The Flame Priest (The Silk & Steel Saga) (37 page)

Samson huddled in the alleyway, crouched next to Justin, one of seven men daring the risk. They hid in the dark, cloaks covering swords, faces darkened by lampblack, lying in wait for a chance to save a sinner.

A keening wail cut through the darkness, clawing at nerves already frayed.

Samson held his breath, straining to listen past the sinner’s lament. The cobblestone street seemed sleepy enough but somewhere out there soldiers lurked, ready to pounce, a game of cat and mouse. Samson hated being the mouse. He gripped his sword for courage, feeling that his luck was running thin. He’d tried to talk the bard into laying low for a few days but Justin refused, arguing that words alone would never be enough. The bard needed daring deeds to shake the people out of their religious torpor, and so the raids continued…and each raid the risks got worse.

This time there were seven men; a bard, a refugee, an ex-drill sergeant, three men rescued from the stocks and one swayed by songs, a ragged handful of idealists pitted against the soldiers of the Flame. Samson shook his head in despair. They didn’t have the numbers for a fair fight, so they relied on tricks and sleight-of-hand. Problem was, each ruse only worked once…and Samson knew the bard’s bag of tricks was running low. They’d lost three men on the last raid, three lives lost to free one man. Freedom wasn’t cheap. Samson tightened his grip on his sword, wondering when it would be his turn to pay the price.

A tow-haired boy emerged from the shadows, tall and skinny, all arms and legs, one of the orphan boys. Willie had a knack for climbing; using the rooftops like the other orphans used the alleyways. He nodded to Samson but his gaze sought Justin, hero-worship written across his freckled face. “You were right, Harper.” Admiration filled the boy’s hushed voice. “They put a sentry up on the roof this time, but I found him.”

“Just one?”

The boy nodded. “Just one, Harper, easy to see the red even in the dark.”

“What about the rest of the soldiers?”

“There’s a troop of thirty over on
Cobb Street
, reckon they’ll come from the west once the hammers start.”

Samson shuddered, seven against thirty; he prayed the bard had the good sense to retreat but he wasn’t hopeful.

“Good work, Willie.” Justin turned to the men crouched behind. “Ben?”

The ex-drill sergeant stepped forward and crouched at Justin’s side. He moved like a stalking cat, his hand on his sword, his gaze sharp. Samson envied the big man his confidence, wishing he felt like a predator instead of prey.

The bard kept his voice to a whisper. “Willie’s found a sentry on the roof.”

Ben nodded. “I’ll take care of him.”

Justin gripped Ben’s arm. “Be careful, my friend, and return when you’re done. We’ll need your sword.”

“I’ll be quick about it, Harper. Just be ready for my signal.” Ben turned to the boy. “Lead the way, Willie.” Man and boy melted into the shadows.

A sick feeling settled in Samson’s stomach; the bard would take the risk despite the grim odds.

Justin turned and faced him. “Samson?”

He nodded a wordless reply, his mouth suddenly dry.

The bard must have sensed his unease, placing a steadying hand on Samson’s shoulder. “We’ll need our secret weapon.” He prodded the bulging leather sack at Samson’s feet. “Willie says the soldiers will come from the west. For the surprise to work, the soldiers will need to see us. Set the cord in front of the chandler’s shop. Blanket the street with our surprise and then join us at the wagon.” Justin gripped his arm. “But wait for Ben’s signal.”

They waited, crouched in the stink of the alleyway. Samson’s heartbeat measured the moments, loud in his ears. He clung to thoughts of Lucy, remembering the light in her eyes when she named him a hero. The memory gave him courage. He clung to it like a talisman against the grim odds.

The waiting seemed forever. A faint blush of color painted the eastern sky, a warning of the coming dawn. Samson shuddered, wondering if Ben had failed.

The harsh caw of a raven filled the street.

Justin stood, his hand on his sword. “Ben’s taken the sentry! Now be quick about it, each to his task, and we’ll free the sinner before the soldiers know we’re here.”

