Skarn set a hard pace, galloping through the chilly night. Across fallow fields and winter-naked woods, they rode at a treacherous pace. Stewart’s horse stumbled and nearly fell. Desperate to keep his seat, he clutched the pommel, an image of Crocker’s battered skull flashing through his mind. In the midst of the nightlong ride, the scout had fallen, but the brigands never stopped. Bound and gagged, Crocker dragged behind till his head collided with a tree trunk, crushed to a bloody pulp. The brigands laughed and cut the rope, leaving the dead for carrion. Stewart smoldered at the memory, another debt to pay.
Eighteen brigands guarding six prisoners, they rode through the silvery moonlight like phantoms haunting a ravaged land. At dawn’s first light, Skarn called a halt at a burnt farmstead. Smoke lingered like a pall, nothing left but a jumble of blackened timbers. Stewart’s gaze searched the yard; relieved to find no bodies, perhaps the farmers escaped the Flame’s savage heat.
Skarn dismounted. “Walk the horses, and let the prisoners down. We’ll break fast before ridin’ on.”
The brigands obeyed without grumbling, which seemed odd since there wasn’t much chance of foraging. Horses stamped and snorted, breathing plumes of mist into the cold morning air. Stewart made an awkward dismount, his bound hands tethered to the pommel by an arm’s length of rope. Leaning against the horse, he stretched, working the blood back into his legs, grimacing against the needles of pain.
Two of the brigands, Dink and Roland, made the rounds. One at a time, they loosed the prisoners from the saddles, herding them to the side of the ruined farmhouse, a chance to make their morning toilet. Stewart took his time, searching for a weapon. The ground was hard with footprints, the grass scorched by the blaze.
“Hurry up.” Dink kicked Owen, prodding the big man with his sword.
Owen scuttled sideways, his pants around his ankles while the brigands barked crude japes. Stewart used the distraction to palm a small stone. Slightly smaller than a gold coin, it had one rough edge, just what he needed. Gripping his prize, he laced his pants.
“Get moving.”
The brigands herded them back to the front of the farmhouse. Skarn and the rest took their ease around a small fire. Leaning on bedrolls, they supped on dried venison and flagons of water. Stewart’s stomach rumbled; his mouth fouled by the taste of the gag. Watching them eat was a kind of slow torture. Hatred boiled within him, a black rage that threatened to choke him.
The brigands roasted a brace of rabbits, juices dripping into the flames, releasing a maddening smell. Stewart and his men sat huddled on the cold ground beyond the fire’s warmth, watching as their captors ate their fill. Like a dog desperate for a fallen morsel, Stewart felt the saliva swamp his mouth. At least his men did not whine, but their plight only fueled his anger. He drilled Skarn with his stare, willing the rogue leader to feel his hatred, but Skarn seemed oblivious to the daggered glare.
The brigands finished eating, a few stretching out on bedrolls. No food for the prisoners, Stewart felt despair leach through his men. Sagging to the ground, his men looked away, their faces etched with hunger, resigned to misery, but Stewart refused to give up. Bound and gagged, the prince kept his daggered stare locked on Skarn, hoping to engage the brigand leader, but Skarn seemed impervious to the visual assault. With his mitered helm and emerald cloak, Stewart should have known the brigand had no honor, yet he hoped to prick his pride or rouse his anger, anything to engage the bastard. Just when he thought it was hopeless, Skarn’s stare snapped in Stewart’s direction, a shrewd look on his face, a predator studying his prey. So the brigand had felt his stare all along, playing a possum’s waiting game. Stewart held Skarn’s one-eyed gaze, refusing to flinch.
Skarn kicked one of his men. “Remove the princeling’s gag and give him some water.”
Dink grumbled but obeyed.
Stewart felt his men come alert, but they had the good sense to feign indifference.
Dink removed the gag, thrusting the stoppered flask into Stewart’s hands.
Stewart licked his lips, his mouth parched dry as shoe leather, but he refused to drink. “We’re no use to you dead.”
Skarn nodded. “Drink your fill, princeling.”
“Not unless my men drink as well.”
Skarn gave him a lazy smile. “Haven’t you figured it out yet, princeling? You’re the only one worth feedin’.”
Stewart’s hatred flared but he kept it hidden. “A thousand golds.”
