The Flame Priest (The Silk & Steel Saga) Page 20

  Captain Durnheart was the first to reply, “For the queen!” The others echoed his response, a shout of courage defying the odds.

  Their conviction was like an elixir to the queen. “With such loyalty we can not fail.” She flashed a smile of courage and determination. “Listen and we shall tell you how to weave a web to catch a viper.” She explained her plan, assigning tasks to each of them. Liandra did not believe in war but now that the battle was joined, she would not shirk from it. It was past time the traitors felt the Spider Queen’s venom.

  22

  Duncan

  Redwoods, cedar, and spruce gave way to the lighter greens of birch, alder, and aspen. As the companions rode north the trees thinned, slowly giving way to farmland. Sunlight streamed through the branches and birdsong rode the air. The forest seemed peaceful enough, but something itched at Duncan’s senses, a vague unease. He scanned the forest as he rode, but the threat remained elusive, a dread lurking just out of reach. He kept his short bow strung and his gaze alert but the peace of the forest remained unbroken. Riding in the lead, he took the risk of lifting his eye patch, using all of his senses to search for the danger, but he found no target for his arrows. Frustrated, Duncan thrummed his legs against the gelding, hoping to outrun the lurking dread.

  A rider approached on his right. Duncan swiveled in the saddle and found Danya urging her cream-colored mare forward. The girl rode the pale mare with a fluid grace, almost as if she’d been born to the saddle. He wondered if it was part of her magic.

  She drew even, her voice rising over the drumming hooves. “Blaine’s charger has a loose shoe. We should find a blacksmith.”

  He turned and studied the knight’s warhorse, unable to detect any flaw in the charger’s gait. “How do you know?”

  “I just know.”

  Magic. He trusted his own senses more than any magic, but the knight’s battle-trained charger could not be risked. Duncan nodded, “Best if we find a village and get the warhorse properly shod.” He took a deep breath, tasting the air. The scent of wood smoke rode the wind but the horizon was empty of chimney smoke.

  “Bryx says there’s a village to the east. If we keep to a steady trot we should get there by noon.”

  “The wolf told you this?”

  Danya’s face clouded. “Well not in so many words, just the stink of too many people in the direction of the rising sun.” Danya shrugged. “It’s more feelings and smells, than words.”

  The mountain wolf chose that moment to lope out of the brush, a wide grin on his face.

  “Sometimes I think that wolf is laughing at me.”

  Danya chuckled, flashing a smile.

  Duncan gave up and said, “Tell the wolf we’ll follow him to the village, but once there, it would be best if he stayed out of sight. Most villagers don’t take kindly to wolves.”

  “Don’t worry, he knows. Besides, Bryx doesn’t like the stink of towns. He’ll stick to the forest and fields.”

  The wolf yipped and set off toward the east at a ground-eating lope. They followed at a steady trot, riding for the better part of the morning. The forest fringe faded away to farm fields and vineyards, a patchwork of gold and green, peaceful and content. Beyond the fields, tendrils of chimney smoke scored the summer sky, marking the location of the village. The wolf grinned back at them and melted into the fields, disappearing into the summer green.

  The riders followed a sunken dirt lane toward the east. A pair of fortified towers rose in the distance, marking the seat of a minor lordling. A purple banner emblazoned with three golden spears streamed from the tower rampart. Duncan recognized the banner and scowled. Baron Brannock carried a reputation as a cruel and petty tyrant, a tight-fisted lord with a thirst for his neighbor’s lands. They’d do well to avoid the baron and his men.

  The road split into a fork. Duncan turned the gelding toward the village, avoiding the twin towers. Deep cart ruts and clumps of manure marked a path leading straight to the village. Duncan slowed the gelding to a walk as a sign of courtesy.

  Thatch-roofed cottages clustered close, the smell of wood smoke heavy in the air. They rode passed a group of women gathered at a well, a few knee-high children clutching at homespun skirts. Duncan nodded hello but the women avoided his stare, herding the children away. He caught a look of fear in one woman’s glance, something far more than the usual distrust of strangers. The fear puzzled him, but they needed to get the warhorse shod.