The others followed the bard into the street, running for the wagon, leaving Samson with the bulging leather sack. Wary of the iron spikes, he hefted the sack away from his body, running with a swaying lope. His arms ached with strain by the time he reached the chandler’s shop. He dropped the bag, the clink of iron muffled by leather. Removing a hammer and two iron spikes, he knelt, searching for a place to set the spike. The baseboard of the timber-framed shop was perfect. He placed the spike low to the ground and held the hammer poised, sweat dripping from his forehead. Samson hesitated, his stomach clenched with fear. Killing the sentry bought them time but the sound of hammers would bring the soldiers running. Samson shook his head and swore; he had no choice. He swung the hammer, putting the weight of fear into the blow. A single blow set the spike. Looping a braided cord around the spike, he played the line out to the far side of the street. Setting the second spike, he pulled the trip cord taunt.

The frantic beat of hammers echoed down the street. The others worked on the locks, desperate to free the sinner. The sound was enough to wake the dead…yet the doors and shutters remained shut. The faithful hid rather than know the truth, another reason to hate this god-cursed city.

Knowing time was against him, Samson hurried to finish the trap, spreading the caltrops across the street. The wicked, four-pronged spikes were usually used to stop horses but the bard reckoned they’d skewer flesh even easier than hooves…assuming the soldiers did not see the trip cord. Samson emptied the bag and then ran to join Justin and the others at the wagon.

The street rang with a desperate beat, four men hammering at four locks. The bard worked to calm the sinner, his voice a soothing balm beneath the frantic hammers. The sinner, an old man with a shock of white hair, strained against the chains, his eyes wild and wide.

Samson yelled, “What can I do?”

Justin pointed to a timber-framed shop. “The man says his wife is in the apothecary. Get the old woman out and away.”

Samson swallowed, not liking the order, but he moved to obey.

A faded wooden sign showed a mortar and pestle. The door beneath it gaped open like the mouth of a dead fish. Samson hesitated, peering inside. The wood-beamed ceiling was low, the timbers hung with drying herbs, but he saw no signs of life. Unsheathing his sword, he entered. The scents of sage, juniper, and basil mingled with the smells of liniments and lotions. Tall shelves full of stoppered ceramic jars marked with runes lined the walls, neat and orderly, but the rest of the room was in shambles. A table was overturned, a chair smashed to kindling. A mortar and pestle lay shattered on the floor, a spill of green powder marked by footprints, a trail of chaos in a room dominated by order.

Against his better judgment, Samson moved deeper into the shop. He would have called to the old woman but a sixth sense warned him to keep quiet. Hanging herbs brushed against the back of his neck, skeletal hands grasping at life. Samson stifled a shout and ducked low, his heart racing. He reached the far doorway and peered into the inner room, a small kitchen with steep stairs leading up. Glowing embers in the hearth gave the room a dim red light. A gray-haired old woman sat slumped in a rocking chair, a bright-colored shawl wrapped around her shoulders. There was something odd about the woman, something not quite right.

Samson moved passed the stairs and crossed in front of the hearth, throwing a shadow across the woman’s face.

The woman did not stir.

Anxious to be gone, he shook her shoulder.

Her head toppled sideways, severed to the spine, a bloody gape of red beneath the shawl.

“
Samson, it’s a trap!
” The bard’s warning echoed in the small room.

Footsteps clattered down the stairs, a flash of red.

Samson whirled to see Justin and Ben rush through the doorway, swords drawn. They stopped the soldiers at the base of the stairs, a ferocious clash of steel. Samson ran to join the fight but the stairway was only wide enough for one. The narrowness kept the soldiers confined, a bottleneck limiting the odds. If they lost the stairs they’d be overwhelmed.

