The Flame Priest (The Silk & Steel Saga)

by Karen Azinger

  “We’re out of time!” A shiver of fear raced down Kath’s spine. “Mount up and ride for the passage.” She swung into the saddle and unsheathed her sword. “Duncan, open the gates in the passageway and get the others through. Sir Tyrone, stay with me. We’ll hold them off till the others get free.” She settled her shield on her left arm and spurred the stallion toward the mouth of the stable.

  The stallion burst into the courtyard.

  Knights spilled out of the tower, a chaos of swords. Kath charged, a war cry on her lips. “Castlegard!” The battle-trained stallion bulled into the closest knight, knocking him to the ground. A muffled scream came from beneath ironshod hooves.

  The alarm bell rang, loud and urgent.

  Kath slashed with her sword, a spray of blood in the moonlight.

  The wolf snarled, an ambush of teeth.

  Sir Tyrone fought beside her, his great sword a swath of silver.

  Horses clattered through the courtyard.

  A man’s scream split the night.

  Kath parried a sword thrust close to her leg and took a blow on her shield. Pain thundered down her shield arm, but she fought through it. Parry and slash, she kept her horse moving, not letting the rogue knights surround her. The courtyard became a milling swirl of steel. Kath hacked at a mace, pulling the stallion into a tight turn to avoid a slashing sword. More knights spilled out of the tower…too many swords to fight. In danger of being surrounded, she slashed at a hand grabbing her leg and spurred the stallion away. “Retreat!” The stallion lashed out, hooves clearing a path. The wolf raced into the tunnel. She looked for her friends, but the others were gone. Kath galloped for the dark passageway, Sir Tyrone followed.

  She heard Trask bellow, “Stop her!

  A knight barred the tunnel.

  Kath whispered to the stallion. The war-trained horse did not flinch.

  The knight dodged away.

  The stallion clattered into the narrow tunnel, a mouth of darkness. Kath rode low, hugging the stallion’s neck, asking for speed. The passage was just wide enough for single horse, a tunnel designed to choke an army. She raced for the opening on the far end, a keyhole of moonlight, the north side of the Dragon Spines.

  Hoof beats from behind her came to a sudden stop.

  She turned in the saddle to see Sir Tyrone dismount. “What are you doing?” She pulled on the stallion’s reins, slowing the horse.

  The black knight grinned up at her. “A single knight can stop an army.” He saluted her with his great sword. “I’ll hold them here.”

  “No! We stay together!”

  “They’ll only follow. Better to fight them here.” He hit his horse with the flat of his blade. “Now ride! You’re not the only one to hear the voice of the gods.”

  The warhorse crowded behind.

  Sir Tyrone turned and settled into a fighting stance, guarding the tunneled passageway.

  Kath watched him through a blur of tears, a valiant swirl of maroon. She knew he was right, but it hurt. “Valin guard you!” She thrummed her heels against the stallion and rode through the moonlit keyhole…galloping into the north.

  63

  Tyrone

  Tyrone stood in the center of the long passageway, claiming the tower as his ally. Two hundred years of honor besmirched by traitors…but the legends of Cragnoth Keep said one knight could stand against an army. Long and narrow, the tunneled passageway was designed to choke an army, to stop the hordes of the Mordant. Relying on the strength of legends, he’d turn the keep’s defenses against the false knights, giving Kath and the others a chance to escape.

  Ever since the god’s voice on the Isle of Souls, he’d known this day would come, a last chance for glory. Raising his great sword in a final salute, he yelled, “For Valin and the Octagon.” His battle cry echoed down the passageway, as if legions of knights stood at his shoulder. Tyrone settled into a fighting stance, his great sword poised to strike.

  The enemy did not waste time. Hoofbeats echoed down the long narrow passage. The false knight urged his horse to a gallop, brandishing a sword but not a lance. Sir Tyrone smiled…and waited, studying the warhorse as it loomed large. Ironshod hoofbeats rang like rolling thunder. The horse listed to the right. Tyrone stepped to the left and knelt, his great sword slashing at the horse’s knees.

  The horse tumbled in a spray of blood, throwing the knight.

  A squeal of terror echoed down the passageway.

