A Walk in the Black Forest

by K. A. M'Lady

  It was well over half her size, and she was amazed that anyone could even consider hacking someone to death with such a beautiful artifact. Her mouth dried to dust as she realized it was not yet an artifact, but a weapon to be wielded.

  Damon continued to glide the stone rhythmically down its edges and back.

  She looked from the beautiful sword to the handsome warrior who held it, her gaze stopping at his face. She studied him from the darkness.

  As if sensing her gaze, Damon turned and looked into her eyes. He stopped sharpening his sword.

  He stood in one fluid motion. Gabriella’s heart beat irregularly in her chest. She felt her lungs constrict with the effort to breathe as he slowly stalked towards her, stopping but two spaces in front of her. Looking down at her, his eyes glowed silver in the firelight.

  Unsure of who was seducing whom, Damon crouched down in front of her. Gently, he trailed the back of one finger down the softness of her cheek, stopping only when he reached the bottom of her throat where her neck ended and her cloak began.

  He leaned into her, his lips just a breath from hers and whispered, “Be careful, Cherie.” With that, he slammed the door on his desire, rose and briskly strode from the camp.

  * * * * * *

  What sleep she was able to get that night was fraught with visions of her dark knight. He pursued her, held her, and kissed her while his silver eyes bore through her to the depths of her soul, burning them in the flames of their mutual desire.

  Dawn brought another day’s travel. Another day to ride endlessly ensconced in the folds of his cloak, his dark frame a cushion surrounding her. She wasn’t sure how much more she could take of riding non-stop through the rain, filthy from travel and sleeping on the ground. She longed for a hot meal, a warm bath and a soft bed to sleep in. As though girding her loins for battle, she waited dutifully by his horse as he directed his men of the day’s journey before mounting his beast and hoisting her, once again, before him. “How long do you plan on keeping me?” she asked as his horse started to shift beneath their weight.

  “As long as I so choose, milady,” he stated, his voice gruff as the morning gloom.

  Gabriella snorted disdainfully at his once again overbearing response. “And would you care to tell me where it is I’m to be a prisoner?”

  His response was but one word. “Blackmoor.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Total crap! Gabriella thought for the eight-millionth time during her wretched journey. The day, with its endless gloom and doom, the constant swaying of the horse and Damon’s ever-present growling mood was enough to wear on her nerves. She was tired of the whole situation. She was wet, hungry, saddle sore and desperately needed to relieve herself. “Could we stop for just two minutes?” she asked again for at least the tenth time.

  “No,” he growled.

  “Two minutes, that’s all I ask, then you can trot me around this forsaken country till kingdom come,” she pleaded. “Please.”

  Damon grumbled something unintelligible and, to her amazement, the horse finally stopped. Without waiting, she slid to the ground, uncaring if her legs were going to hold her or not.

  * * * * * *

  Exasperated, Damon threw his hands up in the air as he dismounted and walked away from his horse in brisk strides. “The damn woman does nothing but try my patience,” he swore under his breath.

  It was bad enough that he had spent the past four days with her tucked up against him, her soft, womanly curves pressed against his manhood. Now he was forced to stop a score of men and horses in the pouring rain so that she could tend to her womanly needs.

  They had parted company with Sir Richard four days past with the agreement to meet again in one month’s time to make their plans for a new search for rebels. Their men needed rest and supplies. The horses, too, had grown weary of the travel and needed to recuperate. Both men had agreed that, in the meantime, smaller search parties would be able to move with more stealth and would be better suited to stay on the trails, watching the surrounding villages for any signs of treachery.

  Damon and his remaining warriors were now on the edges of the Black Forest, its dark beauty a vision of familiarity, sending anticipation of home and hearth through them all. There was only a day’s ride to Blackmoor Castle and he and his men were anxious to return. The thought of hearth and home, hot food, a warm bath and a soft bed stirred his impatience. The rain poured in thick rivulets down his head, finally soaking into his cloak where it clung heavily to his broad shoulders. He glanced around at his men where they, too, waited with impatience as they forced their mounts to remain steady, a slow dance forming in the mud. Moments passed before his patience finally ran out. “Sedrick,” he bellowed.

