by Lisa Shea
There, in front of the window, stood Hugh. His sword was out in his hand, water poured off of every inch of him, and his attention was focused on Michael’s hand on Joan’s throat.
Hugh’s voice was a low hiss of command, one which sent goosebumps down Joan’s body.
“If she is not released in five seconds, I will carve your God-cursed name over every square inch of your body.”
Chapter 22
Michael slowly turned to face Hugh, his hand still clutching Joan’s throat. Joan’s vision danced with brilliant sparkles of light. The edges of the room thrummed in waves of darkness.
Then, suddenly, he threw her down on the bed, drawing his sword at the same moment.
Joan landed on her side, gasping for air. Her hands flew to her throat, to the deep ache that gnawed at the flesh there. She cupped her fingers there in a protective ward, rolling to sit up against the back wall, to stare at the two men who now faced each other at the end of her bed.
Michael nudged his head at the tapestry which hung on the wall. “Take a long look, old friend,” he jeered at Hugh. “You might have had her for an hour or two, but I am the one she sought in her dreams every night. I am the one she awoke to each morning. You are but the flitting of an insect. You are about to be consumed by the flame.”
Hugh’s gaze did not waver. With his eyes attentive on Michael’s every move, he asked, “Joan, are you all right? Did he seriously hurt you?”
Joan went to shake her head, but her neck ached at the mere start of the motion. “I am fine,” she assured him with a hoarse rasp. “My throat will heal.”
Michael’s voice took on a sing-song lilt. “She is fine,” he mimicked. He threw his shoulders back. “She is my property, and I will use her however I wish,” he snapped. “Perhaps your ghost can hang around and watch me in action, once I disconnect it from your corporeal being.”
Hugh’s voice was steady. “The first time you died, it was a cause for great sorrow. This time, it will be a triumph of justice.”
Michael raised his sword higher, keeping the point aimed between Hugh’s eyes.
Hugh settled deeper into his stance, watching, waiting …
Michael sprung, but not at Hugh. Instead, he swept his blade right, catching the candle with the motion, driving it full into the center of the tapestry. The thick fabric flared into a blossom of flame, billowing with heat and light.
Michael dodged back, reversing his swing, catching the engulfed fabric on the tip of his sword. He swept straight at Joan. The tapestry, glowing incandescently, cascaded down on top of her.
Her scream echoed off the walls; the pain went on for an eternity.
A strong pair of arms swept her up, she was launching through the air, there was the splintering sound of wood, and then she had landed hard on top of him in a cacophony of noise. He rolled on top of her, and then beneath her. The pounding rain and deep, muddy puddles beneath them quickly extinguished the pieces of ember-laden tapestry which clung to her.
She lay on top of Hugh, struggling to draw in breaths between the pelting rain, the smoke rising from their bodies, and the throbbing pain still echoing from Michael’s strangle-hold.
He looked up at her in concern. “Are you badly burnt?”
She shook her head, gazing down at her body. Her hands were blistered and red, but it seemed that no more serious damage had been done. “Are you all right?”
He rolled so that she could sit up, and he quickly checked himself over. “I will heal,” he responded.
There was a sharp crackling noise from the house, one that pushed past the thrumming of the rain all around them, and a bright burst of light flared from her bedroom. Then flames were licking out the windows and along the edges of her roof.
Joan could not take it in. Her voice was barely a whisper. “My home … it’s …”
A loud whinny sounded. Michael burst from the stables on his horse, closely followed by Cecily. Joan watched in hollow shock as he exactly followed the course she had led him in on, vaulting the fence at the end. The remaining bandits scrambled for their horses and streamed out after him.
Joan roused herself, pushing herself to her feet while her home blazed into light behind her.
“Where are the others?”
Hugh nodded his head east. “About an hour out. They could not keep up.” He gave a wry grin. “I had Accipiter beneath me, after all.”
She smiled at that. “Then, my love, let us set after the blackguards and lead the way for our friends.”
