The Flame Priest (The Silk & Steel Saga) (51 page)

She turned and made her decision. “We need the mercenaries of Radagar.”

The prince looked shocked, the master nodded.

Prince Stewart protested, “You cannot trust bought swords.”

“I don’t propose to trust them, only use them.” Pain throbbed at the back of her eyes; she did not need another argument. “Put the mercenaries in the vanguard of the army. Use them as a shield in front of our own soldiers. Blunt the enemy’s weapons on the soldiers of Radagar. Mercenaries can be used without being trusted.”

The prince shook his head. “If the center fails, the whole army is routed. I cannot trust mercenaries in my vanguard.”

Her patience snapped. “We are the queen and you are the general. We will buy you an extra ten thousand swords. Surely with such grim odds, the general can find a way to use them!”

The prince flushed crimson under her glare.

She waved her hand in dismissal. “We have had enough argument for one day. You are dismissed.”

The prince bowed. “Your majesty, I did not mean to argue.”

His tone was full of regret. He was a good son, a young man burdened by great duties. She gave him a soft smile. “We know. We will speak to you tomorrow.”

He knelt and kissed her emerald ring of office, a mixture of concern and wary stubbornness in his face. “Tomorrow?”

It seemed their discussion was not yet done, but she nodded giving him permission to leave. She watched him go, her son who was also a warrior. The Master Archivist moved to follow, but she called him back. “Lord Highgate, we would speak to you.”

He closed the door and stood in front of the cold fireplace, his face composed, his arms behind his back, the counselor waiting on his queen. She studied the man, standing straight as a sword, his gaze keen, the perfect blend of strength and intelligence…such a temptation. So many sacrifices for her throne, for her kingdom, yet what did they accomplish? The woman buried beneath the crown railed for a taste of life…for one night of pleasure. She forced her mind back to the problem at hand. “Do we have a chance against thirty thousand?”

“The mercenaries may buy us some time but they are not the solution.”

“Then what is?”

He hesitated. “You played the monk brilliantly. Perhaps the mysterious monastery will make the difference.”

“A long shot. One we dare not count on.” She sighed. “Pity we do not have a magic artifact to provide a miracle or two.”

“Your majesty will think of something.” He gave her a wry smile. “And if you don’t, I will.”

He was always her rock. She found herself returning his smile, her headache banished. “You managed to win the last game of chess, employing a devious gambit as we recall.”

“A gambit I found in the archives. I need to read scrolls just to keep up with you.”

She laughed. He was her most worthy opponent, her most ardent admirer, her rock. “We shall miss you, Lord Highgate.”

He understood instantly. “Radagar?”

“There is no one else we can send, no one else we trust as much. Lanverness needs the extra swords and whatever else the mercenary court has to sell.”

He nodded.

“And be careful with our golds. The royal purse is fat but not bottomless. We may have need of every gold before this war is finished.”

“As you command.”

She studied his face, his dark penetrating eyes, his confident mouth, the faint scar at his left temple. “The
Rose Court
will be a lonely place without you.” Liandra fingered the strand of pearls at her throat. “How soon can you leave?”

“I’ll need a day to make all the arrangements, to make sure the queen is well guarded in my absence.”

Returning to the window, she stared down at the castle, wondering if she dared steal one night for herself, one single night of passion. “Lord Highgate…” she held her breath, afraid of the question, afraid of the answer. Liandra shook her head; she could only be the queen. “Lord Highgate, we command you to travel with all speed and come back safe to us.”

She felt the heat of his stare. She turned. His dark gaze burned into her…as if he knew the question in her mind.

“Ask me.” His voice was deep and hoarse.

Longing shivered through her but she could not forget the crown. She stared at him, torn with indecision…wondering if she could trust any man to accept a single night and not press for more.

“Even if it is only for one night, I would be there for you.”

The perfect answer. She wondered if he would be perfect in bed. It had been so long. The need overwhelmed her. Her voice fell to a hushed whisper. “No one must ever know, must ever suspect…”

“Majesty, I am your shadowmaster…and I serve only the queen.”

He stood confident and strong, his dark gaze blazing with need, yet he made no move to touch her, waiting on her decision.

Passion triumphed over duty. She went to her desk, to the hidden drawer, and removed the key to the secret passages. “Then come to us tonight when others sleep.” She crossed the distance and pressed the key in his hand. “For a single night, we will take off our crown.”

He knelt and kissed the hollow of her palm, tender and ardent, a promise of more.

A shiver of longing raced through her.

