wanted to pull her close, to wrap her in his arms and kiss her lips, but instead he pushed her away. “You have to live! Now ride!”

  Emotions raced across her face. Hurt settled in her green eyes and stubborn anger on her mouth. He had a wild impulse to kiss the anger away, but instead he turned his gaze to the enemy and made his voice as hard as stone. “You’re the one from the prophecy. It’s your duty to slay the Mordant. Now ride!” He drew the bowstring to his lips and picked another target.

  She leaped to the saddle, but he heard the tears in her voice. “Promise you’ll follow!”

  The sellswords brandished their swords, braying for the kill.

  Duncan loosed at the new leader. Horse and rider tumbled, making an obstacle for the others. He reached for another arrow. Without taking his eyes from the approaching sellswords, he growled, “I’ll do my best.”

  “I’ll hold you to it!” Frustration and anger laced her words, but she thrummed her mount to a gallop.

  He relaxed as she rode away.

  Peace settled over him and he fell into the rhythm of the bow. The ridge forced the sellswords to bunch in the narrow road, making easy targets, but there were too many of them. His only hope was to wilt their courage with a hail of arrows. Needing every advantage, he flipped the leather eye-patch up. He took his time and made every arrow count. Accuracy could be a terrible weapon. One arrow struck an eye; another impaled an open mouth, sowing death as well as terror. Screams echoed across the ridge. The road clogged with carnage, slowing the advance…but they kept coming. The bounty must be high for the sellswords to risk so much. It was only a matter of time till they gained the summit.

  The howl of a lone wolf broke from the forest below. A black streak raced across the field to harry the sellswords from behind. The horses reared, screaming in terror. Hooves slashed the air and riders tumbled. Panic shuddered through the sellswords.

  Duncan flashed a hunter’s smile. Perhaps a mountain wolf and a lone archer would be enough. He nocked another arrow and let it fly. All they could do was try.

  23

  Steffan

  Priests and acolytes fled like cockroaches escaping a booted foot. The temple roiled with fear and confusion. Steffan strode through the marble corridors, cutting a dark swath through the sea of panicked red. He watched the priests’ faces as they scurried past, fear and doubt reflected in their eyes. Fear was acceptable, even encouraged, but never doubt…doubt was the bane of religions…the Lord Raven had work to do.

  He reached the Vestiary and paused in the doorway, studying the two high priests.

  Anger thundered through the gilded chamber. The Pontifax railed at the Keeper, his face a thunderstorm of wrath. “Whose idea was it to leave the heretics unguarded in the stocks?” The Pontifax wielded his finger like a dagger, jabbing each word into the chest of the burly Keeper. “You’re responsible for the sinners. You’re responsible for getting the heretics to the ceremony. It isn’t a true Test of Faith without a sacrifice!”

  The Keeper cringed under the tongue-lashing despite his muscle-bound frame.

  “The people expect death and you’re supposed to give it to them! I do the miracles, and you supply the death!” The Pontifax balled his hands into fists. “I want to know who did this! I want them rounded up and consigned to the Flames! I want to see them burn!”

  The Keeper showed a flash of backbone, his voice belligerent. “It was your idea to keep them in the stocks. You said it would cow the others into submission. Don’t blame me for your ideas.”

  Steffan shook his head; the big man never knew when to keep his mouth shut.

  The Pontifax’s face flamed red, rage on the verge of eruption.

  The argument needed to be stopped before more damage was done. Steffan glided into the room, radiating calm. He kept his voice soothing, like cool water poured on a fresh burn. “Gentlemen, there is no need to argue.” He punctuated his interruption by closing the double doors with more force than was necessary. Gaining their attention, as well as a prudent privacy, he said, “When the religious leaders argue in public it causes doubt to ripple through the faithful. Doubt is the one thing a religion cannot afford.” He lowered his voice a notch, “Never argue in front of the hired help, it puts us all in jeopardy.”

  The Pontifax rounded on his counselor. “Did you see the crowd? Did you see their faces when they realized there would be no sacrifice, no death?” A hint of desperation leached into the old man’s voice, “For a moment I thought they would turn on me! Me, their beloved Pontifax!”

  The old charlatan was rattled. The crowd had been disappointed and confused but never dangerous. Religion still held the people of Balor in thrall. “You handled it well.” He stroked the Pontifax with his voice, willing the man to calm. “You saved a bad situation and turned it to our advantage.” The Pontifax had preformed brilliantly in front of the crowd, but now that he was away from the stage, the cracks of fear were beginning to show. “Choosing a child from the crowd and carrying her through the Flames was brilliant. You defused the tension, giving the people two miracles instead of one death.” He flooded his voice with admiration. “You did well. You turned the tide. Never underestimate the value of a good miracle. You are the Pontifax, beloved of the Flame God and his people.” His stare moved between the two men, his voice dropping to a hush. “But we cannot afford to argue among ourselves…not in front of the people, not in front of the priesthood.”