He was sprinting for the stables before the words had finished leaving her lips.
*
It was the deepest part of the night, perhaps two a.m., and while Joan had not thought it possible, the storm had worsened. Now the thunder and lightning seemed nearly continuous, and she would swear the rain was coming in sideways. There had been times that the trail seemed lost, but always they had been able to find a hoof print in the mud, or a bent branch, and their way had been made clear again.
Now it seemed that they were lost in a sodden world of mud and waterfalls. She could not tell where her soaked clothing ended and the eternal deluge in the air began. Joan had to trust in Aquila’s keen balance, for she had no idea what lay on the trail ahead.
The woods parted on either side, and Hugh drew to a sudden halt. She stilled beside him, straining in the dark, in the torrential waterfall which was their air, for any sense of what lay ahead.
The crack of lightning nearly burst her ears. She threw her hands over them to protect them from the sound. In the brief flash of light she saw a sight which froze her breath.
Her breath was a bare whisper. “It can’t be.”
Hugh nodded, drawing his sword from its sheath. “It’s Sarah’s mill.”
Joan blinked again. It was a dream. Surely it was a dream. She could not be here, again, dismounting from her horse, tying him alongside his brother. She was not crouching, again, behind a large gorse bush, scanning to see where the threat lay.
Joan’s throat ached. It was all she could do to put voice to the words. “If he should hurt Sarah –”
Hugh’s response was a low rumble. “He will not.”
He glanced behind for a moment, looking back up the trail they had followed. “We should have help within an hour.”
She sharply shook her head. “Sarah does not have an hour,” she stated with certainty. “In the state Michael is in, I will be surprised if she has ten minutes.”
He turned to hold her gaze. “With all you have been through over the last days, are you sure you are ready for this? If we go in and fail –”
She shook her head again, her grip on her sword turning to steel. “We will not fail Sarah,” she vowed. “For if we fail Sarah, we doom thousands of others to the same fate. Michael, Cecily, and all of their scheming ends here. Tonight.”
He looked at her for a long moment, and at last he leant forward, pressing his lips to hers. An ache of desire filled her heart, twining around her soul, blossoming out to fill every corner of her being.
Then he had released her and was kneeling before her. He raised one hand to tenderly trace the edge of her cheek.
His voice was low, but it carried clearly to her through the pounding rain.
“I love you, Joan. We built that love while we corresponded, and I knew it for a truth the moment I realized all you were, by your tapestry. Whatever happens, I will treasure this time we have had together.”
She smiled, then, a joy filling her that was beyond any she had experienced before. She knew that everything in her life had led her up to this one moment.
“I love you, Hugh,” she sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I fought the connection we forged. I struggled to put it aside. In the end it has been the one truth in my life. It has been the one commitment I can be wholly proud of.”
The corner of his mouth turned up, and he held her gaze for a heartbeat longer. Then he drew to his feet, gave her a last nod, and vanished into the thrumming darkn
ess.
Joan stared at the empty space for a long moment, the hollow ache resounding in her heart. Then she turned resolutely toward the front of the mill.
Ten men, Joan reminded herself as she crept steadily toward the front of the building. If she assumed there were five soldiers inside, that still left five skilled swordsmen guarding the exterior. Two would be waiting for Hugh in the back. Another two were undoubtedly in place for her here in the front.
Which would leave the remaining wolf’s head … where?
She shook her head, pushing the thought aside. One step at a time. One man at a time. The previous assault had been challenging enough, and those had simply been local men recruited by the Sheriff. She had no doubt that Michael’s men would be an order of magnitude worse.
There – the faintest glimmer of a sword blade in a hollow by a white birch tree. The thrumming of raindrop on sodden earth was deafening, and she focused on placing each foot on solid ground as she approached him. The combination of mud and wet clay underfoot made the process nearly impossible.
