The Flame Priest (The Silk & Steel Saga) (19 page)

Roland, a curly-haired young man with the shoulders of a blacksmith, scowled. “The forest belongs to the Duke, a royal hunting preserve. We daren’t touch the land.”

Tully, a gap-toothed red-head on Roland’s left added, “Our necks would be stretched by the noose if we cleared the Duke’s forest.”

Similar warnings echoed the length of the table. They wanted the land but not enough to risk the Duke’s wrath.

When the protests subsided, the Mordant seeded his true intent. “I didn’t mean the Duke’s forest. I meant the other one, the Deep Green, the forest infested with the cat-people.”

Eyes widened and hands made the sign against evil.

The Mordant hid his smile, amused by their superstitions. With a little prodding, stories of the forest-folk spilled out. The young men competed to tell the most gruesome tales, conjuring images of rituals where devils mated with beasts and human children were served as delicacies at dark feasts. They told of careless hunters wandering into the tangled green, never to be seen again. They spoke of homesteads cursed by the cat-folk so that crops failed and calves died at birth.

The Mordant nurtured the stories of hate and fear. When their emotions reached a fevered pitch, he struck flame to their tinder. “Why let the cat-people infest the very land you deserve, good land that could be used for rich new homesteads?”

A hushed stillness settled across the table.

In a voice thick with ale, Roland said, “But what about the Duke?”

“The cat-folk are a curse on the land, an unnatural blight infesting the forest. I’m sure the Duke would reward those who freed the forest from evil. Reward them with rich land hungry for the plow.”

Stares shifted around the table, unsure.

Reaching for his most persuasive voice, the Mordant whispered, “It could be done quietly, under cover of darkness so that no man is accused yet the deserving benefit. You will all gain more land, rich land, soil that has never been touched by the plow.”

Their eyes glistening with hunger, the young men leaned forward. “Tell us more.”

The Mordant hid his smile. “Wait for a dark night when a stiff wind blows due east, then kindle fires along the forest’s edge. Fortify the flames with casks of oil so the fires burn hot and true, a raging inferno. In just one night the tangled green will be reduced to ash, clearing the land for planting. The cursed cat-people will be driven off, or better yet, killed by the flames. In a single stroke, an evil blight is wiped from the forest and good land is freed for the taking, ready for the plow.”

Their eyes widened, entranced by the plan.

His task done, the Mordant sat back and listened. Keeping their tankards full, he let them talk, stoking their courage and priming their anger. He could have used compulsion, but he reveled in the art of persuasion. Acts of Darkness were always more potent when leavened with free will. In the end, he stayed three nights, always sitting with the same young men, nurturing the seed of Darkness, fanning their anger and fortifying their resolve.

On the fourth day he rose early with the first cockerel’s crow. He left the village, striding along the dirt road to the north. To the east, a false dawn flamed along the edge of the forest. Fed by a stiff wind, the line of fire licked at the towering trees, orange consuming green. Columns of black smoke roiled into the morning sky, dark pillars of destruction. The air stank of burnt trees…and triumph. The Mordant smiled as he walked, leaving seeds of chaos behind him and a dark destiny ahead.

Nightmares chased him from his bed, but for once Samson wondered if his dreams would be safer than the day. He dreaded the morning, his stomach clenched into a fist, his nightshirt sodden with sweat. Realizing more sleep was hopeless, he rose and pulled on his clothes, fumbling in the dark, wishing he could run away but knowing there was no place to go. A soft snore rose from the other bed. Samson shook his head in mute amazement. Ben always slept soundly, no matter what the Harper had planned. Finishing his toilet, Samson descended the narrow staircase, trying to be quiet, surprised to catch the smell of fresh baked apple-bread rising from the kitchen.

He found Grandmother Magda and Justin deep in conversation, the clacking of the knitting needles filling the kitchen with a soothing rhythm. Justin gave him a blazing smile. “Good morning, Samson.”

The bard was insufferably cheerful, but his smile was hard to resist. Samson took a mug from the hook and made an attempt at a smile but it turned into a yawn.

“There’s fresh apple-bread in the warming pan, dear. Help yourself.” The silver-haired matriarch sat in her rocking chair, her knitting needles in constant motion, firelight glinting off her hair.

Samson shook his head. “Just tea this morning, thanks.” She knew he loved anything with apples in it, but this morning the smell made his stomach roil. He filled his mug with tea and avoided the bread; afraid his stomach would betray his fear.

Taking a seat on the bench, he stared at the bard. Justin looked strange without his gaudy minstrel’s plumage but there would be no bright colors today, nothing to ensnare the eye, nothing memorable, just butternut wool and brown leather jerkins. The plan was to look like any other peasant…except the peasants of Balor were going to be asleep in their beds, not risking their lives.

