The Flame Priest (The Silk & Steel Saga) (28 page)

The traitor hissed, “It’s not over.”

Captain Durnheart tightened his grip. The traitor gasped, a trickle of blood running down his throat. The captain looked to the queen. “Up or down?”

She considered the risks and the advantages. Having no information about the integrity of the lower passages, she decided to take the known risk. “Up. We will proclaim victory from the ramparts of the Queen’s Tower.” She nodded toward the captain. “And if the traitor balks, you have our royal permission to slit his throat. We only need his head to prove the rebellion is over.”

“
Bitch!”
Despite his outburst, the traitor blanched pale, the stink of fear flooding the passageway.

“A command I will be happy to obey.” The captain’s voice held a keen edge. He shoved the prisoner up the stairs, holding his sword as a threat.

They reached the eighth floor without hindrance. Her small band passed through the king’s door with their heads held high in triumph. They’d lost three men but gained a traitor. A heartfelt cheer greeted their return…but the pounding of the battering ram did not abate. The queen hid her unease beneath a mask of courage, providing strength for her people. Her gambit had worked. She’d captured the red king but the knights and pawns fought on. War was not as neat as chess. The game was far from over. She ordered the traitor to be bound and gagged. Wits against swords, the Spider Queen vowed to keep her throne.

The knight marshal watched the recruits practice, blades clanging against shields and helms. They fought with edged weapons to better prepare for combat, but the rhythmic clang of Castlegard’s practice yard was a far cry from the chaotic din of battle. The marshal watched, wondering who would be heroes and who would lie among the fallen. Their fates lay in the hands of the gods and in their own skill of arms, but of one thing he was certain, these young men would see battle.

An urgent tension gripped Castlegard. Veterans kept their swords sharp and the knight candidates trained with renewed vigor. Even the raw recruits felt the looming shadow of war. The red comet affected them all. Rumors whispered it was a sign of war, an omen of bloodshed to end to the long, uneasy peace. The marshal was not a superstitious man. He did not believe in omens, but he could feel the coming war in his bones, in the throbbing ache of old war wounds.
Battle
was coming, fierce and terrible, glory and honor, his last war.

The marshal walked the length of the practice yard, barking criticisms when needed but most of the time a stern look was sufficient. He drove the new candidates hard, honing their skills. There could never be too much preparation for war…and time was drawing thin.

Hearing someone approach on his blind-side, he turned and waited, his hand resting on his sword hilt.

Sir Malvoy was a fresh-sworn knight, resplendent in his new silver and maroon surcoat, his First Weapon, a battleaxe, belted to his side. The knight saluted, fist against chest. “Sir, there’s a man at the west gate, requesting an audience with the king.” The young knight extended a sealed scroll.

The marshal studied the scroll’s unbroken seal, knowing he held the harbinger of war. “Describe him.”

“A tall man in his late forties, dressed in a dark blue robe, carrying no weapons…or at least none that can be seen. He says his name is Aeroth. He claims to be a monk of the Kiralynn Order and asks to see the king.”

“He came alone, without any entourage?”

“Not even a horse, sir.”

The marshal raised an eyebrow. Rumors said the monks hid their monastery deep in the Southern Mountains, a long way for a man to walk. “You’re sure?”

“Yes, sir.”

He tapped the scroll against his palm. “Find Sir Abrax and have him escort the monk to the king’s solar. Tell him to keep a close watch on our visitor.”

The knight thumped his chest in salute. “As you command.”

The marshal strode across the practice yard, passing into the heart of the great castle. Soaring towers and crenellated battlements marked the inner castle, all made of impossibly smooth mage-stone. The marshal appreciated the military value of the inner castle but the wonder had long since worn off. He made his way to the King’s Tower, accepting the crisp salute of two knights stationed at the outer doorway.

A spiral staircase wound through the tower’s thick walls, the mage-stone steps smooth and even despite more than thirty generations of use. Spears of sunlight lanced through the arrow-slit windows casting stripes of light across the stairs. Even here, in the King’s Tower, military advantage dictated the castle’s design. Castlegard was built for war.

The marshal reached the twelfth floor, breathing easy despite the long climb. A knight snapped to attention and opened the door to the antechamber. The room was small and spare, steeped in the proud history of the Octagon Knights. Passing beneath tattered battle banners, he knocked on the inner door.

