The three nobles reached the foot of her dais. They gave her a regal nod but they did not bow. The chained-one stepped forward. “We bring greetings to Liandra, the White Rose, the sovereign Queen of Lanverness, from his majesty, the Twelfth-fold Prince of Ur. Please accept these gifts as tokens of his royal esteem.” He gestured and the bearers opened the chest.
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Liandra could only stare. Gold coins filled the chest, enough to buy a kingdom, or bribe it into submission.
The chained-one smiled. “The prince bid me give you this.” Reaching within the folds of his robe, he removed a long slender box, just big enough for a dagger.
The queen gestured and Master Raddock stepped forward to inspect the gift. Opening the box, his eyes widened. Closing the lid, he proffered it to the queen.
Liandra accepted the box, slowly opening the lid. Nestled in velvet sat three uncut gems, a diamond, a ruby, and an emerald, each the size of a large man’s fist. Gems of incalculable worth, she’d never seen their like. Liandra struggled to keep her face still as stone. “Such magnificent gifts, we are astounded.”
The chained-one nodded, a hint of satisfaction in his thin-lipped smile. “The Twelfth-fold Prince of Ur wishes to ensure a hearty welcome.”
“And has the prince come to our court?” Her shadowmen said otherwise, but she half expected to see a jewel-bedecked prince stride into her halls.
“Not yet, majesty. We have come to prepare the way. Look for him at the turn of the seasons, after the coldest winter’s day but before the dawn of spring.”
“And may we know his name?”
Something dark glittered in the chained-one’s eyes. “Lord Magnum Bale.”
The name meant nothing to her, yet she felt that it should, as if she played a strange form of chess and these were the opening moves. “And why has a prince of Ur risked such an arduous journey?”
“Long has my master been fascinated with the kingdoms of Erdhe, ordering his servants to question those who dare to cross the Serpent Sea. One merchant spoke of the custom of Wayfarthing. Intrigued, the prince deemed it advantageous for the royal family to learn the ways of our most distant trading partner. Emperor Faylon the Magnificient, the twenty-third emperor of the sunrise lands, agreed with his twelfth-fold son.”
Know your enemy, the queen nodded. “The custom is called Wayfaring, and it is part of the succession for the kingdom of Navarre.”
“But Navarre is a such little kingdom while Lanverness holds the wealth of Erdhe.”
She wondered if she’d gained a strange ally, or another vulture come to sup on her kingdom. “We look forward to meeting your lord. In the meantime, we offer you and yours lodging in Castle Tandroth.”
“No need.” A strange smile played across his lips. “The prince has charged us with purchasing a manse within the city. We must see to our lord’s orders.”
A twitter of whispers raced through the hall. Liandra hid a smile, knowing the price of property in Pellanor had just quadrupled. For the minion of a great trading kingdom, the chained-one was less than shrewd. “As you wish, but first we’ve ordered a feast to welcome you to our kingdom. We wish to hear more of the Empire of Ur.”
He inclined his head. “Yours to serve, but first I must ask, do you accept the gifts of my master in the spirit in which they are given?”
Such an odd question, as if a poisoned dagger lay hidden beneath his words, but such wealth could not be spurned, especially in times of war. “Yes, they are accepted with our thanks.”
He bowed then, a flicker of a smile across his face. “My master will be pleased.”
Sensing she’d been outplayed, the queen surveyed the gifts arrayed below her dais. Among the tribute, knelt the three jesters. Green and white, the colors of Lanverness, she should have read the intent in their motley. Amongst all the glitter and gold she’d accepted three spies into her court. She kept her face as smooth as sculpted stone. “You represent your prince, yet you have not given us your name.”
“My name is insignificant.”
“Yet we would know it.”
He blinked as slow as a snake. “Frederinko, a Chained Servant of the Twelfth-fold Prince.”
Gasps spiked her audience hall.
So the chained servants are more than just a fearsome fable, she’d have to tread lightly. “Dine with us, Master Frederinko, for we wish to hear of your prince and the kingdom of Ur.”
“As you wish.” He nodded, waiting for her at the bottom of the dais.