Ben took the brunt of the fight, pushing up the stairs, his sword dancing in the dim light. Soldiers clogged the stairway, stumbling over the dead, but it was only a matter of time. Justin fought behind Ben, thrusting his sword at the soldiers’ legs. The bard hissed, “We need an advantage! Something to tip the odds.”

Samson’s stare raced around the kitchen but he found nothing to help…just kitchen implements and crockery and a dead woman.

The bard shouted, “The embers from the fire! Use the shovel to cast them up the stairs!”

Samson sheathed his sword and ran to the fireplace. He grabbed the hearth shovel and scooped up the embers. Returning to the stairs, he used the shovel like the arm of a catapult, heaving the embers over Ben’s head and into the soldiers above.

Screams echoed down the stairs.

Ben took advantage of the chaos; lunging up with his sword, spattering the walls with blood.

Samson reloaded the shovel, launching the glowing coals into the soldiers. A spark fell short, landing in his hair. He beat it out and went for a third load of embers.

Fire leaped up the stairwell, tongues of orange and yellow licking at the walls. Smoke billowed across the ceiling. The soldiers shrieked and retreated, the smell of burnt flesh tainting the air.

Justin yelled, “Back to the street!”

Samson hurled the shovel into the inferno and then raced for the door. He stumbled out into the crisp, clean air…and the eerie quiet of the street. The hammers had stopped and so had the wailing. The chains of the stocks hung empty. A pair of rebels held the old man upright, his nightshirt soiled and stained, his face dazed.

A piercing whistle echoed from the rooftops, a warning from the orphan lookout.

Justin yelled, “Into the alleys, the soldiers are coming!”

Samson ran for the nearest alley, fear giving wings to his feet.

The tramp of boots came from the west, a wall of soldiers marching with swords drawn. An officer shouted a command and the line of red charged, yells hurtling down the street.

Samson ducked into the nearest alleyway. Skidding on something slick, he fell hard, slamming his knee into the cobblestones. Ignoring the pain, he struggled to stand, listening for the tramp of boots.

Out in the street, the roar of the charge changed to shrieks of pain.

Samson risked a glance. Soldiers writhed across the cobblestones, a clog of red impaled on the caltrops.

Relief washed through Samson, he’d have his chance to escape. Hobbling into the depths of the alleyways, he forced himself to hurry despite his throbbing knee. Always listening for footsteps from behind, he sought his own hiding place. The ramshackle house leaned like a rum-soaked drunk. Abandoned long ago, the house had an ominous air, the doors and windows nailed shut, but Samson knew it was more solid than it looked. He squeezed into the two-foot gap on the right side and began climbing the clapboard siding to the attic. Reaching for familiar handholds, he pulled himself through the topmost window and flopped onto the floor, trying to catch his breath. The attic seemed undisturbed. His small sack of supplies hung from a nail, the morning sunlight streaming through missing shingles, throwing a patchwork of light across the dusty floor.

Samson sprawled on the floor, his head propped against the wall. His breath came in ragged gasps, his knee ached and he stank of fear. He shuddered remembering how close he’d come to death. The apothecary was a trap, proving the soldiers had tricks of their own. If Ben and the bard hadn’t followed he’d be dead…or worse, captured. A shiver raced down his spine. He’d never let the priests capture him, for their cruelty knew no bounds. The image of the old woman’s severed neck haunted him. He owed the bard his life and his allegiance…but all he wanted to do was hide.

A rustling noise came from the far side of the attic.

Samson gripped his sword and held his breath.

Dark, beady eyes stared back at him…but it was only a rat. Laughter bubbled out of him, a hero hiding among the rats. The bard never put
that
in his songs. Irony gripped him and he laughed till he cried. The laughter brought a clarity that chilled Samson to the bone. Coronth was nothing but a trap…and they were all rats, waiting to be caught, waiting to be killed…it was only a matter of time.

The herald pounded his iron-shod staff against the marble floor. “All hail her majesty, Queen Liandra, the White Rose, the sovereign queen of Lanverness!”

