The Flame Priest (The Silk & Steel Saga) Page 10

  The monk was next.

  Tall and thin with long silver-blond hair, the monk led his piebald horse out across the narrow pass. Leaning on a stout quarterstaff, he walked with his head bowed and shoulders hunched, as if he carried an immense weight. Kath wondered what memories could be worse than the menace of the ice. The monk and mare reached the first ice shard. The piebald mare skittered sideways, eyes rolling, but the monk forged ahead, heedless of the horse’s fear.

  Crack! A thunderous noise split the peace of the mountains.

  The glacier groaned, releasing a shard of blue ice.

  The piebald mare reared, hooves flashing in terror.

  The monk fell to his knees, pulled off-balance by the horse.

  Time stopped as the ice fell.

  A sword of blue ice plunged towards the pass. Chips of ice rained down, solid pellets of pain. The mare screamed in terror. The blue sword slammed into the pass, ice grinding against stone, narrowly missing the monk. The stone ledge shook. The mare bucked wild with panic, the whites of her eyes showing, her muzzle flecked with foam. The monk lay prostrate beside the plunging hooves.

  A streak of brown raced from the far side of the pass. Danya ran to the side of the mare, hands raised in supplication.

  The mare skittered backwards, front hooves slashing toward the new threat, mad with fear. The horse snorted and squealed, dancing close to death.

  Kath held her breath, expecting to see blood, but Danya dodged the hooves, reaching up to lay her hands on the neck of the piebald mare. A shudder rippled through the mare, her eyes showing brown instead of white. Her coat slick with sweat, the mare settled onto four legs. Quivering and blowing hard, the piebald mare nuzzled Danya. Peace returned to the pass.

  Kath had never seen anything like it. She thrust the reins of her horse into the black knight’s hands and sprinted back across the knife-edged toward the fallen monk. She slowed as she neared the trembling mare, not wanting to spook the horse.

  Danya’s voice was soft but sure, “The mare will be fine. Help the monk.”

  Kath knelt next to Zith. “Can you walk?”

  Blood trickled from a deep cut across his forehead. His hazel eyes were dazed with shock. “W-what happened?”

  “The glacier. We need to get you to safety. Can you walk?”

  Duncan appeared next to Kath, reaching down to help. Together, they got Zith to his feet. The old man had more weight to his frame than Kath expected. The monk staggered like a drunk but they held him upright, steering him to the safety of the far side. Danya followed with the mare.

  Duncan settled the monk next to a boulder. Kath ran to get a skin of water and a pouch of healing herbs from her saddlebag. Returning, she was surprised when Duncan took the pouch and began to tend the monk. Kath watched as he chose a sprig of dried lavender. Crushing the purple flowers, he held his fist close under the monk’s nose. Zith snorted, a bloom of color rushing to his face.

  A soft voice from behind said, “Will he live?”

  Startled, Kath turned to find Danya standing close. Deep brown eyes, the color of earthy loam, met and held Kath’s gaze. They were of the same height and nearly the same age. Kath nodded, acknowledging the woman’s bravery. “You saved them both.”

  Relief washed across Danya’s face. “The mare didn’t mean it you know, she was just spooked by the ice.”

  Kath searched the young woman’s face. Brown hair framed an oval face, a small nose and a generous mouth…nothing extraordinary or unusual, yet there was something more here. “How did you do it? How did you get the mare to calm so quickly?”

  Fear flashed across Danya’s face, quickly buried beneath a rising blush. Danya ducked her head and mumbled, “It’s nothing. I just have a way with animals.”

  Another riddle. Kath let her go, but she suspected there was more to the two strangers than anyone guessed. She prayed it was so. From what she’d learned at the monastery, they’d need all the help they could get to slay the Mordant.

