Blood Sword Legacy 02 - Master of Torment

by Karin Tabke

  She would pay with her life, not because the rumors called her witch, or because she was an accused murderess. Nay, her most dastardly deed was her relationship to the late King Harold. His blood niece could not be allowed to keep her powerful position among her fellow Saxons. All Godwinsons were a threat to William, and this one most especially. Her blood was too blue and too royal. It was blood that her countrymen and women would take up arms to protect, should she give birth to a son of Dunloc.

  Gareth had been a fount of information. After the good lady had lovingly slit the throat of her groom and Rangor got wind of the deed, her men had all been expelled from the castle. Tricked, as it were. All but his lady. Gareth had waited, laying siege, trying in vain to rescue her from the demented uncle. To no avail. So the captain of her guard was most helpful when Wulfson came upon him just that morn.

  The deep droning cadence of the kettle drum keeping the pace, not only for the double battering rams but to intimidate and instigate, rang ominously clear in the morning air. Just as the door gave way, thick waves of fiery pitch were hurled from above. Ever wary, Wulfson had kept his men to the back of the rams. The horrific screams of several of Gareth’s men as they succumbed to the bubbling black ooze were lost on Wulfson’s ears. He’d heard the cry of death and torture too many times for it to bother him. He and his Blood Swords had survived hell to tell about it. The inhuman things man did to man were but part of what drove Wulfson to watch his back, work his muscles every day to their capacity, and continually hone his skills. He had no illusions that he would live to see a gray beard and grandchildren. If he lived to forty, he would die a contented man, but he would never go down without the fight of his life.

  He reined Turold away from the fiery globs of humanity and watched unnerved as Gareth tried in vain to rescue the three men. There was naught anyone could do for them.

  “Pull them away and continue!” Wulfson commanded.

  “Sir!” Gareth protested. “They are my men!”

  Wulfson pointed his sword toward the charred black mass. “Time flies on swift wings. They are doomed. Slit their throats if you must, but get on with it!

  Gareth stepped forward, sword drawn and raised. Wulfson snarled and drew the second of his short swords from the double scabbard at his back, as each of the Blood Swords drew down on the balance of Gareth’s men who came to aid their captain. Wulfson squeezed Turold’s sides and drove the massive horse into the fray, pressing one sword tip into Gareth’s chest. “You dally with men who live over those who will die. Move aside or drop where you stand!”

  Gareth stood his ground, a big hulking Viking of a man, much like Thorin who now sat astride his great destrier behind Wulfson, ever watchful. A warrior, no doubt, but Gareth’s fatal flaw was that he possessed a heart. Wulfson shook his head. Fool. Heart was what got a man killed.

  He pushed past the reluctant warrior with his men behind him. They would not waste another moment on another’s weak stomach. No wonder Gareth’s lady was at the mercy of Rangor. He probably hadn’t had the stomach to stand up to the Saxon noble.

  Wulfson glanced up at the rampart, then back to the thick door that hung from the hinges. While not wide open, there was enough of a gap that if he and his men pushed as a unit on horseback, they would plow through to what he knew from Gareth’s detailed description was a sizable bailey, then a small courtyard farther up. And there they would need the rams once more. No doubt they would be pressed upon with more pitch, for the interior fortress walls were tall—they could be seen from the village road, towering high like the wings of a great dragon.

  “Prepare to enter the bailey,” Wulfson called to his men, then motioned for them to draw close. When they were all in a tight semicircle around him, he gave his instructions. Once they understood, he called over to Gareth. “Have your archers cover my men as we go through. I want a barrage of arrows to preceed us. Continue with the assault until I give word to cease!”

  And so it played out. Wulfson and his men took up the huge battering rams, and astride their great black warhorses they slammed through the oak portals into the bailey, where they were indeed met with a deluge of arrows. But they were prepared. With shields raised and in the manner of the old Roman tactic of the turtle, they moved as one unit toward the door leading directly into the fortress. A hail of arrows flew past them toward the inner ramparts, and the curses of men as they were struck made Wulfson smile. As they neared the wide doors, Gareth and his men brought up the rear with the two rams, and once again the drums took up the cadence as the action was repeated. There was no pitch this time, and no other form of attack came. Indeed, the inhabitants of the bailey worked fervently to save their dwellings from the fires. But it appeared all had gone quiet in the fortress. Had they used up their meager stores of ammunition?