A few of Skarn’s men sat up, but the brigand leader remained indifferent.
“A thousand golds above my ransom for every man who’s delivered safe.”
“Is your tongue lined with gold, princeling?” Skarn’s men laughed. “I swear it must be gilded, the way you keep promisin’ riches.”
More laughter but Stewart’s gaze never wavered. “You have my word.”
“Your word,” Skarn sneered, “the word of a raggedy-ass scarecrow who claims to be a prince?” His voice turned deadly. “Words ain’t worth much, princeling, its gold and steel that matters.”
“Gold you’ll have, if you can keep six prisoners fed and alive.” Stewart held Skarn’s gaze. “Easy wealth for a raggedy-ass band of brigands.”
Skarn scowled, a storm building in his face, but some of his men began to mutter. “He’s right, Skarn, they’re easy golds.”
“All we have to do is keep ‘em alive till Duster and Clem get back.”
“And we’re close to our winter stores, plenty of food to tide us over.”
“Enough!” Skarn roared to his feet, a curved sword gleaming wicked in his mailed fist. “I rule here! One leader, one command.” He turned to glare at his men. “Do any of you carrion-feeders dare to gainsay me?”
The brigands shrank back, proving Skarn was still dangerous despite the silver in his beard.
Skarn kicked Hubble and then Dink. “Feed and water the prisoners.” Before the men could rise, Skarn crossed the distance, the edge of his curved sword held to Stewart’s throat, his gauntleted fist grabbing the prince’s hair. “You best not be lying, princeling, or I’ll flay and gut your men, one at a time till only your royal ass is left.” His voice dripped with threat. “And I’ll take the longest with you.”
Stewart dared not breathe lest the blade cut his throat, but he held Skarn’s stare.
Rage burned in the brigand’s one-eyed glare, a rage that bordered on madness. “My blade’s keen, princeling, and so is my anger.” He drew the blade across Stewart’s throat, a stinging line of pain.
Stewart gasped, clutching his throat, but it was only a flesh wound, a shallow crease.
Skarn laughed, cleaning his blade. “A promise and a threat, princeling. Don’t fool with Skarn or you’ll die screaming.”
Stewart averted his gaze, stunned by the turn of events. The brigand leader was mad, mad and dangerous. There would be no deals with the devil. Fight or die, it always came down to that. At least he’d won food and drink for his men, a chance to build their strength and fight another day. Stewart raised the flask to his lips, a flood of sweet water gushing down his parched throat. He drank his fill and ate everything they gave him, and then he settled down to feign sleep. His men huddled close. Consumed by exhaustion, they soon released a medley of snores. While the others slept, Stewart slowly scrapped the small stone across his rope bonds. So intent on his work, he was startled when the freezing cold first touched his face. He stared skyward, surprised to see the falling flakes, the first snow of the year. Winter had come to Lanverness. Stewart shivered, feeling an omen of death. Time was against him. He returned to his work, sawing the stone across his bonds. Fight or die, he had to find a way to escape.
53
Danly
Danly took to roving the streets by day, feeling safer in the city than the tower keep. Pulling his cloak close, he hid beneath a peasant’s garb, royalty clad in drab brown. He checked the sun’s progress across the mid-day sky. Vengar should be waiting for him at the tavern. The captain claimed he needed mor
e golds, their escape was proving costly. Danly fingered the purse tied to his belt, knowing it held mostly silvers, but the captain would have to make due. He slipped through the back streets, anxious to learn how their plans progressed.
Turning a corner, Danly came to a sudden stop, shocked to find a crowd milling in front of the tavern. An angry buzz rode the air, yet there were no priests in sight. Danly hovered in the alleyway, intending to leave, but curiosity got the better of him. Pulling his hood up, he skirted the crowd. Everyone stared at the clapboard tavern, something scrawled in red on the wall. Angling for a better look, he edged sideways. And then he saw the words written in blood. “The Pontifax is dead. The Gods curse this war!” Danly stood slack-jawed, staring at the bloody message.
Questions rumbled through the crowd, a mixture of rage and fear.
“Is it true?”
“He can’t be dead!”
“I saw him walk through the Flames myself! A bloody miracle!”
“He’s the beloved of god!”
“The Lord Raven would have told us!”
