The Flame Priest (The Silk & Steel Saga) Read online

  “Do you even know where you’ve led us?”

  Not trusting her voice, Kath shook her head. Another failing.

  The others crowded around. Their horses quivered with strain, their heads hung low, their hides drenched in sweat. Kath realized her own stallion was just as spent as the others; she shouldn’t have ridden him so hard.

  Blaine glared. “Where the hell are we?”

  Sir Tyrone answered. “I got a view from the ridge top. Burnt farmland stretches to the west, but it seemed only the outer fringe of forest is destroyed.”

  “Well, we can’t stay here. If the sellswords follow we’ll be too exposed.”

  Kath gripped her sword hilt. “Duncan will hold them.”

  Sir Tyrone said, “Perhaps. But Blaine is right, we need to keep moving.”

  Blaine nodded. “Which way?”

  “Duncan said to head into the depths of the forest, so we’ll ride east, looking for living trees.”

  Kath struggled to keep her voice even. “Shouldn’t we wait for Duncan?”

  Sir Tyrone gave her a piercing stare. “If the archer lives, he’ll find us. That man can track like a wolf.” He dismounted. “We’ll need to walk the horses or we’ll lose them. We head east, to the cover of the forest.” The black knight turned his gaze towards Zith and Danya. “Can you two keep up?”

  Zith nodded, his face pale but determined. “I’ll walk to the seven hells and back if needs be.”

  But Danya swayed in the saddle, her eyes glazed.

  Blaine forced his horse next to hers. “Are you well?”

  Danya stared at the knight, her eyes wide and wild. “I can’t feel him!”

  Sir Tyrone said, “Feel who?”

  “Bryx!” A sob escaped her lips. “I called the wolf to help, but now I can’t feel him! There’s only emptiness, only darkness…” Danya swooned in the saddle.

  Blaine caught the wolf-girl, pulling her across to his horse. He settled her in his lap, his arms around her, her head nestled under his chin. Blaine gave the black knight a grim stare. “I’ll take care of Danya, but if the wolf’s lost, we need to gain more distance.”

  No one mentioned the archer.

  Kath and Zith dismounted, leading their sweat-streaked horses. The black knight took the lead. Blaine rode behind him with Danya cradled against his chest. Zith took the reins for the lone packhorse. Kath walked last, her hand on her sword hilt. Determined to make-up for her lapse of judgment, she strained to listen for sounds of pursuit but heard nothing.

  The charred forest was deathly still. Blackened trees towered around them, mute sentinels to the devastation. Embers glowed among the smoldering trunks, gleaming like red-eyed demons. Death surrounded them, a scorched landscape. A flock of crows took wing. Flapping feathers and harsh caws filled the gray spaces between the dead trees. Kath shuddered, wondering if the ruined forest truly was a glimpse of hell.

  Soot and ash dampened the sounds of their passage. Everything was black and burnt and dead…and then suddenly green. Almost like magic, they crossed a line, passing from death’s dominion into an explosion of living green. Vibrant with colors and sounds, the forest hummed with winged insects and songbirds. Trees towered overhead, branches thick with leaves, blocking out the sky. Underbrush and vines pressed close, enveloping them in a swath of wilderness. The companions quickened their pace, heartened by the vibrant forest, but their passage soon slowed to a crawl, impeded by the dense tangle.

  Sir Tyrone unsheathed his great sword and began hacking at the underbrush. Kath joined him, venting her anger on the dense green.

  The forest resisted. Armored in wicked thorns, the tangled green snagged at exposed skin and soft cloth, drawing blood. Splinters and spikes jabbed at hands and eyes. Only chainmail proved impervious to the green bite. Kath slashed at the dense tangle, hacking her way forward. She sliced a vine and it recoiled like a whip, lashing nasty thorns till it finally fell still. Kath whispered, “What is this place?”

  A squeal came from behind.

  The packhorse reared, its eyes white with fright. Zith pulled on the reins, barely avoiding a lashing hoof.

  Kath saw the problem. “There’s a vine wrapped around its rear leg!” She leaped to sever the vine. Her sword sliced clean through. One half whipped backwards, flailing thorns, but the other half remained entwined around the horse.