  The Pontifax took a steadying breath, calm returning to his face. “You’re right. The act never ends, we are always on stage.” His hands clutched at the ruby amulet, a mask of calm benevolence settling over his face. “But these rebels, whoever they are, need to be stopped.”

  The Keeper nodded. “We’ll change the procedure and imprison the heretics in the dungeons instead of the stocks. They can wait under lock and key until the start of the ceremony.” His voice was gruff. “After today, they’ll be no shortage of sinners for the Flames. You’ll have your sacrifices.”

  Steffan moved to the sideboard and poured three glasses of brandy. “The Keeper is right. There must always be sinners available for sacrifice.” He served each man a glass of dark amber liquor. “But we cannot deviate from the routine. The heretics must spend their t
ime in the stocks, contemplating their sins before the Test of Faith.”

  “Are you mad!” The Keeper’s face blustered red. “The stocks were a stupid idea, like dangling fresh meat in front of a starving dog.” He shook his head. “The stocks make it easy for the rebels to free the sinner.”

  “Then we’ll make it harder.” Steffan sipped the brandy. “We’ll follow the Keeper’s plan and hold spare sinners in the dungeons but we’ll also continue to use the stocks.”

  The Pontifax reclined in a chair and studied his counselor with a narrowed gaze. “Why?”

  Steffan raised his glass in salute. “The Pontifax is always god-inspired and therefore never wrong. We will not admit a mistake by changing our tactics.” He re-filled each of the men’s glasses. “The sinners will spend their time in the stocks, sending a warning to the populace…while serving as bait for the rebels.”

  The Keeper flashed a predator’s smile. “Bait, I like that.”

  Steffan nodded. “The rebels have tipped their hand, displayed their tactics. We’ll give them a chance to do it again…only this time, soldiers will be waiting.”

  The Pontifax said, “A worthy plan, but who are these rebels? And why now?”

  Steffan leaned against the wall, his arms crossed. “You’ve seduced a kingdom with a divine miracle and shackled the people with religion, achieving the most subtle form of conquest. But in every religion, there will always be disbelievers who become rebels.” He infused his voice with confidence. “We’ll tease the rebels out in the open and give them a taste of divine justice.”

  The Pontifax’s eyes glowed with interest. “But how?”

  “The confessors are the key, thousands of eyes and ears searching for sins against the Flame God.” He made his voice thoughtful, “Next time you preach from the temple pulpit, you must make confessing a virtue. All sins great and small must be confessed to the priests of the Flame…for only the virtuous will avoid the Test of Faith.”

  The Pontifax fondled his amulet, a pleased smile on his face. “I can do that.”

  Steffan turned to the Keeper. “How many confessors have you recruited?”

  “Almost two dozen.”

  “A good start but we’ll need more.” Steffan made his voice warm and inclusive, a brotherhood of conspirators hatching a grand plot. “A holy acolyte should be assigned to each confessor. The acolyte will serve as a scribe, documenting the details of each confession. We’ll tell the people that the scrolls will be burnt in a holy bonfire, a symbolic cleansing of sins, an offering to the Flame God, but in reality, we’ll keep the scrolls and sift through the details to find sinners worthy of the Flames. The people themselves will hand over the rebels, serving them up as an offering to the god.”

  The Keeper grinned. “I like it.”

  The Pontifax studied Steffan with a shrewd look on his face. “But won’t the people be afraid to confess?”

  “We’ll make it clear from the temple pulpit that they’re not confessing their own sins…they’re confessing sins they see around them.”

  “But shouldn’t the confessions be anonymous?”

  Steffan shook his head and smiled. “That’s the beauty of it. Those who confess are proving their devotion to the Flame God by purging Coronth of sin. As their reward, the devout will avoid the Test of Faith. So those who confess will want the priests to know their names. They’ll clamor to be counted among the faithful, the chosen of the Flame God.”

  The Pontifax fondled his ruby amulet, a satisfied smile on his face. “Very clever, Lord Raven. We let the people hunt for the rebels, securing our grip on Coronth.”

  Steffan bowed. “Just so, Enlightened One.”

  “Tell us, Lord Raven, is there anything else we should do to create this new sect of the priesthood?”

  Steffan made his voice thoughtful. “They’ll need distinctive vestments to mark them as confessors, the acolyte-scribes as well. And we should have a ceremony in the temple to consecrate the priests in their new roles.” He gestured toward the Keeper. “And the Keeper of the Flame should be installed as the leader of the confessors. We’ll devise a grand ceremony to mark the importance of his new office.”

  The Keeper’s voice rumbled with pleasure. “A grand ceremony, I like that.”

