The Flame Priest (The Silk & Steel Saga) (43 page)

“You speak of treason.”

“I speak the truth.”

Trask grunted; his face guarded.

“You’ll die here, you know. The knight marshal will never release you from Cragnoth Keep. You’re too much of a threat. You’ll die guarding this frozen midden heap.”

The knight’s eyes narrowed, listening but never agreeing.

“I know you want it.”

Trask proved smarter than he looked, smart enough to remain cautious. He turned without answering and strode from the tower. The Mordant watched him go, content to plant the first seed.

Days passed and the Mordant kept to himself, eating in the great hall, sharpening his sword, burnishing his armor, watching Trask. He listened to the small talk, marking the undercurrents of discontent, but he said little, waiting for the seeds of chaos to take root.

He did not have long to wait. Heavy boot steps climbed the tower stairs. The Mordant kept his gaze on the north, his back to the stairs, hiding his smile.

Trask stepped behind him, a hulking presence. “Cold enough for you?”

A bitter wind howled across the open tower, but the Mordant just shrugged. “I’ll manage…I dream of something better.”

Trask stepped close, his voice a low rumble. “Still dreaming of treason?”

The Mordant breathed deep. The knight was thick with Darkness, ripe for the taking. “I know you want it.”

Trask hissed, “And what if I do.”

“Then reach for it. A single deserter would be hunted down and killed…but if enough knights turned, you’d have a force to be reckoned with.” He turned and stared into Trask’s dark eyes. “All that is needed is a leader.”

“
You
would never get the numbers.”

“Me, no. But I’ve seen the way the younger knights are drawn to you. They look to you for leadership.”

Trask shook his head. “At best, I might persuade a third of the knights. It would not be enough.”

“Then make it enough. Force the issue.”

“How?”

“Cragnoth Keep is full of factions. A third of the knights, most of the older ones, are loyal to the prince. A third follow you. The rest are nothing more than sheep waiting to follow the strongest sword.”

Trask nodded.

“So be the strongest sword, force the issue. Once the deed is done, once the blood is spilled, there will be no turning back.” The Mordant lowered his voice. “And those who survive will follow you, damned for the deed whether they fought or not.”

Trask whispered. “Open rebellion.”

“
No,
a sword in the back. Treachery and stealth are your best weapons. Capture the prince and kill his loyal men while they sleep. Take the tower before the others wake.”

Trask nodded. “And then the sheep will turn.”

“Exactly, but they must prove their loyalty. Every man must have blood on his hands or there is no trusting them.”

“How?”

“Use the prince.”

Trask hissed, “You’re a ruthless bastard, Alynt. I’m surprised I never heard your name before.” When the Mordant didn’t answer, the big knight rumbled, “And what do you get out of this,
Sir
Alynt?”

The Mordant hid the Darkness within, showing the knight the face of a young man hungry for life, desperate for freedom. “I get free of the maroon. I get a woman in my bed and gold in my purse. I get a better life.”

Trask stared down at him, the decision hanging in the balance.

The Mordant pressed the point. “Women, gold, and land…escape from this frozen rock and a share of the plunder claimed by your axe. All are owed to you as payment for slights of the past.”

Trask grinned, a bloodthirsty mix of menace and avarice. “I’ll talk to the others.”

“No.” The Mordant’s voice held a deadly edge. “Talk is a waste of time, a waste and a risk. Take command. Issue the orders and then act the same night. Any who do not agree must be killed. Fortune favors the bold. Reach for what you want or don’t reach at all, there is no other choice.”

Trask stepped close, towering over the Mordant. “And what if I decide to kill you instead?” His voice lowered to a growl. “One shove and you’d die, a simple accident.”

“Then you’d have one less sword to serve you, one less chance of winning.” The Mordant stood his ground, his face closed, hiding the Darkness lurking within.

The big knight began to laugh, the sound of crashing boulders. “You have guts Alynt, I’ll grant you that. And I’ll think on your words.” Trask turned and strode toward the stairs, a mountain of maroon walking into the wind.