The queen stood, sending a ripple of bows and curtseys through the chamber. She descended the dais, Sir Durnheart and Master Raddock forming a guard at her back.
“Captain Blackmon,” she singled out a guard from her waiting escort. “See that our gifts are conveyed to our private chamber. And triple the guard. The jesters should be given rooms in the Sword Tower.”
The captain gave a smart salute.
“Come,” Liandra gestured to the Urian lord. “We hope you will enjoy the delicacies of our court.”
Instead of offering his arm as any well-bred lord might, her guest folded his hands within his robes and walked beside her.
The queen led him across the checker board floor, her court falling into deep bows to either side. She entertained her guest by explaining the architecture of Castle Tandroth while her mind considered the meaning buried beneath the gifts. Her treasury would brim with Urian gold, but then the meaning hit home. Flaunted wealth, like a gauntlet thrown at her face, the Urian prince had issued a ghostly slap. Liandra shivered, and they bring spies to my court. Warnings buried beneath treasure, she wondered what game they played…and she sensed it did not go her way. Liandra clenched her fists, knowing she needed to understand this new player. Queens prevailed…or they were toppled from the board.
21
Stewart
The village seemed peaceful enough, but Stewart knew peace could be deceiving. Smoke puffed from a single chimney, but otherwise he saw no sign of life. A dozen stone buildings hugged a central dirt road, a small wayside hamlet probably best known for the hospitality of its inn. “You’re sure this is the place?”
The scout nodded. “They came yesterday, riding down the road bold as brass, forty raiders in red tabards. But instead of setting the village aflame, they ransacked each house, as if they were looking for something. Judging by the smoke, I’d say they decided to stay.”
Stewart crouched in the muddy damp. The countryside held little cover, the thicket and trees bare of leaves. Their best protection was the morning fog, a sparse cloak of misty white hugging the ground. “If the raiders spared this village, then they’ve have changed their habits. I like it not.” He had a bad feeling, a sixth sense that scratched at his mind, but forty raiders was the perfect bite for his men, a hard prize to ignore. “Gedry,” he gestured to the scout. “Go count the horses again. I want to be sure of their numbers.”
“Yes, lord.” The scout scuttled forward, crawling through the damp leaves, his brown homespun disappearing into the muddy countryside. He’d ordered his scouts to abandon their emerald tabards for rough homespun. Stewart considered ordering the same for his knights. Emerald green had become a deadly risk in the naked forests, but the knights were too proud to give up their tabards, and pride was an important part of winning, especially against greater numbers.
A broken branch crunched to his right. Stewart whirled, his hand on sword hilt.
“Just me.” Tall with broad shoulders, dark hair, and laughing eyes, Dane approached to crouch by his side. The eldest son of a duke, he’d been fostered to the Rose Court at the age of eight to become the sparring partner for the crown prince. Stewart could ask for no better swordsman to guard his back.
“Are the others ready?”
“Awaiting your orders. Will we break our morning fast on the enemy?”
“Most likely.”
Dane grinned. “Nothing like a little bloodshed in the morning to make a man feel alive.” His face turned serious.
“How many?”
“Forty, but I sent Gedry to check the horse count.” Stewart pointed toward the village, two bowshots away on the far side of the field. “Judging from the smoke, they seemed to be quartered at the inn.”
“There’s justice for you. The invaders sleep in beds while the heroes have rocks for pillows.”
Stewart grinned, glad to be back among the Rose Squad. “Are you complaining?”
“Only to the gods.” Dane’s smile faded. “But you’ve got a bad feeling about this.”
Stewart sobered. “You know me too well.”
“Then let’s ride past and fight another day. I’ve come to trust that battle sense of yours.”
“No.” Stewart scowled. “Time serves the enemy. We need to take as many bites from their numbers as we can. And forty is a good mouthful.” A grimness settled over him. “But it’s not nearly enough.” He’d seen the campfires of the enemy, like a plague spread upon the land. “We’re running out of map. We need to find a way to hurt them, to make them pay for invading Lanverness.”
Dane grunted ascent but he offered no answers.
