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

The scream of a hawk rent the sky.

  A twitter of birdcalls followed.

  Tension forked through the crowd like summer lightning. Swords were drawn and arrows were fitted to bows.

  Kath reached for her only weapon, unsheathing the crystal dagger.

  A band of cat-eyed rangers emerged from the forest to stand along the top rim of the amphitheater. One of the rangers trilled a flurry of birdcalls. The tension in the crowd seemed to ease.

  Confused, Kath remained wary.

  The rangers on the ridge parted and a black gelding appeared at the crest…but the horse was without a rider.

  Kath recognized the gelding, her breath caught in her throat.

  Beside her, Danya whispered, “Bryx!”

  Clad in bloodied black leathers, Duncan stood on the ridge, the limp form of the wolf cradled in his arms.

  A dam of emotions broke within Kath. “I knew it! I knew you’d come!” She found herself standing at the bottom of the steep stairs, waiting for him. Their eyes met. Duncan smiled and Kath felt his blue-eyed gaze caress her face. A jolt of joy passed through her.

  Cradling the wolf against his chest, he began to descend the steps, a warrior returning with a fallen comrade.

  Danya’s whisper became an anguished shout, “Bryx!”

  Duncan reached the bottom of the stairs. Danya rushed passed Kath, wrapping her arms around the limp form of the wolf. Duncan gently lowered the blood-spattered wolf to the ivy-covered floor, surrendering Bryx to Danya’s arms. Crouching beside the wolf, Duncan spoke to Danya but his words carried to Kath. “The wolf saved my life. He attacked the sellswords from the rear, panicking their horses and stalling their advance. The chaos gave me time to pick most of them off with my bow, but in the thick of the fight, the wolf was kicked by a horse.” Duncan put his hand over the wolf’s heart and looked at Danya. “His heart still beats, but I haven’t been able to rouse him. Perhaps he will answer to your voice…or else find peace in your arms.”

  Danya sobbed, wrapping her arms around the wolf, crooning to the limp form.

  Duncan rose and turned to face Kath.

  She drank in the sight of him. Blood marked his black leathers but other than a sword cut on his left arm he seemed unharmed. Kath reached out to touch his arm, needing proof he was real. Her hand curled around his forearm, feeling the braided muscles beneath black leather. A second jolt coursed through her. Unable to speak, she stared into his face.

  He gave her a familiar, wry smile. “I promised I would try my best.” His voice dropped to a whisper, “…but I didn’t know it would take so long to find you.”

  The world shifted. For a moment, they stood alone in the Star Tower.

  A shrill voice broke the spell, yanking them back to the present. “Duncan Treloch, are you ashamed of your people?”

  The accusation cracked like a whip in the stillness of the gallery.

  Duncan rocked back on his heels, like a man taking a punch to the gut.

  Halfway up the tiered seats, the wizen old woman cloaked in blue jay feathers stood rigid, her hands clenched into fists. Like a bright-eyed vulture she glared down at Duncan, her face twisted in loathing and hate. “You shame us all!”

  Kath stared at the woman in confusion, turning to Duncan for an explanation.

  Duncan stilled his face to stone, his one-eyed gaze turning ice blue. He inclined his head toward Kath and whispered, “Forgive me. I would have done this differently.”

  Kath shook her head in confusion.

  Duncan ripped the leather eye patch from his face. The eye beneath was golden, with the vertical slit of a cat.

  Kath took a step backward, shocked by Duncan’s mismatched eyes, one sapphire-blue and the other cat-eye yellow.

  A bitter smile twisted Duncan’s face. “And now you know.” Before Kath could say anything, Duncan squared his shoulders and looked up toward the old woman. His voice rang with challenge. “No, Grandmother, I am not ashamed of my people…my mother’s or my father’s!”

  The gallery erupted in chaos.

  30

  Liandra

  Wars were not as easily ceded as chess. She’d captured the rebel leader but checkmating the enemy was not enough. The battering ram boomed through the hidden chamber, a looming threat. Liandra needed a way to proclaim victory and end the fighting. Time was against her. The battering ram’s relentless pounding proved the grim truth.

  The door would not hold forever.

