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.


Art by  xchiseaxmargaritax

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Part 39.



Nothing.

Apart from the ambient magic of the Writ and the wards that sanctified areas such as the Nobles’ Court, Marok’s Sight revealed nothing. There was no sign of anyone bearing the same Binding that had enthralled the murderer of the Regent’s uncle or the attempted murderer of the High Priest. The bear was glad that Saragi had survived; he rather liked the wolf.

He sensed that a guard was coming back to his cell, and adroitly slipped his self back into his body before the otter reached the door. Marok opened his eyes and sat up as the guard’s face appeared in the window. “Good day,” he said, stretching. “I’d say good morning, but I have no idea what time it is down here – “

“Shut up, you fat child-fucker,” the otter said.

Marok flicked an ear. The guard’s tone spoke of anger, even hatred. He shifted on the mattress until his feet touched the floor and he clasped his paws in his lap. “Do you know me?” he asked.

“Dator rip my cock off if I do,” and the otter turned and spat.

“Then why hate me? You don’t know me,” Marok said quietly.

His words and even tone of voice seemed to make the otter angrier. “You’re one of them magic-users,” he growled. “You’re all a bunch of perverts, living all high and mighty in that whorehouse.”

Marok put his paw to his chin and looked around his cell glumly, and the otter grinned nastily. “Yeah, we got you in a box now, whore. I want to see how well you do magic when your head’s off.” He spat again and added, “Priest Gond says that you lot are no better than lizard shit betwixt a farmer’s toes.”

The bear smiled. “He would know all about that, I guess.” A thought occurred to him and he asked, “Have you ever heard of Grand Master Marok?” At the otter’s look he said, “I was named for him. So the story goes, the King ordered the Grand Master beheaded for ravishing his Queen.” He chuckled. “I’m told she never looked at her husband again. But, the story.

“The headsman did his job well, and the Grand Master’s head fell to the straw as so many heads had fallen before. The King, I’m told, laughed.”

“You got a point to this?”

“I’m getting there; don’t rush, young fellow. A man died in a hurry once, and he’s been dead a long time. Anyway,” the bear said with a soft clap of his paws on his knees, “the King was happy, and so was the entire Court, who had turned out to watch. The Queen, I expect, wasn’t so pleased. The King stepped down from his seat to reward the headsman,” and his voice lowered, “and then it happened.”

“What?” the guard asked. The otter was listening, despite himself.

“Grand Master Marok’s body . . . stood up,” Marok said in sepulchral tones, “and he walked past the headsman, around the chopping block where it had lain scant moments ago . . . and he picked up his severed head.” The bear paused, reached for the nearly-empty bottle of wine, and took a swallow to moisten his throat.

“Then what happened?”

Marok looked up at the guard. “He placed his head back on his shoulders,” he replied. “I expect he may have had to adjust it – an executioner’s axe never cuts cleanly – and as the King and the Court looked on in horror he turned to the headsman and asked, ‘Two out of three?’”


***


Serjeants bawled orders and the ranks of soldiers braced at attention as the raccoon stepped out of his tent. A senior officer stepped forward and saluted, right fist over his heart. “Sir, the muster is complete.”

“Thank you,” Thegn Ranol said gruffly. The tabard over his armor bore the gold and yellow bicolor of the Hringurhali, differenced with a small shield bearing the Issem colors and a sword. It was something he hadn’t worn in the twenty years since his Denunciation. But he had been reinstated, and now he owed a debt of service to his liege.

“Men,” he said in a loud, carrying tone, “word has reached me that several districts of the Realm have risen against our lawful lord, the King.” He raised a paw for silence as a few started to mutter. “I have been ordered to muster you, and we march on Shuganath to the King’s aid.” The raccoon looked from one end of the muster to the other. There were only two hundred of them, maybe a tenth of what Duchess Blanak’s vassals could raise, but they were well-trained and he knew most of them by name.

They knew him, as well, and knew that during his decades-long exile he had kept his levies supported and trained.

His oldest son Frali uncased the Hringurhali banner, and he took up position at the head of the column as serjeants barked orders and the soldiers faced left.

”For Shuga! For the King!” the Thegn roared, and the two hundred soldiers echoed the shout as they began to march.

Ranol fell in beside his son as the column set an easy walking pace. Drovers with dray-carts followed behind with all the things an armed force on the move required.

“Father?” Frali asked as they’d been walking for about an hour.

“Son?”

“Do you – have you heard anything about what’s going on?”

The older raccoon swallowed his misgivings and private fears. “Treason,” he said simply. “Some districts have decided that the High House isn’t worthy to lead them any longer.” He smiled and rested a paw casually on his sword’s hilt. “We who are loyal will have to persuade them otherwise.”

His son didn’t appear reassured. “What troubles you?”

“Worried,” Frali admitted. “I kept my ears open when the muster was going on, Father.” They were far enough in front and speaking in low tones. There was little fear of anyone overhearing them. “There was a bit of talk about the Order, and that’s part of the reason for the uprising.” The younger man glanced at the older from under the nasal of his helmet. “I’m worried, Father. About ‘Rika.”