“Madam, you are always the queen.”

She watched him go…consumed with thoughts of the coming night.

Thousands marched to the beat of war. Aurochs horns loosed their eerie wail and red battle banners snapped in the wind. Helmets gleamed in the afternoon sun and red capes fluttered. Fearsome black halberds rode every shoulder, bristling with threat. The soldiers marched six across, a long multi-legged beast stretching to the southern horizon. The army of the Flame marched to war.

Steffan stood with the Pontifax on the rampart of the city wall, reviewing the troops. The Pontifax appeared as a vision of holiness, his golden robe gleaming like a second sun in the afternoon light. He gripped the ruby amulet and made the sign of blessing as the troops passed, proclaiming an omen of victory for the army. “Very impressive, Lord Raven, but have you left enough soldiers for our safety?”

Steffan nodded. “Of course, Holiness. The Fortress is held by five hundred of my best troops, more than enough to protect the Pontifax and control the city rabble.” It was a half-truth. Steffan had left five hundred behind but none of his best.

“And you’re sure this rebellion has been defeated?”

“The leader was a bard, known as the Dark Harper. His corpse rots in the temple square, serving as a lesson to the people.”

The Pontifax made the sign of blessing over the soldiers. “And you think one rotting corpse is enough to kill the rebellion?”

“Just so, Enlightened One. Strike the head from a snake and the body will still writhe, but the snake is dead. You’ll have no more trouble with the rebels.”

“Let us hope your words prove true.”

“I would not take the army south unless I knew you were safe.” Steffan made his voice confident. “You have the confessors, the Test of Faith, and five hundred soldiers, plenty to keep the people cowed.”

The Pontifax grunted. He tugged on his beard and glanced at Steffan. “The Keeper tells me that you plan to take the pyromancer with you.”

Steffan kept his face neutral, the Keeper would meddle one too many times. “The pyromancer will be useful to me.”

“I prefer to keep him in Balor, where he can best serve me with the Test of Faith.”

Steffan made his voice humble, a petitioner begging a favor. “Enlightened One, it is your miracle of the Test of Faith that holds the people in thrall. By comparison, the pyromancer is a mere conjurer of cheap tricks. I would never expose your Holiness to the risks of the army, but I must have a way of influencing the beliefs of the men. By manipulating the Flames with color and scent, the pyromancer can give the army omens of victory. Belief in a god-inspired invincibility is a mighty weapon for any army, but it is especially essential for the army of a theocracy. Belief is the fuel for fanatics. Surely the temporary loss of the pyromancer is a small price to pay for the plunder of Lanverness?”

The Pontifax grinned. “The plunder of Lanverness. I like the sound of that.” He stared at Steffan, a gleam of avarice in his eyes. “You have my leave to take the pyromancer south with you. But in return, I expect wagons full of gold, plunder and slaves.”

“Gold you shall have in abundance…but not the slaves.”

The Pontifax’s stare snapped to Steffan’s face. “Why not slaves? They’ve proven a valuable commodity.”

Steffan drew on lessons learned from the Dark Lord. “There are two kinds of war, Holiness. In the first, the victors swallow their opponents, turning the conquered into slaves, serfs, and eventually citizens. The danger is that the culture of the conquered is imbibed, eventually tainting the conqueror. In some ways, conquerors become what they eat.” He bowed to the Pontifax. “Coronth is a theocracy. We cannot afford to let our religion be corrupted by infidels, lest we lose what we already hold.” Steffan gestured to the long line of red stretching below the city walls. “The army of the Flame will wage a pure war, where the culture of the conquered will never be corrupted by weak infidels.” Steffan smiled. “We will sack the treasuries of our enemies, claiming their gold and their land for our own, but we will not wage a war of conquest…instead, we wage a pure war, a war of annihilation!”

The Pontifax stared at the long line of marching soldiers. “Is it possible to wage such a war?”

“For a theocracy, it is the only type of war.”

The two men stood on the rampart, listening to the tramp of thousands, the sound of invincibility. The Pontifax said, “Has there ever been such an army in the southern kingdoms?”

“Not since the time of Igor the Cruel.” Steffan swept his hand toward the horizon. “And even Prince Igor’s army would tremble before the might of the Flame.”

The Pontifax smiled. “Then you have our blessing. Return with the spoils of war.”

Steffan knelt and kissed the ring of the Pontifax, taking his leave of the old charlatan. With a final bow, he left the rampart and made his way down the stairs, a swirl of black and crimson.

