Pillar of White Flame

© 2016 by Walter Reimer

This is a sequel to The Gray Tower, which is a sequel to The Black Chapel. It’s not really necessary to read the previous two stories, but they provide important plot points and great yiff, so you’re missing out if you don’t. Just saying.

Chapter 23’s won the Last Tango in Paris Award for Gratuitous Use of Butter in a Sex Scene!

Art by  whitearabmare

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Part 29.



The doe hugged the buck one more time, hard enough to make ribs creak, then grabbed him by the antlers and kissed him. “Chassi?”

“Trasta?”

She took a deep breath and her eyes gleamed with unshed tears. “When this is over . . . you’ll get a letter from me.”

His ears flicked forward. “I will?”

“Yes.” She swallowed against a lump in her throat and turned to the deputation of Repor’s nobles, who had come to see her off. All, like the Earl, wore scarves of saffron yellow in accordance with the earldom’s customs.

Mourning colors.

“It,” and she paused again, “it is my intention to wed your Lord, Earl Chassi of Repor, and style him my Prince Consort.” Chassi gaped and she kissed him again as the assembly cheered loudly. When she pulled away from him she asked, “That is, if the Earl agrees?”

The red deer buck smiled. “With all my heart.” He stepped back and bowed to her as the crowd cheered again. “But for now, my liege and lady, you must get back to your home.” He raised his voice as he looked at the Repor escort that would accompany the Princess and her entourage to the border. “I charge you to guard the Princess close, in the Gods’ names.” The guard captain bowed from his saddle.

Trasta thumped the flank of her riding-lizard and clambered up into the saddle. The elk doe was in armor, with her sword at her hip and her helmet hanging from the saddle horn. Her two squires were similarly dressed, Seni looking a bit awkward in his saddle. Dame Karalla had disdained driving a wagon, saying that speed was more desirable than comfort; she sat her lizard’s saddle like the practiced rider she was.

The Princess nodded to the buck standing at her lizard’s bridle. “My Lord Earl.”

“Your Highness.” He stepped back and the lizard squealed as spurs dug into its flanks. With Trasta in the lead, her retinue fell in behind her as they rode from the Keep’s courtyard. At the gate she half-turned to wave at Chassi.

The buck waved back, before turning around to face the delegation of his domain’s nobility. He beckoned them a bit closer as his guard commander bent an ear in his direction. “I want you to call up the levies and make sure that our defenses are in good order. That includes the shipping,” he said pointedly to two thegns, who nodded. “I’ll be at the Temple for the service to honor the King.”


***


“M’Lady.”

“Sir.”

Duke Evoli snorted. “I’m sure you two weren’t so polite a few nights ago,” he joked as Zhef and Halvrika glanced at him. The fox grinned. “But you were never formally introduced, so,” and he sat up a bit behind his desk. “Adept Halvrika Hringurhali, may I present Zhef of Clan Fad’Eireabal of the Tribes of the Anchak. Zhef, Halvrika.”

“I’m pleased to meet you, Zhef,” and the raccoon blushed as she offered her paw.

The skunk took it, and she could feel the hard calluses on his paw-pads. “Reet pleased t’meet tha, ‘Rika,” and he shook her paw firmly.

“I’ve spoken with Zhef, and he’s agreed to stay on as your trainer and guardian for a month.” The Duke shifted in his seat a bit, his brush wagging gently. “His cohort is already packing to head back to the Anchak with the other two units. However, if he judges that your training has benefited you, he’ll leave a bit earlier.” He cocked an eye at the skunk.

“I’m missin’ m’kinfolk, tha ken,” Zhef explained as Halvrika looked at him.

“So why did you agree?” she asked.

Zhef’s mephit tail twitched and he smiled bashfully. “I likes tha,” he admitted.

“Oh.” She felt herself blushing.

“That’s settled then.” Evoli glanced at some papers. “Get you both to the training yard and hit each other with sticks a while. I have work to do. Halvrika?” he asked as the two were walking out of the office. She looked back to see him glancing at her over the paper he was reading. “I’ll want to talk to you after the evening meal. Bring one of your stories with you, please.”

