"You're getting better at that," Glade quipped, putting the tip of his tongue to the wound.
"This is all quite useless, Ro," Timmons said in a bored tone. "He is not going to relent. I do believe you have lost this battle, Sweeting."
"The battle, perhaps, but not the gods-be-damned war!" Rolanda spat and whirled around to storm out of the filthy cell, dragging her thick fur robe around her.
Timmons shrugged and fell in behind her.
"Fucking prick," Glade threw after the departing cavalier, but Timmons ignored him--as he always did. Weakly pulling against his bonds, the third oldest prince of Faolchúnna hung his head and let out a tired sigh.
A fat rat waddled over Glade's bare foot, took a nip at the dirty flesh, and squeaked in protest as its would-be kicked out at him.
"Get the hell away from me, you little bastard!" he hissed.
It was bad enough the vile creatures lived in the cell with him and he had to endure the musty smell of their droppings. To have them touch him was almost more than he could tolerate.
He had been at Blaithmoor for over six weeks now, and in all that time he'd had only a miniscule amount of Sustenance. Rolanda had wanted to keep him weak and ill, and that was what doing without the life-giving nourishment of blood did to one of his kind. His entire body ached, felt as though it was drying out, and every breath he took was labored, filling lungs that burned. It would not be long before the symptoms he dreaded more than death was visited upon him.
Twice a day four burly guards would show up to unshackle him and allow him the use of the chamberpot. Of late, though, there had been nothing of which to relieve himself. His body was dehydrating, and he was becoming very ill.
"Where are you, Knoll?" he whispered.
Furtive sound out in the corridor brought his head up, but it was too dark to see anything. The dim flickering of the torch outside his cell gave off only a faint flow. He cocked his head to one side to listen, but even his acute hearing was beginning to diminish, but not his keen sense of smell.
His nostrils quivered as he sniffed.
"Female," he said and sniffed again. It was a very pleasant scent she gave off, but one mixed with the tang of adrenalin. Whoever she was, her nerves were on high alert, and she was giving off a slight odor that told him she was enjoying herself.
His head ached miserably and his dry throat was raw else he'd call out to her. All he could manage were hoarse whispers he knew she couldn't hear unless she was right in the cell with him. He hoped she would enter the room for he was picking up vibrations from her that intrigued him. If she was there to help him--and he prayed she was--he wanted to tell her about the unrelenting schedule the guards had concerning him. Escape would have to be worked around that schedule, and she needed to know.
Outside in the dim shadows of the corridor, Lauryl was pressed tightly against the bars of a cell, her dark gray dress blending into the darkness. She'd heard the scrape of a boot coming from the direction of the stairs and stilled, keeping her attention on the cell from which she'd spied the woman and man leaving a few moments before. There was no doubt in her mind that Prince Glade was in that cell for it had been the Princess Rolanda des Grieves-Aeolian who had strode so haughtily down the corridor with some mincing fop close on her heels.
Two guards came into view, both big and muscular with gruff faces that looked even more menacing in the low light from the torch beside the Prince's cell door. One was carrying a jug in his beefy hand.
"Ain't right," the shorter of the guards said. "If them Faolchúnna get wind of this, they'll tear this fortress down around her head."
"If the Marquise ever learns he's here, it won't be the Faolchúnna the Princess will have to worry about," the other man stated.
"Somebody ought to tell her is all I'm saying," the shorter man groused as he opened the cell door for his companion.
"Why don't you do that, Bakker?" the taller guard challenged.
Lauryl could hear the guards speaking to whoever was in the cell, but she could glean no reply from the prisoner. The voices of the men were soft and respectful, not harsh as she would have expected. They stayed in there for ten minutes or so and when they came out, they looked miserable.
"Ain't right," the shorter one said again. "He's getting worse."
"Leave it go, Bakker," the other guard said. "Ain't nothing we can do."
"We can tell the Marquise."
