The Lethal Flame (Flame Series)

by Arms, Angie

  The horse pivoted and she heard Damien’s voice as he soothed the quivering animal. They stood their ground as the men flooded around them. The horse danced as Damien moved him along the lines, calling orders, pushing his men forward, over those who already lay dying as the sun began to make its appearance.

  “Steady now,” Damien’s voice came out soothingly to the quivering horse. He raised his bow, three arrows notched in it as he let them fly over the wall. Not a breath was drawn before he had three more pulled and loosed.

  He abandoned his assistance to the artillery to spur the horse back to the wall. Hour after hour passed, the sun climbing ever steadier. By midday bodies littered the ground around the walls, men still tried valiantly to climb them while Damien’s artillery chipped away at them.

  “Do you think we will penetrate them before nightfall?” the knight Roland asked coming to his side.

  “We will take them down today. Fell them today and tomorrow we can be taking Featherstone and be done with it.”

  Keri knew what the man she rode with proposed was quite a challenge and considering the fight here was far worse than at Staward she couldn’t help but doubt his words. Roland however promised him his victory before they rode away to the sound of Roland’s confident voice ordering another surge of foot soldiers to the walls.

  The gray horse came to a stop and Keri followed Damien’s gaze up the wall to where a group of his men were fighting to gain access. Man after man fell from the heights. Some men were Damien’s some were of Haltwhistle but his men kept pushing as their leader did.

  “Over the top, over the top,” the man behind her chanted under his breath as he watched the battle. She found herself caught in the moment, in the excitement building in the man with his arms wrapped about her. She doubted he realized he held her instead of just carried her now. One hand held the reins but the other wrapped around her middle and his chin rested on the top of her head.

  He roared his victory when three men gained the wall and others flowed over behind them. “Together!” the man yelled raising his sword. A roar began within the ranks of Damien’s men and they were like ants, first in the one spot then all along the walls they clamored up and over. Both hands came around her and the horse they rode thundered down on the gates. The animal leaped into the courtyard over the gates that had been shattered by the time they reached them. Men surrounded the horse as soon as it landed. Keri tried to make herself as small a target as she could while Damien pivoted the horse left then right swinging his sword madly. Screams rose up around her, sweat poured from the horse and she was sure the man. Fear engulfed her, never had she seen a battle as intense as the one she found herself in the middle of.

  He battled silently, he and his horse had been honed together on a battle field somewhere. She could feel the guidance of the knight’s legs on his horse’s sides as he moved left, then right, pivoting on hind legs, rearing to avoid blades, the horse striking out with hoofs if any one came into range and the man who she clung to in complete control. She looked about them for more of his men and she saw no one, only she, Damien and the gray on which they sat. For the briefest of moments she wondered about herself chained to these people’s enemy. They would see her as his whore as the people of Staward did, would they know of the stories being told about her at Langley? What of her children? She did not know where they kept Lottie, it was away from the main troops or she would have glimpsed them by now but they had to be near. What would the people of Haltwhistle think of them when they found them?

  A grunt from Damien and his sword fell from his hand. Hands were pulling on Keri and she let out a scream before she was pulled from the horse. Viselike arms wrapped around her from above and it was a short lived tug of war as Damien tumbled from the saddle with her, his arms wrapped about her. Was he protecting her or was he only protecting the property of the king? He landed on top of her, crushing her but immediately his weight rolled from her and her chains were yanked. She saw in the maelstrom of battle that he still held them in his hand and had one length wrapped around a man’s neck and she watched him break his neck with the chain before letting him go. The man’s sword was in Damien’s hand before his body hit the ground. Another man attacked, his sword slicing across Damien’s thigh. He swung on that man catching him in the chest. She knew Damien’s aim was deadly and facing a man with armor a blow to the chest was not as effective, was he faltering. For a moment she watched Damien whirl the sword in his hand at the same time hefting it, testing it and his next blow took his attacker’s head nearly off.

  Keri was grabbed, rough hands pulling at her, touching her. Could these men really be lusting after a woman in the middle of battle? She fought, the cloak long gone as a shield to her body. She felt her arms nearly pull from their sockets when Damien yanked her chains bringing her closer to him. Again, the soldiers tried to pull her away, their hands seeking, their mouths slobbering. One man bit her on her shoulder and she screamed.

  Damien spun around, a foot coming up to step on her chains, yanking her down to the ground before he lunged over her, driving his sword into the man. He fell in front of her in a blur as Damien yanked her back to her feet, his arm around her, holding her against him but still having room to swing the enemy’s weapon. He fought tirelessly but she heard the panting of his breath within his helmet and knew he now fought against fatigue. How much longer could he hold out? Both of them were hit from the side with what felt like a wall and they went down, Damien’s hands falling from her as the chaos swirled around her. She landed on him, rolled off and saw the sword in the dirt beside her. The battle had long since torn the wrappings from her hands their wounds long since forgotten with the threat of death hanging over her. She lunged for the sword, hands reaching for both her and the weapon but she reached it first, taking one man’s arm off at the shoulder as she spun on him. When the man above Damien raised his sword to plunge it into him she did not hesitate but drove her own into the man’s back. Surprised gray-green eyes looked up at her as Damien lunged to his feet, grabbing up a sword.