  “Aye, milord.”

  “Take three men to the forest edge and retrieve our errant lady,” he commanded gruffly.

  “Aye, milord,” Sedrick replied.

  * * * * * *

  Gabriella had needed to stop and relieve herself for what had seemed like days. She knew it had only been a few hours since they had pulled camp and returned to their long journey, but the constant swaying and bouncing of the horse did not help. She had to all but beg Damon to call a halt, even then doing so reluctantly due to his atrocious mood. After some serious pleading, he had finally ordered the young knight Sedrick to escort her to the forest with the brisk command not to linger.

  Sedrick had brought her to its edge, stopping a mere inch from her. “Be careful, milady,” he said, his breath wafting past her. “The forest can be a dangerous place.” He turned abruptly and left, returning to wait with the others. Gabriella stood staring at the space he had occupied, watched as he returned to Damon, her eyes narrowing at his cryptic message. Be careful indeed, she thought woefully. This whole damn place is dangerous when you don’t truly belong here.

  She had found a secluded spot just past the edge of the forest where the brush was thick and would hide her from view. There are definitely no luxuries to be found anywhere in this godforsaken place. Quickly finishing her business, she turned to start back towards the waiting party. She had walked but a few steps when she heard a twig snap directly behind her.

  Slowly she turned towards the sound, fear knifed through her and a hand clamped over her mouth to stifle her scream. She was trapped in the grip of a very large, very strong, and extremely filthy man. His putrid stink filled the air, overwhelming her senses with the smell of dirty dog mixed with rotted fish.

  His hand was creased with dirt as if he had recently rolled in soot. He carried what appeared at first glance to be a war-hammer that was almost as big as she was. He waved it before her, ensuring her submission. Terror spread through her limbs in a mind-numbing rush.

  “Be still, little witch,” he growled, his foul breath flowing over her, causing her to gag on its stench. “I may yet let you live, and then the great Lord Dragon’s whore can serve my personal needs when I’m finished,” he sneered, his men laughing in turn as they surrounded her.

  Gabriella started to struggle against the solid frame of his chest. I have to warn Damon and his men, she thought frantically as more men emerged from the shadows. Their battle swords gleamed against the backdrop of the forest as the rain poured down their armor, leaving streaks in the dirt and blood that stained their clothes. She knew if she didn’t get away, that she would not survive as a captive of these men.

  His armor covered most of his vulnerable parts, but his hand was ungloved where it covered her mouth. With all of her might, she bit down on the soft flesh of skin between his thumb and forefinger. She tasted the metallic sweetness of blood in her mouth as her teeth broke the skin and he quickly released her, shoving her from him. He raised his arm in a fist as if to strike her, and she screamed as if all the hounds of hell had descended upon her. With that split second of freedom from her captor, she started to run, all the while yelling Damon’s name.

  * * * * * *

  From the far side of the open field where the horses stood huddle
d in the rain, Damon heard her horrified screams. He looked across the sodden field, its grasses weighted down from the rain, forming puddles of mud across the landscape, and listened intently for the direction of her yells. Anger pooled on his brow like beads of sweat. He could feel it in all his limbs like fire coursing through his blood. Drawing his sword, he started across the field. Through the haze of his anger he saw her emerge from the forest, running as fast as her legs could carry her.

  He began to run towards her, his men already seizing their weapons and following in his wake. She frantically glanced behind her, the wet tendrils of her hair flinging out, then swinging back to cling to her face. Despite the distance that separated them, he could see the fear etched in her eyes.

  Time slowed as a rebel emerged from the forest, an arrow notched in his bow. Painfully slow and unable to force his legs to move faster, he watched the arrow arc in a perfect aim. It floated through the air as though suspended in time before falling with deadly accuracy, striking her in the back. Horrified, he watched her stumble and then fall to soft, wet earth.

