The Steel Queen (The Silk & Steel Saga Book 1) Page 26

  Feeling sunlight warm his face, he struggled to wake. A large man stood over him holding a pitchfork. Samson lay still, too stunned to react. He’d let his guard down for just one night and now they were caught. The gods were cruel.

  “So you really are alive! I thought the children were playing one of their jokes, putting the old scarecrow in the barn to give me a fright. Startled me when you moved.” Lowering the pitchfork, the big man pulled Samson to his feet. “Son, you must have had a tough time of it. You’re all skin and bones. Are things really that bad that you have to sleep in a barn?”

  Almost afraid to ask, Samson stammered, “Is t-this L-lanverness?”

  Scratching his head, the farmer said, “Well of course it is! Where else but the good queen’s country, may all the gods of Light bless her name!”

  Samson nearly swooned in relief. Just then, the hay on the surface shifted, revealing his mother. Samson stooped to help her rise, brushing straw from her long white hair.

  The farmer was visibly shocked. “A grandmother should not be sleeping in a barn.”

  Clutching his mother’s arm, Samson stood tongue-tied, staring at the farmer.

  “Come up to the house. The missus will give you a meal and we’ll hear your story. From the way those clothes are hanging on you, you could both use a good feed. Maybe we can even find something better for you to wear. Looks like you’ve been traveling hard.”

  In stunned silence, they followed the farmer out of the barn and across a field to a well-kept farmhouse. The sweet smell of apples filled the morning air. The stone farmhouse was built beside an orchard. Samson smiled. His whim to buy an apple had saved their lives at the start of their journey. Now they found apples in Lanverness. Apples would forever mean life and freedom to Samson.

  The burly farmer ushered them into a cozy kitchen. The smell of fresh baked bread almost made Samson swoon. A rosy-cheeked woman wearing an apron shrieked as they entered, but she quieted when saw her husband.

  “Mother, I found these two sleeping in the barn. Not right that a grandmother should sleep in a barn. I brought them in for some breakfast. Why don’t you serve them some of the leftovers and I’ll see if we don’t have some spare clothes to help them out.”

  Once the woman got over her fright, she took control, as wives and mothers often do. Clucking like a mother hen, she showed them to a barrel full of spring water and gave them a towel and a lump of soap and then bustled back into the kitchen. It had been so long since Samson had held a cake of soap in his hand that he stared at it, caught in a daze. A whiff of fresh baked bread was enough to prod him to action. He helped his mother wash and then tried his best to clean himself up as well. The water in the rain barrel turned black before they were done.

  Returning to the kitchen, they found the table laden with thick cuts of freshly baked bread smeared with marmalade, sliced apples, and a rasher of bacon. Samson thought it a meal fit for a king. He fought the desire to pounce, taking slow bites, trying to eat like a man instead of a ravenous animal, but it was hard.

  The farmer returned holding a wool dress and a clean tunic. “I think these might fit you and the woman. You’re welcome to them if you like.”

  Tears crowded Samson’s eyes. After Coronth, it was hard to believe such goodwill still existed in the world. Starved for kindness even more than for food, Samson struggled to hold the tears back, but once the dam broke, he wept uncontrollably. The farmer and his wife made him feel like a man instead of a hunted animal. They gave him the gift of humanity. He wondered if they would even understand the depth of his debt. Regaining his composure, Samson bowed his head, and said, “Thank you.”

  Embarrassed, the farmer and his wife joined them at the table. In silent company, they passed Samson and his mother bowls of fruit and bread until every scrap was eaten.

  Replete with food, Samson began to talk. Words spilled out of him, tales of horror about the Test of Faith and their desperate flight from Balor. He told them about the soldiers in the woods and their long walk south. About being shunned by the villagers, and driven off with sticks and stones. Once he started he could not stop. The story tumbled from his lips like pus from a festering wound. He told them everything, including the fact that he’d once been a sergeant in the city guard. It was hard to meet their eyes when he admitted his position in the guards but Samson felt it needed to be said. Samson talked until he was hoarse. The sun set, plunging the kitchen into darkness but nobody thought to light a candle. Engrossed in the tale, they sat in the dark, listening to horrors of the Flame God. Finally empty of bitter memories, Samson’s voice fell silent.