Listening to the men arguing as they made for the stairs, Lauryl eased out of the darkness and over to the Prince's cell door. She'd not heard anyone lock or unlock the portal and wasn't surprised to see the dark outline of the cell's prisoner with his arms splayed out across the stone wall. She had surmised correctly that he would be chained in some manner.
"Prince Glade?" she called softly and watched his head come up. She could not see his face in the darkness of the cell and the low sound he made might have either been a groan or a grunt of inquiry.
She wrapped her hand around the bars of the cell and pulled the door slightly open, holding her breath in the hopes the hinges didn't squeak. It didn't and when she had it open enough to get through, she slipped into the cell.
"I am here to rescue you, Your Grace," she said softly, wrinkling her nose at the raunchy odor wafting from the prisoner.
Glade felt soft but sure hands on his right wrist, working at the cotter pin that held the cuff of the U-shaped shackle to his wrist. He bit his tongue for his wrist was badly abraded and thus very sore, but the woman worked quickly and as soon as the cuff sprang open, his arm slid down the slick wall and he began to sag.
"Can't you stand?" she asked, making a grab for him, flinging his limp arm over her shoulder.
"Not well," he whispered, his voice grating in his throat.
"Then hold onto me until I can get your other arm free," she said as she slid carefully to his left and reached for his fettered wrist.
"Who sent you?" he asked.
"Your brothers," she replied. "Now, hush, and save your energy."
He bobbed his head tiredly for he really didn't feel like talking. He was having difficulty remaining standing for sharp shooting pains were flaring up from the soles of his bare feet and his fingers were tingling so fiercely he had to clench his teeth to keep from whimpering.
"I'm going to help you up the stairs, and then I'll have to hide you while I get you some fresh clothing that doesn't reek," she said.
"Sorry," he mumbled.
"Don't apologize to me," she replied. "None of this is your fault."
With his left arm free, he stumbled against her and was surprised at her strength as she snaked an arm around him and held him up. He was leaning heavily against her--his arms useless, his feet barely able to keep him erect--but she eased him toward the door, her arm hooked firmly around his waist.
"No one examines the copper chits when visitors leave the keep," she told him as she helped him along. "You'll be able to leave without anyone paying much attention to you."
He didn't know how she planned on accomplishing that. Surely someone was bound to recognize him.
Helping him up the stairs took some doing and longer than she would have liked. He was so weak he stumbled every other step and was breathing hard, gasping for every breath, his heart pounding brutally against her palm as she held him up. She could feel his ribs through his dirty shirt and knew his Lady-wife been starving him as his brothers predicted she would.
"Your Grace, we need to hurry," she told him, adjusting her hold on him.
She didn't think Duggins would be waking any time soon, but she wanted to get the Prince out of Blaithmoor before anyone realized he was missing from his cell.
Finally she had him at the top of the stairs and was leading him quickly toward the garderobe.
"I'm going to hide you in here until I finish with what I've got to do," she said. She glanced at his bent head, his chin sagging to his chest, his hair matted to his skull and made a mental note to procure a big, concealing hat for h
im.
She fumbled the door to the garderobe open and helped him inside, aiding him to sit on the wooden plank that covered the shit-hole.
"It may take me a few minutes so don't make a sound, all right?" she cautioned and saw him nod in agreement.
Leaving him sitting slumped against the wall, his hands limp in his lap, she shut the door and hurried over to the room where Duggins was sleeping so deeply. Though the Master-at-Arms was heavier, his clothing would have to do and stripping him out of the garments proved to be an easy task. Tugging his boots off took some doing and they'd be much too big for the Prince, but that couldn't be helped.
Examining the clothing, she knew the entire ensemble might be noticed as belonging to Duggins if worn the way it was. She ripped a sleeve here, made a rent in the hem there, then used her dagger to cut a few slit in the pants, shortened the length of the legs with a rip.
