The Lethal Flame (Flame Series)

by Arms, Angie

  That these rebels were the enemy was his only solace, a threat to the crown. But the problem was these rebels were mostly villagers and local nobility who had held on through wars and famine, buried their loved ones in the soil they fought on, only to have him come along and push them out. It was what he did after he conquered that left his nights sleepless, he killed them so they could not amass and threaten rebellion another day. Those that fought against the king died under the king and Damien was the one to sentence them.

  He moved toward the overhang of a roof where supplies had been moved from beneath to allow room for some of the rebels. They stood on the barrels found there, six of them, it was good the roof was well supported he thought. Long ago he turned his thoughts away from the knowledge the rebels were but men. Damien looked up at the first man. His face was round, his skin pale from the amount of blood he lost. His blue eyes looked back at him, already lifeless, it was doubtful the man would survive even without the rope around his neck cutting off his air supply when Damien kicked the barrel from beneath him. It made no difference.

  His body thrashed and jerked, the arm that had been nearly severed at the shoulder flopped grotesquely. He had granted the man mercy and not tied his hands behind his back as he had the others. The man’s body gave up its fight for survival. It was hard to preserve the dignity of the conquered.

  The next man was tall and lanky.

  “Rot in hell along with your damned king,” the man said. His lips worked and a stream of spit was let lose. It fell short but Damien’s foot did not as he kicked the barrel away. Brown eyes rolled back into the young man’s head. A life extinguished before it really had a chance to begin. There was a daily struggle against the guilt and nightmares that tried to consume Damien. He had a job to do so he ignored the pleas from the rebels but in his own head he locked them away. Anyone who raised a weapon were hung, run through or taken to their dungeons to have their keeps burned down around them. He didn’t like committing them to hell’s fire but after a while it was easier not to see their faces.

  He picked up his pace, the bodies thrashed, the sound was an eerie one as the roof strained against the weight and struggles of the dying. To kill a fellow soldier that was the purpose of a soldier. These people were angered by a king who would take a man’s land for his own, if it became his whim, as well as any and all possessions which included wives and daughters. Wasn’t that why he was here doing this wicked deed in the name of the king?

  The commander of the castle’s guard sat on the ground nearby. He was doubled over against the pain of the wound in his stomach. His head was turned and he had watched each of his surviving men die. When the bodies stilled Damien walked to him, the sound of his dagger clearing its sheath could be heard across the still courtyard. The commander turned his head to the front, groaning as he tried to straighten himself. The pain was too much and he remained doubled over, waiting for what he knew was to come.

  Damien stepped behind him. He wanted to ask the man about the warrior woman who had fought beside him. Had they been lovers? Was she as passionate a lover as she was a fighter? But he did not wish to know anything about this man, it was better to not think of him loving, of living a life beyond the battlefield. Bending forward his left hand hovering over the red head, his right at the commander’s shoulder bile rose in his throat. “You fought well and led bravely,” Damien whispered to the commander. He gave the man no time to respond but grabbed a hand full of his hair jerking him upright. The pain convulsed the man who reared back against his legs, his agony coming out in a gasp of indrawn breath. His lungs never filled with the air for Damien cut his throat while the commander was in the throes of agony.

  The job done he shoved the man away and turned to Lord Bryson Adlam of Langley and wondered how he could possibly hang a man that big. He was blubber from his three chins to the thighs that rubbed together when he walked.

  “Do you have a wife and children?” Damien asked the man.

  “Yes,” he said the spittle of fear flying from his lips. His beady brown eyes darted about, his fat tongue nervously coming out to lick at his greasy looking lips. “I have. Spare me so I can care for them,” he begged, clasping his meaty hands in front of him. He felt immediate revulsion for the man and his cowardice.

  “Richard shows no mercy to those who pick up a weapon against him,” Damien said unable to conceal the contempt in his voice.

  “Please, you can have my wife,” he offered nearly falling on his knees in front of him.

  “Where is your wife?” Damien asked yet to see a lady about.

  “I do not know. She was on the wall the last time I saw her.”

  “Why would you allow your wife on the wall during battle?” An unsettling feeling began in Damien’s gut.

  The Lord’s beady eyes shifted, “She is the one who fought against you. I was in the hall with my children,” he said holding his arm out to the servant woman who brought two children closer. “She is the rebel here. She led Alec and his men,” he said motioning toward the body of the commander. “As a matter of fact my men stopped fighting and left before the siege could begin. Find her, hang her, she is the enemy here.”

  “You would give your wife up to spare yourself?” Damien asked. It was clear this man received no loyalty from his own soldiers if they had abandoned him. It was strange that his wife would have men of her own, but chose not to comment.

  “You can have her to hang or keep her for yourself. I will not contend your possession of her.” When the sniveling man saw he was getting nowhere with Damien he tried a different tactic. “You can have my daughter,” he said trying to grab the child that couldn’t be more than six. The servant scowled and pulled the children back. “She is still a virgin fit for a king.” The man looked so proud of himself it turned Damien’s stomach and his anger flared out of control. He drew his sword and without a thought he drove it deep into the man’s chest. A look of horror crossed his face before he died.