  Duncan followed the road into the heart of the village. A few stone buildings stood among the wooden cottages. A chicken fluttered across the road in a squawk of feathers. Faces turned to study the strangers, none of them welcoming. A sense of unease shivered down Duncan’s spine, as if the dread of the forest had followed them to the village. If they hadn’t needed a blacksmith, he would have kept riding, but the warhorse would be valuable in a fight, it shouldn’t take long to get the horse shod.

  A column of sooty smoke marked the forge. Duncan dismounted and tied the gelding to a post. He followed the beat of a hammer to the forge. A sweat-soaked blacksmith worked a bar of hot metal against an anvil. A bellows boy kept the forge glowing cherry-red. The big man glanced at Duncan, his voice a deep rumble. “Somethin’ I can do you for?” The words were welcoming but the glance was not.

  Duncan kept his voice friendly. “I’ve got a horse outside that needs re-shod and seven more horses I’d like you to have a look at. We’ve a long road ahead and we’re anxious to be off.”

  The hammer rang against the iron, never missing a beat. “Four shoes for a silver and I’ll see the color of your coin first. Course you’ll have to wait till I finish this piece.”

  Duncan reached for his coins, flashing gold to the blacksmith. “Two golds if you’ll do them all now.”

  “Eight horses?”

  “But only one that definitely needs shod.”

  The hammer stopped. The blacksmith plunged the rod into the glowing coals, the smell of hot iron heavy in the air. “I’ll take your gold. Be back in a few hours and I should have them done.” The coins disappeared into the blacksmith’s fist. “Show me your horses.”

  The big man followed Duncan out into the sunshine. They found Danya checking the rear hoof of Blaine’s warhorse, the lanky knight hovering at the girl’s side. Danya nodded toward the blacksmith, her voice soft but sure. “The shoe needs replaced and there’s a hairline crack starting at the side of the hoof. Just as well we stopped.”

  The blacksmith shouldered the knight aside and examined the hoof. “The crack’s not too bad. Just needs filed. A bit of glue and a new shoe and the horse will be fine.”

  Satisfied to leave the horses in the care of the blacksmith and the wolf-girl, Duncan said, “We’ve a few hours to spend while the blacksmith does his work. Who’ll join me for a meal and some gossip at the tavern?”

  Blaine was predictable. “I’ll stay and help Danya.”

  Duncan kept the smile from his face.

  Sir Tyrone said, “I’ll visit the market and see if there’s anything good for the cook pot.”

  Duncan nodded. “Don’t take too long.” He turned to Kath and the monk. Kath looked at the monk and said, “We’re with you.”

  They left the blacksmith shop and strolled down the lane toward the tavern. They passed a carpentry shop loud with hammers. A pair of men worked to repair a thatched roof but otherwise they met only women and small children. Duncan smiled but the women shied away, crossing to the far side of the lane and making the hand sign against evil. Duncan stretched his senses, trying to understand the villagers’ fear but he found no answers.

  He leaned toward Kath and whispered, “Stay sharp. I’ve a bad feeling about this place.”

  She nodded, her hand resting on her sword hilt, her eyes scanning the village.

  He liked that she heeded his warning without questions.

  A timber-framed longhouse served as the tavern, a weathered sign over the double doors. They climbed the stairs and entered the great room, eyes a
djusting to the smoke-filled gloom. The tavern was stuffy with the smell of spilled ale and spitted meat.

  The low rumble of conversation came to a sudden stop. The tavern was crowded with men. Soldiers in the purple livery of the local lord and sellswords in patched leathers and chainmail turned to stare at the strangers. A few of the stares were curious but most were hostile…a much rougher crowd than he’d expected.

  Duncan lifted his hands in a gesture of peace and nodded to the barkeeper. He chose an empty table near the door and sat with his back to the wall. Kath sat on his right, the monk on his left. Flashing a gold coin, Duncan caught the attention of the portly barkeeper.

  Wiping his hands on a grease-stained apron, the barkeeper ambled to their table. “Whad d’ya want?”

  “A meal and information.”