  In no time at all, the thick doors were breached. But instead of bursting through, Wulfson held up his hand for his men and those of Gareth to halt.

  During the long moments that hung heavy before the final breach on the edifice proper, the haze of the late morning sun, coupled with the weighty silence, hung around them like a sodden woolen mantle. The ominous quiet disturbed Wulfson more than a full-out attack. Rangor, no doubt, had something up his sleeve for their entry into the fortress hall.

  Still astride, with shield raised, Wulfson moved off at an angle, so that he could not be seen from inside except by someone close by. “I give you a last chance, Rangor,” he called into the great hall. “Surrender yourself and the Lady Tarian or I will be forced to destroy you.”

  “She is dead!” The voice rang shrill…and near. Just inside the great doorway.

  “She may be, but I have no proof. Allow me entry so that we may parle. William wishes no quarrel with you, sir. He values your allegiance, as well as that of your allies to the west. I have only come to speak to the lady. Once I have, I shall return to my lord and master in Normandy.”

  “Give me your oath you will not harm me.”

  “I give you my oath I will not harm you, unless I or one of my men should be provoked.”

  Long minutes sweated by. Wulfson was becoming increasingly irritated.

  “I give you my oath you and your men will not be harassed.”

  “Then come forward and present yourself.”

  A slight sound not too far off from the great hall caught Wulfson’s attention. From astride Turold, he watched a man, mayhap a few years older than William but not nearly so fit, emerge from the darkened abyss. He wore rich clothing, and his aristocratic lines were well defined. But what set him off more than his garments and bearing was his flaming red hair and his pale blue eyes. He reminded Wulfson of a wily Icelandic fox. And at that moment he knew that under no circumstance was this man to be trusted.

  The noble’s eyes darted to Wulfson, his men, then behind to Gareth, who had come to stand almost even with Wulfson. “I am Rangor, Lord of Dunloc. How may I be of service to my king?”

  “You are not lord here!” Gareth said, stepping past Wulfson, whose left arm, sword in hand, shot out to prevent the Dane from moving forward. Under his breath, Wulfson cautioned the guard. “My good man, I respect your anger. But I am in charge here. Stand back.”

  Expecting Gareth to immediately comply, which he did, Wulfson turned his attention back to Rangor. In a slow slide, he dismounted, and with both swords in hand he strode toward the haughty noble. Aye, Rangor stood tall and erect. Arrogant. His pale eyes showed barely a hint of fear, but Wulfson did not need to see it in a man’s eyes—he could smell it. Like the great furry beasts who wandered the island using their senses to field their prey, their enemies, and their mates, Wulfson’s instincts were highly honed. Rangor was a man with secrets. And he was afraid.

  “Where is Lady Tarian?”

  “As I have already told you, she is dead.”

  “The body you tossed over the rampart is not that of the lady. Do you have another for me to peruse?”

  “Nay. There is no body,” Rangor admitted.
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  “She lives! I swear it, I would know of her death!” Gareth cried out unable to contain himself. Rangor smiled a slow sadistic smile and coolly regarded the captain of her guard.

  “Aye, you would. ’Tis immoral, your lust for her. Had she lived, in nine months’ time we would no doubt see proof she was not worthy of the title she bore. For I would wager every hide of land I own the wench would spill a blond giant of a child,” Rangor sneered.

  “How did the lady perish?” Wulfson demanded.

  Rangor focused those inhuman pale eyes back on Wulfson. “She succumbed to a wound she sustained when she killed my nephew. Her body was returned to her guardian Lord Alewith in Turnsly.”

  “’Tis a lie,” Gareth hissed.

  “Why did you lie?” Wulfson softly questioned, not wavering from the knowledge he knew in his gut—as did Gareth—that the lady lived.

