The Flame Priest (The Silk & Steel Saga) (17 page)

A ring-necked pheasant broke from the brush, rising in a rush of feathers.
Duncan
raised his bow. An arrow fletched with black swan feathers took the pheasant before it breached the forest ceiling. He angled his mount toward the kill but the mountain wolf beat him to it. Nosing the bird, the wolf gave the archer a satisfied grin and then loped back into the summer-green of the forest.
Duncan
had to smile; the wolf was turning out to be a valuable hunting partner. Flushing game during the day and keeping watch at night, the wolf proved his worth as a welcome companion, but
Duncan
had his doubts about the other two.

Dressing the bird, he stuffed the pheasant into the game bag, leaving the offal for the wolf. Urging his horse to a gallop, he returned to the main trail. His companions made enough noise that he had no trouble finding them. Horse and rider emerged from the dense brush, startling the others. Hands slid to scabbards and then fell away. Raising his bow in greeting, he cantered to the front, resuming the lead.

Duncan
felt a hunter’s stare on his back. Heat crept up his neck. He did not have to turn to know it was Kath. Gripping his bow, he fought the urge to meet her leaf-green eyes. The girl was like iron to a loadstone…but if truth be told, the pull went both ways. Taking a deep breath, he focused on the task at hand.

Glancing behind, he checked on each of his companions. He could count on Kath and the two knights in a fight, but the two from the monastery were a worry. The wolf-girl, Danya, claimed a rare magic but she had no fighting skills and refused to carry a weapon. Beyond bringing the wolf,
Duncan
couldn’t see how the girl would help against the Mordant. At least she had a way with horses and was proving to be a competent traveler.

The monk, on the other hand, remained a riddle. Keeping to the rear, the old man rode hunched in the saddle, hiding beneath his midnight blue robes. Whatever his secrets, the monk held them close. The man’s sullen silence gnawed at
Duncan
like an aching tooth. He didn’t trust the monks; they hadn’t kept
Jordan
safe, and now this one played possum, hiding behind a stony face.
Duncan
understood the need for secrets but not if those secrets got others killed. He kept a close watch on the monk, intent on flushing the man out of hiding.

With supper in the bag,
Duncan
urged his gelding to a canter. They rode till twilight, hoping to gain ground on an enemy they could not even track. As darkness fell, he chose a spot near a brook for their camp. Sir Tyrone used his skills with spices to prepare the pheasant and a brace of quails while Danya and Sir Blaine settled the horses.
Blaine
had developed a sudden interest in tending the horses, helping Danya rub the mounts down with handfuls of grass, picking their hooves, and seeing to the watering. The two worked well together but the brown-haired girl seemed oblivious to the spell that she’d cast on the lanky knight.
Duncan
chuckled; amused that the two young people couldn’t see what was right in front of them.

Filling the kettle with creek water,
Duncan
turned to find Kath standing behind him. The girl always seemed to be underfoot, but this time she had a distracted, worried look on her face. In a low voice he said, “Looking for something?”

“Do you think we made the right choice?”

“What choice?”

She gestured to the west. “Back at the fork in the trail, the decision to avoid the Isle of Souls and ride for Tubor instead?”

“Will the Mordant hide amongst people or trees?

“I…don’t know.”

“Just so. The best trackers know their prey. Since we don’t know the beast, we can’t anticipate its path.”
Duncan
shrugged, “Time and the spring thaw have erased any signs of the Mordant’s passage. With no trail to follow and no way to predict his actions, one-way is as good as another. All we can do is hold the horses to a trot and keep them pointed north.”

She stared at him as if she were trying to peer into his soul. He knew what she wanted…he felt it too, but it could not be.

In a quiet voice Kath asked, “Do you believe in the prophecies?”

“I came, didn’t I?”

Hurt danced in her eyes.

He regretted his hasty retort. Cynicism had gotten the better of him since the attack on
Jordan
. Kath deserved better. “Sit with me.” He straddled a fallen tree while she settled on a moss-sheathed stone. Considering his words, he tried to explain, “It’s a matter of coincidence.”

She stared at him, listening.

He struggled to explain. “Finding the crystal dagger, the return of the Mordant, the attack on
Jordan
, the red comet tearing across the heavens, too many things have happened for it all to be coincidence. And despite the monks’ tight-lipped reticence, they don’t lie.” He lowered his voice and leaned toward her, “I believe there’s a truth buried in the prophecies, but I wonder if we’re wise enough to understand the meaning.”

“Do we have a chance against the Mordant?”

He held her gaze. “I don’t know, but I intend to find out.”

She nodded. “In the monastery, it all made more sense. The monks know so much but their explanations are so…”

“…convoluted.”

She flashed him a knowing grin but her green eyes remained serious, deepening to a rich moss color. “Every answer leads to another question…and so much is left unsaid.”

The girl had a habit of echoing his own thoughts. “The monks are a secretive lot. Makes a man wonder if he’s being helped or used.” He watched her face, but she did not take the bait.

“Do you believe in free will or a fore-ordained destiny?”

She stared at him, her gaze full of questions and challenges. She had a way of making him look past the surface. “I believe in balance. When evil rises, the balance must be restored. We all hope the gods will lean down from the heavens to fix the world, but the gods are a fickle bunch, rarely bothering to lift a finger. It always comes down to ordinary men making the choice to step forward and set the balance right.”
Duncan
shrugged and said, “I guess this time, we’re the ones chosen to the task.”

Kath sat cloaked in stillness.

Sensing she needed more,
Duncan
added, “I’ll tell you this, if the fate of the southern kingdoms rests with the crystal dagger, then I’d rather be counted among those trying to set the balance right than leave it to others. At least this way we have a hand in steering our own fate.”