  Tyrone scrambled to his feet and stepped past the struggling horse, avoiding the slashing hooves. A quick sword thrust through the gorget finished the false knight. Wrenching his sword free, he waited, using the dying horse as a bulwark.

  The narrow passage stank of blood and death…a trap with teeth.

  Warhorses balked at the tunnel’s mouth. Rearing in fear, they refused to enter. The knights came at him on foot.

  He waited; forcing his enemies to step around the dying horse. His patience was rewarded. As they dodged flailing hooves, he caught them off balance, his great sword slipping through their guard, quick and keen. The traitors’ screams mingled with the horse’s dying squeals, but the enemy kept coming. The living tripped on the dead. Bodies of his enemies formed a barrier, choking the passage. The narrow tunnel became a nightmare clogged with death.

  The traitors proved relentless. They rushed him two at a time, forcing him back, gaining room to fight. Steel met steel with a ferocious clang. He parried their attacks and answered with his own. The fight became a blur. His sword grew heavy; his arms began to ache. Sweat stung his eyes. Tyrone staggered under a vicious blow but somehow found the strength to fight back. Every man he defeated was replaced with another, no rest for his sword. His strength waned; his breath grew ragged. Cuts slashed his arms and legs. Pain becoming part of the fight, but he refused to give up.

  Tyrone retreated backwards, trying to buy more time. Every stroke was an effort. He hoped Kath and the others were well away. He prayed to Valin for the strength to fight…he prayed to be equal to the legend.

  64

  Justin

  Time beat against Justin like hammer blows against an anvil. Three days to find a way to save Grandmother Magda, three days to do the impossible. Bribery had failed, and a forced rescue was impossible. He had to find another way. He needed a miracle…he needed an army…so he turned to his last hope, the people of Coronth.

  The Dark Harper slipped through the back alleys, making the rounds of the taverns, singing against the Flame God. Drawing on all his skills, he reached for the people’s fear and stoked their anger, trying to rouse the populous against the Pontifax. He sang of loved ones lost, his fingers rippling across the strings evoking emotions, evoking memories. He sang of wives, husbands, and children fair, all consumed by the Flame, kindling fed to a raging inferno of death. His lyrics exposed the lies of the priests and exhorted the people to rebellion. Soaring ballads magnified the deeds of the rebels. Softer melodies evoked the Dark Harper’s rise from death, a miracle to fight a miracle. From dusk till dawn, he risked his life, visiting the rich taverns as well as the poor. Playing till his fingers bled and his throat grew hoarse, he urged the people to rise. With harp and voice, he brought the city to a fever pitch, to a boil of rebellion…but in his heart he wondered if songs would be enough.

  On the morning of the third day, he rose early and went to the temple square. The Dark Harper’s cloak was too much of a risk, so he settled for the lesser danger, a bright blue cape and the gaudy finery of a minstrel. Minstrels were becoming scarce in Balor, too many fed to the Flames.

  Weaving his way through the faithful, Justin chose a spot near the fire pit, in the heart of the square. The position put him near the place where the condemned sinners were forced to stand, near enough to let Grandmother Magda know she was not alone.

  The crowd began to gather, men and women and children, a mixture of peasant-brown and the brighter garments of merchants and artisans. Flashes of red mingled with the other colors, soldiers and priests joining the
throng, a festival of spectators. Justin scanned the square, looking for Ben and Daniel and the orphan lads. According to the plan, they were scattered throughout the gathering, ready to fan any glimmer of rebellion, but try as he might, Justin could not see them. Individuals were lost in the tide of humanity, a milling sea of faces, a swell of expectations.

  A drumbeat pounded through the square, the rhythmic throbbing of a monstrous heartbeat.

  The crowd hushed, faces turning toward the temple doors.

  The great brass doors opened, disgorging a flood of red robed priests. The priests marched in procession, incense burners swaying, raising a cloud of blue smoke. The Keeper came last, a large bald-headed man in rich red robes, holding a flaming torch.

  The procession wound its way to the heart of the square. Priests lined the raised dais, a cloud of incense billowing into the afternoon sky. The Keeper prowled toward the charcoal pit, the flaming torch held aloft.

  The priests chanted, “Feed the Flames!”

