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

  The black-cloaked man gave Duncan a half-smile and then resumed his seat.

  Arguments ignited from all sides. He’d set the spark to the tinder, now all Duncan could do was watch.

  A dozen clan leaders rose to claim the floor, including his Grandmother. Her shrill voice led those opposed to leaving the Forest but several of the other clans argued against her. Some wanted to end the hatred and the persecutions while others wanted better opportunities for the young. A few voices recognized the evil of the fire and the threat to the Forest. The debate ebbed and flowed, for and against, heated on both sides, a raging thunder of disagreement.

  Duncan stood in the eye of the storm, the half-breed son once again forgotten by the clans.

  The soft whisper of the Treespeaker filled his mind. *Duncan Treloch, son of the Forest, you have done well. You have risen above hatred and prejudice to find honor in both worlds. You give your people hope, a bridge to a better future. Go now, and join your companions. They also have need of you. One in particular, waits for you in the high meadow.*

  Her words lifted a weight from his shoulders. Duncan turned and bowed low to the Treespeaker.

  Released from the debate, he followed his heart out of the amphitheater.

  33

  The Mordant

  The night wind carried a thin thread of Darkness. The Mordant paused in mid-stride, tantalized by the scent. It came from the northwest, strong enough to draw his notice but not Dark enough to be a dedicate. He breathed deep, tasting the scent, rolling the Darkness across his tongue like a vintner tasting a fine wine. Darkness came in many different shades; the depraved, the malevolent, the vicious, the greedy, the cruel, the debauched, the murderous…so many different forms of corruption, each with its own particular taste, its own particular use. This thread tasted sharp and vicious, a tool waiting to be wielded by the will of a master.

  The Mordant followed the thread, intent on claiming a servant. Leaving the road, he cut across an open field. Moonlight cast a silvery glow across the farmland, peaceful and unsuspecting. He followed the thread through a vineyard and across an empty pasture. By the light of the crescent moon, he climbed a small hill and found a collection of rooftops huddled in the valley below, the smell of wood smoke hanging heavy in the night air. More than a village, the cluster of stone and wood buildings had the look of a town posing as a city. The Mordant smiled, sensing a fertile hunting ground.

  He pulled the deep cowl of his golden robe forward and followed the dirt road down into the heart of the town. Lamplight glowed from the houses, music and laughter spilling from the open door of a tavern. He strolled down the main street, keeping his head bent and his eyes averted, avoiding the villagers.

  The scent of Darkness grew stronger, drawing him past the tavern and into a side alleyway. A woman’s sob confirmed the direction. The Mordant paused at the mouth of the alley, studying the scene. Three men subdued a young couple; robbery and rape, two petty acts of Darkness. One of the ruffians moaned and writhed in the dirt, a knife protruding from his belly. A second thug searched the limp body of the male victim. The leader, a swarthy swordsman, unlaced his codpiece, preparing to mount the woman. Darkness clung to the swordsman like a cloak; he’d found his prey.

  The Mordant advanced toward the swordsman, a soft swish of golden robes. Lamplight from the main street sent his shadow stretching down the alley like a sinister wraith. The shadow touched the swordsman. The Mordant rasped, “Attend me!”

  Startled, the two thieves swung to face the intruder. Hands reached for weapons, jackals defending their kill. The leader stuffed his manhood back into his codpiece and drew an ugly short sword. Keeping one foot on the woman’s back, the swordsman growled, “You’re bothering the wrong man, boyo. Be gone, or I’ll flay you alive for the sheer pleasure of it!”

  The Mordant studied his prey. The swordsman wore a map of dark deeds etched across his face. A stubborn jaw and a nose made crooked by too many brawls…but the darker truth lay in the twin scars branded deep into his face. Each cheek bore the scar of a broken Octagon, the brand of an unmade knight. The Mordant smiled, amused by the irony. He nodded toward the swordsman, his voice a whisper, “I have a use for you.”

  Anger roiled across the swordsman’s face. Leaving the woman, he advanced on the Mordant, his sword poised to strike. “Never bother a man when he’s taking a woman, boyo. Now hand over your purse and there better be more than coppers in it or I’ll have your head for interrupting my pleasure.”

