The Flame Priest (The Silk & Steel Saga) Page 22

  Captain Durnheart swallowed hard, a resigned look on his face. “Majesty, if this is your will, then allow us to escort you to the battle.”

  The queen gave him a gracious smile. “The honor is yours.”

  The captain barked an order and the soldiers unsheathed their swords, forming a protective ring around the queen.

  “Majesty, I wish to join you!” Princess Jemma held her bow in her hands.

  The queen admired the young woman’s courage. “Walk with us. We will show them the courage of royal women.” The soldiers reformed around the princess and the queen. Liandra set the pace, balancing the heavy crown upon her brow. She walked to war with an escort of five soldiers and an archer princess, a thin hope but Liandra knew guile and beauty might win where swords failed. The rebels whispered rumors that the queen was dead, killed in the uprising. The blatant lie might be the rebels’ undoing.

  At the end of the hallway, she heard the faint clash of swords. The sounds of war echoed in marble halls that had only known the flattery of courtiers, the queen silently cursed the rebels.

  At the staircase, the battle sounds intensified. Captain Durnheart looked her way. “Majesty, are you certain?”

  She gave him a terse nod. The captain led the way down, his sword held at the ready. Wounded soldiers lined the lower half of the stairs, crimson stains marring their emerald tabards, pools of blood staining the marble floor. Many were grievously wounded, some missing limbs. Most stared with vacant eyes while others moaned in agony, the awful price of war. One of the wounded glanced her way. “The queen comes! The queen lives!”

  The cry was echoed by other wounded, a herald that ran ahead of the queen. Faces turned her way, desperate for a glimmer of hope. Liandra gave them a radiant smile, her voice full of confidence. “You’ve fought with honor. You deserve better than this. Make your way up the stairs to our royal solar. Our ladies-in-waiting will do their best to bind your wounds and ease your pain.” The gratitude in the soldiers’ eyes clutched at the queen’s heart. She wished there was a way to protect them all, to end the bloodshed.

  The sounds of fighting intensified, proof the battle was near.

  The queen took a deep breath, hardening her resolve.

  The staircase opened onto a long hallway. Chaos claimed the far end, soldiers crammed into the narrow hall, fighting with swords and spears. A din of screams and a clash of swords, the emerald line retreated as she watched. The fighting was fierce. More wounded fell, trampled beneath the line of combat.

  “This must stop.”

  A soldier retreated from the line of battle, running to meet the queen. Major Telcore bore a sword cut across his forehead and was missing an ear but otherwise he seemed whole. “Majesty! I gave orders for you to leave the tower. We will not hold much longer.”

  “Major, you are a brave man but one does not order a queen.”

  “Majesty, it is not safe!”

  “We do what we must.”

  A wave of desperation passed across the major’s face.

  The queen raised a hand, forestalling his argument. “When swords fail, we must try other ways.”

  The major’s face darkened. “Surely you won’t surrender?”

  “We shall try a queen’s gambit, a feint within a feint.”

  The old soldier narrowed his stare. “What would you have of me?”

  “Stand with your men at the front line and watch the enemy. This gambit could yield a victory…or further treachery, be prepared for both.”

  He raised a bloody sword in salute. “As you command.”

  The queen turned to the soldier carrying the footstool. “We must move closer to the lines of battle. We need to be seen by both sides.” Armored in regal calm, she moved toward the fighting, drawing close enough to smell the battle, a terrible mix of sweat and blood and grim determination.

  Soldiers near the rear of the frontline flicked quick glances backward, amazement on their faces. Cries of “The queen!” mixed with the sounds of battle.

  She gestured to the marble floor. “This will do.” She needed help stepping up onto the small platform. Captain Durnheart provided a steadying hand. She found her balance on the small stage and released his arm. Sword-straight, she stood armored in a shimmering gown of gold, a royal sun rising before the dawn. Staring above the heads of her loyal soldiers, she sought the attention of her enemies, looking for familiar faces among the traitors…but she found none. Three officers directed the rebel forces but none were lords. The leaders of the rebellion were absent, cowards hiding behind the bloodshed of others. Their absence was her opportunity. The queen pitched her voice to carry. “Soldiers of Lanverness! This bloodshed must end!”

