“I thought the monks were a myth?”
“Apparently not.”
“So you’re banished to the ends of Erdhe to serve as wet nurse to a girl?”
Duncan scowled. “You men of Wyeth are too bloody narrow-minded when it comes to your women.”
“Speaking of women,” the archer leaned close, a gleam in his eye. “I’ve noticed how the lovelies fall for that rogue image you feign with your black leathers and pirate eye patch.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I’m sure you have more than your fair share of beauties tucked away in Seaside. Why not introduce me to a few?”
Disliking the leer on the archer’s face, Duncan avoided the question by hailing a servant carrying a platter piled high with roasted quail. Leaving the archer with a full plate and a fresh flagon, Duncan went in search of better company. While the two men had talked, the tourney feast had been laid out around them. Savory smells of roast boar and fresh-baked apples tantalized the senses. Brightly clad jugglers roamed the grounds, a gaggle of laughing children trailing in their wake. At the heart of the field, the royals sat upon a raised dais, where King Ivor, Queen Megan, and their family were already being served. Duncan wove a path through the crowded trestle tables. Serving girls and silk-clad noblewomen flashed suggestive smiles his way. Some brushed close, rubbing their silks against his black leathers like cats claiming a prize. Duncan greeted most of them by name, offering a wink and a smile, but he made no promises. Friends hailed him and he took a seat at their table just below the royal dais. Accepting a trencher of roast venison and grilled onions, he settled down to enjoy the feast.
The sun set in a blaze of gold. Charcoal braziers scattered throughout the tournament grounds flared to life, adding light, heat, and charm to the evening’s festivities. Trumpets blared and a herald claimed the center of the royal dais, his voice booming across the field. “My lords and my ladies, we end this sumptuous feast by announcing the winners of the tournament. The silver arrow, awarded to the winner of the fifteen to twenty year olds, is bestowed upon Prince Jared of Navarre!”
The crowd stood, roaring its approval. Prince Jared rose from the bench at the royals’ table and approached the king. Duncan noted the look of pride on the king’s face as he embraced his dark-haired son and handed him the silver arrow. The prince acknowledged the crowd, holding his prize aloft. Duncan raised a tankard in salute; at least the silver arrow would remain in Navarre if not the golden.
A flaming arrow arched across the darkening sky.
Duncan shot up from his bench to shout a warning. “Look out!”
Prince Jared shoved the king to the left and dove to the right. The arrow thunked into the wooden dais between them. More arrows arched across the twilight sky, blazing a trail of fire. Screams split the air, the crowd overturning benches, frantic to flee the field.
Duncan’s first instinct was to rush for the attacker, but the rioting crowd blocked his path. Grabbing his longbow and quiver, he vaulted onto the dais and then onto the tabletop. Hoping no one noticed, he lifted the black leather patch from his left eye and scanned the edge of the crowd. The grounds roiled with confusion, people pushing in all directions, cries and screams cutting the night. Another arrow scored the sky and Duncan traced the line of fire to the far side of the field. The enemy archer stood alone, his bow already bent for the next strike. Stringing his longbow, Duncan took aim with his left eye, loosing three black-fletched arrows in quick succession.
The assault of flaming arrows stopped.
Duncan flipped the black patch over his eye and jumped from the table to help the royals. Guards swarmed around three wounded figures. Commander Isador, the king’s brother, bellowed orders. Clusters of people helped the victims while others fought to put out the fires. The royal guard encircled the dais, facing outward with swords drawn.
Duncan forced his way through the press of people. Seeing him, Commander Isador snapped, “Did you get the attackers?”
“A single archer from the edge of the field. I managed to put an arrow or two in him. The guards should have him by now. Is the king all right?”
“He’s taken an arrow in the chest. We need to get him to Master Simmons. A young page took an arrow while protecting the king. The lad is dead, a hero’s death. A third arrow grazed Prince Jared’s arm, but the wound isn’t serious. I want you to take responsibility for the king while I deal with the attacker.”
Duncan said, “I suggest you send heralds through the city with word we’ve taken the assassin. Panic could spread if the people think the city is under attack.”