“Come.”

The marshal obeyed the voice of his king. He found the silver-haired king of Castlegard seated at a round table, pouring through the latest dispatches. The warrior-king wore battle-scarred leathers and burnished mail, his great sword always by his side. The king looked up and smiled, years of decision etched deep in his tanned face. “Ah, Osbourne, have you seen the dispatch from
Raven
Pass
?” The king’s steel-green gaze raked across the marshal. “But you did not come to discuss the dispatches. Why such a grim look on such a fair day?”

The marshal raised the scroll in response and offered it to his king. “A messenger at the west gate, a monk from the Kiralynn Order.”

King Ursus handled the scroll as if it contained a viper. “It’s been a long time.”

A chill feathered down the marshal’s spine. “A long time between scrolls, but never a monk messenger.”

“The comet has flushed them out of the mountains.”

The marshal nodded. “A harbinger of war.” A knowing look passed between the king and his marshal. “We’ll be ready, sire.”

The king nodded, breaking the scroll’s seal.

The marshal waited, wondering. The king’s face gave nothing away.

The scroll rolled shut with a snap. “There’s nothing here but an introduction. The monk must carry the message.”

“I’ve ordered Sir Abrax to escort the monk to your solar.”

The king’s eyes narrowed. “Sir Abrax is one of our best, quick with a sword but even of temperament. What’s spooked you about this monk?”

“He arrived without a horse.”

“
Magic!
” The king made the word a curse.

“Only a guess, but it’s a long walk from the Southern Mountains.”

“We trust in the truth of steel, never the trickery of magic.” The king stroked his silver beard, a stern frown on his face. “Bring him here rather than our solar.”

“Here, sire?”

The king gestured to the arms and armor lining the walls, to the tattered battle banners hanging from the vaulted ceiling. “We will meet him here, among the glories of war. What better to place to learn why the monks have come down out of their lofty mountain?”

“As you wish, sire.”

“And find my squire,
Baldwin
, and have him bring bread and salt and wine.”

“And Sir Abrax?”

The king’s eyes narrowed. “Osbourne, the two of us should be more than enough for one monk.”

“Our swords are sharp but our quickness is long tarnished. You’ve often said that quickness is the only remedy to magic.” The king scowled but the marshal persisted. “Sir Abrax should stand guard.”

The king waved his hand in dismissal. “Then make it so.”

The knight marshal bowed and retreated before the king could change his mind. He went in search of
Baldwin
, knowing the lad would not be far. Tall and skinny, with a shock of bright red hair, he found the king’s squire burnishing a helmet that already gleamed. He gave the lad his orders and then made the rounds of the tower, checking on the alertness of the guards. He ordered two additional knights to stand guard inside the king’s antechamber, one could never be too cautious, especially when it came to the monks.

Judging that he’d delayed long enough, the marshal turned his steps toward the king’s solar. He found Sir Abrax standing guard just inside the door. Broad of shoulder but lean of waist, Sir Abrax had a lightning quickness that made him one of the deadliest swordsmen to wear the maroon. The knight saluted the marshal, his gaze never leaving the blue robed monk.

The monk stood with his back to the door, staring out of an arrow-slit window. Tall and lean, his shoulder-length hair carried more gray than black, his robe a deep midnight blue.

The knight marshal kept his voice neutral. “Welcome to Castlegard.”

The monk turned, showing a lithe grace even in such a small movement. His face was fair as a nobleman’s, his smile open, his hazel eyes deep but warm. If there was something magical about the monk, the marshal could not see it.

The monk bowed. “Thank you for your welcome. I am Aeroth, a master of the Kiralynn Order.”

He felt the monk’s gaze studying his face, the crisscrossed scars and the empty eye socket. At least the monk did not gape like so many others who had never seen war. The marshal’s voice was gruff with pride. “Scars of battle, taken against the Mordant’s forces. I wear them with honor.”

“As you should.”

The marshal listened but he heard only honest respect in the monk’s voice. “I am Sir Osbourne, the Knight Marshal of the Octagon. I will escort you to King Ursus.” He gestured toward the door.

The monk obliged. Sir Abrax followed behind, a silent sentinel. The marshal led the monk down the hallway to the antechamber, guards snapping to attention at the door. They passed beneath the bloodstained battle banners and entered the inner council chamber.