  The queen paced the secret chamber, desperate for a strategy, her head pounding to the rhythm of the battering ram. Communication was the problem. Trapped within the tower, her enemies isolated her from both friend and foe. She needed to send a signal to prove the queen still fought. Her gaze settled on the large tapestry filling the north wall, the only sign of luxury in the otherwise spare chamber. Moth-eaten and threadbare on one corner, the tapestry depicted the coat-of-arms of house Tandroth, two white roses crossed on a shield of emerald green surmounted by a golden crown. Despite the wear of time the colors were still vibrant and the size was perfect. The queen fingered the embroidered edge, wondering if some distant ancestor had foreseen her need. Liandra smiled, the game was not yet done.

  She turned and surveyed the faces of her loyal followers. Despite their wounds, many still held hope. In the face of such loyalty, Liandra refused to lose.

  She strode the length of the hidden chamber, torchlight glinting off her golden gown. Infusing her voice with confidence she roused her people to action. “Come, we have one last gambit to play. We must announce our victory to friends and foe alike. We must be our own herald. Will you join us in this venture?”

  Her words roused a ragged cheer.

  She gave them a regal smile. “Then we have work to do.” She turned to Captain Durnheart. “We give you responsibility for guarding our prisoner. Bind the traitor tight and gag him, but he must be able to walk. If needs be, we will flaunt him from the tower rampart.” Her stare turned to the Lord Turner. “If the traitor gives you any trouble, you have our permission to bleed him. If the rebels breach the tower, we expect you to take his head.” Her voice hardened to stone. “The leader of the rebels will not outlive us.”

  The Lord Turner glared, hatred in his eyes.

  The captain tightened his grip on the prisoner. “It will be my pleasure.”

  The queen nodded. “Good.” She turned to survey her people. Most of the soldiers were wounded but a few remained hale. “We need two stout men to carry this tapestry. Who will bear our banner of victory?”

  A handful of soldiers stepped forward, vying for the honor. The queen smiled, pleased by their eagerness. “We need brawn for this task, the banner must not falter.” She chose the two with the broadest shoulders. “Remove the tapestry from the wall but keep it on the rod. Both will be needed on the roof.”

  While the soldiers stepped to the task, the queen addressed the rest of her people. “We ask all who are able to light a torch and follow us up to the tower rampart.”

  One soldier raised a hooded lantern. “What about the lanterns, your majesty?”

  The queen shook her head. “Leave the lanterns and bring torches instead, there should be plenty in the storeroom. Raw fire provides the better spectacle.”

  The chamber swirled to activity. Two soldiers wrestled the tapestry from the wall, furling the thick embroidery around the hanging rod. A gray-haired sergeant distributed torches from the storeroom. Her ladies-in-waiting each took one. Princess Jemma held a torch in her right hand, her bow in her left. Even the soldiers who bore wounds rose to help, reaching for torches, some of them asked for two. The chamber glowed with the light of twenty-four torches. The queen hoped it would be enough to signal a new dawn.

  The pounding of the battering ram quickened, as if the enemy sought to check her next move. The queen raised her voice, shouting to be heard over the boom. “Come, we have little time. Bring the traitor and the tapestry and as many torches as you can carry.”

  She led the way to th
e alcove, choosing the stairs that led upward. An ironbound door flush with the stone ceiling blocked the way. The heavy door was bolted, not locked, but the bolts were rusted shut. “We need a soldier’s strength.”

  The queen pressed against the cold stones, giving a redheaded soldier room to pass. The rusted bolt proved difficult. The soldier hammered the pommel of his sword against the stubborn bolt.

  The pounding of the battering ram echoed in the stairwell.

  The queen hissed, “Hurry!”

  The soldier redoubled his efforts. The bolt gave way in a shower of red flecks, a rusty tang heavy in the air. Hinges creaked in protest as the soldier shouldered the door upwards. The trap door swung backwards, admitting a rush of fresh air and the faint dawn light.