  Pale blue eyes lifted to the ceiling, then darted left, then right, before returning to Wulfson. “I—I feared my liege would not believe the truth.”

  “’Tis not he you should fear, my lord, but me. I come in his name. He gives me the right to not only speak on his behalf but to act.” He stepped a foot closer and pressed both sword tips to Rangor’s chest. “And I deplore a lie. ’Tis akin to treason. Do you know how William deals with traitors?”

  Slowly Rangor shook his head. Wulfson noticed the sheen of sweat that glossed his brow. Whilst it was a warm day, moisture hanging over them like a wet blanket, it was cool inside the great fortress.

  If looks could have sliced Wulfson in twain, he would have fallen in two even sections to the stone floor, so sharp was Rangor’s gaze. “I do not wish to cause my king or his man undue distress, but before we continue this dance, Sir Wulfson, let me remind you, as you are the king’s guard: my cousin Rhiwallon and his half brother Bleddyn are Welsh kings in their own right. Both are very protective of their kin.”

  Wulfson smiled and moved closer, the sword tips digging deeper still into Rangor’s rich clothing. “Tell your Welsh kings I welcome them in the name of King William to pledge their loyalty. The sooner the better.”

  Rangor gasped. “Do you beg for a fight?”

  “Nay, I speak only the truth. You will find, milord, that I am a man of few words but quick action. I do not play the coy word games you nobles seem to be so fond of. I call a sheep a sheep: whether black or white, it is still a sheep. Now, tell me where I may find Lady Tarian.”

  Rangor set his jaw, but Wulfson read reluctant resignation there. Rangor would find it in his best interest not to make an enemy of the king’s guard. Wulfson nodded, lowered his swords, and inclined his head toward Rangor. “I would have the keys on your belt, sir.”

  Ioan, Rorick, and Rhys stepped forward. Instinctively the noble grabbed the keys in his fists, but sense quickly reigned over his impulse. He maneuvered the large circle from the leather-and-chain belt and handed them to Wulfson. “She is below in the dungeon, by now no doubt only a carcass for the rats to feed upon.”

  “Pray she is still alive, Lord Rangor. William does not take kindly to his royal subjects being executed without his approval.” And Wulfson wondered why he uttered the words. For if the wench was not dead when he found her, she would be shortly thereafter.

  “Gareth, show me the way.”

  Leaving three of his men and most of Gareth’s to keep order in the hall, Wulfson and several of his men followed the hulking Dane, each grabbing a torch from the sconces along the walls. Once past the great hall and the larders, they progressed down a narrow passageway, then made a sharp right turn, and were met with a thick, metal-strapped door. “’Tis down there,” Gareth said, pointing to the door.

  Wulfson inserted one key, then another, until the lock ground free. The door opened, and Wulfson preceded them down the slick, narrow steps. The stench that hit him as they descended into the bowels of the fortress would have had a lesser man emptying his guts then and there. He heard several men retch behind him, and knew with a certainty they were Gareth’s. Despite the stench, he and his brother Blood Swords had smelled worse. The stink of death still permeated their dreams, and the mark of the devil branded each and every one of them. Compared to the Saracen prison in which they had spent nearly a year of their lives, this was minor.

  Wulfson still had a marked limp, and scars above and below his skin—no thanks to his captors. He held the torch higher, and focused on finding the lady so that he could quickly dispose of her. He had decided he would do the deed swiftly and without witness, once she was discovered. Here within the bowels of the fortress, under cover of darkness, it would be easy enough. Even with Gareth behind him, Wulfson had no compunction. If he had to slay the Dane as well, so be it.

  As they assembled in the well of the chamber, Wulfson scanned the stone walls, noting the many sets of manacles that hung from them.

  “Malcor found amusement at the expense of pages and squires here,” Gareth said, contempt heavy on every word.

  Wulfson snorted in disgust. He knew of men who preferred men, but boys? He could not fathom the notion. Death was too good for the likes of the earl. The lady had done the entire country a service by slicing him ear to ear.

  Except for the scurrying rats, the chamber appeared to be empty. Ducking low, torches raised, they spread out and searched each cell, each corner, each crevice, ultimately coming up with no being living or dead. Yet the fresh scent of feces, mingled with the acrid stench of urine, was prevalent.