Glade flinched when the door to the garderobe opened and the woman slipped inside. He blinked against the flare of the light from a small lamp she carried and turned his face away. He felt the blood rush to his head and almost passed out, falling forward, but she put a hand to his chest and pushed him back against the wall.
"Let's get you out of those clothes," she said.
He wasn't well enough or strong to help her undress then dress him. He was nothing more than a mannequin as she worked quickly to get him clothed and the boots on his feet. His head kept wobbling on his neck and that didn't help the fierce headache that was clamped around his temples like an iron vice.
"I've got to find a hat for you to hide your hair and face," she said and before he could react to her words, she was out of the garderobe and he was once more plunged into the darkness of the small confines and the ungodly stench wafting up the shaft from the sewer.
He must have dozed for when the door opened again, he felt numb and detached when she spoke to him.
"Up you go," she said and helped him to his feet.
He felt her jam a smelly hat atop his head and the floppy brim of it shut out what little light there was from the lamp. He wavered as he stood there and when she opened the door and ushered him out, he could barely put one foot ahead of the other.
"I don't dare accompany you out," she said, "but I won't be far behind you."
He swung his head toward her, but couldn't see her for the obstruction of the wide brim of the hat. "What?" he grated.
"Hunch forward if you can," she instructed him. "It's to our advantage that you'll be staggering as you walk. They'll either think you're an old man or far gone in your cups. Keep your head down so they can't see your face." She pointed toward a doorway. "Through there, and then out into the main bailey. Turn left and follow the other people heading for the barbican. Once you get outside, cross over the main drawbridge and make your way to the town well. Wait there for me. I'll get our horse and pick you up."
He doubted he had the strength to make it to the main bailey but didn't want to say so. He knew he'd never be able to sit a mount in his condition. But if he was to get out of this wretched mess, he had to do all he could to help her. His rescuer couldn't be expected to do it all on her own.
"Thank you," he whispered in his croaking tone.
"Go," she said and placed a gentle push against his back. "And hunch your shoulders!"
Lauryl watched him stumbling toward the doorway and hoped he wouldn't fall or--worse yet--pass out. Once he was out of sight, she counted to twenty then headed after him.
Chapter Three
Glade thought the gods and goddesses had to be looking after him for though it took him what felt like forever to make his way to the town well, he did so without a single challenge from the guards at the keep. No one seemed to notice him as he shambled along, dragging his aching feet, his hands jammed into the pockets of his pants, mumbling to himself although unaware he did so. He kept his shoulders hunched and his face hidden as the woman had ordered and by the time he slumped down on the rim of the well, he was so tired he didn't think he could take another step.
But the sun felt so good on his aching body. He was cold--colder than he knew he should be--and his teeth were beginning to chatter by the time he heard horse hooves plodding along toward him. Afraid to look up, he kept his eyes down, but the moment he saw booted feet advancing on him and heard her low voice, he sighed deeply.
"Do you think you can mount behind me, Gramps?" she asked in an accent he recognized as being from the High Country and one that sounded more masculine this time.
"Aye," he managed to answer. Her arm was around him, helping to lift him to his feet and for one wild moment his head swam unmercifully and he had to reach out and grab her lest he fall. He stared hard at her arm, focusing on the embossed leather gauntlet that covered her wrist to keep from passing out.
"I want you to swill down another bottle or two of ale. Grammy is going to have your hide for this," she chastised him and he almost smiled at her chiding tone.
"Need help with him, son?" someone called out.
"No, thank you, Sir," Glade's rescuer replied. "He doesn't weigh all that much as you can see."
Glade realized she must be dressed as a young man now and looked closer at her feet. Sure enough, she was wearing pants.
"I'll just stand here behind him until you mount," the same voice suggested and Glade felt hard hands take hold of his shoulder to keep him standing as the woman swung up into the saddle.
"Take my hand, Gramps, and put your foot in the stirrup," she said and Glade saw her gloved hand extended toward him.