Just a few more steps …
She placed down her right foot, it slid sideways in the ice-like substrate, and she let out a yelp. The soldier spun in a low crouch, his eyes seeking the source of the sound. His sword was out in his hand, the edge glittering.
Then, to Joan’s immense surprise, Jake stepped out before the bandit. His young face shone bright with innocence; his lanky, teenage body dripped with rain from every seam. His voice was tight with nervousness, but clear.
“Excuse me, but could you tell me where –”
The bandit spun toward Jake, his sword out. The wolf’s head growled in exasperation, spinning his sword in his grasp before raising it high to cut Jake down.
Joan dove forward with her dagger, slicing it forward and down across the guard’s throat. She split his carotid artery in two. The man collapsed instantly, his hands flailing at his throat, his voice a mere gurgle before he stilled.
Jake ran up to stand before her, his eyes wide as saucers.
She put a fond hand on his shoulder. “You were perfect,” she praised him. “Where are the others?”
He nudged his head to the east. “Still behind me. Hugh traded me Accipiter for his steed, and while he then left me behind after that, his steed must be a half-brother of yours. I outdistanced the others in minutes.”
She smiled at him. “Go bring your horse with ours, and make sure you catch each incoming man before they barrel in. It’s absolutely critical to Sarah’s safety that we take this slowly.”
“Of course,” he agreed, and he was gone into the darkness.
Joan’s heart glowed with hope. Jake was here already, and the others were on the way. They might have a chance.
She crouched over the dead body, her gaze scanning the darkness, seeking for the second man. The torrential rain blurred her vision, and she wiped it away, straining all her senses.
Where was he?
A hint of movement caught her eye, and she stared at the corner of the mill. There. The faintest of shimmers, a lighter grey against a darker, as if a shark had slid up against a granite rock for a moment. She crept slowly toward him.
She was only two feet away when he heard something and spun toward her. His eyes widened in surprise; he dove at her, his dagger out. She dodged right, slipping the attack, spinning to keep him before her. He flipped his hilt in his grasp, changing the blade to point backward, then lunged again, this time in and up, aiming to carve open her stomach. She leant back, barely missing the strike, then lunged forward, aiming for his heart.
He pressed off with his forward foot to lunge backward and avoid the blow, but his body slammed into the sturdy bulk of Bossard. Bossard had traded in his tavern apron for a leather jerkin, and his wavy red hair was flattened by the pouring rain. Joan pinned the bandit to Bossard as neatly as if he were a new sign being nailed to a nearby oak. The wolf’s head gasped in shock, then he slid down the length of Bossard’s body to collapse at his feet.
Bossard reached down to twist Joan’s dagger free, handing it back to her. His voice was low and serious. “My Aiden is in there,” he informed her, “along with Sarah. We have to get them both out safely.”
She patted him on the arm. “And we will,” she vowed. “Gather up the incoming men. Get every bale of hay you can out of the stables. Pile them up beneath the mill’s attic window. I want every option covered for those two.”
“Will do,” he agreed without hesitation, and he was gone.
Joan breathed in a sigh of relief. The reinforcements were arriving. They were whittling down the forces. There was still a chance for Sarah and Aiden.
She swept her head left and right for a long minute, but nothing else stirred on the ebony clearing before the mill. The only movement was the heavy, wet drops slamming into the earth, sending up small fountains of brown.
At last she crept forward cautiously, all attention on the closed door before her. As long as it did not open, she could then move to the window to the right and ease herself over its sill just as she had last time. And once she was inside –
The edge of a dagger pressed against her throat.
She froze.
A rough voice growled in her ear. “Not gonna be quite that easy, missy,” he informed her. “Might be that Cecily has a few choice words for you. Perhaps a few interesting ways to teach you the error of your ways.”
He drew the blade tight. A trickle of warm blood slithered down her neck.
His other hand moved to her neckline, and his voice took on a rougher cast. “Then again, maybe I could teach you a lesson or two myself, before I turned you over to her care.”