  The packhorse reared, blood staining its leg, its eyes mad with fright.

  “The vines are stranglers! How do I get it off?”

  Sir Tyrone tossed her an armored gauntlet. “Try this!” He grabbed the reins from the monk, trying to still the plunging horse.

  Kath pulled on the gauntlet. Dodging hooves, she gained the horse’s side and grabbed the vine. Wicked thorns pierced the horse’s hide. Embedded deep, they drew blood. She yanked at the vine, but blood and flesh came with it.

  The horse went wild.

  Stripping the reins from the black knight’s hands, the horse charged headfirst into the tangled green. It did not get far. Squealing in pain, it sagged forward and lay still.

  Kath looked at Sir Tyrone. The black knight shrugged. Together they hacked at the green, trying to reach the horse. They found the horse impaled on a spiked branch, speared through the heart. The branch belonged to a dark gray tree, its trunk and branches bristling with five inch long dagger-like spikes. “What is this place?”

  “Deadly.”

  Blaine said, “Look behind us.”

  The way back was sealed with green. The forest had surrounded them.

  Blaine said, “The forest is alive!”

  Kath said, “It’s more than that.” Reaching beneath her leather jerkin, she grasped her stone gargoyle. Holding the focus tight, she closed her eyes and quested with her inner senses. Using lessons learned in the monastery, she probed outward, searching for magic. What she found nearly dropped her to her knees. A vast sea of green swamped her tendril of thought, surrounding her with a pulsing power. The forest thrummed with wild magic, something old and potent, something fierce yet sentient…something that stared back at her with golden cat-slit eyes. Kath’s eyes shot open. She staggered backwards, releasing her gargoyle, breaking the contact. Shivering, she stared at the forest. Leaves and bark hid a potent power. Staring up at the impossibly tall trees, she put a name to the forest. “The Deep Green.”

  Sir Tyrone hissed, “You know this place?”

  “I’ve heard of it.” Knowledge of the name brought with it the feeling of hostile eyes. The words of the cat-eyed archer came back to her. “Sheath your sword!” Kath sheathed her own blade but the black knight just stared at her in puzzlement. “Sheath your weapon now!”

  The black knight obeyed.

  Kath raised her hands and pitched her voice to carry. “We come in peace! We seek a ranger to guide us. We wish you and the forest no harm.”

  She felt the forest watching, judging.

  Kath and her companions waited, peering into the trees, hands well away from weapons. The dense brush seemed to tighten around them, a threatening strangle of green. Kath pivoted, feeling stares from every direction. Her shoulder blades itched with warning. She longed to reach for a weapon but she kept her hands raised and her face calm.

  Green-clad archers melted out of the forest.

  And all of them had golden cat-slit eyes.

  Eyes of the forest, Kath counted twenty archers staring from behind nocked arrows. The hatred in their gaze was palpable.

  Kath searched their faces looking for a leader, surprised to find several women among them. She raised her hands higher in a gesture of peace. “We come in peace, invited to visit the Deep Green by the archer, Jorah Silvenwood.”

  A bearded man stepped forward and snarled, “White-eyes aren’t welcome here.”

  Kath ignored the anger in his voice. “I’ve a token given to me by Jorah. He said the token would grant me safe passage into the forest.”

  “Tokens are easily stolen from the hands of the dead.”

  “Kill th
em now, Jenks, and be done with it.”

  Another voice growled, “Aye, blood for blood!”

  Bowstrings tightened.

  Seeing death in the arrows, Kath inched her hands toward her axe handles. The odds were bad, but she’d rather die fighting. Beside her, the black knight tensed for battle.

  “Stop!” The command rang through the forest, causing warriors on both sides to pause. All eyes turned toward the blue robed monk. Zith held his right hand out, palm forward, revealing the blue tattoo of the Seeing Eye. “A master of the Kiralynn Order seeks an audience with the Treespeaker.”

  Murmurs that were equal parts anger and amazement rippled through the archers.

  The bearded leader stared at the monk, easing back on his bowstring. “You’ve come at an evil time, white-eyes, but by invoking the name of the Treespeaker you’ve delayed your fate. Submit to being bound and we’ll provide safe passage through the forest.”