Stewart fell silent, the enormity of the problem falling like a mountain on his shoulders. He took a deep breath, telling himself to fight one battle at a time.
The two men kept watch on the village. Nothing moved except for the chimney smoke. The dawn proved murky and wet, a cold and dismal morning. Gray light filtered through low hanging clouds, and then it began to rain, a few drops at first, growing to a steady drizzle. Stewart stared skyward, through branches naked of leaves. Fat raindrops splattered his face like an insult, a cold trickle running down his back. The autumn trees gave little shelter, a miserable season to wage war.
“Damn the sky.” Dane cast an angry glare to the heavens. “Paulie just got the rust out of my chainmail.”
Stewart looked at his friend and struggled to stifle a laugh. Always the dapper nobleman, the war had taken a toll on his friend’s lordly guise. “Look at you. Unshaven, bedraggled and mud spattered, the women of Pellanor would never guess you’re a lord.”
Dane glared. “You’re one to talk.” Leaning close, he took an exaggerated sniff. “What’s that royal stink you’re wearing? Essence of horse? Or is it sweat and mud?”
Stewart had to laugh, the tension melting from his shoulders. “War’s not what we dreamed it would be.”
“No. It’s far too muddy, too wet, and too cold,” Dane flashed a roguish grin, “but we’re damned good at it.”
Stewart clapped him on the back, his brother of the sword. “At least the mud and grime will hide the green of our cloaks. Mud might just save your sorry hide from an enemy arrow.”
Dane made a mocking scowl. “Brown was never my color.”
They both grinned, remembering the finery of the Rose Court.
The cry of a whippoorwill cut through the morning stillness. A pair of men slunk through the muddy field, short bows strung across their backs. They joined the two lords and gave their report. “No change in their numbers. We counted thirty-nine horses. They’ve set one lookout at each end of the village, but otherwise everything is quiet as a graveyard.” Gedry grinned. “It seems we’ve caught them abed.”
“Good.” Stewart nodded. “The sentries need to die.”
“Already done.” Gedry made a slashing gesture across his throat.
“And still no alarm?”
Gedry flashed a gap-toothed smile. “None, lord.”
“Then it’s time to wet our swords.” Stewart rose from a crouch, threading his way back through the woods. A horse nickered and armor jangled. The sounds seemed loud in the morning stillness. The others waited beyond the woods, sixty of his best knights, handpicked from the Rose Squad. They came alert as soon as they saw him. Tough-faced men in mud spattered tabards, bristling with weapons and armor. “Do we fight, my lord?”
“We fight.” He climbed into the saddle and shouldered his shield, explaining the plan as the others gird for battle. The knights split into two groups, while the scouts prepared a dozen firebrands. Stewart led the main host back through the woods, Dane riding at his side. They ducked beneath low branches, emerging into the soggy field. His men spread out in a line, keeping their warhorses to a slow trot, approaching the village from the rear. Firebrands sizzled in the falling rain, the scouts kept pace with the knights. Stewart touched his seashell broach for luck, and then unsheathed his sword. Steel whispered from forty scabbards, like the deadly hiss of a many-headed snake. They crossed the muddy field without fanfare, or trumpets, or battle banners, a line of knights intent on death, rain drumming on their armor.
Stewart slowed his stallion to a walk, circling to the front of the inn, a cozy two-story building roofed with thatch. A weathered sign named it the Jolly Tankard, a reputation that was soon to be ruined. Turning his stallion to face the inn’s door, he tensed, waiting. Nothing stirred save the chimney smoke. With his men in position, he nodded to Dane. “Time to ruin their morning.”
Dane flashed a feral grin. Sheathing his sword, he reached for a firebrand and urged his horse toward the door. On command, the warhorse reared, ironshod hooves lashing out, drumming against the door. The door crashed inward and Dane hurled the firebrand inside. “For the queen!” Glass shattered across the inn, as scouts hurled firebrands through broken windows.