  Damien looked up to see the man’s children staring at him in shocked horror. He took the time to wipe the lord’s blood from his sword using the cloth on the man’s own back. He slowly sheathed it moving toward the children who shrank against the older servant.

  “Where is the mother?” he demanded. The little girl gasped and would have disappeared under the folds of the servant’s dress if only she could.

  “My mother will kill you,” the little boy about eight years old, declared bravely taking half a step from the servant.

  The servant was clearly frightened. She had every right. “I don’t know,” she replied putting a hand on the little boy’s shoulder and pulling him back against her.

  “Would she flee?” he asked, impatience edging his voice.

  “My momma’s not a coward,” the little boy managed before the servant quieted him.

  “She would stand for us until she died,” the servant declared. He saw pride flash in her eyes at her statement. This missing woman certainly had the loyalty of her people.

  “What is your name?”

  “Lottie, sir,” she replied tentatively.

  “Take the children into the hall,” Damien said. “Gather the bodies of the women. We’re looking for the lady,” he said to Cyrille turning to the man who stood behind him. His brother was nearly his replica, although two years younger the only difference was the battle scars Cyrille carried. So extensive he wore a hood amongst most people.

  His brother turned to carry the orders to the men and see they were carried out. Damien

  paused and looked down at the Commander.

  “The next town I will take,” Roland said coming up to Damien’s side. The man had been Damien’s first squire and was as close a friend as any brother could be. He still held his sword in his hand, whirling it about at his side. His blue eyes looked almost gleeful, his reddish-brown hair was short, his face clean shaven. It was a morning ritual to see every hair gone from his face before beginning his day. Not that the young man had much faci
al hair to begin with, it had taken forever for him to grow a spotty beard for which all the men had teased him, Damien being the ring leader in it. Roland had come a long way from the quiet young man who had wept over his first kill. Now he still felt as all of them did, anxious and trepidatious all at the same time. They knew more fights lay ahead but soon they would have a rest when they reached Featherstone.

  “No, I am commander, it is my job.”

  Roland stood five feet eleven inches but could give Damien a good fight even at his much larger six feet four frame because he always fought strategically, quickly picking out his opponents weaknesses. Despite their years together he did not recognize the eyes that now looked back at him. He was just another victim of King Richard’s. While Damien and Cyrille’s sister still lived, Roland’s wife had been made an example of and had been run through by a sword while her children and devoted husband watched. Now Roland’s sanity was questionable as well as the darkness that seemed to be overtaking him. Once Damien’s voice of reason, Roland now looked for a fight everywhere, a chance to release the limitless anger that was now a part of his life.

  “Will you kill her as a rebel if she still lives?” Roland asked looking to where the bodies of the dead women were being laid out. Damien pushed away the knowledge those women and children who had died as bystanders would still live if he had not come here. He had yet to have a strong enough reason to kill a woman as a rebel. If what the old lord and her children said was true, she was the rebel here and his luck had changed.

  “If she is among the dead I can count her as another rebel killed,” he replied irritably.

  “And if she’s not among them?” he persisted. Roland was like a starved wolf, eager for a hunt and kill to take his mind from the reality he refused to face. He had spiraled down into a life of debauchery, losing himself nightly in drink and the comforts of a woman he cared nothing about.

  “She may be innocent.”

  Roland scoffed as if innocence no longer existed in the world where a woman as gentle as his wife would be brutally killed.

  It seemed the weight grew heavier by the day. He looked at the man who was once a doting father and who now no longer spoke the names of his son and daughter. He was a man who laughed often and now his face only bore a grim expression. Without him to bring reason to the madness Damien created he felt as if he was being buried in a landslide.

  They watched as the line of women grew. “Get the servant Lottie and see if any of these are her mistress.”

  Damien turned his back on the woman as she went through the dead. He did not want to see her reaction for in this small keep she was sure to know them all. The report came back she was not among them, something Damien had already suspected. He looked again at the Commander, Alec the lord had said. His wife had helped lead them and the woman who had stood her ground so bravely had been standing beside him when he fell. The handsome man fought for her not for the lord, again he wondered if he was the woman’s lover. With a husband like Adlam, Damien couldn’t very well blame her.

  He had no intention of killing the woman in the dungeon. He put her there to keep her safe until he could deal with her. Damien didn’t know what he would do with her, they were still far enough from their destination that she would be a handful but he couldn’t leave her here. He told himself it was because she might come after them. She might kill them as they retreated, but if he truly believed that he would have already killed her. It was best to save his decision for another time. Locked away, out of sight he hoped she would be out of his mind but instead he felt he would go out of his mind because she was out of his sight. From the moment he saw her up on the wall, her sun streaked brown hair flying wildly about her head, the lights casting off its colors in vibrant sheens he wanted her. He had taken a great deal of satisfaction killing her husband, the traitorous worm, not even loyal to his own blood. He felt even more confident now about killing him for that made the woman in the dungeon a widow. It also made her a rebel. It made her his enemy.