  The farmer and his wife sat stunned. They’d heard rumors of refugees drifting south but they never understood the reasons behind the exodus. They questioned Samson into the late hours of the night. The farmer kept asking if the madness of Coronth might spill into Lanverness. After much discussion, he begged Samson to make his way to Pellanor to tell his tale to the queen.

  “I’m nothing but a homeless refugee. Why would a queen listen to me?”

  A smile of pride crept across the farmer’s weathered face. “That’s the difference a queen makes. Queen Liandra holds a commoners’ audience once a fortnight. It’s said she’ll hear petitions from anyone in the kingdom…even a refugee.” The farmer’s voice grew serious. “The queen needs to hear about this madness in Coronth. Warned of the danger, she’ll find a way to protect her people.”

  Samson protested, but the man was stubborn. He eventually gave in, seeing the trip as his only way of repaying the farmer. They stayed for a fortnight, taking real baths and becoming human again. Samson shaved his scraggly beard and the farmer’s wife cut his long tangled hair. Dressed in the farmer’s spare tunic, he finally looked like a man instead of a scarecrow. Clean and presentable, they began their journey to Pellanor.

  The farmer took them as far as the nearest town. At the market, the farmer talked to his friends till he found them a ride to the next town. They were handed from one farmer to another until a carrot farmer drove them to the very gates of Tandroth Castle. Not a single farmer asked for payment of any kind. Samson hoped the queen was worthy of her people.

  Heeding the advice of the farmers, Samson told the guard at the palace gate that he wanted to make a commoner’s petition. For once, luck was with him. Having arrived on the very day of commoner’s audience, Samson was shown to a small walled garden where a court official took his name. Settling his mother on a bench, he paced the manicured garden. He’d never spoken to royalty before. The prospect was daunting. Surrounded by beauty, Samson wondered how he could explain the horrors of Coronth to a queen who was used to such splendor. He stared back at his mother, a broken old woman sitting hunched on a marble bench, the battered rucksack he’d carried from Balor at her feet. The rucksack sparked a memory. He strode across the garden and knelt, searching for the roll of cloth buried at the bottom, the cloth he’d rescued from the quartermaster’s stores. During the long walk south he’d bartered away many things, but never the blue tunic. Wrinkled and moth-eaten, yet the gold blazon was still bright and proud. On impulse, he pulled the tunic over his head. Wearing it felt right, a declaration of freedom from the Flame God.

  As if to confirm his choice, the herald called his name. Leaving the rucksack with his mother, Samson answered the summons.

  The castle proved a maze of marble passageways, each more opulent than the next. Samson wondered what he’d gotten himself into. The herald led him to a magnificent audience chamber. Samson gawked in awe, never having seen the like. A vast checkerboard floor of black and white marble stretched toward a distant throne. Ceilings soared to elegant corbelled vaults of glistening white stone. Towering walls of diamond-paned windows flooded the chamber with light, sending fractured rainbows dancing across the hall. The chamber spoke of wealth, elegance, and power. Samson stood in the shadows, wishing he could change his mind.

  The herald pounded his iron-shod staff on the floor. “Presenting Samson Springwater of
Coronth.”

  A sea of nobles clothed in velvets and silks parted to create a path across the checkerboard floor. On the far side of the chamber, a petite woman sat ensconced on a raised throne, a vision of golden glory.

  Frozen like a deer before the hunter, Samson gaped at the splendor. A sharp elbow prodded him in the side and the herald hissed, “Walk to the foot of the throne and bow.”

  Caught by a flood of stares, Samson realized it was too late to retreat. One step and then another, he forced himself to take the long walk. Gasps rippled through the crowd as he passed. Ashamed of his scarecrow appearance, Samson lowered his head and kept walking.