  Eyeing the gold coin, the barkeeper said, “The gold will buy ya a loaf of white bread, three mutton pies and a pitcher of ale, the best fare in town. Any answers will depend on yer questions.”

  “Then I’ll ask the questions first.”

  The barkeeper shook his head, a stubborn look on his face. “In this town, strangers pay first.”

  Duncan didn’t like flashing gold in room crowded with sellswords but he wanted answers. He slid the coin across the table.

  A meaty palm slammed down, trapping the coin. “Whad d’ya want ta know?”

  “Why so many sellswords?”

  The barkeeper shrugged, “The Baron’s anxious. Anxious lords attract sellswords.”

  “What’s there to be anxious about?”

  The barkeeper squinted, a suspicious look on his face. “Where d’ya come from that ya haven’t heard?”

  Duncan felt it best not to mention the monastery. “From Lanverness, we’re just passing through. Stopped to get a horse shod.”

  The barkeeper stared at the leather-clad archer, disbelief on his face.

  Kath leaned forward, her voice surprisingly soft. “Please, sir, we’d really like to know.”

  The barkeeper looked at the girl, his face softening. “Ya best keep ridin. Somethin evil’s been stalkin the farms and woods around these parts. Cottages drip with blood and whole families are found dead, their flayed skins nailed to the walls. There’s talk that one of them cursed wizards of old has returned to haunt the land.” The man’s fear-filled eyes slid toward the monk. “The baron’s offered a bounty for the wizard’s head. The bounty’s lured sellswords to town like flies to carrion. Best if ya finish yer business and move on.”

  Duncan kept his face neutral and passed a second coin across the table. “We’ll have the standard fare and a flagon of ale.”

  The barkeeper backed away. “I’ll send the girl with yer ale.”

  Duncan glanced at Kath.

  Her face was grim. “Perhaps the Mordant has left a trail after all.”

  “Or set a trap.” The menace he’d felt in the forest made more sense. Turning to the monk, Duncan whispered, “If the peasants fear a wizard then I’m guessing the Mordant is still garbed in a robe from the monastery. Perhaps you should find something else to wear.”

  The monk stared, anger etched across his face.

  A serving girl approached with a pitcher of ale and three tankards. Blonde and buxom, her hands shook as she served the tankards. She scuttled back to the bar without making eye contact.

  The low rumble of conversation resumed, but too many stares were still turned their way. Too many hands rested on sword hilts, Duncan didn’t like the odds. “We’ll have our meal and leave. I’d rather sleep under the stars than spend a single night in this town. This place reeks of fear. And the sellswords might decide to collect our heads without bothering to check who they belong to.”

  Zith leaned toward Duncan. “The local lord might have information about the wizard. The sooner we catch the Mordant the better.”

  “Better to avoid Baron Brannock. We ride as soon as the horses are shod.”

  Zith gave Duncan a searching look. “Then how will we find the Mordant?”

  “We’ll try another village, one with less sellswords.” He shook his head with the irony of it. “We were looking for tracks on the ground when we should have been searching for fear.” Duncan tightened his hands into fists. “Follow the fear and we’ll find the Mordant.”

  The serving girl returned balancing a tray laden with bread and steaming meat pies. The girl edged the tray onto the table and served each of them a small pie in a deep dish. Zith reached to help, but the girl flinched away, her gaze dropping to the monk’s outstretched hands.

  A scream split the tavern. The tray clattered to the floor, the plates shattering.

  Pale faced and wide-eyed the girl backed away. Pointing at the monk, she screeched, “The Evil Eye! He bears the mark of Evil on his hand!”

  Swords slid from scabbards.

  Kath reached for her sword, but Duncan stayed her hand. He rose from the table holding his open palms out. “We’re peaceful travelers. We’ve done no harm and want no trouble.”

  From the back of the room a man yelled, “I seen what the wizard did! I seen with my own eyes what was left of my kin!”

  The sellswords stalked forward, like hounds on the hunt.

  Duncan kept his back the wall, shuffling towards the door.

  The nearest sellsword growled a warning. “Where do you think yer going?”

  The tavern door swung open and Sir Blaine stood on the threshold, sunlight glinting on his silver surcoat.

  The sellswords froze.