  “No!” Hoarsely, he bellowed his anger to the wind, the great dragon raging his ire. As though released from a spell, he raced towards her.

  She lay on the ground, mud clinging to her cloak and hair, dark crimson blood flowing from where the arrow stuck out from her shoulder. Within moments of reaching her, more warriors emerged from the darkness of the forest.

  Damon touched her gently, first checking to see that she was still breathing and then the depth of the arrow. She stirred beneath his hand. “Be still,” he whispered earnestly, his lips brushing the side of her face. “The arrow is not deep, but we cannot leave it in you.”

  Tanak had reached them. “Do what you must, my friend, so that she can be moved,” he stated. “I will guard your back.” Tanak turned towards the oncoming fighters, his arced sword glistening in the steady downpour as he held it at the ready.

  Damon knew from the certainty of many battles the enemy was coming and he had to act quickly. There was no time for worries or regrets. Despite his misgivings, he knew he had no choice but to take the arrow out, or she would suffer more damage later on. Placing a strip of leather between her teeth, he then placed his hand flat around the wound where the arrow had penetrated. He could feel her small frame tense beneath his hand. With rigid determination, he clutched the base of the arrow and quickly pulled it out.

  Gabriella screamed in agony, her shout echoing through the rain-drenched field before it mixed with the cries of battle. Sweat and pain beaded on her brow. Then, gratefully, she passed out.

  Tearing a length of cloth from his cloak, Damon wadded it in a ball and pressed it against her wound to staunch the flow of blood. He rolled her to her back and effortlessly lifted her in his arms. He turned to Tanak and grimly ordered, “Take her to the horses and keep pressure on the wound. We finish this, then we ride.”

  When he turned back, he had just seconds to raise his sword and deflect the blow meant for his head. He sidestepped and swung his sword across the middle of the rebel, fully disemboweling him. As the man fell, two more were there to take the dead man’s place. He was filled with rage as thoughts about the viciousness required to shoot an arrow into the back of an unarmed woman raged through him. He did not know which of these men was responsible, but he would gladly make them all pay. With quiet fury, he willingly stepped towards the next attackers.

  * * * * * *

  Tanak quickly carried Gabriella to where the horses and a few of the squires waited. Laying her gently on her side so he could keep pressure on her wound, he told her, “Be still, milady, you are safe.”

  Gabriella could feel the burning pain in her back where the arrow had struck her. The hot poker of agony coursed down her limbs, searing her in its flame. She wasn’t sure if it hurt more with the arrow in or after Damon had pulled it out. She was unsure of the passage of time as she lay on the wet ground, watching the rain continue falling all around her. She could see just beyond the horse’s hooves the battle that was taking place before her across the distance of the field.

  From where she watched, Gabriella witnessed its horrendous effect as blood flowed freely and men began to litter the ground. Never had she seen such fierce, gruesome fighting, such horrific, needless death. She didn’t understand the violence and never wanted to witness it again. And yet, like an onlooker at an accident, she watched in awe as Damon fought and killed one attacker, and then battled with two more. He struck and parried each blow with a fierce skill she had never before witnessed as the clash of swords resonated in the wind.

  * * * * * *

  Damon struck and hacked relentlessly, his fury the fuel coursing through his veins. As he parried each blow, he struck back harder and harder, slicing his foe across the throat and almost decapitating him. As another moved in for a fatal strike, he dropped low to the ground and brought his sword up with deadly precision, opening the man from groin to throat. When the fighting turned in their favor, the few rebels that remained began to retreat back towards the forest, leaving their dead where they had fallen.

  In the distance, Damon watched as one lone man stopped at the edge of the forest. Raising his ax to his head, he gave a silent salute as confirmation that this was not the end of their battle. Damon quickly memorized the rebel’s dark features. From the scruff of his filthy beard, to the way he wore his armor, to the war-hammer he carried in his hand, he knew he would not soon forget this man. Nodding in reply, he silently vowed that when next they met, the bastard would be unable to walk away unscathed.