  An eternity later, he reached the dais. Trembling, he bowed low, waiting for the queen to speak. Darting a glance at the throne, he caught a glimpse of stunning beauty. The queen’s hourglass figure and low-cut gown took his breath away. Entranced by the vision, Samson dared a fleeting glance at the queen’s face…and found himself trapped by her piercing gaze. He gaped at her, a butterfly struck by a spear. Fiercely intelligent, the queen’s stare bore into the depths of his soul. Samson took a half step backwards. He’d never seen eyes that keen, especially in the face of a woman. But then he’d never met a queen before, so perhaps scary eyes came with a crown. Tearing his gaze away, Samson dropped his stare to the safety of the checkerboard floor, wishing he was anywhere but the queen’s court.

  “We are pleased to see that the lion of Coronth is not extinct.”

  Samson startled at the sound of her voice.

  “Who are you to wear that tabard and why do we find you in our court?”

  Samson found himself sweating under the queen’s scrutiny. Looking down, he realized she spoke of the gold lion emblazoned on his blue tabard. “Y-your majesty, t-to my shame I once wore the red and gold tabard of the Flame. B-but that was a lifetime ago, before my father was burnt to death in the Test of Faith.” Once started, the words gushed out. “As the son of a proven heretic, I feared I’d share my father’s fate. M-my mother and I fled Balor. We walked forever but eventually escaped to Lanverness. The good farmers of your land took us in. We owe them our lives and our sanity. On hearing our story they urged me to come to Pellanor to tell you my tale. They fear the horror of Flame God may spread to Lanverness but they trust in their queen to protect them.”

  Murmurs rippled through the chamber.

  The queen studied Samson with hooded eyes. “The farmers of Lanverness have done well. But tell us, where is your mother?”

  Once again, her question took him caught him off guard. “She waits for me in the garden. Something broke inside her on the day my father died. She lives in a dream world now. I take care of her as best I can.”

  “It is admirable for a son to care for his mother.” Turning to an elderly man at the foot of the dais, the queen said, “Lord Carrington, you will see that his mother is given succor in our court. And have the Master Archivist assemble my advisors. We will meet with them in our council chambers in two turns of an hourglass.” Turning back to Samson, the queen’s voice held a note of compassion. “Young man, we would hear more of your story but the Audience Hall is not the place for it. In the meantime, Lord Carrington will see to your needs.”

  The queen gestured and a herald proclaimed, “The commoners’ audience is ended. The Lords of Light save her majesty the queen.”

  The queen rose from her throne and the court instantly sank to a deep bow. Not knowing what to do, Samson did his best to mimic those around him. The queen swept past him, leaving a scent of roses in the air. A glittering retinue of lords, knights, and heralds followed the queen from the chamber. Stunned, Samson was left standing in their wake, floundering like shipwrecked flotsam cast on a strange beach.

  A gray haired gentleman rescued Samson. “My name is Lord Carrington. Shall we find your mother and get her settled?” His glance roved up and down Samson’s lean frame. “I suggest we have a meal, this afternoon’s meeting could be rather lengthy.”

  Befuddled, Samson followed the lord to the castle’s kitchen, watching as a heaping trencher of roast pork and potatoes was set before him. The sudden kindness combined with the abundant opulence of the court threatened to unman him. Samson felt as he’d been pushed into a fast flowing river and all he could do was try to keep his head above water. Since his father’s murder, he’d been pushed and pulled by fate’s mysterious currents, doing his best to keep from drowning. And now he was caught by a queen’s command. Samson wondered if his life would ever be his own again.

  40

  Katherine

  Kath had drawn first blood and lived to tell about it. An irrepressible smile spread across her face. She’d survived her first battle, a blooded warrior! She lifted her sword to the heavens in salute, marveling at the play of light on steel. Sunlight warmed her face and insects hummed in the long grass. Life seemed marvelous and infinitely fascinating. Flushed with elation, a small corner of her mind wondered if this was the euphoria that the veterans of Castlegard often talked about, the blessing that Valin sent to victorious warriors to ease the horrors of war. Now she knew what the veterans meant when they said victory was sweet.

  “Are you putting down roots?” Kath startled at the archer’s gruff rebuke. “There’s work to be done. Predators will be drawn to all this carrion. We need to get moving. I’ll dress the deer while you round up the horses.”