As if sensing Samson’s unease, Justin flashed a wide smile, raising his mug of tea in salute. “Today we beard the Pontifax! Today we beat him at his own game and strike a blow for the freedom of Coronth!”

Samson stared at the bard who was also a prince, wondering if royal blood came with an extra dollop of courage, or if it was just a minstrel’s show of bravado. His doubt must have showed on his face.

Justin laughed. “Cheer up, my friend, as long as we’re quick there’ll be no danger today.”

Amazed by the bard’s confidence, Samson had to ask, “How so?”

“Their arrogance has made them blind. Like a dragon sleeping safe in its lair, the priesthood thinks no one will dare interfere. We’re about to prove them wrong.” His face sobered. “The danger will come later, once we wake the fire-breathing dragon.”

Samson shuddered. He didn’t want to wake the dragon; he didn’t want to be a hero, he just wanted a quiet life.

Footsteps clattered down the stairs, announcing that Ben was finally awake. The sergeant seemed to fill the staircase. A solidly built man with a face tanned to leather and head of close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair. He looked more like a soldier than a boot maker, but some things could not be easily disguised. “Any word from the boys?”

Justin shook his head.

Ben loosened the floorboard on the third step. Reaching into the secret space, he removed three short swords in leather scabbards. Replacing the floorboard, he handed a sword to each of the men. “We’ll be wanting these today.”

The sight of the swords was sobering. Citizens of Balor were forbidden to carry weapons, but that would be the least of their problems this morning. Samson strapped one around his waist, drawing courage from the steel. At least he’d have a chance to defend himself.

A knock came from the cupboard next to the stairs.

Hands moved to sword hilts but the clacking of the knitting needles never stopped.

The door creaked open and a dark-haired lad peered into the kitchen. “It’s me, Jack! We found him!”

Justin surged out of his chair, eagerness on his face. “Well done! Which part of the city?”

The boy entered the warmth of the kitchen, a skinny scrap of an orphan lad, hardly a day over ten, the youngest of a gang of street urchins Justin had recruited as eyes and ears. The boy gave Justin a blazing smile, and nodded to Grandmother Magda, but his gaze kept darting to the apple-bread in the warming pan. “He’s in the street of tanners, way on ta other side of town, so we’ll have ta run.”

“Have a piece or two dear, it’s fresh out of the oven.”

The boy’s hands struck like a twin snakes, one piece going into his pocket, the other crammed into his mouth for a single, bulging bite.

While the boy struggled to swallow, Samson and the others pulled on long brown cloaks to hide their swords and add to the disguise. Ben returned from the front workroom carrying a leather satchel that clanked of tools. Justin beamed a smile at the boy. “Come on Jack, we need you to lead.”

The boy swallowed his mouthful and flashed a gap-toothed smile, hero-worship in his eyes.

Samson caught the look and shook his head; hero-worship could get you killed.

“Have a good day, dears.” The matriarch stayed by the fire, her knitting needles making a steady clacking.

Three men and the boy stepped through the shallow cupboard to a secret door that opened onto the back alley. They startled a stray cat, but otherwise the alley was empty. Setting off at a trot, they followed the boy through the back ways of the city. The stars had already faded but the sky was still dark. They picked up the pace needing to finish before dawn.

The boy led them through the twists and turns of the back ways. Jack seemed to know every short cut, never once hesitating. At one point, he led them through a burnt building, bridging the distance between two parallel alleys. They kept to the back ways, avoiding the city guard.

The last alley spilled out into a muddy lane crowded with timbered workshops. A horrible stink rose from the street, urine and lye and other foul smells, the tanners were one of the lowest trades. They crouched in the alley mouth, searching the street for soldiers. It proved empty of red, but a man’s keening wail beat against the buildings.
 
Fear mingled with rage, the wail scraped down Samson’s spine. He shuddered, making the hand sign against evil; this was too much like his nightmares.

Justin paused to question the boy. “Are the other boys in place? Do they know the signals?”

Jack nodded. “Yep, they’re hiding at both ends of the street. Willie’s on the roof across the way. He’ll keep a lookout for soldiers.”

A figure melted out of the shadows. Tall and gangly, a young man with a shock of unruly red hair approached Justin. “About time you got here, Harper.”

“Red.” Justin offered his hand to the leader of the orphan boys. “Is everything ready?”

“Just as you asked. But the soldiers will be back with the first light.”

Samson flung a fearful glance to the sky. “There’s color in the east.”

“Then let’s get this done.” Like a general to battle, Justin led them into the street.

A flatbed wagon, empty of horses, crouched in the center of the street like a misshapen monster. A framework of timbers jutted from the wagon bed. The stocks held a large man captive, arms spread wide in the shape of a cross, chains wrapped around his neck and hands. The man bucked and fought against the chains, his twisted scream echoing down the street. The neighbors must have heard but no one stirred, leaving the sinner to his fate.

They raced down the street and climbed on the back of the wagon.