Isador nodded and turned to call for a herald.
An empty wagon, driven by Princess Jordan, thundered up to the dais and the guards scrambled to get out of the way. Duncan joined the knot of people gently lifting the king onto the wagon bed. Once the king was secure, Duncan settled the queen and the wounded prince in the back and ordered the guards to follow. Climbing onto the front seat, he took the reins and lashed the horses to a gallop. He hoped the rogue archer survived to answer for his crimes. Whatever the reason for the ambush, the attack proved the peace of Erdhe was more fragile than anyone suspected.
13
Katherine
Kath ran through the passageways of the inner castle, desperately searching for a weapon. Glancing back, she struggled to keep a small lead on the attackers. Wearing the black and gold of the Mordant and wielding massive war clubs studded with steel spikes, the misshapen attackers looked more like ogres than men. Kath didn’t know how the castle’s defenses had been breached, but she was certain if the attackers caught her, she’d be killed.
She kept running, her footsteps beating a desperate rhythm through the empty passageways. All the hallways were made of mage-stone, the same as the inner parts of Castlegard, yet nothing looked familiar. Confused and lost, Kath chose a door at random and burst into a small windowless chamber. It was a dead end, a trap. Kath scrambled back out onto the landing just as the ogres crashed into the room below. Out of choices, she retreated into the chamber and shut the door, thankful that it had a sturdy bolt. Praying to all the Lords of Light that the enemy would pass her by, she pressed her ear to the door and strained to hear over the thundering of her heart. Heavy footsteps pounded up the stairs, sealing the trap.
Kath backed against the far wall, her gaze locked on the door.
War clubs thundered against the oak door, a drumbeat of death. The door gave way, splintering into a thousand shards. The first hairy monster lumbered into the room, his war club raised to strike. Kath stood frozen, staring up at certain death. But as the club began its descent, she suddenly found herself falling back through the stone wall!
Gasping for breath, Kath sat up, surprised to find herself safe in her own bed. “Not again.” Drenched in sweat, she shivered beneath her blankets. She’d had this same nightmare five times in the last fortnight. Kath wondered if her dreams had anything to do with the Painted Warrior. She couldn’t help remembering the bloody handprint he’d left on the front of her tunic, as if she’d been marked for death. Perhaps the dreams were some kind of omen or a harbinger of doom. She shuddered at the thought of Castlegard falling to the Mordant. If her dreams were portents of the future, then she needed to find a way to change the outcome. But to protect Castlegard she’d have to tell someone, someone who would take her warnings to heart. Her father was not the sort of man to pay heed to the nightmares of a girl. Besides, after today’s incident in the woods, Kath didn’t want to see the king. Neither Sir Lewis nor Sir Raymond had returned to the castle. She’d hung around the great yard listening to rumors and watching the outer gate, but there was no sign of the knights and no mention of a fight in the woods. Evening fell and she worried her way through dinner, waiting for an angry summons, but none came. Kath couldn’t guess what tale the two rogue knights would weave, but she could easily imagine her father’s wrath. Her worst fear was to be forced into a marriage with some faceless noble to form an alliance. She shook her head, banishing the tho
ught. Her personal problems were nothing compared to her nightmares; she couldn’t let Castlegard fall. She needed to confide in someone who would take her seriously. The master healer was the most learned person Kath knew, and he had a reputation for reading dreams and portents. In the morning she would try to get him alone. She just hoped he would take her seriously.
Having made the decision, she burrowed back under the covers, but something hard jabbed her ribs. Fishing through the bedding, she found her good luck charm, a small mage-stone gargoyle, just large enough to fit in the palm of her hand. It must have fallen from her bedside table, but instead of putting it back she clutched it tight, needing a talisman against her dreams. “Castlegard must not fall.”
14
Steffan
A trail of dark rumors drew him south. Steffan followed the whispers across the kingdoms of Erdhe, collecting clues to the location of the Dark Lord’s Oracle. His quest took him to alchemists, fortune tellers, hedge witches, priests, and bards, anyone likely to have such arcane information. He paid for the information with gold, with flagons of wine, and with sexual favors. Sometimes he paid for the information with blood…always their blood. Steffan found a way to meet every price.