“Yes, sir. I – “

He forestalled her protest with a paw. “I have confidence in your ability to keep me safe from whatever might be in this fellow’s words. Off you go.”

She nodded and closed the door behind her.

Less than a half-hour later she was dressed simply in a pair of trousers, boots and a loose shirt, and Zhef was dressed solely in a dun-colored homespun kilt. The skunk looked her up and down and then said, “Lay tha aside, ‘Rika.”

“What?” She followed his gaze to the guisarme she had in her paws. “But – “

“I’ve ta see haw tha fare in battle. Lay ‘side tha sticker.” He held two brooms in his paw.

The guisarme left her paw and gently floated to her left, coming to rest on a bench. “Tha’s guid wit yer witchery,” the skunk said as he tossed one broom to her and hefted the other like a quarter-staff, “but haw’re tha wi’out it?”

And he charged.

She braced, right foot sliding back to give her more stability as she blocked his swing and twisted to her left to redirect his momentum. As he moved past she flicked the stick around her body and aimed at the back of his head, and he blocked the riposte with a resounding thunk of wood on wood.

He spun to face her, and they circled each other warily for a moment. She slid one paw down the broomstick, imagining that the straw at one end was the blade of her weapon, and swung the broom at him.

The skunk immediately saw what she was doing, blocking her overhead strike just below where the straw was bound to the stick. He kicked out, toeclaws first, and she had to fall back or risk getting hit by him.

They sparred for most of the afternoon, taking frequent breaks for water while Zhef pointed out what she might be doing wrong or giving a tip on how to improve. “Tha’s seen training,” he said, taking a swig of water.

“My father taught me,” she replied.

“Tha father? Tha’s reet,” he said, nodding to himself. He gazed off into space for a moment and absently nibbled on a fingerclaw before saying, “Ane hour’s fightin,’ an’ ane hour’s practice, aforenoon an’ afters. Tha foine wi’ sich?”

Halvrika thought about it. Two hours twice a day would not infringe on either her studies nor the actual reason she was in Lem in the first place; namely, determining if there were any likely candidates for the Order, or whether a school should be built. She nodded. “Sounds good.”

Zhef gave a single, definite nod, then spit in his paw and offered it. “Done.”

She took the paw, and they shook on it. “Done.”


***


It had rained for the two days since the death of the King. A canopy had been erected over the catafalque, and many people braved the rain to pay their respects to the departed monarch. Just before noon, however, the rains ended and shafts of sunlight pierced the clouds.

The sound of the Temple bells sounding the midday peal were eclipsed by an atonal blare of horns as two groups of six armed men each marched through the plaza. With Thegn Stolipi marching ahead of them, the crowds parted as they halted before the bier.

The two files stepped slowly to flank the body of the King, faced about, and halted, heads bowed as another horn blast sounded.

Monks chanting prayers emerged from the Temple, followed by the three Guarantors carrying short wooden batons chased with gold as symbols of their status. Led by Duchess Rolna, the three tapped their batons against Aroki IV’s forehead in a ritual designed to reassure onlookers that he was still dead. When they were done, they stepped back and the High Priest nodded to Thegn Stolipi.

The buck bowed, straightened, and said in a loud voice, “Fighting men, warriors of Shuga! Take up the body of the King our Master, and bear it in honor to the Place of Burning.” The dozen men crouched and raised the bier from the catafalque, taking the weight of the elk buck on their shoulders and linking arms for added stability. Stolipi stepped aside as a slow drum cadence started and the monks began to chant again.

A third fanfare, and members of the Royal Family entered the square, flanked by members of the Household Guard. Stolipi took a place beside the Queen as Meki plodded beside her, supporting his weight on a staff. Crown Princess Seffa was staying behind because of her pregnancy. They took their place behind the Guarantors as the people of Shuganath followed them.

The Place of Burning was a holy site a short distance beyond the city walls, and a huge pyre of oil-soaked logs had been raised. The soldiers climbed up and placed Aroki’s corpse on the pyre and Stolipi marched them away.

