The Flame Priest (The Silk & Steel Saga) (33 page)

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.

General Caylib sat at the table, a booted foot sprawled the length of the bench, one arm resting on the tabletop, the other holding a dispatch. He was a large, brute of a man, with short iron-gray hair, a pockmarked face, and an old scar that twisted the right side of his mouth into a perpetual scowl. He wore scarred fighting leathers and a short sword belted to his side, scorning any signs of his rank. Steffan approved. He’d chosen the man for his ruthlessness and strict discipline as well as his ability to take orders; so far he’d not proved Steffan wrong.

The general glanced up and said, “Ah, counselor, come in. You’re just in time for supper.” He used his foot to shove the bench on the opposite side of the table, wood scrapping against stone, a soldier’s lack of ceremony.

Steffan nodded and removed his cape, hanging it on a peg behind the door.

Tempting smells of spitted meat and garlic swirled through the chamber. A servant finished setting the table, placing a platter of roasted onions and potatoes next to a haunch of roast beef still on the bone. Pouring beer from a flagon, he filled two pewter goblets and then bowed to the general and retreated from the chamber, closing the door behind him.

Steffan took a seat on the bench opposite the general. He lifted the goblet in salute and sampled the beer, dark and strong. It was always black beer with the general, never merlot or brandy; the general was a man of crude tastes and plain talk. Steffan preferred finer fare, but he took a long pull from the goblet and wiped the back of his sleeve across his mouth, blending in with his surroundings, all the better to influence. “How goes the training of the troops?”

“Another lot of fumble-footed farmers, but we’ll soon have them trained. They’ll learn to wield a halberd or die in the process.” The general used his dagger to slice a long sliver of rare meat from the haunch. He ate straight from the dagger, grease dribbling down his chin.

Steffan mimicked the general, skewering a roasted potato. “And the recruiting? How are the numbers?”

The general barked a laugh. “You were right, counselor. Once the confessors started plying their trade, young men from across Coronth flocked to join the army, seeking a haven from the Flames. We’ve almost doubled our numbers in the past turn of the moon. The tent city is nearly full.” He spat a wad of gristle onto the floor. “I guess the priests have their uses after all!”

Steffan nodded, plans within plans. “The priests minister to the people, but not the army.” He pointed the tip of his dagger at the general. “Make sure you keep the confessors away from the troops. The confessors are a force to divide, a force to create fear…neither is good for an army.”

“I’ll keep the pox-faced confessors away from my men, never fear.” The general reached for the flagon, refilling his goblet. “I’ve issued orders that any confessor who wants to minister to my men must first learn to wield a halberd.” He barked a crude laugh. “You should have seen their lily-white faces when they heard the order. I swear one of them soiled his smallclothes!” The general grinned and skewered a potato with a vicious jab. He lowered his voice and gave Steffan a sideways glance. “The chief priest is asking for more men.”

“The Keeper?”

“Aye.” The word was a half-growl. “His confessors rule the lower dungeons. They enjoy the torture but they like their victims in chains. They won’t risk their precious necks to capture the heretics. They fear the rebels and say it’s a job for the army not the priesthood.”

“The rebels will fall in time. The confessors will catch them, betrayed by the very people they strive to protect.”

The general grunted. “So do I give the Keeper more soldiers?”

Steffan chewed a strip of meat. It was tough and stringy but the garlic added a savory flavor. “The confessors have their role to play. Give the Keeper the men he asks for. Consider it a training exercise. But rotate the men assigned to round up the heretics. I don’t want any of them becoming too comfortable with the priests.” Steffan stabbed another potato. “And don’t give the Keeper any of the Black Flames. The Black Flames are reserved for the battlefield.”

The general nodded. “As you say. But I can’t stomach the bloody Keeper.” He sliced another strip of beef, blood-red juices running down the side of the haunch. “The success of the confessors has gone to his head. The man struts around like a puffed up adder, spewing commands at my men as if he controls the army.” The general dropped his voice to a low growl. “His bloody arrogance goes too far. The people love the Pontifax, but there’s many a soldier who’d gladly slip a knife in the Keeper. It could be arranged.”