Something was happening here, something he did not understand. Sensing the crowd might turn ugly; Danly began to back away. He eased passed a pair of soldiers, but then he spied a familiar face. For the barest moment, he thought he saw a distinctive profile hidden in the hood of soldier’s red cloak, a hawk-faced man with silver-gray hair, and then he was gone, disappearing into shadows. Fear spiked through Danly, as if he’d just seen death. He told himself it was a trick of the light, but he knew he’d seen true. Pushing through the crowd, he reached the open street and began to run. Spurred by fear, he ran all the way back to the tower. The Master Archivist was in Lingard. The queen’s shadowmaster had found him. Death stalked the city’s cobbled streets.
54
Steffan
Steffan finished with a final deep thrust and then rolled off the bed, lacing his pants. “Enough. Get out.”
“But my lord?”
“I said, get out.” He watched as Salmay scrambled for her clothes. Long flaxen hair and tight buds for breasts, she was a comely lass, but there was no fire in their coupling, no rush of heat in his loins, a pitiful substitute for the Priestess. A snarl rose to his lips. He’d summoned the lass just to prove he wasn’t besotted with the dark haired temptress, but nothing seemed to cure the raging ache in his loins. Already two weeks gone and he still couldn’t get the Priestess out of his mind. The seductress had sunk her claws deep. Angry, he hurled a purse at the girl. “Get out and don’t bother coming back.”
She made a deft grab, catching the purse at the expense of dropping her shift, giving him another clear look at her pert breasts. Her priorities proved she’d gained a new profession.
“Once a whore, always a whore.” Steffan turned away, pouring a goblet of merlot, listening as door slammed shut. He fingered his manhood, trying to sooth the persistent ache. For the thousandth time, he cursed the Priestess, angry that she’d left. The woman was impossible. He’d offered her the consort’s crown of Lanverness, what more did the dark-damned temptress want? He gulped the wine, nearly gagging on its bitterness, nothing but dregs. “Pip!” He hurled the goblet against the wall, shattering the glass and spilling red wine down the stonework. Nothing seemed right since she’d left.
The red-haired lad appeared at the door. “Yes, my lord?”
“The wine’s gone off, nothing but dregs, and where’s the bloody bishop?”
“I sent a runner for the bishop, and I’ll fetch a fresh flagon.” The lad cast a wary glance his way and then disappeared behind the door.
Steffan paced his solar, eager to be gone. He had a war to win, but armies took time to prepare. At least he could rely on the general to see to the details. Together they’d take the cavalry south, leading a lightning raid to capture the queen’s gold, a boon from the traitors. With the treasury secured and both princes captured, the queen would be forced to surrender. Steffan grinned at the thought, the vaunted Spider Queen defeated by guile. He wondered what she’d be like in bed, another spoil of war. A smile graced his lips, once a whore, always a whore. Perhaps he needed a queen to quench his lust.
The door slammed open.
Bishop Taniff strode into the chamber; his breastplate burnished bright despite the many dents, his mitered helm held in the crook of his arm, his voice a snarl. “Are the rumors true?”
Steffan bridled at the bishop’s anger, but he kept his voice as smooth as glass. “So my runner found you.” Ruthless in battle, the bishop was a big man, a warrior cleric, his black beard forked, his dark hair plaited into braids, he seemed to fill the chamber with menace.
“Are the rumors true?” Fanaticism glowed from the bishop’s eyes like burning coals. “Is the Pontifax dead?”
A chill raced down Steffan’s spine, a premonition of disaster, yet he met the cleric’s stare, putting steel in his voice. “Have you lost your faith?”
The bishop reared back as if struck, but the glow in his eyes did not fade. “Have you heard what they’re saying in the streets? Is the Pontifax dead? Did he die in agony, a sinner roasted in the Flames?”
“You’re a warrior of the Flame God, yet you’d let lies quench your faith?”
The bishop took a step back, fairly shaking with rage.
Steffan pressed his assault. “You’ve seen the Pontifax take the Test of Faith. You’ve witnessed the holy miracle half a hundred times. How can you believe the heretics?”
The bishop’s gaze narrowed. “They’re even saying you killed the messengers from Coronth to claim power for yourself.”
The truth blindsided him, but Steffan never faltered. He spread his arms wide, innocence writ large across his face. “Am I a cleric? Or even a priest? No, I’m just a simple counselor, a servant to the Pontifax. The power of the temple could never belong to one such as me.”