High Priest Saragi led the gathering in singing a hymn before Master Kulorn raised his paws, the baton in his grip glowing brightly to match the radiance in his eyes.

Despite two days of rain, the base of the pyre glowed, smoked, and burst into bright flames that traveled up and within the log framework until, with a roar, the entire pile became engulfed. The smoke spiraled high until the wind bent it in the direction of the Silver Mountain.

The monks led the people in a hymn of praise and thanksgiving at the omen while the mortal remains of Aroki IV burned.


***


The village of Didos was a small place, a collection of buildings and a small palisaded fort set among a collection of farms that stretched for miles over rolling, sparsely forested terrain. It was so small, in fact, that it didn’t rate a Temple to the Pantheon. A chapel dedicated to Yeravi and Greva, who watched over agriculture and growing things, sat just off the main market square.

A young man ran past surprised shoppers and to a spare greyhound in a surcoat with the local lord’s arms blazoned on it. He was sitting slouched over, his chair teetering on two legs. “Siryam!” the weasel said breathlessly. “Riders – in armor!”

The older man patted the younger man’s shoulder and stood up, straightening his clothes. “Let’s just see who they are, Dari, before we start ringing the bell.” The Siryam stepped out into the middle of the road, placing a casual paw on the dirk at his belt.

Riders they were, a bit over a dozen, and armed. The canine shaded his eyes to help him see better as one of them unfurled a banner.

They got close enough for him to see clearly, and his eyes went wide. “Dari!”

“Yes, Siryam?”

“Go and get the Hetman.” The weasel ran off, leaving the canine waiting for the approaching riders as a few townsfolk began to gather.

A young feline reined his lizard in a few steps from the officer, the Issem banner in his mailed fist. He wrapped the reins around his saddlehorn with a careless flourish and raised the empty paw, palm outward. “Greetings,” he said.

“Greetings,” the canine said. “You’re carrying the Royal Standard, I see.”

“I bear it for General the Princess Trasta,” the young man said proudly as an elk doe rode up and came to a stop beside her squire.

“Your Highness,” the canine said, placing his fist over his heart. “I am Siryam Mireri Tokkal. Welcome to Didos.”

“Thank you, Siryam,” Trasta said as she clambered out of the saddle and acknowledged the bows of the villagers. “Who is your lord?’

“Thegn Wichani of Yonn, Your Highness. This village’s Hetman has been sent for. Is there anything you require?” He glanced around, noting that the villagers had come closer. “We don’t have a proper inn – “

She raised a paw and smiled. “We’ve been on the road, riding north from Repor. All we need is water and fodder for the lizards. As to accommodations, we are used to living rough. We shall set up a bivouac near your fort, if that is all right.”

“I’m sure the Hetman will agree, but we’ve never had anyone of your rank here, Your Highness – “

Again, she silenced him with a wave. “We’ll be on our way before sunup, Siryam Tokkal.” She gave him a weary smile. "We could use something to eat that isn’t field rations, of course, and I insist on paying for everything.”

Tokkal grinned. “I doubt that’ll be a problem, Your Highness.”

“Good. Now, is there a Temple nearby?”

“Just a chapel. Most people here reverence Greva and Yeravi – farmers, you know.”

Trasta nodded. “Today is the day my – my father, the King, is to be laid to rest. I can’t get there in time, but I wish to pray.”

“I am certain that the Priest won’t object at all, Your Highness, and my deputies and I will keep any gawkers away so you can have some peace.”

She gave him a tight smile and a slight bow as Dame Karalla and her guard dismounted.

The Hetman and the Priest caught up with her before she entered the chapel, the village chief still fumbling with his chain-of-office. He seconded what had been arranged with the Siryam, and the Priest helped her collect some plants from the chapel garden as an offering to the stallion’s patron deities.

She placed the offering on the altar, then drew her sword and placed it with the flowers before sinking to her knees. The priest knelt beside her as she began to pray.

After a few moments, she gave up, and let her tears flow.