The Cast Of A Stone

by Avril Borthiry

  Chapter Nine

  Argante never prayed. Whenever God's name did manage to cross his lips, it always suffered the verbal escort of some evil rant or blasphemous curse. Heaven and Hell existed only in a man's heart, and there was naught beyond the grave. At least, that's what Argante believed. He respected the finality of death, but didn't fear it. Then again, he had no intention of dying anytime soon.

  Such thoughts played in his mind as he rode back to Lowland Chase, thoughts prompted by the knowledge he would soon be facing his old adversary. Once he had the stone in his grasp, he planned to kill Mathanach and keep the girl to use as he pleased. He wondered if her disappearance had yet been discovered. Argante smiled, imagining Mathanach's pain upon learning the girl's innocence had been torn from her.

  Emma. God's blood, the wench had been so fresh, so tight. He hardened at the thought. Her scent was all over him. The salt on his lips came from her throat, her shoulders, and her breasts. He could smell her on his fingers and in the folds of his shirt. The tight ache in his groin became uncomfortable and he slowed his horse to a walk.

  “Can I have her now?” Iain had asked as Argante left the dungeon.

  “Nay. You'll not put your cock anywhere near this one. Guard her, but don't touch her.”

  Strange reaction, he mused. He always shared his women with Iain, like throwing a bone to a dog. So why not this one? The image of Emma's startling green eyes wandered into his brain - eyes faceted, it seemed, like emeralds.

  Emeralds?

  “Jesus Christ.”

  He gave his head a shake, adjusted his crotch and urged his horse into a canter, but despite his self-reproach, thoughts of Emma remained.

  By the time he arrived at Lowland Chase the sun had lightened the sky to a milky blue and pulled the chill from the air. The stagnant moat circling the manor wrapped a cloying stink around the old house. Argante wrinkled his nose in disgust as his horse's hooves rattled across the rotting boards of the small bridge. He glanced down at the bloated carcass of some nondescript creature, recumbent on the moat's fetid surface. Its lips, in death, had curled into a hideous grin. Argante pulled his eyes away from the vile sight and looked to the house. Startled, he cursed and reined in his horse.

  The door of Lowland Chase stood wide open and unguarded.

  Other than a crow watching him from its perch on the roof, there was no sign of life. Argante slid from the saddle and drew his sword, the back of his neck prickling with apprehension. None of the men yet knew of Emma's capture or location. When he'd left the previous night, he warned them only of a possible attack and instructed them to be on alert.

  He paused in the doorway.

  “Thomas!” Argante's harsh whisper disappeared into an unsettling silence and the prickle on his neck wandered over his scalp. He took a deep breath, steeled his jaw and stepped over the threshold.

  He made a rapid sweep of the lower rooms, his hand sweating against the hilt of his sword. Everything appeared normal. He saw no sign of struggle and nothing seemed out of place. The staircase to the Great Hall lay ahead. He paused on the bottom step, squinting up into the dark recesses. With a quick glance behind, he started up the stairs. He hesitated on the threshold, peered into the hall, and let out a sigh of relief.

  “The devil take you, Thomas.” Argante sheathed his sword and strode across the floor to where Thomas sat at the table. “Where the hell is everyone? I told you to be on your guard, yet the damn door is wide open.”

  Thomas didn't reply. Was he asleep? Drunk? His anger rising, Argante shoved the man's shoulder.

  “Answer me, you useless piece of shit.”

  Thomas's head wobbled a little, then lolled back to reveal a razor-thin cut across his throat. Bubbles oozed and popped from the opening, throwing a dark, bloody spray into the air.

  “God's bollocks!” Argante stepped back, feet slipping in his haste. He looked down and found himself standing in a pool of thick, dark blood.

  A quiet voice filled the room like a cold mist. “You'll have to clean it up yourself, Richard. I gave your servants the day off.”

  It had been many years, but Argante knew well who spoke. Uttering a curse, he spun round, drawing his sword again. Alex leaned nonchalantly against the doorjamb, his sword sheathed, his hand relaxed on the hilt. A smile played on his lips.

  “Mathanach! You whoreson. Where the hell are my men?”