The Mordant watched him go, the threads of Darkness tightening around the knight like a hangman’s noose. It was only a matter of time till Trask turned his cloak. The Mordant suppressed a laugh. His enemies gave him all the right tools, first the monks, then the forest, and now the knights. He’d set them all against each other, brother against brother, a grand dark divide…and all of it started with a few choice words. Deceit was the sharpest sword of all.

Two days later, the word was passed. A soft knock in the dead of the night marked the signal for the killing, each man assigned to specific murders. The Mordant wore chainmail under his silver surcoat, a longsword belted to his side, a dagger in his hand. Slipping down the hall, he counted two doors to the left. Rusty hinges issued a soft creak, but the snoring from within hid the warning. The Mordant crossed to the cot. Sir Carline slept, a loud rumble of snores pushing past his mustache, his breath heavy with garlic. The Mordant smothered a laugh, garlic never kept the monsters away. Kneeling on the knight’s chest, he pressed the dagger against his victim’s throat.

Sir Carline sputtered awake. “What is this?”

“A gift from the Mordant.” He waited to see the fear in the knight’s eyes and then slashed his throat. Blood spurted bright red, a wet, gurgling sound.

The Mordant cleaned the dagger on the blanket and then went in search of new prey. Muffled sounds filled the hall, but so far there was no clash of steel. He passed another conspirator, blood dripping from the knight’s sword, a grin of revenge on his face. The Mordant nodded, intent on his own mission of death. He reached the next door and lifted the latch. Torchlight from the hallway lanced into the small cell.

Sir Belmort proved a light sleeper. “What is it?”

The Mordant hid the dagger behind his back and stepped close to the cot. “The prince is asking for you.”

The burly knight sat up, peering into the dark. “What, now?”

The Mordant struck like a snake, the dagger plunging deep into the man’s right eye. Eight inches of steel skewered the knight’s brain. His legs twitched, thrumming against the bed. His bowels gave out in a rush of stink. The knight slumped dead, another satisfying kill.

Out in the hallway, the warning bell clanged.

The Mordant cleaned his blade and stepped out into the chaos. He kept to the plan, shouting above the clangor of the bell. “Fire in the great hall! Fire above!”

Knights rushed from their cells, some of them struggling to dress, most still in their nightshirts. More than a few carried a weapon of some sort, but they wore no armor, no chainmail, no shields, sheep already shorn before the slaughter.

The Mordant herded the sheep toward the stairs. “You’re needed above for a bucket brigade. Be quick about it.” He followed them up the stairs, spilling into the great hall…but there was no fire save for the flickering torches and the blazing hearths.

The knights gaped, milling in confusion. More than one indignant voice shouted, “What’s the meaning of this?”

Sixteen conspirators ringed the great hall, all clad in chainmail, all with weapons drawn. The Mordant sheathed his dagger and drew his sword, taking a position at the top of the stairs. The undecided knights began to bleat. “Where’s the prince? What’s the meaning of this?”

Trask’s voice boomed through the great hall.
“Silence!”
He glared at the knights, the half-moon blade of his axe dripping with gore. “The prince is captured! The tower is taken!”

The sheep refused to see the truth.

Sir Orrick, a tall thin knight, his white nightshirt hanging to his knees, stepped forward to challenge Trask. The old knight looked like a stork, ridiculous in his nightshirt, but he carried a great sword, his voice full of righteous rage. “Taken by whom?”

Trask loomed over the knight, a hulking menace. “Taken by me. Taken by men who renounce the maroon, men who prefer to live by the profits of their swords.”

Sir Orrick drew his great sword, a hiss of steel. “Traitor!” He raised the sword above his head for a two-handed strike, but Trask was lightning-fast. The moon-shaped axe blurred, a wicked slash of silver. The strength of the blow sent Sir Orrick’s head flying, hitting the far wall with a sickening thud. Blood sprayed from the severed neck, the body staggering for two steps before slumping to the floor.