The general was shrewder than he looked, he’d have to keep a closer watch on the man. Steffan shook his head, his voice calm, smoothing the waters. “The Keeper is pompous ass but he does a good job with the confessors, and he serves a greater purpose.
 
The people need someone to hate, takes their minds off of other things.” He filled the general’s goblet with more beer. “Let the Keeper have his moment. Give the man a ladle’s worth of deference and he’s easily managed.”

“
Deference.
” The general sneered, making the word a curse. “I’d sooner the Keeper and his god-cursed confessors stay the hell away from my army.”

Steffan didn’t bother correcting the general as to whose army it was. “Train the army, general, and I’ll manage the Keeper.”

The general grunted, his mouth full of meat.

Steffan sipped his beer. “How long till the army is ready?”

“You asked for ten thousand. I’ll give you twenty-five thousand, fully trained, in another two turns of the moon.”

Steffan nodded, impressed. The man was a crude bore, but he had his uses. “What about equipment?”

“I’ve got every armorer and blacksmith in the city working late into the night. The men will be armed and ready.”

“And provisions?”

“That’s the biggest worry. The army eats like a plague of locusts. I’ve billeted some of the trained squads at villages outside of the city. It makes the priests think there’s less soldiers and eases the strain on the city stores. I’ve ordered my men to put a levy on the farms. The farmers grumble but they can’t argue with the bite of a halberd.”

Steffan nodded. “Prices in the local markets are soaring but the peasants will find a way to eat, they always do.” He fingered the pewter goblet. “We’ll have to march before the last harvest and forage along the way.”

“The army will be ready.”

“And Lanverness ripe for the taking.”

“More ripe than you think, counselor.”

Steffan cocked an eyebrow. “What have you heard?”

“Rumors from a merchant. Whispers of a rebellion against the queen.”

Steffan sensed the Dark Lord’s hand and wondered if he had a rival. Burying the thought, he gave the general a deliberate smile. “Win or lose, the chaos will work to our advantage.” He finished his beer and stood. “Train the army well, general. I want the troops quick to obey and brutal in the execution.”

The general flashed a wolfish grin. “Bloodthirsty and ruthless…the surest way to victory.” His grin twisted into a crooked smile. “I’ll give you an army that’ll make widows weep and bards raise a lament for kingdoms crushed. Erdhe will run with the blood of our enemies.”

Steffan approved of the naked bloodlust in his general’s eyes. The man was hungry for war, a valuable tool, but a sword could cut two ways. The chamber suddenly seemed close and confining, the smell of rare meat overpowering. “I’ll see you in a fortnight. Make sure everything goes as planned.” He swirled his black cape around his shoulders and left the general to satisfy his hunger with the bloody haunch.

Steffan stepped out of the chamber and into the summer night, a shadow in the darkness. He stood on the battlement watching the blazing campfires below. The glow rivaled the stars. A sense of power swelled within him. He’d built an army of fanatics in the heart of Erdhe and he controlled Coronth with a religious stranglehold, but there was still so much to be done. Soon he’d have his chance to reach beyond a single kingdom, to reach for the ultimate reward. One lifetime was not enough.

Duncan
stood in the center of a raging storm, both eyes uncovered.

Shouted arguments cascaded down the tiered seats, a waterfall of anger.

Nothing had changed.
Bitterness welled within him,
always the half-breed, always the outcast.
Duncan
stood beneath the deluge of anger, his mismatched heritage written upon his face.

The Treespeaker intervened. “This is a matter for the clans. Remove the hearth-guests and see to their comfort.”

The anger quieted to a dull roar.

Four green-clad attendants leaped to obey, ushering Kath and the rest of his companions from the amphitheater.
Blaine
carried the wolf, Danya hovering by his side. The monk cast a questioning glance toward
Duncan
, but the archer kept his stare fixed on Kath. She’d recoiled at the sight of his mismatched eyes but it could have been shock…or it could have been loathing. He watched her go, longing to follow, needing to know the truth, half afraid of the answer…but instead he stood his ground. He had to deal with his past before he could pursue his future.