  “They're visiting a friend of yours. Where's the girl?”

  “What do you mean? What friend?”

  “The devil, of course. Where is she, Richard?”

  Argante shivered inwardly. “God's teeth. You killed them all?”

  Alex shook his head. “Not yet. There are two still alive.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Well, you're here, and I've yet to find the wee slug who usually clings to your arse. Iain, is it?”

  Argante sneered. “Don't forget, you Scottish slime, that I have your little girl. Or, should I say, Alicia's bastard. If anything happens to me, the wee slug you mentioned will slice her throat.” He glanced at Thomas. “And I'll warrant you have no desire to clean up that mess.”

  Alex pushed himself upright, his eyes narrowing.

  “Have you hurt her?”

  Argante stepped out of the bloody puddle and stood by the window, a smile on his lips. “Aye, but the lass liked it. She begged me for more.”

  A sudden gust of wind grabbed one of the window shutters and smashed it against the wall. The impact wrenched it from the hinges and it fell to the floor with a crash, barely missing Argante's head.

  “Jesus!” Argante stepped away and looked down at the shattered boards. “You're a servant of the devil yourself, Mathanach, with your hellish magic.”

  “'Twas but a gust of wind, you fool. Tell me what you want.”

  “You know what I want. And please spare me your pathetic denials. I know you have it.”

  “The stone is a holy thing, not meant for a devil's hands. It will only do you harm.”

  Argante grunted. “Bollocks. The girl for the stone - those are my terms. Iain has instructions to kill her if I don't return to him by sunset, and I doubt her death will be swift or painless.”

  Alex pondered for a moment. “Very well. Meet me at sunset and bring the girl. I'll show you where the stone is.”

  “Meet you where? No tricks, Mathanach.”

  “Nay, no tricks. The Bastard's Keep.”

  Argante felt the blood drain from his face. “Where did you say?”

  “The Bastard's Keep. The old grey tower at the foot of Black Combe. Do you know it?”

  “Aye.” Argante could not believe what he was hearing. “I know it.”

  “What's wrong, Richard? Do the local ghost stories frighten you?”

  “Of course not. Are you saying the stone is hidden in the keep?”

  “Aye, but even if you took the walls apart, you'd never find it. Not without me. Sunset, then? Gives you plenty of time to clean up this mess.”

  Argante blinked, his mind reeling. “Sunset. Aye.”

  * * *

  Twelve hooves thudded along the shady forest trail, churning up the dark, sweet-smelling earth. Four belonged to Bart, the other eight to two handsome geldings taken from Argante's stable. Guilt clung to Alex like a shadow as he rode into the woods. He blamed himself for what had happened to Emma. He blamed the breeze for bringing tears to his eyes.

  Five men had died that morning. Alex killed them in less time than it took a man to shave. He was aware of that simple detail because he'd seen Thomas shaving at the table in the Great Hall when he first entered the Chase. The man had been humming to himself and hadn't seen Alex steal past the doorway.

  Three of the men died in their sleep, meeting their judgement swiftly and without pain. The other two knew nothing until the final few moments of their lives. Thomas had been the last to die. He was still shaving and humming, sliding the blade over his stubbly throat. With a little help, the blade slid much deeper. He d
ied quickly.

  Argante would not be as fortunate.

  “...the lass liked it. She begged me for more.”

  Anger sank venomous teeth into Alex. An image of Emma, innocent and happy, shattered like glass. In its place, he saw Argante hovering over her, his depravity extinguishing her pure light. With a furious cry, he spurred Bart into a merciless gallop. The old horse blew and wheezed beneath him.

  Then he heard it; a familiar voice skimming over the rush of blood in his ears. It echoed through his mind, speaking to him from the past.

  “Above all, Alexander, beware the reflections of anger. You must pay them no heed. Always remember who you are. What you are.”

  “Christ, give me strength.”

  Bart answered to his master's tug on the reins, and slid to a halt with the geldings following suit. Alex slid from the saddle, drew his sword and fell to his knees, pushing the blade deep into the soft ground. The sword rocked from the impact, the blade slicing off shards of sunlight and casting them into the shadows.