A path opened before her, a sea of loyal subjects bowing on either side. The queen glided between them, the heavy gold crown balanced on her brow, the jewel-encrusted scepter nestled in the crook of her arm. Shimmering in a cloth-of-gold gown, Liandra presented a vision of royal splendor. The tight-fitting bodice highlighted her petite figure while the dagged sleeves lined with emerald silk accentuated her every gesture. Crowned and bejeweled, the queen crossed the checkerboard floor, sealing victory with celebration.

Her subjects crowded close, eager for royal favors. Courtiers and nobles, soldiers and politicians, merchants and commoners, they shouldered together in the audience hall, bedecked in their best finery. The queen offered a smile and a wave as she passed, greeting more than a few by name.

 
She reached the dais and took her seat upon the Rose Throne, surveying the chamber. Sunlight flooded the diamond-paned windows sending fractured rainbows dancing across the court, painting a vision of promise and optimism. Her kingdom was meant for sunshine and prosperity. Liandra vowed to find a way to hold back the darkness.

She gestured and a hush settled over the crowd. “We have called you here to laud your loyalty. We hold the Rose Throne by the grace of the Lords of Light and by the loyalty and love of our people. Join us in celebrating our victory!”

A cheer roared through the crowd. “The queen! The queen!”

She smiled, acknowledging her people, basking in the warmth of their affection.

When the cheering subsided, the ceremony began. Over two hundred loyalists were called forward, the queen binding each one with gifts of gratitude. Titles and offices were bestowed along with land grants, manses, and purses of gold. Honors were granted to commoners and noblemen, to servants and soldiers, to lords and ladies. No service of loyalty was too small. The queen even remembered those who worked in the Great Kitchen, granting purses of gold to those who kept the queen’s secret.

The greatest number of honors went to the army. Corporals were promoted to sergeants and sergeants to captains, each by the queen’s own hand. Those who had shown extraordinary valor were raised to the title of knight. Forty-three knights were raised in one afternoon, each one receiving a newly forged sword from the hands of their queen.

Even a few commoners were raised to the rank of lords. Chief among them was the honest goldsmith, Willard Saddler. Short and rotund, the goldsmith blushed mightily as the queen settled the chain of office around his neck. With a single gesture, she raised an artisan and a guild master to the rank of lord, fulfilling a commoner’s dream and a nobleman’s nightmare. “By your actions, you prove that one honest man can make a great difference.” If only her noble-born counselors had proven half as loyal. “Arise, Lord Saddler, and serve us well, our new master of the coin.”

Beaming a broad smile, he turned to face the assembly. A restrained applause greeted the newly made lord, a subtle objection to an artisan joining the nobility.

The queen chose to ignore the snub, valuing honesty and loyalty above all else.

If the newly-made lord noticed the dampened reaction, his face did not show it. He took his place on the side of the hall with her other counselors, staring in wonder at the heavy gold chain.

Next to be called was Princess Jemma of
Navarre
. A petite vision of loveliness in a tight-fitting gown of scarlet accented with gold, the princess glided down the aisle to avid murmurs of appreciation. The
Rose Court
had an eye for beauty.

The young woman knelt before the throne, grace in every movement.

 
“Not of our realm, yet you are like a daughter to us.” The queen pitched her voice to carry. “Accept this broach as a token of our affection and thanks. Let all who see it know that Princess Jemma of
Navarre
holds our highest esteem.” The queen pinned the jeweled broach above the young woman’s right breast. The broach bore the coats of arms of Lanverness and
Navarre
, a design calculated to create welcome rumors.

A roar of applause filled the hall. The princess turned to acknowledge the crowd, a blush intensifying the beauty of her face.

The herald announced the next name. The honorees came forward to kneel before the queen. The afternoon light began to wane and the crowd grew restive, but the queen had saved the best for last. She gestured and the herald announced, “The throne acknowledges Prince Stewart, heir to the Rose Crown, general of the Army of Lanverness and the hero of the battles of Tandrin Woods and the Queen’s Tower!”