He turned to face the gallery of golden eyes, kith and kin, friend and foe. His birth-home held a tangle of sore emotions, a nettle of memories armed with great, nasty thorns. Given a choice,
Duncan
would have avoided the Deep Green, but the gods, or fate, had brought him back. Standing in the heart of the amphitheater, he squared his shoulders and faced the bitterness of his past.

Lifting his gaze, he met the stare of the wizen old woman cloaked in blue jay feathers. Her white hair was thin and wispy, her leathery face wrinkled and lined with equal parts age and spite. “I see you, Grandmother, I see you with both eyes, white and golden.” His mismatched eyes had always brought out the worst in the old harridan but
Duncan
was tired of hiding. “And I see that nothing has changed.”

The leader of clan aspen leaned on her staff, her bird-bright eyes keen as a raptor sighting prey. “It has been a long time, Grandson. You return to the
Forest
, yet you hide your heritage beneath a black eye-patch. Are you ashamed of your people?” Her voice dripped with venom. “Or have you become one of the hated white-eyes?”

Duncan
pitched his voice to carry. “I remember my heritage, Grandmother. I remember how you hounded my mother into taking her own life because she was raped by a white-eyes. You never spared any pity for the victim, Grandmother, only hatred for anything touched by the white-eyes.” The old harridan maintained her withering glare, but
Duncan
refused to be cowed. “I remember how you shunned me as a boy, merely because of my mismatched eyes.” He scanned the gallery looking for the scarlet cloak of clan redwood. “And I remember how I was not permitted to marry the woman I loved because my blood was tainted.”
Duncan
swallowed a mountain of bitterness. “You revile the white-eyes for their prejudice, but are you so different?”

Outrage ripped through the gallery, but
Duncan
was not done with them. He shouted above the din. “The heritage of the
Forest
allows us to taste the wind, to sense the truth, while the white-eyes walk through the world blind, unable to tell the truth from a sea of lies. You know the truth, Grandmother, yet still you hate. Your hatred shames the
Forest
!”

Anger leaped through the gallery like wildfire set to dry tinder.

He’d shown them a mirror they dared not face. The truth had sharp, nasty edges.

Duncan
stood like a rock, enduring the crash of hatred.

A gentle touch penetrated his defenses. The Treespeaker rested her hand on his shoulder, her touch feather-light. The soothing balm of the
Forest
flowed into him.
Duncan
turned and stared into her unblemished eyes, finding serenity and wisdom in the depths of her golden gaze.

Her voice whispered like rustling leaves in his mind.
*Welcome home, Duncan Treloch. You have faced many cruel storms, yet the tree has grown straight and true. You bring honor to the
Mother
Forest.
*

The words healed a jagged hole in
Duncan
’s heart. He dropped to one knee and bowed his head in homage.

The great redwood rustled overhead, stilling the angry voices in the gallery.

*Rise and let your people gain from your experience. Let your voice be heard in the clan council.*

Duncan
rose to stand next to the Treespeaker. Squaring his shoulders, he stared up into the gallery of golden eyes.

The Treespeaker spread her arms wide in benediction. Her white feather-cloak shimmered in a shaft of sunlight, as graceful as a forest stork. Her voice rose on wings to fill the gallery. “One of our sons has returned bringing experience from beyond the
Forest
. The Children of the Green stand upon the cusp of change. We must decide to withdraw from the realms of Erdhe and retreat into the
Forest
depths…or go out into the world and take up arms against the gathering evil.” Her voice deepened, rich with the timbre of old trees. “Know that this threat of evil is real. This decision will echo through the ages, the Trees have tasted it, the deep roots know.” The Treespeaker gestured toward
Duncan
. “This son of the
Forest
has spent more time among the white-eyes than any other. Perhaps the Mother called him home to help with this decision.” The emerald diadem at her brow began to glow with a soft light of living green. “Listen to this son who has lived among the white-eyes. Learn from his experiences.” The emerald glow intensified and the Treespeaker’s voice held an undercurrent of storm. “But never doubt that the Mother Tree claims Duncan Treloch as one of her own!”

The Treespeaker lowered her arms and retreated to the base of the giant redwood, a sentinel judging the clans.