  The clash of swords continued, claiming a bloody harvest.

  “Soldiers of Lanverness, we would speak to you!”

  The ferocity of the swords lessened. A hesitation hung in the air. A few soldiers on the far side of the battle lines looked up and stared at her, surprise on their faces. A low murmur spread through the ranks.

  The queen seized the moment. “Soldiers of Lanverness put up your swords and let us speak!”

  “The queen lives!” The words echoed on both sides of the battle.

  The swords came to a stop. Soldiers on each side drew back, creating a narrow strip of neutral ground. Suspicious faces stared up at her, but she’d won her chance to speak.

  She stood tall, giving them a chance to see what they opposed, to see the glory of their rightful queen. “It is a grim day when brothers fight brothers. You are all brave men…but your bravery is wasted.” She studied their faces, noting their surprise at her praise. “Rumors whisper that the queen is dead…but we are here!” A ragged cheer rose from her loyal troops. She waved them to silence, focusing on the rebels. “We dare our own life to save your lives, the lives of our soldiers. We would stop this bloodshed. Even now, we would pardon every one of you, every soldier who puts down his sword and swears fealty to our crown. We will not spare the lords who lied but we will spare the soldiers who were misled.”

  One of the rebels yelled, “Don’t listen to the witch!” but other voices shouted him down. A rebel officer turned and ran back down the far hallway, her time was limited.

  The queen raised her voice, using all of her skills of persuasion. “Look behind you! Where are your leaders? Where are your lords? They cower while you fight. They grasp for glory by risking your blood. They lied to you about our death. What else have they lied about?” A murmur rose among the rebels, confusion and anger on their faces. The seed of doubt had taken root.

  “Save your lives and the lives of your fellow soldiers. Put down your swords and swear fealty. Let peace return to Lanverness.”

  A hush settled over the hallway. A grizzled sergeant shouted a challenge, his voice skeptical. “You’d pardon us all, every one?”

  She kept the hope from her face. “Every soldier who lays down his sword and swears fealty.” Doubt shadowed their faces. She made her voice solemn. “You have our royal word.”

  Arguments broke out among the rebels.

  The queen rushed to persuade, but this time she made her voice a soft, feminine hush. “We have heard what they say about us.”

  The orator’s trick worked. Her soft words teased the soldiers, stilling their argument. The rebels turned and stared at her, their faces a mixture of curiosity and wariness. Knowing the tide could turn either way, she kept her voice teasingly feminine. “They say a woman cannot rule.” She shuffled on the stool, the ripple of movement causing her gown to shimmer in the light, a calculated vision of splendor. “We are only a woman yet we keep the taxes low and find ways to grow the wealth of Lanverness, a wealth that benefits all our people. Is any other kingdom more prosperous than Lanverness?”

  Her loyal men shouted, “No!”

  Their answer echoed down the marble halls.

  “We are only a woman, but a queen is also a mother. We know the value of each life. We guard the peace like a lioness because we refus
e to needlessly risk the lives of our soldiers…your lives. We would keep the sons of Lanverness safe.”

  Her loyal men drummed their swords against their shields, a soldier’s salute.

  She made her voice a woman’s plea. “Sheath your swords and swear to keep the peace!”

  She’d won them over; she saw it in their eyes.

  The rebel sergeant knelt. The others cleared a space around him. He extended his sword toward the queen, hilt first, remorse on his face. “Pardon me for fighting against my true queen. Accept my sword in fealty.”

  A low murmur raced through the rebels.

  The queen extended an open hand toward the sergeant. “We do accept.”

  “No!” Footsteps raced from the far end of the hall. A minor lordling led a fresh squad of rebels. Their battle cry echoed through the hallway, “Kill the witch! Fight for the king!”

  The battle line roiled in confusion.

  Major Telcore rushed to the queen’s side. “You must be away!”

  She stood her ground, needing to see the outcome.