  He stalked angrily to his waiting mount and vaulted into the saddle. He and a contingent of knights rode the grounds surrounding Langley. They had taken control days before but did another sweep for rebels. He was relieved to find none.

  Every crevice of the castle was searched, its contents spilled out into the courtyard. While the castle’s treasures were being sought wood was being stacked along its walls so the heat would bring the stones crumbling down. Would it be easiest to let her burn in the dungeon? He watched the men scramble about while the survivors were kept under guard. They would be released once they were ready to move out and not a moment before. Phantom shifted beneath him, feeling the discontent of his rider.

  They would eat before lighting the walls, the last meal to be eaten in them. They would ride out before full sunset and travel throughout the night to reach Staward around dawn. He would wait to make a decision on the woman when they were ready to leave. Too many things needed to be completed before it was necessary to worry whether she would go or stay.

  They ate and he was pleased to see his men took food to those who would be left homeless after this day. Soldiers they all were, but that did not mean they liked what they were ordered to do any more than Damien because the strife it created for these people was horrific. Lottie brought the children from the corner and approached the dais tentatively.

  “Might I feed the children, my lord?” she asked humbly.

  Damien looked at the two children and noticed their mother’s defiant chin marked both. The boy sported freckles he had seen splattered lightly across his mother’s nose and cheeks. He couldn’t leave the children here without their mother and either their mother would die this night or she would be his prisoner. By order of the king he should have already killed these children and their mother to wipe their lines from the face of the earth.

  “Feed the children then pack only enough belongings to carry. We will leave after the meal.” Was he now a traitor to the crown?

  The servant looked afraid but she did not argue and moved the children away to eat. He watched both children glance many times from their table below him. They had gone from sitting at the position of power at meals to the servants’ table. He could see even they understood the gravity of this.

  Damien took his time eating his meal and he was the last to stand which began a whirlwind of activity. He sent Cyrille and Roland to their positions to give the orders to light the walls. Then it was time to deal with the woman. He moved down the steps, taking the torch from the entrance and the key to the shackles. He moved slowly, expelling the darkness with his light. He remembered what it was like to be chained up in a place like this. A place worse than this since he suspected the lady had been the first inhabitant here for a long time.

  When he reached her it was to find her crouched in the corner. He stopped outside her chain length and studied her. She was a small thing, he was surprised she had enough height to swing the battle ax without it driving into the dirt. She also looked to not have the strength to wield it but he knew she was far stronger than she looked.

  Her face was filthy. Her tears had made it so as she struggled there in the dirt. Her arms rested on her knees as she crouched there, her hair hanging in her face, her hands trembling. Her wrists and fingers were bloody where she had fought the manacles. Slowly she stood, her legs shaking as she came to her full height. She wore the torn garments of a man and he had not noticed before but they held the blood of his men and hers. The tunic had been ripped and a cut lay across her right shoulder and across her chest. Though the cut was not life threatening it appeared to be painful for the woman. How had he not noticed her state? Because she had had a challenge in her light brown eyes and he was more intent in subduing her than looking at her. Now she was conquered.

  “Lady Keri, I have come to tell you we are ready to light the walls on fire. I leave it to you to decide whether you will die here or leave this place with me.”

  The wall supported her trem
bling body before her knees gave out and she fell in a heap in the dirt. She sat there, her head down, her shoulders hunched forward, her hair shrouding her face.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  Keri waited for this nightmare to end. How her life had changed in five days. She had thought she had a hard life being married to Bryson. The man outright repulsed her. He was a man she had not chosen, or a man her father would have chosen but King Henry II owed Bryson a favor. The favor had been her and her hefty dowry and as the only heir to her father’s wealth he would gain that one day as well. The first time she had seen Bryson was on her wedding day. In the beginning she had tried to make the best of the union, dressed as a wife should, behaved as a wife should, but she came up short being a wife to Bryson. The man had a lascivious appetite. After her daughter, Waverly, was born she crept into Bryson’s chamber and promised to kill him as she held a knife to his throat if he ever tried to come crawling back into her bed. She had apparently scared him sufficiently enough for he never bothered her again. He did seek his recreation in the beds of other women. The only emotion she had with that knowledge was sympathy for the other women. As long as she did not have to look at him she did not mind being married to him. But it was all going to come back and punish her now.

  The darkness that had been driving her mad had been cast away moments ago when The-man-on-the-gray-horse returned. Her first urge was to fling herself at him to cling to him for dear life and beg him to take her with him to the ends of the earth if that was where he was going. She stood to do that but that was all she could do. Her body was riddled with fatigue, from the battle and the fight afterward here in the dark, chained to the wall. Now as she stood in the light she was thankful no one had witnessed her defeat, for it was here it had come. Not when the gate was breached, not when The-man-on-the-gray-horse carried her down here but when she fought the chains he had put on her. They had remained strong, the manacles had not yielded to her fingers and the chains had not weakened against her strength. She looked down at her hands that had turned into raw flesh from her wrists to her fingertips. Nails were missing from her hands, the tips and knuckles were bloodied from digging at the hard steel.