At last he knew enough to seek out the Oracle in the black heart of the great southern swamps of Radagar. Beneath a waning moon, he rode a black gelding down a dirt road that was barely more than a goat track. The swamp was thick with the smell of death and decay, the air thrummed with life that thrived on both. Pulling his wool cloak tight around his neck, Steffan tried to hide from the biters and the bloodsuckers, but it was no use. The creatures of the swamp found a way to extract their blood-price from man and beast. The gelding shied, annoyed by the bites. Steffan kept the reins taut, holding his mount to a slow trot, not wanting to miss the tree. When he finally found it, he realized the massive oak couldn’t be missed. The hangman’s tree stood alone on an earthen mound lapped by the dark waters of the swamp. One rotten corpse and several empty ropes dangled from the claw-like limbs. The stench of the dead blended with the fetid air of the swamp.
Steffan tied the gelding to the nearby hitching post and took from his saddlebags a greasy chicken wrapped in cloth, a flagon of cheap wine, a hooded lantern, and a flint. Climbing the small hill, he sat with his back to the tree facing out over the swamp. Lighting the lantern, he arranged the hood so that the light shone away from the tree and across the swamp and then he sat back to eat his dinner, wondering if anyone would answer the summons. He gnawed on a chicken leg, tossing the bone out into the swamp. A sudden thrashing of the waters sent waves rippling to the base of the tree. He kept the rest of the bones by his side.
The moon was halfway across the midnight sky when Steffan spied a flat-bottomed skiff gliding through the swirling mists. Poled by a man in dark robes, it drew close to shore, touching solid ground with a wet sucking sound. Leaving his lantern, Steffan stepped aboard, holding out a single gold piece for the fee. The ferryman’s face was hidden in the deep folds of a hooded robe. He took the gold and pointed to the rear of the skiff, silent as death. Steffan lurched toward the seat as the ferryman poled back out into the murky waters.
“Tell me about the Oracle.” The swamp swallowed his question, the sound of water rippling along the side of the skiff his only reply. Steffan wasn’t surprised. He’d found the Dark Lord’s servants to be secretive. It was even possible that the man no longer had a tongue.
Steffan settled back on the seat, peering into the night. His eyes adjusted to the darkness of the swamp only to find faint points of light winking from the marsh grass. The lights seemed to follow the skiff, as if they were strange glowing eyes watching from the dark. Moving deeper into the swamp, the night sounds became muted and then strangely silent, as if the creatures of the swamp feared to disturb the Dark Lord’s domain. The skiff glided through a labyrinth of drowned trees. Twisted branches twined overhead, cloaked in long shrouds of ghostly moss. Steffan hunched beneath his cloak to avoid the living lace.
A dark figure holding a burning staff appeared before them, seeming to walk on the very waters of the swamp. The ferryman steered toward the apparition. The flat-bottomed boat shuddered to a stop, water lapping at its sides. The ferryman held the skiff in place, silently pointing inland.
“What, here?” but he got no answer. Steffan stepped onto uncertain ground, his boots sinking deep into muck. He watched as the ferryman poled the skiff back out into the murky waters, abandoning Steffan to his fate.
The apparition approached at a stately pace, his blazing staff a lone gleam in the night. Steffan collected himself, waiting. The dark figure stopped a sword’s length away, his face well-hidden within the hood of his robe. “Your name?”
“Steffan Cantor, third son of Baron Cantor of Wyeth.”
“What do you seek?”
“I seek the Dark Oracle. To the Dark Lord’s gatekeeper I bring this small offering.” Reaching into his tunic, Steffan extracted a purse brimming with gold pieces. “Show me the way.”
Slender white fingers plucked the purse from his hand. “Your offering is accepted. Follow me and find the Dark Lord.” The gatekeeper turned and strode into the gloom, his flaming staff serving as a beacon.
