The Flame Priest (The Silk & Steel Saga) (56 page)

Nine horses died for the sake of speed. The Mordant crossed the Dragon Spines, intent on reclaiming his power, the unmade knight riding at his side. Wielding bloody whips, they rode each horse to death, till its heart gave out or its legs collapsed. Switching mounts, they left the mangled horses to rot. Dead horses marked a trail down the mountainside, through the old growth forest, and out across the endless expanse of grassland, a trail of sacrifices, a fitting trail of death.

The Mordant rode the last horse through the sea of waist-high grass. He held the pale mare to a slow trot, coaxing the horse to travel the last leagues. Sir Raymond ran by the horse’s flank, clutching the stirrup, his branded face streaked with sweat.

They traveled north, beneath an endless vault of blue, the sun a disk in the cloudless sky. The steppes stretched to forever, a vast sea of grassland, the waist-high stalks bowing to the wind. Golden grasses rippled and flowed, a dull sameness stretching in every direction, flat and featureless except for the north. At long last, he glimpsed the wall. A crenellated wall sliced through the steppes, marking the border to his domain.

He’d built the wall seven lifetimes ago, raised by the sweat of human slaves. Built to contain his subjects as much as to keep out his enemies, the wall was forty feet high and twenty feet wide, a smooth roadway running along the top, protected by crenellated battlements. Stretching like an impossibly long snake, the wall divided the grasslands from the Mordant’s domain. Leagues of stone mortared with sweat and blood, the wall was a marvel, yet it paled before the gargoyle gates.

The gargoyle gates…gaping openings in the wall, without doors or a moat, and yet the great statues loamed above like a gauntlet of horrors frozen in stone. A cadre of wizards had raised the gates, a full year spent weaving spells and imprisoning souls. When the task was done, he’d ordered the wizards beheaded so the feat could never be duplicated or undone. He’d shown his appreciation by entombing one wizard beneath each gate, a lasting tribute to their greatest work. Ten dead wizards entombed beneath ten gates, the stone marvels spaced evenly along the vast expanse of the long gray wall. Such potent magic was long since gone from the land, but the gates remained as a lasting monument to Darkness, a fitting entrance to his domain.

The mare stumbled and nearly fell, flecks of foam on her muzzle. The Mordant slowed the horse to a walk and watched the gates loom large. A slow triumph swelled within him. Reaching inside his mind, the Mordant prodded the trapped monk.
*Awake, monk, I would have you see this.*

*Leave me alone! I’ve seen enough of your evil.*

He laughed.
*You’ve seen nothing. I have not yet to come into my full powers.*

*Leave me alone! I walk in the Light. I walk in the Light.*

The monk had endured beyond all expectation, maintaining his sanity longer than any of his other hosts, but the stubborn mantra wore thin.
*Come, monk, I offer you the chance to see one of the marvels of the ancient world. Rise up and see through my eyes, see what Darkness can achieve.*
The captured soul could not resist the temptation of sight…none of them could. He felt the monk rise within him and stare out of his eyes. He heard the soul gasp with wonder, and well he should.

The gate was actually a short stone roadway, wide enough for three wagons, a breach in the long wall. A hundred feet long, the roadway was made of quarried stone and the sweat of slaves. The road was ordinary. The marvel was the gargoyles. Twelve gargoyles guarded the gate. Perched on top of ten foot pillars, the great gargoyles appeared as monsters frozen in stone, rearing over the road. Beaks and claws, wings and fangs, each gargoyle was unique, a twisted mélange of real and imagined animals held locked within the stone, the embodiment of dark sorcery guarding the gates to the north.

The monk screamed within his mind.
*I can feel them! I feel their torment! They scream with the pain of centuries. Set them free!*

The Mordant studied the soul trapped within his mind, amazed at the monk’s perception.
*So you can feel the souls of the damned? How interesting. You may have more value than I thought. But first you must willingly embrace the Dark.*

*Never! I will never join such evil.*

*Then you will spend your days howling in a corner of my mind till there is nothing left but gibbering madness!*
The Mordant drove the monk back into the depths, lashing the soul with his mind. Slamming the walls tight, he imprisoned the monk in absolute darkness. Deprived of all sensation, the monk howled for all that was lost. The Mordant smiled, enjoying the music of the damned.

He kicked the mare to a faster shamble. The gargoyles loomed large. Over twenty feet tall, the stone monsters were exquisitely detailed. Clawed talons and gaping mouths, the figures stood upon their pedestals, frozen in mid-scream. The Mordant breathed deep, reaching for threads of Darkness, reaching for the souls of the men and animals ensorcelled within the twisted figures…but he felt only cold stone. Annoyed, he stared at the gargoyles. Strange that the monk could feel the souls trapped within yet he could not. Perhaps it was merely the sympathy of the damned.