Ranol’s banded tail twitched. “I would be as well, Frali,” he said. “But your sister’s a grown woman who can take care of herself, and she far to the north, up in Lem.” A ghost of a smile flickered across his usually stern face. “I expect she’s quite safe up there.”


***


The clack of wooden practice swords mingled with the harsh breathing of the two combatants as Zhef and Halvrika fought. Just outside the perimeter of the practice area a group of Zhef’s fellow guardsmen stood and muttered among themselves, comparing notes on the raccoon’s fighting style. Most thought that the young woman was learning, with only a few suggesting that she confine her battles to a bed.

Halvrika twisted to her left, bringing her right paw up and letting the sword held there take the blow the skunk aimed at her. She twisted again, moving herself a step back from him and lunged.

The wooden blade tapped Zhef on the shoulder.

The crowd applauded a bit, a few laughing and calling out good-natured insults at the guardsman as he nodded to acknowledge what would have been a crippling blow. “Tha’s guid, lass,” he said to Halvrika.

“Thanks,” she huffed. The raccooness was dressed in homespun trousers and a loose tunic, and went barefoot. She headed for the barrel of water and poured a dipperful over her head before drinking thirstily. Zhef walked up beside her and she offered him a drink. “Am I getting better?”

“Aye, reet enoo,” he said. He was wearing a kilt, and nothing else. “Hae ye yon sticker nigh?”

“I can get it,” she said, and she grinned as her eyes glowed. For effect, she turned and looked up, then for effect put two fingers in her mouth and whistled.

A few of the mephits gasped as her guisarme came around one tower of the Keep and flew straight at Halvrika, coming to a stop in midair with the sharp edge of the blade a foot from her nose. She grasped the wooden shaft of the weapon as the glow faded from her eyes. “Been practicing,” she said, resting the haft against her shoulder.

“Aye,” Zhef said. He was obviously trying to keep the awe out of his voice. The other Anchak highlanders were making no such attempt, and they made way for her as she headed off to lunch.
One of the skunks picked up a bow and pulled an arrow from its quiver. “Catch, witch!” and before anyone could stop him he drew the bowstring back and loosed the arrow.

Straight at Halvrika’s back.

Halvrika had obeyed Master Maffa’s instructions. Part of her was still in the Writ, and her Sight had showed her what the mephit was up to. The arrow suddenly stopped in mid-flight as she turned, her gray-green eyes glowing brightly. “Tha call’st me witch?” she asked in a very bad Anchak accent.

Everyone scattered out of the way.

She flicked a finger and the arrow reversed itself and flew at the man, who promptly squealed and started running. Despite his best efforts the arrow kept up with him until he skidded to a halt in a cul-de-sac formed of the Keep’s walls and a garderobe. Panting hard, he turned with his back to the wall.

The arrow hovered there, moving in a slow weaving pattern like a wasp’s random blunderings and edging closer to him. Every time he tried to make his way around it, it darted at him and blocked his escape.

As he stood against the wall he heard footsteps, and he flinched back against the stones as Halvrika sauntered around the corner. The rest of the highlanders followed at a discreet distance. Their expressions showed a mixture of amusement, curiosity, - and fear.

Zhef said in a concerned tone, “’Rika?”

“Yes, Zhef?”

“Tha’ll nae kill yon? Zhori’s nae ain bad sort.”

“No, I won’t kill him,” the raccoon asked, “but he needs to know that you don’t shoot at people in training.” She glanced back at the skunk, whose nosepad paled a bit. “Do you?”

“Nae,” one soldier offered.

“I thought so,” and she turned back to face Zhori as the arrow rose to point directly at his eyes.

The skunk flinched and closed his eyes as the arrow drew closer. He felt hot liquid seeping into the fur on his legs and pooling around his feet.

Suddenly he sneezed, and sneezed again, and opened his eyes.

The others . . . were laughing at him, and he blinked, seeing that the arrow had reversed itself and the fletches had tickled his nose.

The glow faded from Halvrika’s eyes and the arrow clattered to the courtyard. “I’m going to get something to eat,” and the others fell back as she walked off.


***


Massive knuckles struck the iron-bound wood with surprising gentleness, once, twice.

“Come,” the elk buck inside said in a carrying tone.

Sarti opened the door and stepped into his master’s office in one of the Keep’s towers. “Priest Gond, Your Highness,” and the bull ushered the fox into the room.

Meki was standing at the window, his paws behind his back and looking out at Shuganath. “Thank you, Sarti. Wait outside, please.” He waited until the bull had closed the door before saying, “Priest Gond.”

“Good day, Your Highness,” the fox said diffidently. “What may – “

“You can tell me what you’re up to,” the elk snarled.

“’Up to,’ Highness?”

“Yes,” and Meki turned away from the window to face the priest. “Some of the traitors who are rising against the High House say that you are giving them the inspiration to revolt.” Meki’s nostrils flared. “Can you explain yourself?”