A thick silence settled over the great room.

Trask shook the blood from his axe and glared at the rest of the undecided knights. “Sir Orrick kept his honor but lost his head.” The big man sneered. “The rest of you have the same choice. Bend the knee and obey…or die.”

Eleven knights sank to their knees, weapons placed on the floor in submission.

Trask laughed, a deep rumbling sound. “That’s better.” He gestured to two of his conspirators. “And now the test.”

Trask circled the kneeling knights, his great axe in his hands. “Every man who joins will have a share of the plunder, a share of gold, women, and wine. But every man must also share in the risks.” Trask growled a threat. “I need to know if I can trust you kneelers. I need proof you renounce the maroon.”

The Mordant watched, pleased with Trask’s performance, for every act of cruelty bound the big knight with threads of Darkness, making him more malleable, more susceptible to control.

Footsteps clattered down the stairs. Two knights emerged from the stairwell, dragging the captive prince between them. Bound and gagged, the prince wore nothing but a torn nightshirt. Blood on his forehead and a jagged cut slashing his sword arm, gave proof that he fought rather than submit. The Mordant grinned, another noble son of the Octagon about to get his just rewards.

They dragged the captive prince before Trask, dumping him at the big man’s feet.

The prince struggled to stand, muscles straining against his bonds.

Laughing, Trask transferred his great axe to his left hand and reached for a dagger at his belt. “Ah, the noble prince.” He pressed the point of the dagger under the prince’s chin, forcing his head back.

The prince glowered, his nostrils flaring wide, but he did not move away, he did not flinch.

Trask withdrew the dagger. “Very good.” He turned his back on the prince and circled the kneeling knights, a prowling threat. Quick as lightning, he slammed the dagger into the nearest tabletop. The dagger quivered upright, the table shuddering from the blow. Trask glared at the kneelers. “Each of you will have a chance to prove your loyalty, to make your choice.” He pointed to the dagger impaled in the wood. “Take the dagger and strike a blow against the prince. Not a killing blow, mind you, but enough so that each man has royal blood on his hands. Enough so there is no turning back.”

The kneeling knights shrank into themselves. Nervous glances darted around the great hall, looking for a way to escape, or a reason to obey.

The prince glared defiant, his voice muffled by the gag.

One of the kneelers muttered. “It’s not right.”

Quick as an adder, Trask grabbed the dagger and thrust it deep into the kneeler’s throat. “What did you say? I didn’t hear you.” A wet gurgle came from the skewered knight. Trask twisted the blade, holding the knight’s head aloft as blood spewed from his mouth. Trask withdrew the dagger, letting the dead man slump to the floor. “Anyone else?”

Silence reigned.

Trask impaled the dagger in the tabletop and then pointed to one of the sheep. “You, Sir Dravin. You first.”

The burly knight with long sandy hair rose to his feet and wrenched the dagger from the wood. Moving with sullen reluctance, he stood in front of the prince, indecision on his face. “This is hard.”

Trask hefted his battle-axe, a sheen of blood on the moon-shaped blade. “Your honor or your head.”

Sir Dravin scowled. He closed the distance in two quick strides, plunging the dagger into the prince’s right side. A muffled scream echoed through the great hall. The knight withdrew the dagger. The prince slumped to his knees, a red stain spreading across his white nightshirt.

The Mordant hid his smile, knowing the first was always the hardest.

Trask chose another knight. “Sir Tallover.”

The prince struggled to regain his feet, making a show of mute valor.

Sir Tallover accepted the dagger, but this time there was no hesitation. He plunged the dagger hilt-deep into the prince’s thigh. Writhing in pain, the prince collapsed to the floor, a sacrifice to treason.

Each of the kneeling knights accepted the dagger. Each did the deed, earning the blood on their hands and the dark taint on their souls. Bound and gagged, the prince lay crumpled on the floor, ten wounds gaping open like bloody mouths. Only a twitch of his right hand showed he still lived.