The mare stumbled to the edge of the gate, head bowed, legs trembling, lathered and blowing hard. The Mordant pulled on the reins and dismounted. The unmade knight collapsed to his knees, gasping for breath.

The Mordant prodded the knight with his boot. “Pay attention.” He gestured to the gargoyle gate. “This gate is the start of my domain. I return to reclaim my power but none in the kingdom have ever seen this face, the face that I wear in this lifetime. And so, the return must, by necessity, be full of rituals and tests, enough to eliminate any pretender.” His stare drilled into the knight. “Heed my words and obey if you want to live.”

The knight nodded, his sweat-glazed face bright red. “As you command, lord.”

“A patrol will come for us. They will be wary of spies and pretenders. Ritual is our shield and our refuge. Ignore any taunts or threats. If you remain placid you will be safe. If you are questioned, say only that ‘you obey the true Mordant’. Do you understand?”

“Yes, but lord, you wear the surcoat of the Octagon Knights. What’s to stop the soldiers from attacking you?”

“Fear of the Mordant. My shadow is long in the north.” He gazed down at his silver surcoat, the mark of the enemy emblazoned on his chest. “I often return cloaked as one of my enemies. The irony appeals to me.”

The knight nodded, but he looked doubtful.

“Remove your weapons and hang them on the saddle.” The Mordant unbuckled his longsword and dagger, hanging the belt on the pommel. “To greet the patrol with even the smallest dagger is a death sentence.” The Mordant watched as the knight divested his many weapons.

“Stay on this side of the gate until I bid you to cross. The patrol must find a single man waiting beneath the gargoyles. Do you understand?”

“Yes, lord.” The knight glanced up at the gargoyles, fear written across his face. “But lord, I’ve heard strange rumors about these gates, nasty legends. Knights have died here.”

“The tales told of these gates are legion…most of them true.” He laughed, enjoying the fear in the knight’s eyes. “Wait here, while my heralds announce my return.”

The Mordant turned, a swirl of maroon, and strode toward the gate. As he stepped onto the roadway, the gargoyles rippled to life. They remained fixed to their pillars, trapped within stone, but the magic awoke. Wings unfurled, muscles rippled, and claws reached for the heavens as if seeking vengeance. Twelve gargoyles reared on their pillars, releasing a soul-piercing screech. The unearthly wail split the blue sky, a paean of pain.

The unmade knight cowered to the ground, hands over his ears. The pale mare whinnied in terror, showing the whites of her eyes. The Mordant smiled, waiting beneath the writhing gargoyles, waiting to fulfill the dark destiny of his twelfth lifetime. He laughed, listening to the tortured screams. The howls of the damned announced the Mordant’s return. He’d come to claim the Ebony Throne.

Kath galloped down the narrow trail, Sir Tyrone’s words pounding in her mind. The black knight claimed he’d heard the voice of the gods, but surely listening to the gods did not mean he had to die? It was not fair. It was not right. Rage and rebellion roiled within her. Kath did not like leaving friends behind, she did not like running. If the gods believed in free will then she ought to have a choice. And running wasn’t her choice.

She caught up to the others and yelled above the pounding hoof beats. “Stop!”

Duncan
stared back at her, puzzlement on his face, but he slowed his gelding.

Kath pulled on the reins, halting the roan stallion.

The others slowed, turning their horses, but
Duncan
was the one she needed. She answered his unspoken question. “Sir Tyrone stayed behind to make a stand in the tunnel, to keep the false knights from following. I’m going back to fight with him.” She raised her hand, forestalling his argument. “With your bow and my sword, he might have a chance. But alone, he’ll die. Will you come?”

“What about the crystal dagger?”

“I’m not leaving a friend behind to fight for me.” Anger bled into her voice. “If the crystal dagger matters so much, then the gods can bloody well help.”

Duncan
nodded, “Then we fight.” He flashed her a wry smile.

She loved him for it. Kath looked to Danya and Zith. “It might be safer if you keep riding.”

Danya shook her head. “I’m coming.”

Zith nodded, his face grim. “We stay together.”

Her friends filled her with pride. “Then let’s ride.” She turned the stallion and drummed her heels, asking for speed, praying Sir Tyrone still lived. They galloped back to the keep, dismounting at the tunnel entrance.

A clang of swords echoed from the narrow passage, an answer to her prayers.

Kath reached for a throwing axe, keeping her small shield on her left arm.

Duncan
strung his longbow, a quiver of arrows belted to his side.

She stared at his mismatched eyes. “Make every arrow count.”

He nodded. “And every sword stroke.”