  The Mordant whispered, “You don’t yet recognize your true master.”

  “I have no master.” The swordsman raised his blade, little realizing that the Darkness in his soul gaped open like an invitation to conquest.

  The Mordant shrugged the cowl away from his face. Dropping his inner shields, he let the full Darkness of his soul ascend to his eyes. A thousand years of evil poured forth into his gaze, boring into the swordsman. Darkness fed on Darkness, overwhelming the swordsman. The Mordant exerted his will, a molten fist searing the mortal’s soul.

  Gasping in pain, the swordsman fell to his knees. His eyes widened in fear, the sword falling useless from his hand.

  The Mordant whispered, “Yes, like knows like. The corruption in your soul kneels to my greater Darkness.” The Mordant seared the soul, marking it with his own brand. An in-human scream echoed in the alleyway. A burnt smell hung in the air.

  Trembling, the swordsman stammered, “L-lord, who are you?”

  “I am your master, the Mordant reborn.” He sifted through the man’s soul, examining the dark deeds of his past. The unmade knight reeked with bitterness and envy. In the deepest part of his soul he carried a penchant for cruelty and murder…a valuable combination.

  The Mordant eased his stranglehold on the soul. The unmade knight carried enough Darkness to be compelled, but a willing bargain was always more binding…even if that bargain was never kept. The Mordant’s voice was low and compelling. “I know you Raymond of Radagar, Raymond of the Octagon.”

  The swordsman gasped, surprise written across his face.

  “The darkest secrets of your soul lie open to me. You long for revenge against those who wronged you…and you covet the great sapphire blades wielded by the favorites of the Octagon.” The Mordant drew Darkness to him like a cloak, wrapping himself in power. He loomed above the kneeling man, a vision of his true self; a vision of a thousand years of evil. “Serve me and I will exceed the deepest wishes of your soul. Serve me and you shall vanquish those who cast you out. Serve me and I will make you a Dark Knight, a wielder of a legendary sword…one capable of shattering blue steel.”

  The unmade knight stuttered, “B-but t-that’s not possible!”

  “Serve me and I will give you Sir Boric’s blade to wield.”

  Raymond gaped. “The first blue sword! But that blade is lost to legend, lost when…”

  “…when Sir Boric sought the head of the Mordant…over six hundred years ago.”

  The unmade knight stared at the Mordant with wide eyes. Fear engulfed the alleyway.

  The Mordant laughed, the sound carrying the weight of ages. “Your legends are my memories. Now you begin to see why no mortal man will ever defeat me.”

  “But what of the sword?”

  The unmade knight proved courageous in his greed; the Mordant approved. “The sword waits in the Dark Citadel, along with other treasures. Serve me and you shall wield Boric’s lost sword against my enemies.”

  Desire for the fabled sword flooded the man’s soul.

  “Will you serve me of your own free will?”

  The unmade knight saluted, his fist striking his chest. “I so swear!”

  The Mordant smiled, mortals were so easy to manipulate. “Now rise and serve your true master.”

  Raymond wiped the spittle from his mouth and scrambled to his feet. Retrieving his short sword, he sheathed the weapon and bowed low. “W-what would you have of me, lord?”

  Releasing the knight from his gaze, the Mo
rdant turned to study the second thug. The skinny thief cowered next to the body of his unconscious victim, gibbering in fear. Peering into the thief’s soul, the Mordant found only a mere splinter of Darkness, just a petty thief who stole for food without any real passion for the Dark. This one would be of no use.

  Turning back to the unmade knight, the Mordant said, “Do you have a mount?”

  “No, lord.”

  Reaching into the pocket of his robe, the Mordant produced a purse thick with coins. “Buy or steal three horses, two saddled for riding and one for supplies. Stock the packhorse with clothing and food for the mountains. Choose the horses for stamina rather than speed. Meet me at the north edge of town before the sun rises. See to it that you are not followed.”

  “I could serve better if I knew our destination.”

