The two that faced him knew their business; they circled the small table that occupied the center of the kitchen, flanking him from either side. It took everything he had just to keep them at bay. A terrible shrieking cry came from Lilly and the third man stood back up, a bloody dagger in his hand. Laughing, he threw it at Gram.
Dodging to one side to avoid the dagger, he was forced into the line of one of the men’s truncheon blows and the heavy weighted club glanced across the top of his head. The pain blinded him for a moment and Gram reeled, trying to maintain his equilibrium. Falling in the other direction he stumbled into the other man.
He knew the next blow would take him from behind.
Clutching the man he had fallen into, he twisted and used his momentum to turn his opponent into a human shield. It was a ploy that worked better than he expected, the man in his arms went limp as his comrade’s club rendered him unconscious.
Still staggered, Gram thrust the limp body away and then stepped into something slippery. His leg went out from under him and he fell. He rolled as he hit the floor, using the table as cover. A hasty swipe from one of them caught the back of his shoulder but he kept rolling, taking him from that one’s reach and knocking the feet out from under the one that had stabbed Lilly.
The man fell, grappling with Gram as he came down, but Gram was ready for him. Dropping the truncheon he struck the invader with a heavy throat punch. He knew that fight was already won, but he struggled to free himself as the man clutched at his clothing. His other opponent was coming at him, weapon in hand. He tried to flip over, to interpose the body of the one holding onto him, but he didn’t have the leverage.
He was dead if he couldn’t move.
Desperate, he shoved the one holding him, driving his head into the hard iron stove, but he knew it was too late. A high pitched scream behind him cut the air.
Carissa had retrieved the dagger that had been used to kill Lilly and she stood behind the last man. As he screamed he turned and battered the small girl aside, his truncheon hitting her solidly in the chest. Carissa fell back, crashing into one of the cabinets.
The man in black was still screaming, clawing at his back, trying to withdraw the dagger that she had plunged into his kidney. It was a mortal wound, but he wasn’t dead yet. Furious he raised his club to finish the girl that had slain him.
Gram caught his arm, wrenching it back, around and then up, pushing until the shoulder joint popped. Then he removed the dagger and drove it in again, higher up, between the shoulder blades. Not content to let him fall, he slammed his foe into the stone floor.
Carissa threw her arms around him and Conall stood beside them, holding an iron pot. The boy’s arms were shaking and his eyes were wide.
Gram stroked Carissa’s hair for a moment, “Are you alright?”
She looked at him, tears of anger and pain in her eyes, “I told Momma I would take care of you.”
The words brought a brief smile to his lips, “You certainly did.” It reminded him of something his mother had once said, while talking about his father, No sane person threatens those a Thornbear protects.
“They killed Rennie and Lilly,” said Conall, his eyes dark and empty. He wasn’t crying but Gram suspected he was going into shock.
He took the boy by the hand, shaking him to get his attention, “You have to get Carissa out of here, back to the castle. It isn’t safe here. I’ll take care of the rest.”
Conall’s eyes focused on him, and then he nodded.
“Can you walk?” he asked, looking at Carissa. A strong smell of wood smoke was coming from somewhere.
“Something’s broken,” she told him, “but my legs work fine.”
“Go then,” he said, rising and urging them toward the door. He checked the hall again before they entered.
“There are dead men by the door to the castle, ignore them and go get help. I have to get Rennie and then I’ll follow you.”
The two children nodded and ran for the door. Gram returned to the kitchen and picked up one of the truncheons. The dining area was empty, but two black clad forms were in the main room beyond it. One was lifting Irene’s limp body, casting it over a broad shoulder before going down the stairs that led to the lower level. The smaller one turned to face him.
“Leave the girl and I will let you live,” Gram warned.
The small assassin ignored him, advancing lightly while holding two short wooden rods, one in either hand. She wove them in and out, in a pattern that kept them sometimes parallel and at other times crossing.
It’s a woman, he realized then. The dark clothing had hidden the fact from him at first.
Pushing that thought aside, he moved into range; Irene came before any qualms he had about fighting women.
He deflected several of her attacks but the weighted truncheon was slower than the light rods and she wielded them with blinding speed. Within moments he found himself on the defensive, giving ground and forced to maneuver around the furniture to keep her at bay. Her movements were so fast that he was unable to stop them all and he took several sharp raps to his arms and legs, reserving his defense for the more serious thrusts at his sternum and throat.
She kicked out, sending a chair flying backward and blocking his retreat. Shifting his stance, he was forced to advance and he took several hard strikes to one arm before she realized her mistake. Ignoring what was likely to be a hard blow to the side of his head he drove the truncheon forward in a stop-thrust maneuver. He knew already that she wasn’t likely to hit hard enough to do more than daze him and the strike to her sternum would take her out of the fight.
What happened next shocked him.
She altered her flow and instead of taking the easy shot at his head, she bent her legs and arched her back, springing into a back flip that took her across the room and out of his range. She had anticipated his ploy and given herself space with a startling display of gymnastics.