She raced into the tunnel, following the song of swords. The narrow passage was murky with darkness, ripe with death and fear. Torches lined the walls but none were lit. Silver moonlight glowed at the tunnel’s openings, a keyhole at both ends, providing the only light. Kath thanked Valin that
Duncan
could see in the night, trusting his arrows to thread the darkness. Any other archer would be just as likely to hit a friend as a foe.

The clang of steel led her to Sir Tyrone. He battled a knight with a mace. The mace attacked with a flurry of blows, strength against finesse, pushing Sir Tyrone back. Other knights crowded behind the mace, waiting their turn to fight.

A bowstring thrummed…an arrow took the false knight in the face.

“
For Castlegard!
” Her battle cry echoed in the tunnel. She loosed her axe, a deadly whirl. A scream told her the axe found its mark. Unsheathing her sword, she stepped next to the black knight.

His voice was hoarse, his breathing ragged. “Why?”

An arrow thrummed passed her, missing her opponent but making him flinch. She leaped into the opening, her sword finding flesh. “Because I’m done running.” She beat back a saber slash. “Because I hate leaving friends.” Steel clanged against steel. “Because it’s right.” She settled into the dance of swords, stroke and parry, concentrating on the fight. Steel flashed in the murky dimness, the only warning. She raised her shield to take the blow. Her opponents had the advantages of reach and strength, forcing Kath to fight with quickness and skill. The narrowness of the passage hampered her movements. Her small shield took a beating, each blow shivering down her arm.

Arrows whizzed past. Most found their mark but others missed. The narrowness of the passage gave advantages to each side.

Sir Tyrone faltered. He crumpled to his knees, a strangled cry on his lips.

“
No!
” Kath rushed forward, ramming her shield into the false knight’s face, forcing him away from Sir Tyrone.

Duncan
yielded, “Go left!”

She pressed to the left side of the passage, hugging the wall.

An arrow sprouted from the false knight’s throat. He clawed at the feathered shaft, a strangled groan and fell.

“Stay!” Another arrow sped down the center…another scream.

A knight with a battleaxe charged up the passage.

Duncan
’s bow thrummed but his arrows lodged in the knight’s shield.

Laughter bubbled from the big knight, a berserker’s battle rage. The knight closed the distance. The battleaxe whistled toward Kath’s head. She sidestepped the stroke but had no opening to attack. The knight loosed a flurry of blows, fast and strong. Kath danced away, taking a glancing blow on her shield. The strength of the blow drove her to her knees. A second blow splintered her shield in a shatter of shards. Her left arm went numb. Driven to the ground, she knelt, exposed to the axe. Desperate to live, she thrust her sword up, but the blade skittered off chainmail. The knight laughed, raising the axe for the killing stroke, a demon in the dark.

The longbow thrummed.

An arrow protruded from the knight’s right eye. The berserker toppled forward, the axe falling from his lifeless hand.

Kath struggled out from under the dead bulk. Her whole body ached, a line of fire dancing down her left arm.

More arrows hummed overhead.

She hugged the wall, gripping her sword.

A wolf’s howl echoed through the tunnel. Bryx loped to Kath’s side. He grinned up at her and yipped. Kath nodded, appreciating the wolf’s presence.

She peered down the passage, waiting, but the flood of knights seemed to have run dry. Bodies in silver surcoats littered the passageway, a swath of death…but the numbers didn’t add up. She kept her sword ready, suspecting a trap. Staying close to the wall, she crept toward the south end of the passage.

A dead horse clogged the way, a glut of slain knights on either side. Sir Tyrone had fought well, a hero’s effort. The passage stank of blood and piss and dung, a gallery of horrors. A fallen knight moaned, “Water. Give me water.”

Kath shuddered and stepped wide.

A torch waved across the far end of the passage.

The longbow thrummed…but there was no scream.

The torch waved again. A deep, gravelly voice yelled, “Parley! Hold your fire and parley!”

“
Trask!
” She made the name a curse. She’d hoped to find the brute among the fallen…but he hadn’t had the guts to risk the passage. “What do you want, Trask?”

“Come out and we’ll talk.”

The wolf snarled, a low rumble that echoed in the passage.

Kath agreed with the wolf. “I don’t think so. What’s your offer?”

“We’re fighting for no reason, no gain.”

A traitor’s logic, she kept silent and let him talk.

“What if we each ride our own way? No arrows in the back, no pursuit.”

His words reeked of treachery. She waved to
Duncan
. “Bring the others.” Whatever Trask was up to, she did not want her forces divided. Better to have them in the passageway, protected by stout stone.
Duncan
moved up behind her, keeping an arrow nocked. The others came behind. Danya led the horses while Zith tended to Sir Tyrone. Kath raised her voice to a shout. “Fine, Trask, ride away.”

“But how do I trust you?”

“So it’s trust we’re talking about?”