  Although he sought peace, Alex had no need of a church. The earth served as his altar, and his sword, which had killed so many that morning, served as a cross.

  He wrapped both hands around the hilt and brought it to rest against his forehead, closing his eyes while he voiced the familiar words of his predecessors.

  “Guard the peace and keep the faith. May God forgive my transgressions.”

  He slowed his breath, relaxed his muscles and focused on the sweet sounds of the forest. Soon, his heart slowed, his anger relinquished its harsh grip and the echoes in his head subsided.

  A loud caw broke into his meditation. It came from a large crow sitting on a nearby branch, head cocked, eyes bright. With another shout, it ruffled ink-black feathers and flew off into the forest. Alex stood, his gaze following the direction of the bird until it disappeared into the shadows. He sheathed his sword and pulled the bridle from Bart's head.

  “Forgive me, old friend.” He rubbed the stallion's nose. “I asked too much of you. Go home.”

  Bart rolled his eyes and blew through his nose. Alex smiled and slapped him on the rump.

  “Home, I said.”

  The stallion snorted in apparent annoyance, lifted his tail and cantered off through the trees.

  Alex grabbed the reins of the other two horses and pulled himself up onto one of them. Neither animal wore a saddle - he'd not taken the time to tack them fully. Pressing his heels to the horse, they headed into the woods, following the path indicated by the bird.

  He knew it would lead to the person he sought.

  Chapter Ten

  Stephen eyed the two horses, relief easing the tightness in his chest. “I thought it was Argante's men. What happened? Is Argante dead? Did you find Emma?”

  “Argante still lives.” Alex held out the reins of the spare horse. “All but one of his men are dead, and I think I know where Emma is. Mount up, young knight. We must go.”

  Stephen pulled himself onto the horse. “Where is she?”

  “A place called the Bastard's Keep.”

  “What makes you think she's there?”

  Alex took a slow breath, his eyes darkening. “She fought damn hard, Stephen. I followed their trail through the woods this morning. Whoever took her had a horse tethered nearby. The tracks followed the trail to Lowland Chase, but instead of turning they went straight on, along the river. There are few places beyond there where they could hide anyone. The old keep was my first guess. I told Argante that's where the stone was hidden and said to bring Emma and meet me there at sunset. He did a poor job of hiding his shock.”

  “You should've killed him.”

  Alex shook his head. “I need to see Emma first. I have to be sure she's there.”

  “Is the stone there, Alex?”

  “One thing at a time, lad.”

  Stephen fell silent and looked down. He had no wish to face the truth, but it washed over him like a sickening scent.

  “Nay, young knight.” Alex heaved a weary sigh. “We'll not find her as she was.”

  Stephen's gut clenched. “Then as God is my witness,” he snarled. “I'm going to cut Argante to pieces.”

  They headed east, keeping away from the main path, slowing their pace as they drew near to the Keep. The two men studied the dismal tower from the sheltered sanctity of the woods. It spilled a harsh, black shadow across the sunlit ground and Stephen shuddered.

  “Christ. It's a prison.”

  “That's exactly what it used to be. The Normans built it when William sent his army up here to fight the rebels.”

  “There's no sign of life.”

  “Emma's here.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Aye, and so is the wee snake who guards her.” Alex threw his leg over the horse's back and dropped to the ground. “But Argante is not. He's likely still cleaning up the mess I left. Leave the horses here and follow me. We have some housekeeping of our own to do.”

  “How can you be certain Argante's not here?”

  Alex looked at him and raised an eyebrow. “Does the air smell like shite to you?”

  Stephen yielded to a grin. “Nay.”

  “Right. Stay close, young knight.”

  They paused at the doorway. Alex placed a finger over his lips then gestured to the right. Darkness swallowed them as soon as they stepped inside. Stephen hesitated for a moment, squinting into the blackness. He blinked suddenly, not quite believing his eyes.

  An apparition appeared before him, a glowing outline in the form of a man. Every hair on Stephen's body bristled in fear and he gasped.

  It spoke to him in a voice he knew well. “Good. I was hoping you'd be able to see it.”