How did she know? The fact that she had seen through his sacrificial maneuver surprised him more than the flip had. If Cyhan were a woman, this is what he would be like, he thought silently. His confidence slipped for a moment. One mistake and she’ll kill me.
The thought of Irene being carried ever farther away erased any thoughts he had of retreat. Relax, he told himself and then he shut down his mind, surrendering his conscious thought and falling deeper into the empty place that his teacher had drilled into him. His eyes took in the room, marking the furniture and other obstacles. Then he stepped forward.
He outweighed her by at least seventy pounds or more, but she held the advantage in speed and weapons. He needed to get close.
They circled the room for a minute or more before he got within range. He took several more hard blows to his arms, but he drove her back, forcing her into the corner. A low table there limited her options for escape, but she let him maneuver her there anyway. When he closed for the finishing blow, he knew what would happen.
She saw the attack coming and once again her lithe form took flight as she dropped her weapons and flowed sideways into a handspring. His truncheon took her in the stomach and she crashed to one side, hitting the wall.
He gave her no chance to recover, kicking the table upward to slam into her as she rose from the floor.
If his weapon had connected with the spot below her sternum she wouldn’t have recovered, but it had landed too low, hitting the abdominals rather than her diaphragm. The table bruised her but she still reached her feet and moved into his towering charge.
Lightning fast, a kick sent his weapon hand up, the truncheon flying away and then she punished his torso with three hard jabs. Her knee came up and Gram narrowly avoided having his manhood badly bruised.
Still, barehanded he was nearly as fast; his size and strength made the outcome inevitable. Finding his balance, he blocked her next punches and for a few seconds the two of them traded rapid fire jabs and blocks. Calm and implacable, his right hand struck her head and he tried to catch her by the hair.
Once he had a grip on her it would be over.
She dipped down, trying to avoid the grab, and her hood came away in his fingers.
A familiar face lay underneath. It was Alyssa.
Gram froze, but she wasn’t suffering from the same shock. Rocketing upward her open palm struck his chin, sending his head back and knocking him from his feet.
“I really wish you hadn’t done that,” she told him. Her hair was tied into a tight bun on top of her head and reaching up she tugged at it, pulling it free to cascade down around her while Gram scrambled backward, trying to clear his head.
“Why?” he asked, gaping at her with pain in his eyes.
She approached as he stood, his legs like jelly beneath him. Falling into a crouch she tried to sweep his unsteady legs out from under him but he stumbled back, just managing to get away. Leaping back up, Alyssa lunged at him. It was a poor choice on her part and reflexively he caught her by the wrist, yanking her in close.
She struggled with him, but his strength was too great. He felt a sharp pain in his wrist but he ignored it as he twisted her arm back and forced her to the floor, one forearm hard against the back of her neck. He had her helpless now, his weight on her back and one arm pinned painfully.
“Why?” he repeated. “Why would you do this?”
A strange numbness was traveling up his arm and he saw something small fall from her hand as he pressed harder on her arm.
“Answer me!”
“You fought well,” she said, “but this fight is mine.”
His mind went back, and he remembered her undoing her hair a moment before. A foolish move in a fight, but she had had a reason for it. The long bloody needle she had dropped was poisoned.
Growling he tried to push harder but the arm she had pricked was weaker and his chest felt strange. “Traitor,” he cursed, but the word came out slurred. His eyes cast about, seeking a weapon he could use before his strength vanished but there was nothing close.
The needle, he thought, but his fingers scrabbled awkwardly as he tried to grab it. Her arm was free now and levering herself up with it and one leg, she sent him falling to one side.
His arm was rigid now and his breathing labored. A cold pain crept through his body as his muscles contracted painfully, rendering him impotent, helpless. She crouched over him, looking down with sad eyes.
“You’re dying,” she said. “The poison causes a state like tetany, causing the voluntary muscles to lock up first, but your breathing will stop soon. You have to fight hard, focus on your breathing.”
His eyes were the only thing that would move now, bulging as he fought to draw breath. He saw her hands, working quickly to untie a pouch at her waist. She drew out a small vial and then she rolled his head, fighting against his rigid muscles to get the back of his head against the floor and pry his stubborn lips apart. Unstopping the vial she poured a thick liquid into his mouth. Some of it dribbled away, but more seeped in around his tightly clenched teeth.
“This is the antidote. But it will take time to work. You won’t be able to move for hours, and when you do, your body will feel as though you’ve been beaten and bruised from head to toe.” Standing up she took hold of his feet and began to drag him toward the stairs. The smell of smoke was getting stronger.
The next fifteen minutes were painful as she dragged him feet first down the wooden stairs, his head hitting against each step as they descended.
“They’ve set fire to the house,” she informed him. “It will destroy everything, including the gate back to the castle. Once you recover you’ll have to make your way back on foot.”
He stared at her, willing his thoughts at her, wishing she could hear him. Why are you doing this!? She was oblivious however, and she left him inside the house, near the door that led outside. He could hear her talking to someone there, but the sound of crackling flames and burning timbers from above drowned out her words. A few minutes later she returned and began to drag him outside.