  The monk nodded, “We submit.”

  Sir Tyrone glanced her way and nodded. Kath understood. It was better to live and fight another day.

  One of the archers hissed, “Jenks, you can’t trust the white-eyes!”

  The bearded man snapped, “I don’t trust them. Now put up your bow and see that their hands are bound tight.”

  The leader’s authority held. A handful of leather-clad archers stepped forward with lengths of rope.

  Blaine dismounted, holding Danya in his arms.

  The leader stared at Blaine, “Can the woman walk?”

  “No.”

  The leader nodded, “Carry her then.” To one of his men he added, “Leave his hands untied but tether a noose around his neck.”

  Blaine snarled but Sir Tyrone intervened. “We have no choice.” The blonde knight submitted to the noose, anger broiling in his stare.

  Kath lowered her hands, holding them out to be bound.

  A young archer looped a coarse rope around her wrists, jerking the cord tight enough to draw blood.

  Kath hissed at the harsh treatment.

  The archer sneered, “It’s much less than you deserve, white-eye.”

  She wondered at the hatred in his voice.

  Their weapons were taken, swords, axes, and daggers. Kath flinched when they took the crystal dagger, her gaze following it to the belt of one of the archers. She felt naked without it, but at least her captors had ignored the gargoyle tucked beneath her jerkin and the amber pyramid hidden in a deep pocket.

  Blaine balked when they reached for his blue steel sword. “No!”

  Bowstrings tightened, arrows fixed on his heart. Blaine submitted with a low growl. “I’ll have that back!”

  A cat-eyed archer flourished the blue sword.

  The bearded leader yelled, “Let’s go.”

  Kath was jerked forward, almost falling. Bound and tethered, the companions followed the cat-eyed people into the depths of the forest. The green tangle parted to reveal a narrow pathway threading through the dense brush. They walked single-file beneath stands of redwood, cedar, and spruce. Kath scuffed her feet to mark the trail, hoping Duncan followed. She kept glancing backward, hoping for a glimpse of him.

  Towering trees hid the sun, cloaking the forest in dappled shadows. Their captors forbid talking. They marched in silence, but now and then one of them imitated the call of a woodlands bird. Kath suspected the calls were signals to other watchers. She wondered at their numbers.

  They crossed other footpaths, proving the forest was more tamed than it first appeared. Kath tried to memorize the twists and turns but after a while the trees all looked alike. Peering into the undergrowth, she caught fleeting glimpses of fallen columns and ruined walls choked by vines, deepening the mystery of the forest. She paused to stare at a ruined bit of statue that lay near the path, a woman’s face carved on a keystone, hauntingly beautiful. Kath wondered at the ruins, at the lost beauty carved in stone. The butt of a bow jabbed her in the back. “Keep moving!” Kath staggered forward, struggling to keep her balance.

  Their captors kept at a ground-eating pace, leading them deeper into the forest. Without a view of the sun, it was hard to judge how long they walked. Kath’s hands were numb and useless by the time they time they emerged from the underbrush into a clearing of sorts. The dense brush and saplings were stripped clean, cleared away to yield a smooth needle-strewn floor, but the towering grandfather trees remained, standing like majestic columns in the grand hall of a forgotten king.

  Tendrils of smoke curled up from the heart of the clearing. A village of ornate wooden cabins clustered around the base of the trees. From the number of cabins, Kath judged the village to hold a hundred or so.

  The escort of archers whooped a cheer. Women straightened from cook fires and men stopped their chores to stare, all of them with the strange yellow eyes of a cat.

  Welcoming smiles changed to hatred at the sight of the captives. Women gathered up their children, herding them into cabins, while men reached for weapons, watching with wary eyes. Hatred and mistrust swirled through the village. Kath hoped they would not regret the decision to yield their weapons.

  The archers led the companions to the center of the village, to a white-haired man seated by a small fire. He whittled a flute from a length of wood, his hands making long sure strokes with a carving knife.

  The troop leader acknowledged the white-haired man with a deep bow. “Greetings of Leaf and Bark, Cenric.”