  Duncan almost laughed; who better to come to the rescue than a knight of the Octagon. Sir Blaine drew his great blue sword and held the doorway by shear intimidation. The three companions reached the door. They cleared the tavern without violence and sprinted for the smithy.

  Sir Blaine caught up to Duncan and said, “What was that?”

  “A trap. Seems we’ve followed in the Mordant’s footsteps. A serving girl saw the tattoo on the monk’s hand and claimed it as a sign of evil. We need to get out of here before the villagers start burning strangers.” Glancing at the knight, Duncan added, “Is your horse shod?”

  “Yes but Danya wanted the blacksmith to check the rest of the horses.”

  “No time for that.”

  They raced to the smithy and found Sir Tyrone and Danya in conversation with the blacksmith, looking at the hoof of one of the packhorses.

  “Get to your horses, we ride now!” The urgency of Duncan’s tone brooked no argument.

  The companions scrambled to tighten cinches and secure the leads on the packhorses. One packhorse, shied and bucked, refusing the bit. Duncan shouted, “Leave him if you can’t get him settled.”

  Danya laid a hand on the horse and got him settled. The wolf-girl was the last to mount up. Duncan led them out into the lane.

  A crowd of peasants and sellswords had started to form.

  Duncan nosed his horse forward, pushing his way through the grim-faced crowd. The villagers parted just wide enough for the black gelding to pass. He felt their stares, fear mingled with hate. Hearing their muttered curses, Duncan half expected to be stoned.

  His horse cleared the crowd, but he held the gelding to a walk. If they ran they’d look like prey and running prey always raised the bloodlust of predators. He didn’t want the crowd to become a mob, bad enough there were sellswords among them.

  They reached the outskirts of the village and Duncan nudged his gelding to a trot. He listened behind but heard no sounds of pursuit. Passing the first field, Duncan gave the gelding his head, urging the horse to a gallop. They rode through rolling farmland and back into forest, racing toward the northeast, eager to put the village behind them.

  They kept the horses to a hard gallop for the better part of an hour. Crossing a shallow stream, Duncan called a halt. The horses stamped and blew hard. Sweat-streaked from the run they reached for the water, but their riders only allowed them a short drink. Kath started to say something but Duncan held his hand up for silence. He strained to listen
, stretching his senses back toward the village.

  In the stillness of the forest, he caught the faint thunder of galloping hooves.

  Duncan swore. “The sellswords have found their courage.” He scanned the terrain searching for an advantage. “There’s a ridge in that direction. Head for the high ground.”

  Duncan kicked the black gelding to a gallop. Riding cross-country, he led them through the thinning forest to an open field. The gelding raced across the fallow field and jumped a low stone wall. On the far side of the wall, he found a narrow dirt road that led up the ridge.

  Duncan slowed the gelding, turning to watch the others. Kath and her chestnut stallion sailed effortlessly over the wall. The two knights followed close on the stallion’s heels, but the others lagged behind. Duncan cursed. The mountain horses were bred for stamina not speed. Danya emerged from the forest, coaxing her mare, but the monk and the two packhorses lumbered behind. Zith bounced in the saddle, an awkward rider, ruining the gait of his mount.

  Duncan swore. “Hurry!” Leaping from the saddle, he strung his longbow.

  Danya’s mare cleared the stone wall. One of the packhorses followed but the other balked.

  “Leave it! Ride for the ridge!” He nocked an arrow.

  A triumphant shout rang from the edge of the forest. Three score of sellswords thundered into the field, a rabid hunting pack bristling with weapons.

  Duncan loosed three quick arrows, enough to give the sellswords pause.

  The monk reached the wall, his face pale but determined, hands gripping the saddle horn. The mountain horse gathered for the jump, barely clearing the stones. Landing hard, the horse nearly threw the old man. Duncan swatted the horse with his bow. “Ride for the ridge!” He leaped to his own mount, spurring the gelding to a gallop. The black surged forward, overtaking the mountain horses and galloping up the steep slope. The ridge was a jumble of sharp rocks and boulders, the narrow road the only way to the top. Duncan grinned. The ridge offered the archer the advantage he needed.