His retinue waited at the base of the stairs. An elite guard of thirty Black Flames stood alongside his squire, Pip, the giant Olaff, and Jellikan the pyromancer. Steffan wished the raven-haired Priestess waited as well, but the vixen had vanished with the first light, leaving as mysteriously as she came. He’d enjoyed their dalliance, but the temptress had best keep her bargain.

“Mount up, we ride to war.” Steffan took the reins from Pip and mounted his sorrel stallion. He spurred the warhorse to a gallop and clattered out of the southern gates, leaving the others to catch up. His stallion raced the length of the army, his black cape streaming behind like dark tidings. Steffan laughed, he’d won the war of words in Coronth…now he’d try his hand at the war of swords against Lanverness. One lifetime was not nearly enough.

Soldiers did not bother guarding the dead. The dark cloaked corpse stood impaled on an iron spike, a lone figure standing vigil in the temple square. A night breeze lifted the cloak. From a distance it looked like dark wings flapping in the night, straining to fly free, but the corpse remained pinned, nailed to earth, a trapped soul.

Justin watched from the mouth of the alleyway. “You’ll soon be free, my friend.” He’d heard the bitter tale from the orphan lads. Betrayal followed by the capture of his friends and then finally the long fall. Samson had come late to courage but he’d found a way to make a difference with his death.

Stories about the Lord Raven and the Dark Harper consumed the city. The tales told how the Harper saved a lad from the dungeons and then cheated the Flames by jumping to his death. Some claimed the jump was a triumph for the Harper while others claimed the Raven had won, forever silencing the rebellious bard. Either way, all the tales ended in death. The story needed a better ending.

A lone soldier stood guard at the temple doors. Every turn of the hourglass, the guard walked a slow circuit around the temple. Justin waited till the guard turned the corner. “Now!”

Three men sprinted across the square. The breeze shifted and the stench of the rotting corpse engulfed them. Justin doubled over, retching his supper. Gagging, he wiped his mouth and joined Ben and Daniel at the corpse.

Justin gasped, “Get the cloak.”

Ben growled, “The bastards nailed it to his body.”

Justin swallowed the bile rising in his throat, cursing his weak stomach. He joined Ben at the grisly task. They pried long nails from the body, releasing the dark cloak. Unwrapped, the body proved a bloated ruin, the face a bloody pulp. Justin stared at the corpse, shuddering, finding no sign of his friend in the rotting horror.

Daniel hissed, “Hurry!”

Justin knelt and spread the length of canvas across the cobblestones while the two big men wrestled the corpse off the long cruel spike. The gruesome task proved harder than expected. The spike refused to give up its grisly prize. The two men heaved and the body came free, releasing a gush of foul odors.

Justin fought to keep from retching.

The men laid the ruined body on the canvas.

A whistle pierced the night.

Daniel hissed, “Quick, the signal!”

They rolled the body in the canvas, hiding the horror and muting the stench. Daniel and Ben lifted the ends while Justin carried the Harper’s cloak. They ran for the alleyway, escaping into the back ways, thankful for the moonless night.

The city slept, leaving the streets deserted, but the conspirators kept to the alleys to be safe. They bore their grisly burden to the south side of the city. Jack and the other orphan lads waited in the shadows of the herb garden. Red stood with a shovel in his hand, a shallow grave dug beneath a small crabapple tree. Justin had chosen the spot, knowing how much Samson liked apples.

They laid the canvas wrapped body in the grave and circled around to pay their respects. There’d be no tombstone and no coffin, just a pauper’s grave, the best they could do.

One at a time, they took their turn saying goodbye. Shiner went the first. “Ya kept yer word. Ya saved Jack and for that we thank ya.” The dark-hared lad released a handful of dirt into the shallow grave.

Willie, the roof rat, fought back tears as he dropped a fistful of soil into the grave. “Luck, Samson.”

Red stepped forward. “Ya died a hero’s death, ya died our friend.”

Daniel, the big tanner, knelt, laying hand on the canvas-wrapped corpse. “You helped save my life when the rest of the city was afraid to do anything. I owe you my life, Samson Springwater.”

They all looked to Jack. The dark-haired lad reached into his pocket and knelt, placing a bright red apple atop of the pale canvas. Jack stood back from the grave and shook his head, tears gushing down his face.