Wary of the treacherous footing, Steffan kept close to his guide. A turn of an hourglass passed before he spied a curtain wall looming over the gnarled trees, a solid haven in a sea of muck and mire. Towering over thirty feet high and made of black basalt, the wall was pierced by a single iron-studded gate. As they drew closer, the great gate swung silently open, like a mouth hungry for a meal. Unchallenged by any guards, the gatekeeper entered the fortress. Steffan hesitated and then followed. The walls of the basalt fortress hid a surprise. A beautiful villa, built entirely of black marble, rested upon a small hill. Climbing the hill, they passed between elegant marble colonnades and entered an atrium lined with burning sconces. A dozen guards in black armor stood at rigid attention between the columns but Steffan’s gaze was drawn to a raised dais at the far end of the atrium. A dark-haired woman sat alone upon a jet-black throne. The gatekeeper approached and bowed low. “Priestess, I bring you Steffan Cantor, third son of Baron Cantor of Wyeth. He has entered the domain of the Dark Lord of his own free will.” Bowing for a second time, the gatekeeper withdrew.
Steffan bowed low and then stood studying the priestess. Dark intelligent eyes gazed back at him, issuing a silent challenge. Steffan’s breath caught in his throat, the priestess was stunning. She had an aquiline face and white porcelain skin crowned by an elaborate arrangement of raven-black hair. Her low-cut black velvet gown invited closer inspection. The woman was clearly an accomplished predator. Returning his gaze to her eyes, he realized she was enjoying the visual review. Taking a risk, he bowed again, this time in an elaborate, courtly fashion. Gazing back into her face, he thought she looked like a cat that had just tasted cream. The gamble had paid off.
The priestess moved the conversation from the visual to the verbal. “What do you seek, Steffan of Wyeth?” Her voice was smoky velvet laced with steel.
“I seek the Oracle so that I may take service with the Dark Lord.”
“What do you hope to gain from the Dark Lord?”
The words whispered from his soul. “One lifetime is not enough…”
Her dark eyebrows arched, a sly smile playing across her perfect lips. “So, the ultimate prize. The Dark Lord gives his dedicates many gifts, but each additional lifetime must be earned. Only a rare few ever win the ultimate prize.” Her velvet voice husked, “Are you one of those few?”
“Yes!”
“Arrogant as well as handsome.” Her voice became a velvet whip. “And do you know the price for the Dark Lord’s favor?”
He’d bought the answer with the skill of his dagger, killing a priest to win the knowledge. “I offer the Dark Lord my soul.”
“Do you, Steffan of Wyeth, make this bargain of your own free will?”
“I do.”
“And do you underst
and that once given, your soul will never be returned to you?”
“Yes, I understand.”
The Priestess gave a throaty laugh. “I doubt that you do. Few understand the nature of the Dark Lord’s price…until it is too late.”
Steffan shivered, reminded of the crone’s dying words.
The Priestess eased back on her throne, watching him with hooded eyes. Her long black gown shifted to reveal a shapely thigh, a deliberate temptation. In a low sultry voice, she said, “And what will you pay the Dark Lord’s Priestess for granting you access to the Oracle?”
The question caught him off guard. “My lady, I did not know that the Priestess of the Oracle required payment.”
“You obviously do not understand the nature of the god you seek to serve. Let me enlighten you. The Dark Lord feeds off both the pleasures and the pains that his dedicates harvest from the people of Erdhe. I worship him by taking my own pleasure. So I will ask you again, Steffan of Wyeth, what will you pay to the Priestess of the Oracle?”
Steffan let the question hang in the air. His eyes raked across her perfect body; so statuesque, she could have been carved out of cold, white marble. He wondered how long it would take him to heat the marble to a red-hot glow. “My lady, I doubt the meager golds in my purse would please you…but perhaps I can pleasure you in other ways?”
With a sultry smile the Priestess purred, “It is something to consider.” She rose from her throne and prowled down the steps of the dais, the long slit in her gown revealing a flash of shapely white thigh. Steffan let his eyes linger on all that was revealed.
The Steel Queen (The Silk & Steel Saga Book 1) Page 8