  Filtering back into the center of the chamber, surrounded by the men, Wulfson stood for a long moment, his hand held up for complete silence. And listened.

  Heavy silence ensued, broken only by the heavy breathing of the mail-clad knights. Wulfson raised his arm higher. They held their breath, not one of them breathing. A rat squeaked and scurried across Wulfson’s boot. He stood still and listened.

  There, from ahead, a small muffled sound. He strode back into the cell directly in front of him and held the torch high. As it was a moment ago, it remained empty now. His eyes scanned the floor, closer this time, and there he saw it. The swath of something heavy and wide had been recently marked across the dirt floor, darker in color than the rest of the dirt. He squatted before a large hewn block of stone, while Ioan peered over his shoulder.

  “’Twill take two of us,” Ioan said, then took Wulfson’s torch and handed it to Rhys, along with his own. Rhys moved in, with Gareth pressing closer and holding his torch high. Eerie light flickered in a give-and-take dance along the damp stone. Wulfson grasped the right corner, and Ioan the left. With a mighty heave, they pulled back on the stone. In a slow ragged scrape, it came toward them. As Wulfson turned it away from him and the torches rose, he stopped all movement.

  He grabbed the torch above his head and pressed it toward the hole in the wall, peering closer at the creature inside.

  Three

  Wulfson’s heart seemed to stop for one inexorable beat. From behind some type of metal device, a helmet with cross bars and what appeared to be a bridle of sorts, glittering eyes the color of the ocean stared at him. From what he could see of her face, it was a muted mass of bruises. His hands reached out to her, and she hissed and spat like a cat being dunked in water.

  “My lady…” Gareth whispered from behind him. Wulfson moved closer to her, his gaze catching every detail: a bloody chemise twisted around her waist, the sharp rise and fall of her breasts hardly discernible beneath the combined caked blood and dirt of the floor. Deep purple bruises, along with the crisscross markings of the lash, etched her arms and thighs. His gaze moved back to hers. In quiet amazement and a grudging respect for the woman who had not only survived such torture but still had fight left in her, he could not look away. He raised his right hand to touch her, to see if she were indeed human. The movement elicited another hiss, followed by a clawed hand digging into his gauntlet, halting his movement. He nodded, and withdrew, but not to ease her comfort. His hand slid to the leather-wrapped hilt of his short sword. As his fingers cl
osed around the well-worn grip, he could not tear his eyes from her defiant glare. What kind of woman was this?

  Slowly he pulled the weapon from the leather sheath, intending to ease her suffering for all time. As the blade slid from the sheath, his eyes dipped, unable to meet hers when he plunged the sword deep into her heart. The fullness of her breasts trembled beneath the dirt and blood that covered her. A fleeting stab of regret pricked at his belly. He ignored it and pressed the tip of the blade to what he knew would be a silky-smooth spot between the full globes. As he moved to press the steel into her heart, he made the mistake of looking into her eyes.

  Time halted for the briefest of moments. Transfixed, as if drugged by some potion, Wulfson watched a lone tear track slowly down her cheek, leaving a bloody stream in its wake. And at that precise moment, something deep inside him shifted.

  It was also at that same instant that Gareth came undone. “She belongs with me!” he called hoarsely, lunging forward. Wulfson flung his hand back, staying the Dane. From the commotion and scuffle behind him, Wulfson knew the man was contained.

  Never breaking eye contact with the specter crouched before him, Wulfson said, “Her fate is not in your hands.” Her eyes narrowed at his words, and her back stiffened. In silent defiance, she dared him to harm her.

  “Whatever lies Rangor has spilled to your king I can disprove them!” cried Gareth. “She is not a witch. She is not a murderess, nor is she an enemy to the Crown! I will stake my life on it!”

  “She is what she is, sir captain. I cannot change the facts,” Wulfson answered.

  “She is with child! Wouldst you murder a babe as well?” Gareth pleaded.

  “I doubt even had she been with child it would have survived the torture.”