Justin went last. “Words are not enough but sometimes words are all we have.” He stared down into the grave remembering Samson. “True courage means defeating your own fears. You showed true courage by coming back to Coronth and fighting the Flame God. In your last act, you saved a friend and preserved the honor of the Dark Harper. I’m honored to call you my friend.” Justin smoothed the soiled cloak folded over his arm. “You will be missed.” The bard tossed a handful of soil into the grave and then sang a parting lullaby. Sad and bittersweet, the melody spread a soothing balm over the small gathering of mourners.

When the last note faded, the friends dried their tears and filled the grave. They smoothed the soil flat, hiding footprints and any sign of burial, the small crabapple tree serving as the only marker. Their work finished, they disbanded into the back alleys, seeking bolt-holes for the night.

The rumors started the next morning. The markets buzzed with gossip about the missing body. Some said the Pontifax had ordered the corpse removed because of the stench. Others told tales of a grisly ghost walking the back alleyways seeking vengeance. Everyone had a story. Rumors ran rampant through the Flame God’s city, waiting for a spark of truth.

Justin stayed in hiding, cleaning the dark cloak, washing the stench out of the wool and stitching the terrible rents made by the nails. Two nights later, he darkened his face with lampblack, tucked his small harp under his arm, and donned the cloak.

Hiding his face in the cloak’s deep cowl, the Dark Harper prowled the back alleys, making his way to the Praying Maiden. Lewd laughter and lantern light spilled out of the tavern kitchen into the back alleyway. Climbing the stairs to the back door, he stepped into the bustling kitchen.

A woman’s scream announced his arrival.

A pitcher of ale crashed to the floor, shards of pottery flying in all directions.

Cooks and serving lasses turned to stare, their faces pale with fear.

Bev, a gap-toothed serving wench, stammered, “I-is it really you, H-harper? Have ya come back from the grave ta sing for us?”

Justin nodded but said nothing. Keeping his head bowed, he strode from the kitchen into the great room, a silent wraith in a dark cloak. The kitchen folk followed, crowding the doorway, more than one making the hand sign against evil.

The Praying Maiden was crowded, mostly men, mostly working poor, drowning their sorrows in ale. They sat at long trestle tables, their stares dead and dull, beaten by drudgery, beaten by the cruelties of the Flame God…fertile ground for his songs.

The Dark Harper took his customary seat on the stool in the shadows by the door to the kitchen. He settled his small harp on his lap and ripped through a flurry of chords, loosing the music as his herald.

Silence followed, hanging like a shroud across the tavern.

Patrons stared open mouthed, gaping in shock and surprise.

The Dark Harper surveyed his audience, seeing questions on every face. He knew they waited for proof, needing more than just a man in a dark cloak. Music was the answer. His fingers ripped across the strings, loosing a melody of anguish, of burnt dreams and trampled justice. His tenor voice joined the harp, revealing the truth of the Flame God. Lyrics and melody wove together, exposing the lies of the priests, reminding the listeners of loved ones lost to the Flames. The bard used all his skills, plucking emotions with every chord. He sang of injustice, horror, and fear, discordant notes jamming together, the music tortured by the Flames. Holding nothing back, he gave them the truth and then he gave them the courage to change. Lifting the tempo to a rousing beat, he belted out ballads, tales of the rebels, of sinner freed from the stocks, of lives saved from the Flames. The rebels outwitted the soldiers, outwitted the priests. The music flowed free and proud. His fingers blistered across the strings, ripping into a rousing round of chords. His voice soared to the rafters with triumph, a victory of Light over Dark.

He stilled the strings and waited, letting the last note soar to silence.

The patrons sat stunned.

One man clanked his tankard against the table and others followed. The beat grew like rolling thunder, pride and defiance glowing from every face.

The Dark Harper let them revel in their courage and their hope. Then he bowed low, tucked the small harp close to his side, and slipped out the kitchen door.

The kitchen folk scattered, as if they feared his touch. But as he walked past, he felt hands reach out to see if there was flesh beneath the dark cloak. He smiled, hiding his face within the deep cowl, never breaking his stride.

Leaving the Maiden, he disappeared into the darkness, visiting three more taverns that night. By morning, a legend was born. The Dark Harper had returned from the grave, singing songs against the Flame God. The tale of Samson’s death had a new ending.

Justin walked the back alleyways, thinking of knitting needles and the smell of fresh baked apple pie. Grandmother Magda always said it would take a miracle to defeat the miracle of the Test of Faith. Thanks to Samson’s bravery, the rebels gained a miracle that night. The resurrection of the Dark Harper was a start…but Justin still had to find a way to free the silver-haired grandmother from the Fortress of the Flame…and then he’d discredit the Pontifax…one miracle at a time.