Murmured whispers passed through the crowd.

Duncan
turned to seek out his Grandmother’s stare. The blue-robed harridan sat rigid with her arms crossed, throwing poisoned daggers with her glare, but at least the shrew’s tongue was stilled.

Duncan
waited, wary of the crowd, the half-breed’s voice had never been welcome at clan council.

Near the bottom of the gallery, a burly man cloaked in the black feathers of Clan Ash, stood. “Greetings of Leaf and Bark to you, Duncan Treloch.”

His face was older, etched with lines of responsibility, but
Duncan
still recognized the square jaw and honest gaze of his childhood friend.
Duncan
gave Bran the half-bow owed to clan leaders. “I greet you, Bran Caldon, leader of Clan Ash.”

The clan leader nodded, his face neutral. “The Treespeaker has charged the clans with a difficult decision. You have lived beneath the shelter of the
Forest
and also out among the white-eyes. What path should the clans tread?”

Duncan
rocked back on his heels, struck by the simple honesty of the question. He stared up at the gallery of golden eyes, considering his words. A wall of hostility waited, poised to fall, but he dared to give the clans the truth, hoping it would make a difference. “I can tell you that the threat of evil is very real. My companions and I have seen the handiwork of the Mordant. He sows the land with evil, leaving a wake of hatred behind him. Though they may never ask for it, the southern kingdoms will need help to defeat this enemy. I believe help should be given.” A tide of argument rose against his advice, but
Duncan
talked over it. “The Light must stand against the Dark, no matter the differences between us.”
Duncan
paused, surveying the gallery, finding a few who listened. “As to living outside of the
Forest
, I have found as much good in the outside world as evil. Perhaps the white-eyes only fear what they do not understand. If we leave the
Forest
and fight beside them, raising our bows against this evil, then perhaps the Children of the Green will be welcome among the kingdoms of Erdhe.”

A thoughtful murmur raced through the crowd.

The shrill voice of his Grandmother slashed like a knife, sharp with hatred. “The white-eyes hunt us like animals. Now evil hunts the white-eyes. Let the cursed white-eyes be consumed by their own evil! Let them kill each other off so that only the Children of the Green remain.”

A male voice yelled, “Death to the white-eyes!” The ugly refrain echoed through the amphitheater.

The leader of clan ash remained standing, unruffled in his cloak of raven feathers. He raised his wooden staff, asking for quiet. “Clan ash retains the right to speak!” The anger of the gallery dulled to a hush, the rules of the council held. Bran returned his gaze to
Duncan
. “There are too many ill-deeds between the Children of the Green and our nearest neighbors, the farmers of Tubor. Neither side will soon forgive the other for the fire.” Nods of agreement rippled through the gallery. “If we leave the
Forest
, we must seek other allies. Which leader of the white-eyes will receive us as equals? How can we best use our bows?”

Duncan
nodded. “In my wanderings of Erdhe, I have met two rulers with uncommon wisdom. If the Children decide to leave the Forest, make your way to King Ivor of
Navarre
or to Queen Liandra of Lanverness.”

Whispers of disbelief raced through the gallery.

Puzzlement scrawled across Bran’s face. “You mean to say there is a white-eyed kingdom ruled by a queen?”

Duncan
had to smile. Clan leaders were a mix of men and women, but under the steady leadership of the Treespeaker the Children favored a matriarchy. It was another difference they could never understand about the white-eyes. A difference they considered barbaric. “It’s true, most white-eyes have a backwards view of their women, but the queen of Lanverness is so extraordinary that she rules undisputed from a single throne.”

Bran’s voice deepened, “And is she wise enough to see past the color of our eyes?”

Tension rippled through the gallery.

Duncan
felt the weight of the question, knowing it could tip the argument. He fixed his gaze on the face of his oldest friend and offered the harsh truth. “If Queen Liandra cannot see our value, then none can.”

Bran nodded, his stare hard. “You say you’ve met these rulers, but does either of them know your true heritage?”

He gave Bran a wry smile. “I learned more than enough about prejudice and hatred here in the
Forest
. None of them know the truth behind my eye patch.”

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.