  Chapter Twelve

  Gabriella was fading in and out of consciousness; images flowed across her vision, her body one tight ache of pain. Like a whisper of soothing wind, she could hear Damon’s soft words of comfort as they flew across the land. The forest became a blur. She clenched her eyes shut with the pain. The scent of rain-washed pine faded in the distance. It was replaced by the stench of battle and the sweet, metallic smell of blood as it flowed from her body. It clung to each of them. It engulfed all her senses.

  Each jarring gallop of the horse’s hooves shot pain through her back and settled in her bones like molten lava. She could feel Damon’s arm wrapped securely around her, holding her close, trying to keep her warm, but also keeping the cloth pressed tightly to her wound.

  The rain had started again, a slow deluge that seeped into all of their pores, pummeling man and horse alike. The warm glow of the ramparts sputtered in the distance as they pushed the horses harder.

  Fleetingly, she heard the crash of waves slamming against rocks, the roar matching the thunder of blood rushing in her ears. She thought she could smell the salty tang of the sea. The thunder of the waves grew louder. The din of the horse’s hooves echoed throughout her consciousness as they galloped across a wooden bridge.

  Bleary-eyed, she thought she could see iron spikes hanging down from the top of a building as though suspended in air. As if it were important, she tried to remember what the iron spikes were called, but her mind whirled in confusion, the black, dark mask of pain etching every line of her features.

  Her eyes flicked open and closed, open and closed as she remembered the name for the iron spikes. Softly she whispered from parched lips gone dry with pain, “Portcullis.”

  * * * * * *

  Damon looked down at her pale face, her coloring pasty white against the darkness of her cloak, the scepter of death too near for his liking. She had lost much blood and he was unsure how much more would be fatal to her small frame.

  Hearing her words, he looked down into her pain-marred features and responded softly, “Oui, Cherie, ‘tis but a portcullis. You are safe now, I will see to your wounds. Stay with me, Cherie, all will be well.”

  Damon had no idea why she had said such a strange thing, but looking at her face, he knew she was close to losing consciousness again. He could feel the warm, sticky substance that clung to her where the blood had soaked through the cloth. Turning his head, he watched th
e portcullis lower, its iron girth closing with a resounding thud through the slate gray day, protecting them safely inside the walls of Blackmoor.

  The dark stone edifice wrapped itself around the riders, the color a perfect match to the swirling pewter heavens. The turrets had sentries posted intermittently along the towers with each man on watch as their lord had ordered at the time of his departure.

  It seemed as though a pall of gloom clung to Blackmoor and its every crevice. Death seemed to loom through every archway, every room held its own betrayals. Blackmoor’s history ran deep, and it was whispered among the people that every Lord worked side by side with the devil. No one was safe from the destruction that would eventually claim its inhabitants.

  Damon knew the history, but right now, racing through the inner bailey, he kept his opinions tightly to himself. As Fallon thundered through the inner bailey, each stomp equal to the crashing waves, and still holding the weight of its two riders, Damon bellowed orders as he went. People emerged from within the castle’s warm, dry walls to assist their Lord and his returning soldiers. Sliding from his horse with Gabriella in his arms, he threw the reins to the boy who had come to take Fallon to the warmth of the stables. Striding briskly up the steps to the great hall, he shoved the doors open with a crash.

  “Rosalynn,” he roared as though a great beast returned home from the hunt. He marched towards the warmth of the fire, his deep voice echoing through the rafters of the hall. “Where is that damned woman?” he asked no one in particular, shifting Gabriella in his arms. Both were soaked through. Her wet hair hung limply over his arm, water pooling on the floor. Her head was cradled against his heart, her lithe frame held easily in his arms. “Now, woman! Come when I call,” he exclaimed.

  “I am here, milord,” said the quiet, wizened voice from behind him.

  He whirled sharply to face her, surprised that he had allowed her to sneak up on him. She had come from the kitchens, the warm scent of food permeating the air. She moved as silently and gracefully as a cat.