  The people echoed the chant, “Feed the Flames! Feed the Flames!” while swaying in time to the drumbeat.

  Justin watched the crowd, sickened by their cheap seduction. Most looked avid for spectacle or blinded by devotion. Only a few were stone-faced or skeptical, way too few. Anger thundered through him, knowing this travesty could only succeed with the consent of the people.

  The Keeper reached the pit and lowered the torch.

  Fire erupted from the charcoal. Licks of flame shot skyward, sucking air like a great beast. A melting heat beat against Justin’s face, forcing him away from the pit. The crowd moved as one, pressing backward, opening a space around the crackling flames.

  The temple drums stilled.

  The great brass doors opened wide. A single figure emerged, a shimmer of light in a robe of gold, a great red ruby flashing at the patriarch’s breast. The Pontifax claimed the stares of the multitude, a vision of holiness. Making the sign of blessing, he descended the steps.

  The crowd sighed as the Pontifax passed. Women reached out to touch the hem of his gown. Babies were held out in the hope of a special blessing. Men knelt and women swooned.

  Justin watched the show, crushed by the people’s delusion. His songs of truth seemed a slender foil against the pomp and lies of religion.

  The Pontifax climbed the dais, benevolence shining from his face. He made the sign of blessing and then embraced the crowd with his voice. “My people! Beloved of the Flame God! You join me here today to renew the Test of Faith! Those who are pure will walk untouched through the holy Flames. The Flame God brings love to all who believe!”

  The rumble of a wagon came from the north side of the square. The crowd parted to admit a flatbed wagon and an escort of soldiers, the sacrifice for the Flames. Justin steeled himself to see his friend.

  The wagon stopped near the edge of the flaming pit.

  Grandmother Magda stood chained to the mounted stocks. Barefoot and dressed in a plain white shift, her face was ashen, her silver hair a wild tangle, her eyes sunken to dark pits. Justin gasped in shock; the old woman had aged a decade. Her bright vibrancy was gone, snuffed out by the dungeon’s cruelties.

  Soldiers unchained the old lady from the stocks and helped her down from the wagon. They locked her wrists in heavy manacles, the chains dangling like weights between her hands, but they left her legs unbound. The lack of leg chains seemed a small kindness, but Justin knew the priests wanted a show. Sinners danced in the flames, providing a spectacle for the faithful. The calculated ugliness sickened Justin, but he kept his place near the front, determined to be a witness for his friend.

  The soldiers prodded the old woman with their swords, goading the silver-haired grandmother to the edge of the flames.

  Justin stared at his friend, willing her to look up, willing her to see him.

  Grandmother Magda stood with her head bowed, a broken old women waiting for death.

  Justin ached to see her look so frail and defenseless, but all he could do was watch, hoping the people would heed his songs.

  The Pontifax raised his voice, gathering the attention of the crowd. “My people! A sinner stands before you. A sinner accused of plotting against the religion of the Flame. But the Flame God is benevolent, giving every sinner a chance to atone through the Test of Faith.” The Pontifax made the sign of blessing. “Before this sinner walks in the Flames, we will take the Test of Faith ourselves! With this miracle we prove the benevolence of the Flame God!”

  The crowd stilled to an expectant hush.

  Justin watched the crowd. It seemed miracles never grew dull.

  The Pontifax descended the dais and knelt by the Flames. While acolytes removed his gilded sandals, the Flame Priest stared across the length of the pit at the sinner. Grasping his ruby amulet, he bowed his head in prayer.

  Justin studied the Pontifax, trying to discern the source of the charlatan’s magic.

  The Pontifax stared into the Flames, his right hand clutching the great ruby.

  Understanding struck Justin like a lightning bolt. His source of magic had to be the amulet!

  Justin felt the weight of a piercing stare. He turned to find Grandmother Magda staring at him, but the old woman’s steel-gray gaze was not defeated, not cowed. Her gaze burned with a righteous vengeance. She nodded, acknowledging Justin with a thin smile and then she fixed her stare on the Pontifax.

  A premonition shivered down Justin’s spine.