  The Mordant studied his servant. In his early thirties, the knight was tall and well muscled with a low cunning in his dark eyes. Watching the man’s face, the Mordant said, “We go to Cragnoth Keep.”

  The man blanched. “B-but the Frozen Keep is held by the Octagon.”

  “Loyalties can be deceiving.”

  “B-but I’m marked for death if I return to the Domain.”

  “Only if you are caught.” The Mordant’s will poured into the eyes of the knight. “Remember your vow.” Letting iron leach into his voice, the Mordant said, “Whom do you serve?”

  Fear and terror warred behind the knight’s eyes.

  The Mordant’s shadow loomed large.

  Dropping to his knee, the unmade knight bent his head in homage. “I serve the Mordant.”

  “And so you should. Now see to my commands, but first, kill the others. I will leave no witnesses.”

  “All of them?”

  “Yes, all of them. The weak are of no use to me.”

  A wicked grin crossed the knight’s face as he eased his sword from its scabbard.

  The Mordant pulled the cowl of his robe up to shadow his face. He’d claimed his first servant of this lifetime, an unmade knight of the Octagon; the irony appealed to him. He’d use his enemy’s castoff, turning the sharpened weapon back on the maker. Soon he would cross the Dragon Spine Mountains and claim tens of thousands of servants…but first he had one more trap to set, one more seed of chaos to plant. Turning his back on the unmade knight, the Mordant walked from the alleyway, leaving death in his wake.

  34

  Danly

  The cell reeked of piss, and sweat, and mold, and festering fear…but at least there was light. Not the light of the sun, the cell was buried too deep for sunlight or fresh air or any touch of life, but this new cell had the luxury of torchlight. Torches lined the outer hallway, sputtering and glowing, casting pools of light against the cold stones. Danly became enchanted with the flickering torchlight, the way it striped the iron bars and dared to invade the crouching darkness. After the traitor’s pit, Danly appreciated light.

  They’d pulled him out of the hole, doused him with cold water, and handed him rough peasant-clothes to cover his nakedness. A scratchy course-wool tunic and pants, both infested with lice and the sour stink of the previous owner. As if that indignity were not enough, they shackled his hands and legs in heavy irons and marched him at sword point out of the cell. At least they marched him the right way, heading up, out of the bowels of hell.

  His chains clanking, Danly shuffled past the long line of ironbound doors, through the guardroom and across the cavernous chamber filled with the moldering devices of torture. The great devices lurked like beasts in the shadows, starving for a victim, hungry for a traitor, a nightmare waiting to pounce. Danly hurried as much as his chains would allow, hobbling up the great wooden staircase, fleeing the underworld.

  Every step upwards was a victory. Up was good. Up was full of hope. Up was closer to light and life, to fresh air and sunshine. In hell, up was the only direction that mattered. But they didn’t take him far enough.

  They stopped on the next level, shoving him into a small cell, a lonely cell, cold and dank but at least he had the comfort of torchlight. A slops bucket, a hard pallet for a bed, and stale rushes became his kingdom, beady-eyed rats his only subjects, the prisoner-prince.

  At first he’d hollered and yelled, hurling threats and bribes, commands and pleadings, but no one ever came. He learned to save his voice and nurture his hatred. Six steps by ten, he paced the limits of his domain, and every step he said a name. He lost count of the steps, but never the names. Some days he held out hope that the Red Horns would rise and the crown would still be his. They’d carry him out of the dungeons and set him on the throne, his enemies cowering at his feet, awaiting his royal wrath. That dream was sweet. On other days, he cursed the Lord Turner and his whispers of treason, damning the day he’d joined the Red Horns. But there was always one he hated above all others, his royal mother, the Spider Queen. The bitch, the witch, the unnatural woman he called mother. If he ever got his freedom, he’d have his sweet revenge…but first he had to survive.

  Every day was the same. Cold slimy walls, cold lumpy gruel, cold silent hallways. The sameness wore at his sanity. At least he had light, but the torchlight never changed, never bright, never dark, no way to tell the tread of days…except by the food. Cold oatmeal gruel and a heel of dark bread in the morning…gray, lumpy stew and a heel of dark bread at night, always served with silence. His jailors ignored him, not even bothering to put him to the question. It was as if Danly did not exist, as if he did not matter. He slammed the empty bowl against the far wall, screaming his rage at the shadows. “I’m a prince of the realm! I demand to see the queen! I deserve better than this!”