  They scrambled to the roof, crenellated battlements circling the tower top like a king’s crown. The queen rushed to the eastern battlement, desperate to learn the fate of her castle, the fate of her kingdom. The tower gave her a bird’s-eye view. Gripping the carved stones, she leaned out, peering down into the courtyard. An eerie silence echoed from below. Death claimed the courtyard, the dead and dying scattered across the cobblestones like fallen leaves, but all the soldiers wore Lanverness green. The queen railed against the ruin of the rebellion…all because of her gender, a queen instead of king. She turned away from the grim sight. There was nothing she could do for the dead; she needed to find the living.

  Princess Jemma called from the far side of the tower. “Your majesty, the battle is here!”

  The queen crossed the rooftop to join the princess, her heart thundering. Leaning on the tower battlement, she peered below.

  War claimed the western courtyard, a swirling chaos of swords. Green against green, soldiers fought soldiers, with no way for the queen to tell the rebels from the loyalists. The fiercest battle raged in a tight knot at the base of the Queen’s Tower, a bitter clash of steel. Screams echoed from below. One side had the advantage of numbers but the queen could not tell friend from foe.

  A horn sounded from below. Citizens and soldiers stormed toward the tower, joining the fray. Homespun brown fought along side the bright colors of nobles and the green tabards of soldiers. Her people rallied to her need! A flush of gratitude swept through the queen.

  Her voice rang like steel. “Time to proclaim our victory!” She gestured to the two soldiers carrying the tapestry. “Unfurl our banner over the battlement. Let our people know that the queen holds the tower top!”

  Soldiers hoisted the tapestry to the top of the notched battlement. Holding the rod, they unfurled it over the edge. The heavy embroidery slapped the side of the tower with a dull thud, releasing a cloud of dust. Defiant in the morning light, the emerald coat-of-arms stood vibrant against the tower walls.

  The queen said, “The rest of you wave your torches with wild abandon.”

  Her people obeyed, waving their torches out over battlement, crowning the tower with a halo of dancing flames. The queen stood above the tapestry, her golden gown reflecting the torchlight. Liandra held her breath, willing her people to look up, willing the numbers to be in her favor.

  At first there was no reaction…but then a few faces looked up…and then a few more began to point toward the tower top. A murmur rippled through the fighting and then a cheer rose from the throats of many, proving the loyalists far outnumbered the rebels.

  Relief and pride washed through her. She’d kept her crown, the kingdom was still hers to guide.

  “Your majesty!” The urgent words came from behind.

  Turning, she found a young soldier hobbling toward her. Blood-soaked lace bound his right shoulder. “Your majesty! The battering ram has stopped! The rebels have broken through!”

  A cold fear gripped the queen, defeat on the very edge of victory!

  Captain Durnheart took command. “Protect the queen!”

  A thin bristle of swords surrounded her. The queen stood with her back to the crenellated battlement.

  The iron door clanged open and rebels poured onto the rooftop.

  The queen pushed to the front. “Stop! Or the traitor dies!”

  Captain Durnheart forced the bound traitor to kneel beside the queen. Gripping the Lord Turner’s blonde hair, he held his sword to the traitor’s throat.

  The rebels hesitated, a menace of swords claiming the rooftop.

  “Remove his gag.” She glared at the traitorous lord. “Tell them to surrender or I’ll have your head!”

  Turner hesitated, till the captain’s sword drew a thin edge of blood. “Enough! Lower your swords, the queen has won.”

  The rebels held their ground, a grim stalemate.

  The queen summoned her most regal voice. “Greedy lords misled you, shedding your blood for their gain. Lower your swords and you shall be pardoned. We will spare the soldiers, punishing only the traitorous lords.”

  A murmur rose among the rebels.

  The queen waited, willing their surrender.

  A minor lordling stood among the rebels. “Kill the queen and victory is ours!”

  A sword sprouted from the lordling’s chest. A gray-haired sergeant stepped from behind the dying lord. “I’ll take your pardon.” His bloody sword clattered to the rooftop.

  The others followed, lowering their weapons.

  The queen nearly sagged in relief. Summoning the last of her strength, she stood sword-straight. “Lady Sarah, lead our women to collect their swords.” Victory so narrowly won could be easily lost. Surrounded and outnumbered, Liandra knew she needed to keep control of the rebels. The queen remained with her guard while her women disarmed the rebels.