  “Alex? What the hell? How...?” Stephen stepped back and glanced over his shoulder to the sunlit doorway.

  “Stay where you are,” Alex commanded. “There's nothing to fear.”

  “But how can –?”

  A sudden rapture gripped him, a wild exhilaration unlike anything he had ever known or felt before. He drew in a deep, ragged breath and fear left him as if snatched away by an unseen hand. For one beat of his heart, Stephen's world knew no boundaries. Awareness burned through his mind like the stars he'd seen falling through the night sky. It carried with it the answers to every question ever asked, laying bare the ignorance of man. But before his consciousness had a chance to grasp it, it vanished.

  Euphoria remained, an exquisite sensation of floating in mid-air. He had an urge to look over his shoulder, convinced wings sprouted from his back. A desire to laugh bubbled in his throat and tears filled his eyes.

  “Sweet Mother of God.”

  “Try to relax, Stephen.” Alex's face shone in the darkness. “Slow your breathing and calm yourself. You're in the presence of a very great power. Don't let it overwhelm you.”

  “What is it?”

  Alex smiled. “'Tis what Argante wants but will never have. He would not see what you are seeing, nor ever feel what you are feeling. His soul is too dark, too evil. The fact you're able to see and feel it says much about you. 'Tis as I thought and as I'd hoped.”

  “The stone?”

  “Aye, and you're feeling but a mere touch of its fingers. You haven't yet felt its full embrace.”

  “So, it is here?”

  “The light you see around me is my connection to it. Come.”

  “But...will Iain not see you like that?”

  The light on Alex's face dimmed. “Not like this. But I'll still be the last thing he ever sees.”

  Daylight had never penetrated the narrow, twisting stairway to the cells. Stephen had rarely seen such darkness and was thankful for Alex's strange radiance. Dampness coated the walls with a permanent sheen and gave birth to a foul-smelling slime. A fury rumbled up inside him as thoughts of Emma, lying torn and bruised in such a hellish place, played in his mind. His anger pushed the euphoria aside, replacing it with a different thrill, menacing and hungry.

  Alex whispered a warning. �
��'Tis the stone's reflection driving your anger, Stephen. Try to control it.”

  He sucked in a long slow breath and held it for as long as he could. The fury receded, yet he felt it lurking within him like a trapped entity.

  The stairwell ended at the earthen floor of a dismal cavern where each gulp of air tasted old and rancid. Three candles flickered in the farthest corner, their puny flames casting a yellow halo around Iain, who sat in front of a wooden door.

  The two men crept forward until they reached the halo's edge. Alex gave a ghostly nod to Stephen and they pulled their swords. The metallic hiss echoed off the dank walls and Iain jumped to his feet. “Who goes there?” He drew his weapon, squinting into the darkness. “My lord, is that you?”

  “Nay.” Alex stepped into the candlelight. “Although you'll be seeing him in hell soon enough.”

  Cold steel rammed into Iain's chest and he dropped to his knees with a choking gasp. Shock tightened his face into a rigid mask and the sword tumbled from his hand. His hands fumbled blindly with the blade, which pinned him in place as death closed in. Two blood-choked words bubbled from his lips.

  “You bastard.”

  Alex did not respond. He jammed his foot against Iain's shoulder and shoved him off the sword with a merciless kick. Iain flew backwards, hit the ground with a thud, and blew out his final breath.

  Stephen threw back the bolt, and the heavy door swung open with a weary creak. A small cry of fear leapt across the dark space. It came from Emma, who sat huddled in the corner, arms wrapped around her knees, her face buried in the blood-stained folds of her shift.

  The shift had been torn from her shoulders, leaving the bruised skin bare but for her long hair, which draped over her like a cloak. Her wrists bore cruel marks of captivity and her bare feet were black with dirt. Quiet sobs shook her body as she rocked back and forth.

  “Jesus Christ have mercy.” Stephen's heart lurched and the fury that had threatened him earlier writhed like a serpent in his chest. He felt Alex's hand on his arm.

  “Easy, young knight. Let's just get her out of here.” Alex sheathed his sword, crouched at her side and placed a gentle hand on her head. “A ghràidh.”