  12

  Micah

  Sunlight streamed through the high trees, sending a few shafts of golden light all the way to the forest’s needle-strewn floor. Micah threaded a path through the great trees, cedars, redwood, and pine, dancing his way through the beams of light that pooled on the forest floor, collecting luck as he went. He caught the first pool of sunlight next to the waxy dark-green leaves of a holly bush and then scrambled over a fallen redwood, thick with moss and mushrooms, eager to reach the second. His Nana had told him that any light beams that reached all the way to the forest floor were lucky and any boy who danced in their pools was sure to have a long life rich with golds. He knew that he was lucky, his Nana said so, but he was still waiting for the golds. In all of his seven years he’d never held a gold in his hand, nor a silver for that matter, only coppers and it took a lot of coppers just to buy one meat pie at the village fair. Still it was fun to catch the sunbeams and some day the golds would come, he was sure of it; his Nana had said so and she was old and wise and had a story about almost everything.

  He ran through the forest, wondering what type of story Nana would tell tonight. His favorites were about knights in bright armor mounted on warhorses but perhaps tonight it would be something different, something about a boy besting the fearsome sea serpents of the lake in order to win four prized rainbow trout for his family’s supper. The four fish dangling on his pole were smaller than the ones in his imagination, but at least one of them truly was a trout, the best eating the lake had to offer. His family would feast tonight, thanks to his skill with rod and worm, and it had only taken him half the morning to make the catch.

  Dodging to the left, he decided to tag one more pool of light before heading home when he heard the voice, “Something bad is coming.”

  Fear shot through him, the voice was never wrong.

  Dropping to his knees, Micah crouched behind a thick redwood trunk, slinking into the loam of the forest floor. The silent voice rarely spoke but when it did he listened. His Mam didn’t believe in the voice but old Nana did. Nana said that the silent voice was a gift from the forest gods; a gift of warning that should always be heeded. Micah tried to listen for more, but it was hard to hear anything over his heart’s wild pounding. Peering from behind the tree, his stare flicked to shade and shadow searching for wolves or a rare mountain cat, but he saw no sign of either. Fearful of claw and fang, he kept to his hiding place, his hand searching out a rock among the pine needles. The rock fit perfectly into his palm, making a much better weapon than his slender fishing pole. The rock gave him courage and his racing heart stilled. The silent voice remained silent and no threat appeared. Perhaps the danger had passed. Micah stepped out from behind the redwood, alert to any danger, but none came. Relieved, he raced for home, no more sun pools today.

  His bare feet sped through the forest, taking the shortest way. The fish dangling from his pole made wet slapping sounds against his back, beating out a rhythm as he ran. He reached the edge of the forest, the trees giving way to the small meadow surrounding their cottage, when the voice came again, “Hide, hide now!”

  Micah froze, still as a deer, searching for danger, searching for a place to hide. So close to home, he was sorely tempted to run to their cottage. The thatch-roofed cottage stood alone in the middle of the sunlit meadow, the door open and welcoming. He could hear his mother singing as she churned the butter she planned to sell at market. His mother’s sweet song drifted across the meadow, proving there was no danger, yet Micah hesitated. Old Nana said he should always obey the voice…yet home was so close. He longed to race across the meadow and burst through the open door, but the voice had said to hide. Deciding to obey, Micah moved off the path and crouched behind a fallen pine. He held his breath, trying to be as still as a mouse.

  Inside his mind the voice screamed, “No! Hide better! Hide better now!”

  Terrified, Micah scrambled in search of a better hiding place. He spied a large blackberry bramble nestled next to a boulder. Dropping h
is fishing pole, he ran to the brambles and lay on the ground, worming his way into the tangled thorns. Squirming on his back, he followed a rabbit run that snaked its way inward. He was too big for the run, but he forced his way through, heedless of the thorns. Scratched and bleeding, he stopped when he reached the bramble’s heart, pressing his back against the cool stone of the boulder. Half afraid to look, Micah peered through the thorns trying to spy the danger.

  “Stay quiet, stay safe!”

  Micah’s breath caught in his throat, the voice had never said so much before. The last time he’d heard it he’d been hunting truffles. Finding a plump patch of the tasty black ‘shrooms growing on the underside of a felled tree, he was about to reach for the prize when the voice had warned him. It was only then that he saw the wood adder, coiled and ready to strike. Wood adders were a sure and painful way to die, but the voice had only given him one warning. Micah shuddered to guess what four warnings could mean. Fueled by Nana’s tales, he imagined slavering werewolves or shambling ghouls raised by an evil wizard. Pressing his back against the boulder, Micah made himself small and quiet, a rabbit hiding in the thorns.