  A shout came from the far side of the battlement. “I seek the queen!”

  The rebels parted and a troop of soldiers strode towards the queen. The commander dropped to his knee, proffering his sword hilt. “Captain Ranoth with men from the Rose Squad. The Queen’s Tower is secured.”

  The Rose Squad, so her message had gotten through. Liandra dared to hope, but she needed to be sure. “If you serve the prince then you know the password.”

  “White’s Gambit!”

  The password was correct, but the crucial question remained. She stared at the captain, noting the spray of blood on his tabard. “What news of crown Prince Stewart?” Liandra struggled to keep her face impassive while fear gripped her heart. The mother feared for her son, the queen feared for her only heir.

  “The prince commands the castle. He sent me to ensure your safety.”

  Liandra closed her eyes in relief. Her son lived and her kingdom was secure. Her desperate gambit had paid off.

  “For the queen!”

  The salute roused her. She opened her eyes to find that her women had sunk to a deep curtsey while her loyal men knelt. The queen gave them a radiant smile, bestowing a heartfelt thanks on each of them. “We shall never forget the loyalty you showed your queen on this most dire of days.”

  “Long live the queen!”

  Liandra felt suddenly gay…and young, as if the weight of twenty years had lifted from her shoulders. She laughed and the sound was light and cheerful. Perhaps this was the battle euphoria that the soldiers spoke of. “Come, all of you! Rise up and come with us. We have won a great victory! But there is still work to be done. We must care for the wounded and bury the dead and set our kingdom to rights, but then we shall celebrate in a manner that none shall soon forget.”

  Liandra led her people back down into the tower. She had traitors to punish and loyalty to repay…and a kingdom to steer towards peace and prosperity. The crown was her destiny and none would part her from it.

  31

  Steffan

  The fortress crouched on the north side of the Flame God’s city. Fashioned of ugly gray stones and brute architecture, it looked like a hungry beast waiting to pounce. Steffan smiled at the imagery, for the beast’s appetite was truly insatiable, the lower dungeons crammed with heretics waiting to dance in the Flames. The people of Balor feared the fortress, and rightly so. Fear was useful,
especially in a theocracy…but today he visited the fortress for other reasons, today he pursued a dark vision that stretched far beyond a single kingdom.

  Guards snapped to attention as Steffan approached the gate. His long black cape with the bloody badge of the raven prominent on the right breast drew quick salutes. A sergeant offered to accompany him to the general’s quarters, but Steffan waved him away, preferring privacy.

  He passed beneath the iron portcullis, into the inner yard. The fortress rang with the clang of halberds, the weapon favored by the army of the Flame. The dread weapons were designed to skewer, cleave, and chop. On the battlefield, they’d be used for much more than just killing. Soldiers of the Flame were trained to decapitate, dismember, and disembowel the enemy, sowing fear as well as death. Fear would be the vanguard of Steffan’s army.

  The new recruits practiced on leather pells stuffed with straw. Hacking at painted heads, they spilled straw-innards across the cobblestones, making a mangle of their enemies. They started with pells but they’d soon progress to live prisoners. The confessors kept the dungeons well stocked with heretics, more than enough to feed the Flames.

  The Lord Raven crossed the training yard, a dark shadow amongst the swirling red. He climbed the steps to the commander’s quarters and paused on the battlement to gaze beyond the city’s walls. The view was impressive. Rows of tents stretched in every direction, campfires scoring the sky with pillars of smoke. The Fortress of the Flame proved too small for his burgeoning army, just as a single kingdom was too small for his ambitions. Soon it would be time to unleash war upon Erdhe, time to transform the counselor into the conqueror…all in the service of the Dark Lord.

  Steffan hid his smile and buried his ambition, a chameleon skilled at shades of darkness. Turning from the view, he knocked on the door to the commander’s quarters.

  A gruff voice replied, “Enter!”

  The chamber was small and spare, a camp bed and an army trunk along one wall, a cold fireplace and a weapons rack along another. A thick wooden table and two long benches took up the middle of the room. A small window and a cluster of candles provided a dim light.