The man fell silent, eyes wide and wild, hope and disbelief warring across his battered face.

Justin spoke first, his voice calm and soothing. “We’re here to save you. We’ll soon have you out of those chains.”

The man trembled, his voice a hoarse whisper, “Nobody ever helps a heretic.”

A bright smile broke across the bard’s face. “That’s about to change, my friend. But you best keep screaming till we get your chains undone.”

The man complied, howling for help, but to Samson’s ears the tenor seemed false.

Ben removed a hammer and chisel from the bag and set to work on the chains. Samson reached for the second set of tools.

Justin stepped close to the man. “Do you have family in this street?”

The man’s voice broke, “A wife and three little ones.”

“Which house?”

The man pointed. “The one on the left.”

Justin jumped from the wagon, “I’ll see to them. Red, with me.”

Hammers beat against chisels, pounding at the locks, a rhythm of steel against steel. The sinner yelled, trying to drown out the din, but it seemed a futile effort. Samson cringed at the noise. Hammer blows rang in the street but thankfully no one intervened. The people of Balor were well and truly cowed, sheep hiding behind shuttered windows. Samson wondered how long their luck would hold. Tightening his grip on the hammer, he wielded it with a madman’s strength, desperate to break the locks.

Samson spared a glance for the sinner. His face was bruised and battered; he must have fought the soldiers. This one didn’t belong among the sheep.

Clang!
The lock shattered. The man’s right hand came free.

Samson dropped to his knee and began working on the leg shackles. He spared a glance at the sky.
Too much light in the east
, fear shivered through him. “We’re running out of time!”

Ben’s voice remained rock-steady. “Keep at it, we’re almost done.” A second lock shattered, but there were two more to go.

Justin and Red returned with a thin, pale-faced woman and three small children, tears on their faces, fear in their eyes. The bard kept a steadying hand on two of the children, a pale-face boy and weeping girl. “How much longer?”

The dawn light broke in the east, lining the street with gold.

Samson flailed at the lock, fear renewing his strength. The chisel slipped, and he gouged the wagon floor, narrowly missing the man’s naked foot.

Shatter!
Ben broke the lock at the man’s neck, pulling the chains free.

A sharp whistle echoed from the rooftops.

Red hissed,
“They’re coming!”

Panic flared in Samson. For the second time, his blow missed the chisel, denting the wagon bed. Ben shouldered him out of the way and began working on the last lock.

Justin issued an ear-piercing whistle, signaling the lookouts to scatter. “We’ve got to get the wife and kids away. Red and I will see to the family. Finish the locks and disappear into the alleyways!” The bard ushered the children down the street.

The man strained against the last shackle binding his foot.

“Stand still!”
Ben swung the hammer, attacking the last lock.

Samson peered over the edge of the wagon, his heart thundering. “We’re running out of time!”

Crack!
The last lock shattered.

The man stumbled free of the stocks.

From the edge of the ally, Jack hissed,
“Hurry!”

They jumped from the wagon, the man nearly falling. Ben threw an arm around him, half carrying him down the lane. Samson grabbed the tools and ran for the alley. He thought he heard the tramp of soldiers marching but it might have been the frantic beat of his own heart.

Jack waved them on, his face twisted in worry.

An urgent whistle echoed from the rooftops.

They rushed into the alleyway. Jack sprinted ahead,
“Follow me!”
They ran, not waiting to see if soldiers followed. The boy led them on a convoluted route, slipping between buildings and dodging down narrow lanes. Samson lost track of the turns, struggling to keep pace. His heart thundered and his breathing became ragged, a sharp pain lancing his side.

They rounded a turn and Jack slowed. Samson staggered to a stop, gasping for breath. “Why have we stopped?”

“The sun’s up. If we keep running, we’ll attract attention.”

Samson raked a worried glance across the windows, wondering if the faithful watched.

Ben finally caught up, the escaped sinner leaning on him for support.

Jack said, “It’s time to split up. Can he walk?”

The man tottered to a stop, his bare feet bloody. “I’ll run to hell and back if I have to.”

Jack looked at Samson. “Do you know where we are?”

Samson studied the narrow lane, recognizing one of the dilapidated buildings. “Behind the vegetable market?”

Jack nodded, looking older than his years. “I’ll take him to the hiding place. You lead Ben back to the shop.”

Samson nodded, this he could do. He started walking down the alley, but the man cried,
“Wait!”
Samson turned. The man’s face rippled with emotions, his stare bouncing between Samson and Ben. “I need to know why?”

Ben answered, “Because someone has to stop the madness.”

Tears streaked down the man’s face. “I owe you my life.”

Ben nodded, “Then help us save others.”

“My family?”

“We’ll keep them safe. Help them find a way out of the Flame God’s city.”

Hope kindled in the man’s eyes. He offered his hand. “My name’s Daniel, I’ll stay and help.”