  The Pontifax entered the flames. The fire snapped and crackled, pulsing with a ferocious heat, engulfing the high priest. Justin had never been so close to the flaming pit. He watched amazed as the Pontifax trod the flames. Tongues of fire licked around the priest, yet he walked barefoot through the blaze, untouched by the unbearable heat. Beaming a beatific smile, he made the sign of blessing, the perfect image of a holy miracle.

  The crowd moaned with ecstasy.

  Justin watched, sickened by the false miracle.

  A blood-curdling shriek split the air. Grandmother Magda lunged into the fire. Leaping through the flames, she swung her manacled hands toward the Pontifax, striking him across the face with the dangling chains. The chains struck like a weapon, smashing his nose and crushing one eye, leaving a trail of blood and gore. The Pontifax screamed, reeling backwards. He reached up to protect his face, releasing his hold on the amulet. The old woman’s shift burst into flames, but she followed the Pontifax, grabbing the great ruby. Fear and panic ripped across the priest’s face. He beat at the old woman grappling for the amulet, but Grandmother Magda would not let go. She clung to the ruby like a mother wrestling for her child. A nimbus of flames surrounded the two, the fire unable to touch either one. The Pontifax and the old woman fought a grim tug-of-war, grappling for the amulet amongst the roaring flames.

  Gasps of shock ripped through the crowd.

  Priests and soldiers gaped from the edge of the pit, spellbound by the struggle.

  Grandmother Magda fell to her knees, but she held tight to the amulet.

  Justin stood at the edge of the pit, close enough to hear the gold chain snap.

  The old lady fell backwards, the great ruby clutched in her fist.

  Fire rushed to claim the Pontifax. A scream erupted from the pit. Flames engulfed the Pontifax, igniting his hair and beard. The priest became a living torch. His skin blackened and blistered. His cloth of gold vestments melted onto his blackening skin. Howling tortured screams, the Pontifax danced like a sinner, writhing in the heart of the flames, a damned figure caught in the grip of hell.

  The crowd stared transfixed, shock reflected on a thousand faces.

  Justin realized the crowd needed to be pushed. He reached for his bard’s training, making his voice a righteous roar. “The Pontifax is a fraud! He burns like a sinner!”

  A scream belched from the flames, proving the bard’s words. The Pontifax slumped forward, a charred mockery of a man, a burnt and blistered grotesque.

  Screams ripped through the square. “He lied to us!” />
  “There is no miracle!”

  “The God burns his priest!”

  Shock gave way to anger. The crowd erupted in a frenzied mob.

  Justin turned back to the fire, desperate to save the old woman.

  Grandmother Magda raced for the edge of the pit, the amulet clutched in her fist.

  At first the flames seemed to hesitate…as if confused, but then they pounced, the flames licking up her legs.

  Justin fought to reach the old woman.

  Madness exploded through the square. The crowd turned on the priests and soldiers, clawing at them with bare hands and teeth, a wild fury of pent up vengeance.

  A blackened hand thrust from the flames. Justin pulled her from the flaming pit. The skin of her hand came away like a glove. Shocked and sickened, he ripped his cloak from his shoulders and wrapped her in swath of blue. Beating at the flames, he fought to save her life.

  The square broiled with anger, a frothing sea of madness.

  Ben and Daniel appeared at Justin’s side. The two men helped Justin carry the old woman to the edge of the crowd, to a sanctuary of quiet in a sea of insanity. Daniel ran to find water while Justin cradled his friend. Her hair was burnt, her face blistered and blackened. She seemed small and frail, like a singed bird in his arms…but her eyes were bright. She smiled up at him, her voice a breathy whisper. “I figured it out. I stole his miracle.”

  Justin nodded, his eyes crowded with tears. “Yes, but we should have found another way.”

  She patted his hand, as if to comfort him. “No…had to be this way. The people…had to see the truth.”

  “But the price was too high.” He wanted to hold her tight but he feared hurting her.

  She shook her head. “Always mine to do.” Reaching for his hand, she put the great ruby in his palm. “For you.” She smiled up at him, a dazzling smile full of hope and happiness. “Now…I go…to my grandchild.”

  He held her…long after she’d died…humming a lullaby, tears coursing down his face.

  They buried her in the herb garden, next to Samson, beneath the crabapple tree…while all around them, the city raged.