He laughed, a low menacing sound. “I think you should come out while you can. A princess can be a valuable hostage.”

A loud crash came from behind them. A wall of flames erupted across the northern opening, sealing their escape. Dark smoke billowed into the tunnel, the reek of burning oil. The horses squealed. Danya worked to ease their fears.

Kath yelled to Zith, “Close the outer doors! Stop the smoke!” Pressing her cloak to her face, she studied the passageway, desperate for an advantage. They needed to attack instead of just defending. They needed to mount an ambush. Clutching her gargoyle, she considered the problem…and remembered her god-given advantage. But how to use it? She stared at the thick walls, wondering how much stone she could pass through. She told
Duncan
her plan. “Hold the passageway, while I take the fight to Trask.”

He nodded, his face grim. “I’ll protect the others but what about you?”

She shrugged and gave him a half-smile. “The gods will have to help.” She turned before he could protest. Sheathing her sword, she slipped down the tunnel, trying to remember the dimensions of the tower. A quarter of the way to the south entrance, she gripped her gargoyle and pressed her hand to the eastern wall. Taking a deep breath, she reached for her magic. She fell into the wall, into stubborn stone, cold and hard. Granite embraced her, solid and sedentary, tempting her with permanence. She pushed forward, through the hardness, desperate for a breath of air, afraid of becoming trapped. The stone’s grip tightened, seeking to hold her in an eternal embrace. Every step seemed harder than the last, the stone impossibly thick, perhaps she’d chosen the wrong place to try. Aching for air, she pushed through…and stumbled into a room. Gasping for breath, Kath stood trembling against the wall, trying to get her bearings.

Torchlight seeped under a closed door, providing a dim light. Weapons lined the walls. Spears and swords, maces and battleaxes, the edged weapons offered no help…but in the corner, she found a crossbow and a sheath of quarrels. She’d never loosed a crossbow but she knew how they worked. Sure death at close range, she smiled, knowing it was just the weapon she needed. Standing on the stirrup, she struggled to cock the bowstring, needing both hands to latch the string. Loading an armor-piercing quarrel, she kept her finger well clear of the tickler. She didn’t bother taking more quarrels. One chance was all she’d get.

Kath listened at the door and then stepped into the hallway.

The outer door gaped open, moonlight shining in the courtyard. She crept to the doorway and peered out. An argument raged in the yard. Six knights stood clustered with weapons drawn, confronting Trask and four of his cronies.

One of the six, a tall knight with flaming red hair, pointed his spiked mace at Trask. “We’re not going in that tunnel. The pass-through is a cursed deathtrap.”

Trask’s voice was a low rumble. “You’ll do as you’re ordered.”

Kath held her breath, praying for bloodshed.

The red-haired knight hawked and spat. “We’re done dying for you, Trask.”

“Then stay for the golds. A thousand for every man who fights.”

“Golds are no use to the dead.”

A mounted knight burst from the stable, leading six saddled horses, a clatter of hooves on stone.

Trask growled. “Your hands are just as bloody as mine. Stay and fight or the Octagon will hunt you down like dogs.”

The red-haired knight swung into the saddle. “We’ll take our chances in the south.” He spurred his horse to a gallop and led the others down the mountain trail.

Trask raged, hurling curses into the night.

Kath grinned, seven less swords to deal with. It seemed the gods lent their help.

Trask rejoined his cronies, his back to the doorway, peering into the tunnel.

Kath stared at the traitors. The odds were better but still grim, but if she killed Trask, the others might run. Steeling her courage, she stepped out into the courtyard. Her heart thundering, she raised the crossbow, her finger on the tickler. Slow and silent, she crept towards the knights, knowing distance was her enemy. Aiming low to compensate for the crossbow’s kick, she focused on the small of Trask’s back. Her heart hammering, she took one more step.

One of the knights yelled, “Look out!”

Trask spun.

She squeezed the tickler.

The crossbow bucked against her cheek, pulling to the right.

The quarrel missed Trask, slamming into another knight. The knight grunted and staggered backwards, staring down at a fist-sized hole punched in his chest. He toppled forward, his face a mask of surprise.

Kath stood frozen; the moment of advantage lost.

Trask stepped towards her, a mountain blocking out the moon.

She threw the crossbow at him, but he battered it aside with a gauntleted fist.

He sneered and reached for his battleaxe. “So, the princess plays at war.”

Kath reached for her last throwing axe and hurled it at the traitor.

Trask’s battleaxe flashed in the moonlight, a bitter clang of steel. “That’s twice you’ve missed.” He stepped toward her, a looming menace.

Kath backed away, drawing her short sword. The blade wavered in the moonlight, a thin shield against the hulking brute. She tried to think of some advantage but there seemed to be none left. “Why, Trask?”