  Back to back they fought. She felt in sync with the man as he pivoted, she pivoted, always keeping their backs nearly touching, the enemy never having a chance to take out one before the other turned on them. It seemed as if they fought that way for hours. Keri’s arms grew heavy, her will to stay on her feet faltered. “Stand together,” the voice broke through the noise. It was out of breath, nearly weak from the exertion but still filled with the authority of a leader.

  She found more strength in it and doubled her efforts. “Together!” shouted the gravelly voice of Cyrille and she saw him on top his black horse crashing into the enemy as they fell under the mighty war horse’s hooves. Up to their side, the man’s sword doing as much damage as the horse. A vise closed around her, bringing her attention back to the man who lunged toward her, sword raised but it was the sword that came from over her shoulder, slicing through the air beside her ear that met him and drove him onto his knees and to death.

  The heavy arms didn’t leave her but wrapped around her more, the tip of Damien’s bloody sword rested in the dirt. The battle was over and Damien and his men were the victors. She turned in his arms and he allowed her, but did not release his grip on her. She stood against him, his strength holding her up his arms wrapped around her naked body. Someone brought a cloak and draped it around her but still Damien did not release her. He leaned on her heavily, his head against hers and she heard the pain filled pants as they wheezed from inside his helm.

  “Cyrille! Cyrille!” she yelled as Damien’s body grew heavier. Suddenly the other man was there, yanking his brother’s helmet from his head. His hair was caked to his head by the sweat and it rolled down his face. It was the paleness of it that made unexplainable fear twist her gut.

  Rough hands shoved her away as Cyrille grabbed hold of his brother and kept him from crumbling to the ground. “She has a sword,” Edwin said yanking it from her hands.

  “Take her to the dungeon,
” Cyrille’s angry voice cut through all the other noises as he lifted his brother’s body and toted him in a different direction.

  It was Roland who stepped forward to follow Cyrille’s order. When she tried to shrink away he yanked her up by her chains and her feet barely touched the ground as he dragged her away. She screamed and fought, unmindful now that she had not a stitch of clothing on she was only filled with the fear they thought she had fought Damien. Roland shoved her so hard into the wall of the dungeon she saw stars. When her head cleared it was to find her hands chained above her head as she sat in the dirt. “Damien should have burned you with the rest of the rebels at Langley,” he hissed before turning and leaving her there in the dark.

  This prison was far different than Langley’s. Rarely did those get used but here was the stench of death, rotting corpses and the yells of those still being held. She sat quietly, her body shaking as much from the fear as the cold dampness. Would they burn the walls down around her? This wasn’t a wooden fortress like Staward, it was stone as Langley was. The fires would be hot to bring the stone down but still it probably would not burn here. The hole would most likely remain intact and be buried beneath the rubble. Would the smoke kill her, the heat, or her own fear that built within her each time she drew breath?

  Chapter 4

  Cyrille half carried Damien as his brother’s weak legs struggled to help. Up the stone stairs Bryce led the way, his sword at the ready should anyone try to attack their little group. Cyrille’s gravelly voice cut through the fear that resided within the hall as he commanded those who cowered in the corners to show the way to the master chamber. As soon as they were within a secure chamber he set Bryce outside the door and franticly tore his brother’s armor from him.

  “Stop this nonsense,” Damien grumbled once but Cyrille was sure he was delirious.

  A sword had cut into his side, up underneath his mail laying the skin open. He was covered in his own blood and a deep fear settled in on Cyrille as he watched his brother’s face grow even paler. A wound to his thigh also bled rivers of his brother’s blood and he felt weakness threaten his own legs. Was this what it was like for Damien when he had rushed from the dungeon to find his brother burning at the stake? Did he feel a desperation bordering on insanity? Cyrille would kill, maim or torture anyone to insure his brother would live but he knew it would do no good.

  Had Damien felt this useless desperation? Cyrille felt the desperation so cleanly he made a pact with the devil for his soul if he would but heal his brother while Damien’s desperation had filled him with a deep rage to see every person responsible for his brother’s pain extinguished by his blade. While Cyrille had fought for his life Damien did the only thing his brother knew how to do, he searched the countryside to find those who had imprisoned them, destroying everything those men held dear before he ended their lives.

  Cyrille cut away the shirt and gently moved it away from the wound. Deep, damn these rebels’ hides he thought wadding a corner of a blanket and pressing it against Damien’s side. His brother writhed beneath him, his strength was ebbing. The two of them had spent a lifetime wrestling and fighting one another, and he had no doubt his brother was losing too much blood. “How are you doing Damien?”

  “How bad is it?” his teeth clenched against the pain.

  Cyrille thought of lying to him but he could not do that to his brother. “It’s deep,” was his only reply. His own eyes looked back at him and he read the fear there.

  “Edwin!” Cyrille bellowed for the squire. Immediately the boy opened the door. “Get the seamstress, have her bring a little needle and several different kinds of thread. Also bring a lot of ale, send those two things to me then get Roland here and let me know the situation.” As the boy turned Cyrille added, “and watch your back the rebels are still afoot.”