The bishop teetered on the edge of reason.
“Someone tries to subvert our faith.”
The bishop’s gaze sharpened, like a dog keen for the hunt. “Lies then, all lies.”
Steffan nodded, lacing his voice with conviction. “Heretics have found their way among us. That’s why I’m leaving you in charge of Lingard.”
“Leaving?”
“Lingard is important but we dare not linger. We have a war to win.”
“You’re splitting the army? Why?”
“I’m taking the cavalry to capture the queen’s treasury, a lighting raid to the south, while you stay here to hold Lingard and root out the heretics.” The bishop was a true believer, a dangerous two-edged sword full of holy suspicions, hence Steffan’s decision to leave him behind. “I need you to deal with the heretics, to keep the faith strong. The Flame God has no better warrior.”
Mollified, the bishop sank to a chair, tugging on his forked beard. “But how in the nine hells did the heretics come among us?”
Steffan poured the bishop a goblet of wine, doubting the cleric would even notice the dregs. “Perhaps the taint comes from the people of Lingard. Or perhaps we’re so consumed by war; we haven’t spent enough time tending to the faith. Either way, the heretics must die.”
“And many will die for the sake of their sins.” The bishop swilled the wine. “But how do we catch them? The town folk have all taken the brand.”
Steffan wondered at the heretics, wondered how they’d gained the truth. Their death could not come soon enough. “Order your most faithful soldiers to sweep the city at night, arresting anyone in the streets. Put the prisoners to the question, and then feed them to the Flames. When the lies stop, you’ve caught the guilty.”
“Or scared them silent.”
Steffan shrugged. “Either way, the faith grows stronger.” He refilled the bishop’s goblet. “And while I’m gone, you should hold more devotions to the Flame God. Get the pyromancer involved. Give the army omens of victory. It’s the surest way to build morale.”
“Yes, more devotions to the Flames. The men need to be rededicated to the faith.” The bi
shop’s voice turned sonorous, quoting scripture. “The Pontifax says a man shall love the Flame more than he loves his life.” The bishop’s gaze narrowed. “But what about that pet prince of yours? He reeks of disbelief.”
Steffan hid a smile, so the bishop thought he could smell disbelievers. “The prince has his uses, although his time grows short.”
“Give him to me.”
“What?”
The bishop’s gaze glowed with fervor. “What better way to worship the Flames than to roast a royal infidel?”
The bloodthirstiness of the faithful never ceased to amaze Steffan. Religious fanaticism seemed to attract the most ruthless bastards, but the bishop had a point, Danly had grown annoying, his usefulness nearly done. Steffan decided to toss the bishop a bone. “When I return from taking the treasury, we’ll have a victory celebration. You can burn the prince then.”
“Good, a fitting offering to the Flames.”
“In the meantime, I need you to rule with an iron fist. Stop this plague of lies and strengthen the faith in Lingard. Find the heretics and put them to the Flame. And when I return, we’ll march on Pellanor to claim Lanverness for the Flame God.”
The bishop flashed a ruthless grin. “The path to heaven is paved with the ashes of infidels. It will be a righteous day.”
“Truly.” Steffan rose from the table. “And now I think we both have much to accomplish.”
“For the sake of the Flame.” The bishop made the sign of blessing and then rose, tucking his mitered helm under his arm.
Steffan waited till the door clicked closed. A grin of triumph broke across his face. Deception was such a sweet game and religion the perfect foil. There was nothing quite as satisfying as weaving a pack of lies and watching lesser men scramble to believe them. A dangerous truth had threatened to undermine his plans, but he’d taken the truth and twisted it back on the heretics. Steffan grinned, realizing deception felt almost as good as sex. He crossed the chamber to the arrow-slit window, staring down at the courtyard below. From the god’s eye view he watched as the bishop left the tower, a swirl of red and burnished steel, striding across the courtyard like a man on a mission. He’d loosed a hellhound on Lingard. The bishop would burn and torture till the heretics were silenced. And every burning would fuel the fanaticism of his troops. By the time he returned, he’d have an army slathering for the kill. Victory was nearly his. He could feel the Dark Lord’s pleasure. One lifetime was not enough.
S&SS [04] The Poison Priestess Page 38