  He caught a flicker of movement in the forest.

  Afraid to look, Micah strained to see.

  A lone man approached, walking through the woods. Tall and lean and dressed in long flowing robes of a rich yellow-gold color, like the pools of sunlight on the forest floor. He walked with a long, easy stride, using a quarterstaff for a walking stick, a leather rucksack on his back. His robe was travel-stained but the rich gold color marked him as a wealthy noble. No one from the village could afford a dye like that. But a nobleman without guards or even a horse was a riddle, not a danger. Perhaps the voice warned of something else. Puzzled, Micah watched from the brambles.

  The stranger followed the path that led to his family’s cottage. Micah bit his lip, worried. He knew he shouldn’t look, but his stare locked on the stranger. Nana always said he was too curious for his own good.

  The stranger stopped as if something had caught his attention. He glanced around and then moved toward a fallen pine tree.

  The hairs bristled on the back of Micah’s neck.

  The man stooped behind the log and rose holding Micah’s abandoned pole, the four fish still dangling on the line. Surveying the forest, his gaze swept toward the brambles.

  Micah held his breath, watching the stranger. The man had short-cropped blonde hair and blue eyes and the faint beginnings of a beard. From the fairness of his face, Micah guessed the stranger was highborn…until he caught the full brunt of the man’s stare. Like getting doused with freezing water…only worse. Something cold and evil stared out of the stranger’s eyes…something very wrong…something far worse than all of Nana’s stories combined. Micah shivered, pressing his back against the boulder, wishing he could disappear.

  Trapped by the man’s gaze, Micah found it hard to breath. His stomach clenched into a fierce knot and sweat poured out of him, drenching his clothes. The man’s stare urged him to speak, to give himself away. He fought, trying to close his eyes, to reject the stranger, but his eyelids would not obey.

  A shout teetered on the edge of Micah’s lips.

  “Stay quiet, stay safe!”

  The silent voice broke the spell. Micah swallowed, holding his yell inside.

  The man’s stare moved on.

  Micah breathed again, short and shallow, fearful that even the smallest breath would draw the man’s attention.

  The man finished his slow survey of the forest, leaving Micah to wonder if the golden-robed stranger had truly seen him. He shuddered to think how close he’d come to betraying his hiding place.

  The stranger shouldered Micah’s fishing pole and resumed walking toward the sun-drenched meadow…toward the cottage, toward home.

  Micah’s heart thundered; he had to warn his Nana and his Mam. Fear for his family warred against his fear of the stranger. He screwed his eyes shut and told himself that a knight wouldn’t hide in the brambles, a knight would find a way to save his family. His fist closed around the rock that had never left his hand. A single tear escaped, running down his cheek. He wasn’t a knight, he was just a boy with a rock, but he had to try. He started to crawl back through the rabbit run when he heard the voice, “Stay hidden, there is nothing you can do.”

  Micah froze, afraid to do nothing, afraid to disobey.

  The singing stopped…and the screams began.

  Micah had never heard anything like it. Screams raced out of the cottage and across the meadow impaling his mind like daggers. Such agony could not come from a human voice but he knew it did. His mother’s voice, his Nana’s voice, he stopped his ears, but it did no good. Thrashing to escape the screams, the thorns flayed his flesh. His mind tried to flee his own body, but there was nowhere to go. It wasn’t until the sun set that the screams finally stopped.

  Micah lay in a stupor, impaled by the brambles, unable to do anything but watch.

  Smoke rose in lazy curls from the chimney. The smell of fried trout wafted out of the door as if to taunt him. The smell sickened him. Convulsing, he emptied his stomach onto the dirt, trying to disgorge the memories of the screams.

  The stars came out overhead. He found the Big Ladle, the fire breathing Dragon and the Great Bear. He wondered if these were the same stars that his Nana told stories about, but they couldn’t be. How could those same stars shine on something so evil? Micah stared at the stars demanding an answer, but he passed out before they replied.