  A prince of the realm…the queen…deserve better than this…

  The twisted echo came back to haunt him…always a mocking taunt, never an answer. He slumped to the floor, his head in his hands, clinging to sanity.

  A sound pierced the silence, a sound that wasn’t part of the sameness. A lock clicked and a rusty door groaned…too soon for the evening meal. Footsteps echoed down the long hallway. Hope danced within him…but fear was right behind. He was afraid to look but he needed to know. Danly pressed his face to the bars, straining to see, watching the islands of light beneath the torches.

  He spied emerald green, the tabard of soldiers and swore under his breath. They never sent the prison turnkeys, always soldiers. Stern-faced, incorruptible creatures of the queen’s shadowmaster, another man he swore to hate.

  A captain flanked by two soldiers strode the long hallway. They stopped in front of his cell. “Move away from the bars.”

  Danly stood his ground, afraid to relinquish his kingdom. “Why?” His voice was rusty from disuse.

  “You’re to be moved.” The captain’s voice deepened to a growl. “Move away from the bars.”

  Danly told himself that moving was good; it had to be. The last move had gotten him out of the pit and up to a cell with torchlight. Perhaps the next move would give him a real window, a glimmer of sunlight. He clung to the hope and moved back against the far wall. “What happens above?”

  “No questions!”

  It was always the same. Danly yearned to hear what transpired in the castle. Hoping for a crumb of information, he held his silence, waiting, watching, his back pressed against the far wall.

  Keys clattered in the lock. The hinges of the door screeched in rusty protest. The captain drew his sword, the steel bright in the torchlight.

  Danly shrank against the cold stones, fearing murder.

  The captain must have seen his fear. “Come, you’re to be moved to a different cell.”

  The soldiers grasped his arms, one on each side. Danly shuffled forward between them, watching the naked sword. Seven steps and he passed beyond the confines of the bars, beyond his domain. He turned to the right, toward the way up…but the soldiers pulled him back. “No, this way.”

  They were leading him down!

  “No!” His scream echoed in the hallway. “I won’t go down!” He hung like deadweight
between them, dragging his feet, tears streaming down his face. But the soldiers were strong. They half carried, half dragged him down the corridor.

  A stream of hot urine pissed down his leg, the stench of fear flooding the dungeon…but the soldiers did not stop. Relentless, they dragged him down the great wooden stairs, down past the torture devices, down into the depths of hell. He’d walked defiant the last time they’d brought him to the lower depths, but now Danly knew better. He squirmed, fighting to get free. “Not the pit! I won’t go there!”

  The captain turned and struck him across the face. The shock of the blow silenced Danly, the salty taste of blood on his cracked lip. The captain growled, “You’re not going to the pit, that’s reserved for another traitor.”

  That’s when Danly knew. The Red Horns had risen…and failed. He began to shake, his chains clanking, his legs turning to water. They opened an ironbound door and shoved him in, a glimpse of stone walls and pale rushes and an unimaginable stench. The door slammed shut and darkness descended, deep and dark, absolute black, the darkness of a tomb. And then the screaming began. Danly knew the wails came from a ghost…the ghost of a prince, buried alive…lost in the depths of hell.

  35

  Liandra

  The stones of the castle gave up their bloodstains easier than the souls of men. The corpses were removed in cartloads, the loyalists sent to heroes’ graves and the traitors to a mass pyre. The pyre burned for days, creating a grim pall that hung over the city, a stain against the summer sky, a stain against honor and duty, a stain that marred the soul of Lanverness.

  An army of servants labored to restore the great castle, scrubbing floors, repairing the tower doors, re-hanging the tapestries. Gold and hard work restored the luster of the Rose Court, but the castle was the least of Liandra’s worries. The Spider Queen had debts of loyalty and treason to settle, debts she intended to pay in full measure.