  The white-haired man looked up from his craftwork, studying the strangers with a golden stare. A deep battle scar ruined the right side of his face, belying the peaceful work of his hands. He pointed his carving knife at the captives, his voice deep with the power of command. “How dare you bring white-eyes to our village?”

  The leader of the archers moved to speak, but the white-haired man forestalled him with a raised hand. Keeping his seat by the fire, the leader studied the captives while the villagers gathered around. An old woman emerged from a cabin carrying a long cape of emerald green feathers. Purple eyes shimmered and winked the length of feathers, a garment fit for a king. The woman draped the magnificent cape across the man’s shoulders. With a show of ceremony, she took a seat next to him by the fire. A hush fell over the villagers. Kath felt as if she stood on trial before a judge, but she didn’t know the crime.

  The white-haired man spoke with the formality of command, “The leader of Clan Hemlock sits before the hearth fires cloaked in the power of the Green. We are ready to hear your report.”

  The archer gave a half bow. “We were patrolling the green edge near the burned lands of the Cedars when we found these white-eyes hacking their way into the forest.”

  “And you did not leave them to the Green Death?”

  “We watched from the cloak of the forest, but the blonde-haired woman acknowledged the Deep Green, claiming to come in peace.”

  The leader’s golden stare found Kath’s face. She met his strange gaze without flinching.

  “Who are you and why do you come to the Deep Green?”

  Kath took a half step forward. “I am Princess Katherine of Castlegard. I was invited to the Deep Green by the archer, Jorah Silvenwood. He gave me a leather token of safe passage.”

  Murmurs of shock and outrage rippled through the villagers. Several made the hand sign against evil.

  The leader stirred beneath his feathered cape. “You claim the welcome of the dead.”

  Shock hit her like a hammer blow. “Jorah is dead?”

  “As are many of our people. Taken by the fires set by the cursed white-eyes.”

  Their hatred and hostility made sudden sense. “That fire was set?”

  “An attack against the forest, an attack against our people, set in the dead of night.”

  Kath could hardly imagine the horror of such a fire, towering flames burning everything, nothing left but blackened ashes. “I am sorry for your loss.”

  Whispers swirled around the fire, some in anger, most in disbelief.

  “Why does a white-eyed g
irl speak the name of one of our dead?”

  “Jorah saved my life. I called him friend.” Kath raised her stare to the clan leader, willing the truth into her face.

  The leader gave her a crooked half-smile, his grin distorted by the ugly scar. “Faces can lie. Especially those bearing white eyes. We shall see if the truth rides the winds.” He gestured and two men grabbed Kath’s arms from behind. Sir Tyrone yelled, “Leave her!” but Kath stilled him with a glance. The men walked Kath around the fire, forcing her to kneel before the leader. Despite her bound hands, she kept her back straight and defiant.

  The clan leader leaned close, his face stopping a hand span from hers.

  Kath forced herself to remain still, meeting the scrutiny of his golden gaze.

  “Who is Jorah Silvenwood to you?” The leader’s voice was a command, his golden stare penetrating.

  “He was a friend. I owe him my life.”

  Murmurs circulated the fire, but Kath kept her gaze on the clan leader.

  Flaring his nostrils, the leader closed his eyes and took a deep breath as if testing her scent. He sat swaying under the feathered cloak, his eyes closed, his face thoughtful. His rocking motion caused the cape’s feathered eyes to glisten and wink in the firelight, as if a thousand beasts peered from the emerald-green feathers, all of them judging her. Kath shivered, trying to dispel the illusion.

  The leader exhaled, his golden eyes opening. “The wind tastes of pride…and stubbornness…and truth.”

  “No!” A young man shouldered his way through the crowd, his face contorted in hate. “The wind is full of ashes! Dead trees and dead clansmen! The white-eyes should pay for their deeds! I claim tauth against the intruders for the death of my family!”

  Anger sparked around the campfire.

  The old woman, the one who’d brought the feathered cloak, replied, her voice stern with rebuke. “Ronah, we all grieve for the dead, but the winds have been tested and judgment has been passed. You dishonor yourself with this outburst.”

  “Are we animals who cower or men who fight? If we hadn’t been hiding in the depths of the forest, we might have stopped the white-eyes before they lit their cursed fire.”