“I told them I was checking the house, to make sure the gate would be disabled. They think you’re dead already,” she said. “I never wanted it to happen like this. No one was supposed to get hurt.”
His eyes glared at her accusingly as he struggled to breathe.
“The antidote has an unfortunate side effect as well. It will make you very sleepy, but you mustn’t fall asleep. If you do, your breathing will stop and you won’t wake up. You have to stay awake long enough for it to counter the poison.” Her eyes were wet. “Please.”
Gram was furious inside. He couldn’t imagine falling asleep; all he wanted was the use of his body again. If he had had the power of his arms he would have throttled her.
“They won’t hurt her,” she added. “Our purpose was to take her, not kill her. Irene will be well treated. I promise you.”
She dragged him farther, pulling him away from the house until he was sheltered by a rocky outcrop. “You should be safe here. Just don’t let yourself sleep.
I will never sleep again, he thought, not until I’ve choked the life out of you with my bare hands. His eyes rolled from side to side as he tried to take in his surroundings.
Alyssa studied him, her eyes glimmering with unshed tears. “I’m so sorry, Gram. I didn’t want it to happen like this. I would have preferred never to see you again, and to leave our memories together untouched. With Celior’s mercy, we will never meet again.” She stood and looked down on him.
“You should know, you were the best I’ve ever fought, and the only one I’ve ever loved—but duty comes first.”
Then she was gone. Gram was left staring at the uncaring sky, watching clouds float by while he fought for each breath.
Chapter 31
Lying in a mountainside meadow in spring might have been a pleasant experience under different circumstances. Aside from his emotional turmoil, the most obvious unpleasantness was the cold. In spring the mountain never got much past something that might be called mildly warm and being in the shadow of the rocks meant that he was cold.
Paralysis, while distressing, was something his long afternoons with Cyhan had made tolerable; he was pretty used to spending long periods without being able to scratch his nose. Physical discomfort he could deal with.
Slowly suffocating, struggling to draw each breath, while alone and trying to resist alternate bouts of drowsiness and stark terror—that was something new. Gram didn’t think there was a name for the feeling of this new experience, it would probably require a new word, but he didn’t have time to think of one.
He was too busy trying to stay alive.
His heart was pounding and his eyes flew open as he frantically forced his lungs to draw air again. He had drifted off once more. The worst part of it was how peaceful it was; the numbness of the poison blunted much of his body’s natural response to suffocation. When the drowsiness closed his eyes the only thing that served to wake him was the beating of his heart, and even that seemed muted.
I can’t die yet.
In his mind’s eye he saw Irene once more being carried away, limp across a stranger’s shoulder. She had trusted him. If he had gone with them immediately, rather than try to fetch his things first, it might have gone differently. Maybe he would have delayed their attackers long enough for all of them to escape. If he had paid attention to his earlier observation, the silence of the birds, he might have kept them from this situation altogether.
They were waiting then, gathering around the house. They probably had a set time, so that they could time their attack after the raid in Arundel, when they knew any defenders would be drawn away. And they knew how to find the house because I told them. Because I told her.
Gram knew this was his fault and he burned with equal parts shame and outrage. But he was tired, so very tired. Blackness passed over him again, like a warm blanket that could protect him from the cold of the ground beneath him.
“Gram! Gram!”
Something was hitting his face. He opened his eyes, annoyed, and dr
ew another deep breath. His heart was pounding again, a sure sign he had stopped breathing. The fuzzy features of a small bear loomed into view. Grace was there, beating at his cheeks with her small paws.
He wanted to tell her to leave him alone, but his mouth didn’t work. Nothing worked. Only his eyes, and when he remembered, his lungs.
“What’s wrong with you? Talk to me!” she said, sounding worried and desperate.
The bear moved out of view as she examined his body from head to toe. When she came into view again he could see that her cloth body was scorched and dirty. She must have come through the house, he noted.
“You have a long shallow cut along your ribs, but it’s not very big. It has already stopped bleeding. Why can’t you move?”
She checked his arms.
“There’s a small spot near your wrist, but it might not even be a wound. Looks more like a bug bite,” she announced.
She waited beside him, tapping him with small paws whenever his eyes closed. What might have been an hour passed, but she never left. Eventually she grew bored and began to talk again.
“Conall and your sister got out safely. They nearly ran over me in the hallway. That’s how I knew what was going on. Conall told me that you were still in the house. He also said that…Irene was…” She stopped then, unable to continue.
She’s not dead, Gram wanted to shout.
“I should have been here,” said Grace woefully. “This was my job. I was supposed to protect the family. If I had been here, instead of running about the castle, none of this would have happened.”
Gram wanted to laugh. The thought of a stuffed animal protecting them was ridiculous, but the pain in Grace’s voice was real.
“If they hadn’t already been dead when I got here, I would have killed them all,” she growled, her small voice sounding fierce. “But you did that didn’t you? You were there when I should have been.”
There was nothing you could do, thought Gram. He wanted to hug her, to give her some small comfort.
Thornbear (Book 1) Page 26