Mumbling to himself again, Glade made three attempts before he was finally able to stick his oversized boot into the stirrup. It took every last ounce of what strength he had left to put his weight onto the stirrup and bring his other foot off the ground.
"Up you go, old man," the stranger said, placing a hand to Glade's backside and half-lifting him into the saddle.
Glade slid his arms around the woman to keep from falling off on the other side of the horse and took hold of the saddle pommel, gripping it for dear life.
"I am much obliged, Sir," the woman said. "I doubt Gramps would have been able to do that on his own."
"A little worse for the wear, he is," the man agreed with a chuckle. "Best get him home to his missus before he passes out on you, son."
"I will. Thanks again," she said and as Glade leaned into her--his cheek to her back--he felt rather than saw her tip her hat to the kind gentleman and then kick her mount into a slow walk. He heard her tell him to hold on.
"Hurt," he managed to say.
"I have sent word to your brothers that we will meet them in Deccan in two days," she relayed.
"I hurt," he said again ,but he didn't think she heard him.
It was all he could do to hold on as she urged her horse into a faster pace. They rode a ways out of town then she stopped, threw a leg over her steed's head, and dismounted. He watched her rummaging behind some rocks and when she came back, she had a shoulder scabbard that held one of the wickedest blades he'd ever seen.
"That's a death wielder," he muttered while she lashed the scabbard to her bedroll.
"Aye, it is," she agreed as she climbed back on her horse and clicked her tongue to set the horse running at an even faster speed.
The jolting was making him nauseous and the pounding sent shock waves reverberating through his head. With his eyes squeezed shut to help blot out the savage pain and his hands clamped as tight around the pommel as he could keep them, he was miserable and getting sicker by the moment. The smell of her was driving him insane with thirst and all he wanted to do was drive his fangs into her neck and take some of the sweet blood flowing there. Running his tongue over their sharp edges, he had one final moment of complete awareness that they shouldn't be that way before he tumbled off the horse and hit the hard ground.
Lauryl gasped and reined in her mount--the horse's rear legs digging into the sandy soil before skidding to a protesting stop twenty feet away. She whipped her h
ead around in time to see the Prince rolling down the hillside, disappearing over the edge and out of sight.
"Shit, no!" she spat and jerked the horse around, racing it to the edge, pulling up short before she plummeted her poor steed over the steep embankment. She flung a leg over the horse's head and with its reins firmly in hand, leaned over to take a look.
He was lying at the bottom of what was a shallow ravine on his belly with his arms and legs splayed. She didn't know if he was alive or dead. Ironically, the floppy hat was still covering his head though the brim in the front was caved in.
"Don't you dare be dead on me, you clumsy oaf!" she spat and vaulted back into the saddle to try and find a better way down into the ravine.
She found a fairly safe incline, but it took her nearly five minutes to work her way down the pathway into the ravine and in all that time she never once took her eyes off the still man. He didn't move, didn't appear to be breathing, but when she got to the bottom and jumped off her horse, she heard a low whimpering coming from him. She hurried to him and began running her hands down his arms and legs, looking for breaks.
"Hurt. Hurt." she heard him mumbling.
"Is anything broken?" she asked as she hunkered down beside him.
"Pride," he croaked then sighed heavily.
"Well if that's all, you'd best consider yourself lucky!" she snapped at him and put her hand on his shoulder to gently turn him over.
"Hurt!" he gasped.
Lauryl drew her hand back and sat down on her haunches, hands on her thighs. "Something is broken."
"Nay," he said with a grunt. "I'd know."
Watching him levering himself up, she made no further attempt to help him, realizing he needed to move at his own speed. She did, however, reach over and draw his hat off then tossed it aside. "Duggins will be waking up soon so we can't stay here long," she warned him. "They'll be looking for you."
"Doubt it," he said and was able to push his chest up from the ground. He crouched there on his hands and knees, head hanging and panted. "Not supposed to know I was there."
WindBorn Page 4