  Steffan acted the servant, filling each man’s glass. “The confessors will change the very nature of Coronth, each citizen confessing the sins of his neighbors, ensuring that only the faithful survive.”

  The Pontifax smiled. “The rebels will have nowhere to hide.”

  “Just so, Enlightened One.”

  The Pontifax raised his glass. “To the confessors! To the defeat of the rebels and the triumph of the faithful!”

  The men chinked their glasses.

  Steffan stifled a smile. The two men would play their role but he doubted either understood the impact of their decisions. The confessors would help catch the rebels, a thorn that needed to be eliminated, but more importantly, they would change Coronth forever, sowing mistrust and hatred among the people. The faithful would start by betraying their enemies and their rivals, then their neighbors…then members of their own family. The steep slope of betrayal would create a society of fear…and fear was fertile soil for the will of the Dark Lord. Create enough fear and people would commit any atrocity. Steffan raised his glass in silent salute, may the Dark Lords pleasure reign…over all the lands of Erdhe.

  24

  Liandra

  The queen prepared for battle, donning the trappings of war. Her armor and weapons were vastly different from other monarchs. Instead of chainmail, she chose a gown made of cloth of gold to bedazzle the eye. The bodice was close-fitting, the dagged sleeves nearly reaching the floor, every aspect designed to accentuate her hourglass figure. Glowing in the candlelight, the golden gown created a vision of royalty that exceeded most men’s imaginations. Her raven-black hair was teased to a lustrous shine, her face painted to remove the years and draw attention to her emerald-green eyes. And on her brow, the royal crown to impart authority, the shining symbol of her sovereign power. Beauty to beguile, it should have been the motto beneath her coat-of-arms. Liandra scrutinized the mirror, needing all of her weapons to win the fight for her throne. Victory or death, there was no other choice for a sovereign monarch, especially a queen.

  “Do we look dead to you?”

  Nervous laughter tittered from her women.

  The queen turned before the mirror. “We shall be a vengeful ghost.”

  An urgent knock sounded on the outer door, sending shockwaves through her women.

  Princess Jemma answered the door, taking a message from the soldier.

  The queen stood statue-still as her women made the final adjustments. “We need your best work. We must be our most regal, a vision of sovereign splendor, a monarch anointed by the Lords of Light…a queen worth fighting for.”

  Princess Jemma closed the door and approached. The petite young royal wore a close-fitting gown of deep blue, a quiver of arrows belted at her waist. Her face blanched pale but her voice held steady. “Your majesty, the fighting has reached the sixth floor.”

  A glass vial shattered against the stone floor, flooding the chamber with the scent of roses. Lady Martha gasped, “Only one floor below!”

  The queen kept her voice iron-calm. “Any word from our other forces?”

  The princess shook her head. “None, your majesty.”

  Lady Amy knelt to clean the broken glass but the rose scent prevailed, overbearing and sweet.

  Liandra glanced at the casement window. Dawn was still hours away. “Time for us to play our part. We dare not tarry any longer.” Liandra stood sword-straight, her face composed. Her women fluttered about, arranging the heavy folds of the golden gown, perfecting the royal image. Lady Sarah knelt and clutched the queen’s hand, kissing the emerald ring of office, tears on her face.

  The queen spared a moment for her ladies. “You have all served us well. Wait for us above, in the secret chamber. We would s
ee you kept safe.” She dismissed them with a small smile and then set her mind on the task ahead.

  The gown was stiff and heavy but the queen glided forward, maintaining a royal posture designed to bear the heavy crown. Princess Jemma opened the door and the queen stepped into the outer hallway.

  A gasp rose from the handful of soldiers guarding the door. The men dropped as one to their knees.

  The queen studied their upturned faces, satisfied that her beauty still held sway. “You may rise.”

  Captain Durnheart approached, his voice a low whisper. “Your majesty, we don’t have the numbers to hold the rebels. You must flee the tower while there is still time!”

  She kept her voice calm. “What news of our forces?” Against the better judgment of her senior military men, the queen had split her loyal soldiers, sending the greater number into the secret passageways to attack from the rear, counting on the element of surprise to make up for the disparity in numbers.

  The captain paled. “Still no word from the lower floors.”

  “Then we will continue to hope.” The captain looked to argue the point but the queen raised an eyebrow forestalling him. She turned to one of the soldiers. “There is a foot stool in our solar. We bid you to bring it.” The soldier looked confused but leaped to obey. The queen turned back to the captain. “You may escort us to the fighting.”

  “But majesty, you must flee!”

  She gave him a stern look. “If a monarch flees, why should soldiers stand and fight?” She softened her voice. “In order to rule, we must lead. We will do what we can to buy time.” The queen’s voice brooked no argument.