  “Cyrille,” Damien’s voice came to him in a near whisper. Kneeling by his side he placed a hand on his arm. His head turned and haunted eyes looked back at him.

  “You’re okay brother,” Cyrille said but his voice sounded too much like a plea. “I burned at the stake and I’m still here. No sword is going to lay you down.”

  A weak smile was his only reply. His brother’s eyes drifted closed and Cyrille had the urge to scream at him to open them. How could he go through life looking as he did without the image of what he once was to remind him he wasn’t a monster? His hands tightened on his brother’s arm giving it a little shake.

  The door burst open and Cyrille had his sword drawn ready to slice the intruder in two. A young woman gasped nearly fainting as he stopped his attack toward her. “She is the seamstress’s apprentice,” Edwin explained behind her. Cyrille stepped forward and grabbed the woman by the arm pulling her forward, his blade pressed against her chest. “Sew him as neatly as you can.” He turned grabbed the large tankard of ale from Edwin and dumped half its contents on the gaping wound. Damien nearly rose from the bed, a gasp escaping him. “Get more,” he said to Edwin indicating the ale.

  “I can’t sew him,” the woman replied franticly trying to back away. Without hesitation Cyrille pressed the blade of his sword to her neck again. “If you cannot you will die here.” Was this what it was, was this how easy it was to kill all those men innocent but not. Was this how Damien survived knowing in the end all those he held dear would be safe?

  “I’ll try.” His blade pierced the skin bringing a gasp.

  “You will do more than try.”

  The young woman’s head bobbed up and down franticly and would have cut off her own head if he had not drawn the sword back. He let go of her and pushed her forward. With shaky fingers she pulled a needle from her apron and tried to select a thread. Looking over her shoulder he selected one that seemed finer than the others and told her to use it.

  Roland arrived with a bucket of ale in his hand and a dipper. “How is the take over?”

  “Not going as smoothly as they do with Damien out there,” he replied moving toward the bed clearly uncomfortable with the state of things in the room.

  Cyrille paused a moment and studied the man before him. He had no doubt Roland was creating more fear than calm in such a situation for he welcomed death, invited it in and offered it a place at the head of his table. No man, woman or child who was unlucky enough to cross Roland’s path would be immune to his blind rage, to the death that was his constant companion. But Cyrille could not be concerned with the fate of the rebels, he had one job and that was to see his brother lived.

  “Hold him down,” Cyrille said. As soon as the other man had hold of his brother he poured another ladle full of ale onto the wound washing away the fresh blood. “Wash the blood away with this and you better do the best job you have ever done. Roland watch her.”

  He fled the chamber and went down to the courtyard searching out Landry. The prisoners yelled and screamed at the troops who formed a human fence around them. Someone would try to rush through the lines but would invariably be caught and thrust back into the prisoners.

  “Kill the next man that tries to break the line!” Cyrille demanded in his gravelly voice. The effect was not as authoritative as his brother’s same threat but in the end was more menacing and served the same purpose.

  Unfortunately no one challenged him for they all stepped back. A seamstress was in the keep trying to sew his brother back together and these rebels were still trying to cause trouble. “Who raised arms against the king this day?” he demanded and the image of the Lady Keri standing over his brother with a bloody sword flooded him.

  He plucked the nearest man from the group and plunged his sword deep. It was funny because he thought the act would give him satisfaction but it only left a bitter taste in his mouth. “Hang them all,” he declared unwilling to take the chance of another rebel getting through their defenses and slaying them when their backs were turned. This was why Damien did it, because he had to. A small fight ensued where several of the prisoners were killed before they had a chance to meet the rope. In the end it
was all the same and Cyrille took over his brother’s job and he had to wonder again at the kind of men they had both become.

  The need for revenge had changed Damien far more than the damage to his body had changed Cyrille. Cyrille had once loved women, any size or shape he could not wait to find himself between their legs. It wasn’t just the sex but everything soft and feminine. He liked to make them smile, to see their eyes fill with softness for him. He was still the same optimistic man he had once been but he chose not to see his reaction on women now. Damien didn’t seem to understand he had resigned himself to a life of celibacy when the first woman had reacted to his scars. He still insisted on bringing him women and sometimes after a battle when he still wanted a fight that had long ended, the fear in those women fueled him and he was not proud of what he did.

  Damien had witnessed the way women shunned his brother, how society no longer accepted him. The hate and Cyrille guessed the fear that had resided in Damien had found a permanent place there. Now he fought as a man driven by the fear that his failure as a commander would mean the death of his men. Truly it did, as it always had, but when Damien had broken from the dungeon to witness his brother ablaze Roland told him he had snapped and no one could stop the blood bath that ensued for days afterward. For Damien that space in time in their lives had forever altered his soul. He was commander now, for the King of England, and the title came with duties not the average man could carry out. And no one could stop him from carrying out his orders to kill the rebels, for Damien said his weakness could mean the rebels attack again and the next time they could be the victors.