The king stood on the far side of the round table, sword-straight, shoulders square, his maroon cloak brushing the floor. King Ursus wore no crown or sign of rank, only burnished fighting leathers, his sun-weathered face etched with lines of decision. His blue-steel sword, Honor’s Edge, lay unsheathed across the center of the table, the point facing the door. A single shaft of sunlight spilled across the sword, causing the sapphire-blue blade to gleam like a naked threat…or an open promise.

The king stared across the table, across the sword, his steel-green gaze fixed on the monk.

The monk bowed and then held his arm straight out, his hand open, a blue Seeing Eye tattooed across the palm. “Seek knowledge, Protect knowledge, Share knowledge.” Balling his hand into a fist, he lowered his arm. “My name is Aeroth and I bring a message to King Ursus of Castlegard from the Grand Master of the Kiralynn Order.”

“I would hear this message, but first let me offer bread and salt and wine, as a sign of peace between us.”

“You honor me.”

The king gestured and his squire stepped from the shadows. Dressed in a plain gray tunic the color of unpolished steel, the lad bore a tray laden with two golden goblets, a small loaf of bread, and a plate of salt. The squire offered the tray to the monk.

The monk tore a small piece of bread from the loaf, dipped it in salt, and ate. He reached for the goblet and drained the wine, accepting guest’s rights. A small measure of tension leached from the chamber.

The squire circled the table and offered the tray to the king. The king completed the ritual, partaking of everything offered. Draining the goblet, he dismissed his squire, waiting until the door closed before speaking. “Now that guest’s rights have been offered and accepted, we would hear your message.”

The monk nodded, his face solemn. “I bring a warning from the Grand Master of the Kiralynn Order.”

The king smile was full of irony. “Of course you do.”

“The Mordant has been reborn in the southern kingdoms. Look for him to cross the
Dragon
Spine
Mountains
, seeking to regain his power in the north. If he can be stopped before he reaches the Dark Citadel, a terrible war may be averted.”

The king raised his hand, interrupting the monk. “You said,
reborn
? What do you mean, by reborn? The Mordant is a title, like a king, or an emperor, the ruler of the Dark Citadel.”

“If the Octagon has forgotten then the Order has stayed hidden for too long.”

The king’s eyes narrowed. “Forgotten? What have we forgotten? You speak in riddles.”

“Forgive me, your majesty. I will do my best to explain.” The monk paused, a look of concentration on his face. “An immortal battle is being waged between the Light and the Dark. The Lords of Light reward their followers in heaven, in the after-life, but the Dark Lord offers something different. To those who please him, the Dark Lord offers tangible rewards in this lifetime, wealth, power, and long life. But to the few who serve him best, the Dark Lord offers more than one life.”

Sir Abrax gasped, disbelief on his face. The marshal rebuked him with a stern look.

The monk continued as if he had not heard. “A select few are reborn back into this world…with full knowledge of their past lives. These monsters that walk in the guise of men are called Harlequins.” The monk’s voice deepened. “The Mordant is the oldest of the Harlequins. We believe he has seen more than a thousand years of life…more than a thousand years of evil.”

The king’s voice cut like a sword. “This is madness!”

The monk parried the king’s words. “Magic is rare, but it exists. You want to deny it, but you need only look to the walls of Castlegard to know it is true. If magic exists, then so can the Harlequins.”

“What proof do you have?”

“None save my word.”

“The word of a monk.”

“The gods meddle in the mortal world. You dare not ignore the Grand Master’s warning.”

“I
dare
not?”

The marshal knew the monk’s words curdled in the king’s mind. “Sire, perhaps we should hear him out.”

The monk raised his right hand, exposing the Seeing Eye. “I swear by the Light and by the Seeing Eye that what I have told you is true. Knowledge of the Harlequins is one of the core teachings of the Kiralynn Order.” He closed his hand and lowered his arm. “I am the herald of forgotten truths.”

“Why now?”

“The coming of the red comet portends a terrible war. The Order seeks to avoid that war.”

The king reached for his great sword, lifting it with a single hand. “Now we come to it.” The sapphire-blue sword gleamed in the fading light, beauty and death crafted into steel. “War we know very well. Tell us, monk, how can you help us stop a war?”