Kath whispered, “I guess I feel the same.” A warm smile filled her face.

Before more could be said, the black knight yelled for the kettle.

Sharing a laugh at the irony of the mundane, Duncan and Kath returned to camp.

Smells of roasted pheasant swirled around the fire. The black knight knew how to ply his store of spices. The companions circled the fire. Sitting on bedrolls, they savored the crispy skin and juicy slices of spit-roasted pheasant. Stories were traded and laughter shared but there was one who always sat apart. The monk hid behind his midnight-blue robes like a shield wall, impervious to friendship.

Duncan
respected the monk’s right to privacy, but if Zith had a reason for joining the group, they all needed to hear it. Tired of waiting for the monk to pick his moment, he stared at Zith and said, “Is it true?”

To
Duncan
’s right, Kath gasped, knowing what was asked.

Duncan
kept his gaze focused on the monk.

An awkward tension swirled around the campfire.

The wolf whined, disturbed by the mood.

Zith kept his head bent, staring into the fire.

Duncan
asked again, “Is it true that the Mordant took your son?”

Zith shrugged. The cowl of his midnight blue robe fell backwards. Long silver-blond hair framed a face etched with sorrow. Hazel eyes, heavy with sadness met
Duncan
’s gaze. “Yes.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

Murmurs of condolences circled the fire.

Duncan
said, “So, you joined us for revenge?

The monk’s eyes widened in surprise, “Revenge? No. I’ve come for something far more dear than revenge. I’ve come to free my son.”

Sir Tyrone gaped, “Is that possible?”

Anguish washed across the monk’s face. “It’s not what you think. Only the crystal dagger can free my son. Slay the Mordant with the dagger and his soul will be cast back into the pit of hell, never to be reborn. The dagger will also take my son’s life…but any soul who has not willingly joined with Darkness will be freed to go into the Light.” Dropping his voice, the monk added, “My son was trained by the Kiralynn Order, I know he will hold true.” A hint of steel leached into his voice, “I’ve come to see that my son’s soul is set free, to return him to the Light.”

Duncan
respected the monk’s loss, but he couldn’t let the old man retreat to his walls of silence. “So how can you help in the fight against the Mordant?”

The monk’s hazel eyes flashed in the firelight. For a moment, the heavy cloak of sorrow dropped away, revealing a hidden determination. Stretching out his right hand, the monk exposed his open palm. A Seeing Eye tattooed in dark blue stared at them. “Seek knowledge, Protect knowledge, Share knowledge.” Closing his hand into a fist, the monk said, “For those who have the wisdom to use it, knowledge is a great power.”

The monk slumped back against his bedroll, resuming his mantle of sorrow, but
Duncan
refused to let him hide. “What knowledge do you carry?”

“What knowledge do you need?”

The sharp retort parried further questions, but Kath dared to break the silence. Pulling the crystal dagger from the sheath at her belt, she held the milk-white blade up to the firelight. The blade caught and held the light, almost as if it glowed from within. “Master Rizel explained the purpose of the crystal dagger, but for whose hand was it forged?”

The monk stirred. “Carved from the heart of a Dahlmar crystal and imbued with the powers of the Light, the daggers were created for the Star Knights.”

The Star Knights.
The words whispered in
Duncan
’s mind, achingly familiar yet somehow unknown.

Kath asked the question that hovered on
Duncan
’s lips. “And who were the Star Knights?”

The monk nodded as if he expected the question. “The Grand Master told you of the Orb of Seeing. Long ago, the scholars of the Orb foresaw a great war that would destroy the civilizations of Erdhe, a ruin that would push the race of man back into barbarism. The Kiralynn Order sought to oppose this threat, to change the thread of time, but the way forward was not clear. The Grand Master called a conclave of the wise, but the masters could not agree. The majority argued that the role of the Order was to preserve knowledge, to keep the lamp of civilization lit against the Darkness. Others argued that the Order needed to take up the sword, to openly oppose the threat. The argument sundered the Order, causing the Great Schism. Most of the monks retreated deep into the seclusion of the Southern Mountains, building the monastery and preserving the knowledge of the world. But a smaller group of mages, beastmasters, and warriors raised a battle standard against the forces of Darkness. That battle standard bore the eight-pointed star.”

The fire crackled, sending a shower of sparks into the dark.

Enthralled, Kath whispered, “What happened to them?”

The monk stared at her from across the fire. “They were betrayed.”

The wolf rose to his haunches and tipped back his head, hurling a mournful howl into the night. The eerie wail scraped down
Duncan
’s spine. Danya tried to calm the beast, to no avail. Rising to all fours, the wolf shook his fur and stalked off into the night, as if the beast refused to hear more of the monk’s grim tale.

Disturbed by the wolf’s behavior, the companions re-settled around the campfire. The black knight was the first to speak. “So the Star Knights failed and the great war happened anyway?”

The monk nodded. “The world was broken by the War of the Wizards.”

A grim hush settled across the campfire.

Blaine
said, “And now we chase the Mordant into the north.”

Kath’s gaze narrowed. “The Mordant isn’t the only harlequin, is he?”

“No.”

Duncan
stared at the monk. Such a clipped answer begged for more questions.

Kath must have felt the same, for she pressed the monk for answers. “The Mordant is the oldest harlequin, the bane of the north, the enemy of the Octagon…but why must he be killed before all others?”

“How little you understand. The Mordant is not just the oldest harlequin; he is the right hand of the Dark Lord.” The monk paused, staring at each of the companions in turn. “So much has been forgotten, yet you dare not underestimate the enemy we chase. In the time before the War of the Wizards, the counselor who goaded the kingdoms to war went by the name of
the Mordant
.”