  Yanked back to reality, Kath stared into the archer’s strange yellow eyes. Golden orbs with black slits for pupils, his eyes were anything but human yet he’d saved her life. She owed him a debt. She also owed it to herself to stay sharp. She couldn’t afford to drop her guard. “You’re right, I’ll get the horses.”

  With a nod of approval, the archer moved toward the dead deer while Kath took stock of the horses. The ogre’s huge draft horse was dead, skewered by an arrow. The captain’s stallion and the gelding milled nervously at the far end of the meadow while the pony nosed the goblin-man’s corpse. Odd that the pony stayed by the goblin-man, but then she remembered how the dwarf used lumps of sugar to bribe his mount into submission. Sugar would make her task so much easier.

  The pony was so preoccupied with the dwarf’s pockets, that it was easy for Kath to catch his reins. As a reward, she liberated a lump of sugar and fed it to the greedy beast. Removing a stake from the saddlebags, she picketed the small horse near the edge of the forest and then returned to the goblin-man for the rest of the sugar.

  Holding the sweets on her open palm, Kath approached the stallion. Skittish and proud, the stallion snorted and stamped but the sugar proved too tempting. Kath deftly gathered his reins while the stallion nibbled the treat. With the stallion settled, it was a simple matter to collect the gelding. Satisfied the horses were secure she went to check on the archer.

  “We can leave whenever you’re ready.”

  “Good. It won’t take me long to finish the deer. I’ll load the venison on the pony and we can be off. If there’s anything you want from the dead, you best get it now.”

  The insult shocked her to the core. Her anger flared. “I am a warrior not a carrion scavenger! I don’t rob the dead.”

  The archer rocked back on his heels, studying her with narrowed eyes. “You obviously know how to handle a sword but I’m guessing this was your first battle. I meant no offense.” When Kath didn’t reply, he continued in a kinder voice, “Think about it. You’re alone in the wilds of Wyeth. An escort of knights is supposedly following, but only the gods know if you will ever find them. A few golds could be helpful. Besides, you can learn a lot from a man’s belongings. Sometimes answers are worth more than golds.”

  Kath weighed the archer’s words. The veterans of Castlegard cursed the human scavengers that followed armies into battle. Scavenging the dead was repugnant to Kath, but the archer’s words made sense, especially his comments about answers. The knight marshal always said that ‘the first rule of battle was to know your enemy.’ She’d traveled for days with her captors and still did not know the name of th
eir master. “Your words are wise. I do need answers and the belongings of the dead are the only clues left. Thank you for your advice.”

  Kath wasn’t sure, but she thought that she saw a glint of approval in his golden eyes. Then again, the cat-slit eyes were hard to read. With a grunt, the archer resumed his work on the deer.

  Kath returned to the dead. Thinking about it, she decided it wasn’t much different from taking sugar from the goblin-man’s pocket. She’d search for answers and gold, nothing more, deciding to split the gold with the archer. The decision made her feel better about the ghoulish task.

  Perhaps because he seemed the least human, she decided to start with the goblin-man. Turning his pockets inside out, she found nothing but scraps of bread, partially eaten apples, and lumps of sugar. The dwarf hoarded food, or perhaps the scraps were meant for the horses. Either way, there was nothing to be learned from his pockets.

  The ogre was similarly disappointing. His pockets held a strange collection of mismatched buttons and feathers, suggesting a childlike fascination for bright and shiny things. Such a small mind seemed incongruous with the ogre’s body. Embarrassed, Kath put everything back and then went to search the fallen archer.

  The archer carried a healthy purse of golds but there were no clues to the faceless master. That left the captain. Revulsion washed across her. She did not want to touch the captain, let alone search his pockets, but she needed answers. She nudged his corpse with her boot. A cloud of flies buzzed in anger, disturbed from their feast. With grim determination, she started with his pockets and then moved to the leather pouches strung on his belt. One pouch contained the hated collar and leash. In a flash of rage, she hurled the foul device deep into the woods. Quaking with anger, she deliberately stared at the bloody gash across the captain’s throat, remembering the clean cut of Castlegard steel. It was good to know there was some justice in the world, even if it was late in coming.