  He woke the next morning, stiff and sore, afraid to open his eyes. He wanted to be safe in his bed, the ordeal nothing but a nightmare, but his body told him otherwise. Shivering with cold and caked in blood from countless cuts, Micah opened his eyes to the brambles. It was real, it was all real, but something told him he hadn’t seen the worst. He turned his head to stare at the cottage.

  The man in the golden robes stood in the doorway.

  It was almost as if he was waiting for Micah, but Micah refused to move.

  The boy’s heart beat loud in his ears, marking the passage of time. He waited, too afraid to even pray.

  The golden stranger shrugged on his rucksack, picked up his staff and left the cabin. He passed to the far side of the meadow, disappearing into the woods, whistling a tune as he walked.

  Micah waited. He waited till the sound of the whistling faded into the forest. He waited till he heard the robins and the jays singing in the branches again. He waited till the sun was high in the sky and his throat was parched with thirst. Finally, when his mouth was so dry that he could barely swallow, he bulled his way out of the brambles, heedless of the clawing thorns.

  Pulling free of the brambles, he stood at the edge of the meadow and called to his Nana and Mam. It was a weak, croaky call but it didn’t matter. In his heart he knew they would never answer.

  The silent voice spoke again, “Don’t go to the cottage. Turn away, else the evil will spread.”

  But this time Micah couldn’t obey; he had to see for himself. Clutching the rock, he crossed the meadow and stood before the door. The stranger had left the door closed, a bloody mark painted on the wood. It was crudely drawn but clear nonetheless. Scrawled in red, scrawled in blood, was the mark of the stranger, the mark of evil. Micah made the hand sign to ward off the Dark Lord, knowing it was too late. Gripping the rock tight, he pushed the door open and walked into a bloody nightmare.

  His mind shuddered and stopped.

  Someone was screaming.

  He recognized his own voice.

  He began to run, chased by his own screams. Barefoot and bloody, he ran through the forest, desperate to escape the cottage. He didn’t remember crossing the stream or running along the dirt lane but somehow he got to the village. He ran to the center, to the old well, yelling and screaming despite his parched throat.

  Villagers tumbled from their homes, the forge, and the tavern. They gathered around, shock on their faces. Some tried to help, but he pushed them away, the
tale bursting out of him. He told them about the golden-robed wizard and his spells of evil. He told them about hiding in the brambles and hearing the screams. Through a veil of tears, he told them about the horrors of the cottage. Dropping to his knees, he scrawled in the dirt, drawing the wizard’s sign. Remembering the bloody mark on the door, Micah drew the sign of evil. He drew a man’s open hand and on the palm was a seeing eye.

  13

  Samson

  A rat scurried across the alleyway, brazen in the sunlight. Rats, Samson hated rats. The Flame God’s city was full of them, especially in the back alleys. He turned his head, not wanting to see the reason the rat risked daylight but his nose betrayed him. Something rotten, something more than the usual refuse, something dead laced with decay. He held his sleeve to his face and walked faster. The stench was another reason to hate the back ways, but the alleys were safer than the streets. He’d never seen a red robed priest in the alleys, or the bright-eyed faithful for that matter…the grime might tarnish their holiness. Samson chuckled but the sound was bitter. Compared to the priests, the rats were good company.

  Samson threaded his way down the dirt lane, doing his best to avoid the yellow puddles. The alley narrowed, the buildings on either side becoming a better quality, stone instead of wood, a sure sign the back way was coming to an end.

  He paused in the shadowy exit, scanning the intersecting street, searching for the telltale red of a priest’s robe or a guard’s tabard but found none. Relieved, he stepped into the cobblestones, joining the noon-time crowd, trying to look innocent; worried that he didn’t know what innocent meant anymore.

  Hands in his pockets, he strolled the street of chandlers, wooden signs displaying tapered candles. He shook his head, amazed that merchants with the same wares flocked to the same street, as if they found profit in numbers. It was the same for cobblers. He wondered how their little shop would fare away from the other boot makers, but then they hadn’t returned to Coronth to earn golds…or to make boots. Samson sighed, wishing he was still in Lanverness.