The double doors opened and the prince strode into the audience chamber, his emerald cape flaring behind him. Resplendent in silvered chainmail, his dark hair cascading to his shoulders, the prince appeared as the very flower of knighthood.

The queen flushed with pride, at least her eldest son had grown true. Her gaze roved the crowd, studying the reaction of her people. A mixture of respect and hero-worship shown from the soldiers’ faces, while the women blazed with longing, a fitting response to the heir to the throne. Only her counselors remained unaffected, a calculating look on most of their faces.

The prince reached the dais and knelt, the scar on his face adding gravity to his handsome good looks.

The queen stood, pitching her voice to carry. “Heroes are most needed when Darkness threatens. Prince Stewart’s battle intuition saved his men at the ambush of Tandrin Woods, turning a possible rout into a decisive victory. He then pressed for speed, returning in time to defeat the rebels and liberate the Queen’s Tower. Prince Stewart is a hero of Lanverness!”

Cheers cascaded through the chamber followed by a thunder of applause.

The queen gestured and a page approached carrying a large platter cloaked in emerald silk. The crowd stilled to a hush. The queen swept the silk away in a dramatic flourish. Using two hands, she lifted the four-foot longsword, sunlight glinting on the sapphire-blue blade.

Gasps rippled through the crowd. Cries of, “A hero’s sword!” and “Blue steel!” echoed through the chamber.

The queen waited for the crowd to settle. “Lanverness has many heroes, but for the first time in our long history, a prince of the realm will wield a sword of blue steel!
A hero’s sword for Lanverness!”
She lowered the sword, extending the hilt toward her son.

The crowd began to chant, “
Blue steel! Blue steel!”

Prince Stewart glowed with pride as he accepted the sword. Grasping the hilt, he executed a flurry of crosscuts. The sapphire blade gleamed in the sunlight, a stunning display of deadly skill and martial beauty. The crowd watched, spellbound. Making a final slash with the sapphire blade, the prince raised the sword to the heavens. “
For the Queen and Lanverness!
”

The people echoed their prince, “
The Queen and Lanverness!
”

Accolades thundered through the chamber, a balm to heal the wounds of the rebellion. The queen basked in the applause, a thunder of loyalty and optimism, a force against the Dark.

When voices began to dim, the queen gestured for a second page. The lad bore a leather scabbard, stained emerald green and worked with golden roses. The queen belted the scabbard to her royal son’s waist.

The prince sheathed the blue steel blade and then took his place to the right of the queen, one step below the throne.

The queen reclaimed the attention of the crowd. “We have one more man to honor, one more hero of Lanverness.” Whispers of curiosity threaded through the crowd. “This man proved his loyalty by protecting the queen during the danger of the rebellion. The crown summons Captain Garth Durnheart, a soldier of Lanverness, to be raised to the rank of Knight Protector, the queen’s champion and her captain of the queen’s guards!”

The double doors opened and the captain strode into the chamber, tall and dark-haired, handsome in the emerald tabard of Lanverness, the twin roses emblazoned on his chest. He approached the throne and knelt before the queen.

The queen accepted the jeweled sword of state from a page. She held the sword aloft, her voice solemn. “Captain Durnheart, do you swear before the Lords of Light to protect the queen, your sovereign, with your very life, and to put the monarch’s safety above all else?”

“I do so swear!”

She dubbed him on the left shoulder and then the right. “We anoint you a knight of the realm and name you Knight Protector.” She handed the ceremonial sword to the page. “Arise, Sir Durnheart!”

Polite applause greeted the newly made knight.

The queen gestured and two pages approached bearing an immense serving tray draped in emerald silk. Large enough to hold a roasted boar, the massive tray spurred whispers through the crowd.

Her voice rose to fill the hall. “The queen’s champion must have a sword worthy of the realm.” She swept the cloth away. “Sir Durnheart, take up your sword and serve the realm well!”