Joan balanced herself on her left leg. If she could just get the angle right, one sure mule kick against the man’s kneecap should send him to the ground. Of course, if she missed, there wouldn’t be a second chance. She drew in a breath …
The man coughed, the blade’s pressure eased on her neck, and then he spiraled down to the ground. The shimmering point of a dagger shone from the center of his chest.
Joan looked up to meet Norman’s eyes. His grey hair gleamed in a flash of lightning, and his gaze was even. “I know you had everything under control,” he commented smoothly, “but I needed some practice with my blade. I hope you don’t mind.”
She grinned at that, reaching out to clasp his arm. “Not at all.”
Ymbert bounced up on his right, his eyes bright. “Might I assume that door is locked?”
She nodded. “And the window shutters too, I might imagine. If you could get both free without alerting the inhabitants, I would be most obliged.”
He performed a sweeping bow. “Your wish is my command.” He reached into a leather pouch at his waist, withdrew a pair of metal tools, and went to work on the door.
Sybil stepped up on Norman’s other side. “This time, I will show you what my talents are all about,” she promised. “I will go in through the door and distract them. You enter via the window and take them as the opportunity presents itself.”
Ymbert raised a hand in victory. “One down,” he called out, moving on to stand before the window’s closed shutters. “Round two.”
Joan turned to face Sybil, taking in the set look in the woman’s eyes. “I should be able to handle them without risking you,” she assured the woman.
Sybil shook her head. “Even if you could, there’s no need for the extra risk,” she pointed out. “You did all you could to save me when I needed help. Let me do my part to put this group to an end.”
Ymbert moved to stand before them. “Your portals await, M’Ladies.”
Joan went over to stand by the window, then nodded to Sybil. Sybil gave a wide smile, an amused wink, and then she stepped to the door.
Chapter 23
Joan carefully eased the window shutter open just enough to peer into the room beyond. Compared with the torrential cacophony of the outer world, the inside of the mill was a blissful oasis of calm. A crackling fire glow
ed in the fireplace. A wicker basket of crimson apples sat at the center of the wooden table. Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that she had not eaten much of anything since her departure from the tavern. It seemed like eons ago.
There was movement, and she held still, not wanting to catch an eye. After a minute she had located the occupants of the floor - a trio of burly, leather-garbed men. The blond with the long plait down his back hunched over in a chair by the table, sharpening his sword, his eye glancing occasionally at the front door. The second man, nearly bald, had gathered a stack of bread and cheese and was carefully packing leather sacks. The third, his hair a mat of greasy brown, was laying asleep against the far wall, sprawled beneath the larger window that Hugh had come in through the last time. He had his sword immediately beside him. By the looks of him, Joan had no doubt that he would come instantly awake at the first sound.
A firm knock sounded at the front door, and three pairs of eyes latched onto it. Three hands drew up swords and approached the door in a low crouch. The blond looked back at his two fellows, ensuring they were ready, before laying a hand on the latch.
He called out loudly to be heard over the storm. “Who goes out there?”
Sybil’s voice came through with a tough edge. “It’s Eve. Let me in. I have a present for Cecily.”
The blond took another look behind him, getting the nod from both of his companions, before easing the door slightly and looking out into the rain.
He grinned in approval and stepped back, drawing the door wide. Sybil stepped through, her thin burgundy gown plastered against her body by the heavy rain. After her came Linota, her aqua dress even more revealing than Sybil’s, her curling tendrils of short hair giving her a mermaid-like appearance.
Sybil looked around with sharp attention. “So, where is she? I think she’ll be pleased with my latest gift to her. What do you think of her? Quite a beauty, eh?”
The blond soldier bumped the door shut with his hip, then slid his sword into its scabbard while he circled Linota. “Oh, she’ll do quite nicely,” he agreed. “Cecily is upstairs and gave strict orders not to be disturbed. The Bull Twins are up there on the second floor, to lend a hand if needed.” A grin split his face. “So you’ll just have to stay down here with us and keep us company for a while.”