  The wave of rebel soldiers slammed into the battle line, pushing their way to the front, their faces contorted in hate. They struck the loyalists with a ferocious clash of steel. The fighting resumed but all was not lost. Some of the rebels kept their word and switched sides, fighting for the queen. From her perch on the stool, she saw the drill sergeant cut down the rebel lordling. Other rebels swarmed the sergeant, seeking revenge; she hoped the man survived.

  The major hissed, “You must leave!”

  A bowstring thrummed. Princess Jemma loosed an arrow into the rebels.

  The queen stepped down from the stool. “Yes, it is time for us to leave.” She met the major’s stare. “We will retreat to the hidden floor. Hold for as long as you can and then join us there. We will keep the door open, waiting for you and your men.”

  Anger rode in the major’s steel-gray eyes. “Majesty, you should flee the tower. If the queen falls then all is lost.”

  A second arrow thrummed into the rebels.

  The queen’s voice was full of steel. “We will not flee.” She turned before he could argue and glided down the hallway. Captain Durnheart hovered at one side, Princess Jemma at the other.

  She reached the stairway and found it empty of wounded soldiers but the bloodstains remained. Liandra stared at the stains, wondering if the marble would ever come clean, forever stained with treachery and heroism, a dark day for Lanverness. She would show clemency to the soldiers but never the traitorous lords.

  The walk back seemed to take forever, the sounds of battle raging below. Reaching her solar, she found the chaos of a makeshift healery. Her women tore bed linens and undergarments into strips creating bandages for the wounded. Lady Sarah made the rounds, offering wine to the soldiers, bloodstains on her silk gown. The soldiers were stoic, eyes glazed with pain, lying silent on thick wool rugs.

  The queen held her head high and glided into the small chamber as if she entered the throne room, seeking to give her people courage by her own bearing. More than one soldier stared in awe.

  She made her voice warm and full of confidence. “You have all served well, but we must retreat to the floor above. We have prepared a secret redoubt, a stronghold from the rebels. Come with us to the floor above.” She unlocked the secret door and gave orders for the strong to help the weak.

  They settled the wounded in the central chamber of the eighth floor, taking bandages and flasks of wine with them. When the last of the soldiers was moved, the queen commanded Lady Sarah and Captain Durnheart to return with her to the solar.

  The sounds of battle seemed closer but the queen held firm to her intent. She removed her crown and placed it in an ironbound chest along with the scepter and the other royal regalia, retaining only her two rings of office. “Captain Durnheart, we charge you with protecting the crown jewels. Take this chest to the eighth floor. If the stronghold should fall, we order you to get the jewels out of the tower and into the hands of Crown Prince Stewart.” Her voice hardened. “The crown jewels must not fall to the rebels.”

  The captain saluted. “As my queen commands.” He gathered up the chest and retreated to the secret floor.

  “Lady Sarah,” the queen turned to her most trusted lady-in-waiting, “gather up the rest of our jewels. We will not leave them as plunder for the rebels.”

  Pale-faced, the lady curtseyed and went to work, gathering the queen’s jewels into an embroidered pillowcase.

  The queen turned to her desk. Unlocking the top drawer, she removed the scrolls from the Kiralynn monks and placed them on the cold grate of the fireplace. She used a candle to set the monks’ words ablaze. Opening her scroll cabinet, she removed more messages from other monarchs and ledger scrolls detailing the financial holdings of the Rose Crown. The ledgers would go with her into the secret chamber, but the rest she heaped on the fire, throwing a goblet of wine onto the scrolls just to be sure. The stack of parchments crackled with flames, her secrets becoming smoke.

  Lady Sarah peered into the outer hallway. Clutching the bulging pillowcase, she hissed a warning. “The fighting has reached the seventh floor!”

  Liandra let her gaze roam her solar. There was more she would do, but time had almost caught her. “We have done all we can.” She nodded toward Lady Sarah. “Time to retreat to the stronghold of our ancestors.”

  Captain Durnheart and another soldier waited with swords drawn inside the secret door. She gave the men their orders. “Hold the door open for as long as possible. Give every loyal soldier a chance to escape but then make sure the door is closed and the locking mechanism triggered. This door is our last defense.”