Shouts erupted from inside. Half-dressed soldiers burst from the open doorway, brandishing swords and halberds. Black smoke billowed from the windows, adding a burnt stench to the confusion. An arrow thunked into the ground near Stewart’s horse while another whistled past his head. His warhorse reared, hooves lashing out, and the battle was joined. He leaned from the saddle, his sword slashing toward the nearest enemy. Blue steel cut through leather and bone, slaying the nearest enemy. He turned his warhorse, seeking another. The battle became a rout, mounted knights fighting against men on foot, slaughtering the invaders as they poured from the inn. Victory seemed assured, but then a horn sounded.
Dane yelled, “Behind you!”
Stewart whirled as a halberd rushed toward his face. He raised his oak shield, catching the half-moon blade on the edge. The force of the blow shuddered through his shoulder, nearly knocking him from the saddle.
“Black Flames! It’s an ambush!”
The halberd attacked with a deadly fury. Stewart struggled to recover. Part spear, part axe, the halberd whistled toward his face. Stewart swung his sword around, blocking the blow. Steel clanged against steel. Unable to find an opening, Stewart wheeled his warhorse left, trying to bring the ironshod hooves into play, but the halberd slashed at his stallion’s neck. Blood fountained and the warhorse screamed, rearing away. Stewart toppled backward, hitting the ground hard. The warhorse crashed next to him, hooves thrashing in an agony of death.
“It’s an ambush! Fall back!”
Stewart scrambled to his feet, dodging deadly hooves. From the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of red-clad soldiers pouring from the other houses, far more than the forty they’d counted. Stewart gripped his sword and turned to face the teeth of the trap.
A rush of blackened steel swung toward his head. His oak shield took brunt of the blow. Staggered by the brute force, he slipped in the mud, but he kept his shield raised.
A whirlwind of blows rained against his shield. “Die infidel!”
His shield shattered, splintering into a thousand shards. He threw the remnants away, feeling naked with just a sword in his hand. For half a heartbeat, Stewart stared at the enemy, a mountain of a man with hatred glaring from his eyes.
“Now you die!”
Stewart parried the halberd.
A horse thundered near, bright steel cleaving the air.
The enemy’s head flew from his shoulders. Blood sprayed across Stewart as the headless body staggered for two steps before toppling to the mud.
Dane reined to a halt, flinging the reins of a spare mount to the prince. “Time to flee. We’re outnumbered.”
“Sound the retr
eat.” Stewart vaulted into the saddle. “To me! To me!” He raised his blue sword, standing in the stirrups, shouting over the din. The knights rallied around, hacking a path through the red tabards.
A horn blared and hooves thundered from the right. A line of emerald knights crashed into the enemy’s rear. Lances couched, his reserve slammed into the enemy, a mounted battering ram of emerald green. Men screamed and fell, red tabards churned into the mud. They were still outnumbered, but the shock of spears opened a path in the fighting, a slender corridor of escape.
Stewart stood in the stirrups. “This way! Follow me!” He spurred his horse forward, but then he spied Gedry. Fighting on foot, the scout was outmatched by a Black Flame. Stewart threw a glance at Dane, “Get them out!” and then he swerved his horse to the right, crashing into the enemy. His blue sword swung in a mighty arc, cleaving through chainmail and flesh, killing the enemy with a single stroke. Reining the horse to a stop, he offered Gedry a hand. “Mount up!” The scout swung behind him, clutching tight. Enemy hands reached for the prince, trying to pull him from the saddle, but Stewart beat them away.
He spurred his warhorse to a gallop. “Retreat! Retreat!” He galloped for the narrow opening, but a black halberd swung toward him. Pain struck his chest like a lance. The blow took him unawares, knocking him from the horse. Stewart hit the ground hard. Stunned, he clutched his chest expecting blood, but there was none, saved from death by his chainmail. Gasping for breath, he staggered to his feet. All around him, the battle raged as the emerald knights beat a hasty retreat. He reached for his sword, but his scabbard was empty. And then he saw it, a gleam of sapphire-blue steel lying in the mud, a horse-length away.
He scrambled for the sword, but a half-moon blade swung toward his head.
Without sword or shield, Stewart could only stagger backwards, watching death slice toward him. He tripped over a corpse and fell hard.
S&SS [04] The Poison Priestess Page 19