The knight lifted the great blade from the tray.

Gasps of awe echoed through the chamber.

The two-handed great sword was five feet of sapphire-blue steel, the hilt worked in the shape of crossed roses. Light rippled along the length of the blade, a gleaming weapon of beauty and death, a hero’s sword to inspire courage and fear. The knight raised the sword high into the air, the double-edged blade straight and true.

The crowd roared its approval.

The queen smiled; the mystique of blue steel served to unite her people, restoring courage and conviction eroded by the rebellion. Liandra judged the benefit to be well worth the price.

Sir Durnheart sheathed the great blue sword in a shoulder harness, the sapphire hilt rising above his right shoulder, visible to all. He descended to the base of the dais and stood to attention, taking up his post as the protector of the queen.

The queen raised her hands, gathering the people’s attention. Two squires came forth with a long cape of black velvet. They settled the cape across the queen’s shoulders, eclipsing the reflected light of her golden gown. Liandra stood straight and firm, her face solemn, transforming herself from the Queen of Gratitude to the Queen of Vengeance. She stared at her people, filling her voice with steel. “You have witnessed the gratitude of your queen. Now witness our royal wrath. Loyalty and treason will both get their just rewards in the
kingdom
of
Lanverness
.” She made her voice a command. “Come and bear witness to the justice of the crown. See what fate awaits those who plot treason against their sovereign queen.”

The queen descended the dais and swept the length of the chamber. Prince Stewart followed a step behind on her right, Sir Durnheart on her left. The people bowed low as she passed and then joined in the procession.

She led them through the castle, down the tower stairs and out into the afternoon sunshine. Knowing justice was best served in the light of day, she’d ordered the spectacle to be held in the castle’s western courtyard. Guards snapped to attention and banners fluttered overhead.

The courtyard had been transformed. Wooden stands lined the east side, providing tournament seating for the lords and ladies. A central stand, higher than the others, stood caparisoned in royal colors, providing shade from the sun. Across from the stands, a long row of scaffolds lined the western wall, nooses hanging empty and ominous, black hooded executioners waiting to do their duty. In the center of the yard, a bonfire burned beneath a great black cauldron, steam rising from the top. A platform stood to one side of the cauldron, built level with the lip of the great black pot. The stage was set for justice, needing only the victims and the witnesses to see the play to its bitter end.

The queen proceeded to the royal box, taking a seat on a throne-like chair. Sir Durnheart stood behind the throne, a deterrent against any threat. The Master Archivist appeared at the queen’s side, signaling that all was prepared. Her counselors and other nobles jostled for seats in the royal box. Nervous voices whispered through the stands, for none had ever seen a royal punishment on such a scale.

Drums beat a rousing rhythm as royal soldiers marched into the great yard, a flourish of emerald tabards and burnished steel. Every soldier barracked in the capital was required to witness the fate of the traitors. Liandra intended the grim lesson to take firm root.

Orders echoed through the courtyard as the soldiers formed into disciplined ranks. They stood at attention in long lines beneath the viewing stands, each soldier facing towards the cauldron and the scaffolds. Prince Stewart rode among the ranks, his hand on the hilt of his sapphire-blue sword, a general inspecting his men.

Spectators began to pour into the yard, commoners in butternut brown mixed with minor nobles in bright colors. Summoned by the town criers, they came from the city, merchants and artisans, masters and apprentices, men and women, young and old. They filled the spaces between the stands, jostling for position, a sea of humanity come to witness the queen’s justice.

They did not have long to wait. The steady pounding of the drums announced the arrival of the traitors. A troop of mounted soldiers entered from the western gate. Behind them came the drummers, beating out a slow, ominous march, marking the steps to death. Behind the drummers came the condemned, one hundred and forty-eight officers, lordlings, politicians, and soldiers…traitors all, a grim harvest for the executioners.