  The captain saluted, his face grim.

  The queen climbed the stairs to the main chamber. The wounded lay along the walls, her women working among them.

  Soldiers began to stream into the chamber, all of them bearing wounds. The clash of swords echoed up the stairs, the fighting had reached her solar.

  The queen tensed, listening.

  More soldiers stumbled up the stairs, most of them wounded. Major Telcore was not among them.

  A shout rang out and then an eerie quiet descended.

  Captain Durnheart appeared at the top of the stairs. He nodded toward the queen and then went to stand by the ironbound chest containing the crown jewels. His ghost-pale face told her that soldiers had stayed behind on the other side of the hidden door…a brave few who would never get the reward they deserved. Liandra vowed to learn their names and find a way to repay their families.

  The queen stood in the middle of the chamber, dressed in cloth of gold, peerless elegance hiding among the cobwebs. Her kingdom was reduced to few score soldiers and a hidden chamber. The Spider Queen had spun her webs and laid her traps…now all she could do was wait.

  25

  Katherine

  Kath clung to her stallion, urging the horse to speed. The shouts of the sellswords receded with each stride. Kath’s world blurred. She blamed it on the wind, on the chestnut mane whipping against her face, on anything but the tears crowding her eyes. Crouching low in the saddle, she let the horse choose the path, asking only for speed, desperate to get away. The stallion answered her need, leaping to a blistering gallop. They passed the others, racing down the north side of the ridge.

  Kath felt torn. For one brief moment, she’d breached Duncan’s walls, but then he’d pushed her away, forcing her to leave because of duty. Duty, the word curdled like a curse in her mind. She knew Duncan was right, the crystal dagger couldn’t be lost on some nameless ridge in the backlands of Tubor…but it hurt to leave. It hurt. Kath had never imagined that duty would require her to run, to stand and fight, yes, but never to run. And worse yet, to leave him. Thirty against one, the stubborn, noble, fool-of-a-man bought them time to escape, a chance to fight another day…but the price was too dear. A sob escaped her; duty had never seemed so hard. Kath crouched in the saddle, burying her emotions beneath speed.

  She rod
e in a blind fury, letting the stallion have its head. Perhaps she’d made a fool of herself on the ridge, but it wouldn’t matter if Duncan didn’t survive. Kath drummed her heels into the horse. The stallion lengthened his stride. Kath plunged into the rhythm of speed, ignoring everything but the need to ride, the need to fly. The countryside became a blur.

  Leagues later, the acid tang of smoke slapped her face. Kath pulled on the reins and wiped her eyes dry, not believing the sight.

  She’d ridden straight into hell.

  A scorched land stretched in every direction, still smoldering from a wildfire. Charred trees towered overhead, reduced to dark skeletons, accusing fingers pointing toward an indifferent heaven. Smoke smoldered from fallen logs, adding a grim pall to the devastation. Kath rode through a forest of ash. A legion of crows worried the blackened ground, searching for roasted carrion. Squawking, they swarmed the burnt carcass of a deer. Kath looked away, making the hand sign against evil. The crows were the only sign of life in the charred nightmare.

  Muffled hoof beats followed behind.

  Kath drew her sword and waited, almost hoping the sellswords followed.

  Sir Tyrone galloped through the pall, his face grim, his horse lathered. The others rode behind, strung out in a tattered line.

  Kath looked for Duncan but the archer wasn’t among them. Her heart tightened into a fist.

  Sir Tyrone rode straight toward her, pulling on the reins of his charger as he drew even. His dark eyes flashed like daggers, his voice gruff with anger. “What were you thinking to race ahead like that? Duncan’s sacrifice would be wasted if you fell into a trap!”

  His words cut like a knife.

  Sir Tyrone shook his head, his voice a low growl. “You want to be a knight. Knights don’t run.”

  Shame flooded through her.

  “I don’t know what demon gripped you back on the ridge, but we must all keep our wits if we’re to have a chance against the Mordant.”

  Kath felt her face pale with shame. In her haste to get away she’d let the others down. She tightened her grip on her sword, furious at her own weakness. “I’m sorry.”