The Red King

  The man was smiling at him, joyous though Rory was covered with blood and bearing weapons. That Maarten was completely naked fazed none present, for it was far too common an occurrence in these private chambers. What did garner Rory’s attention were the streaks of blood on the man’s hands and groin. That was when everything snapped into place. His hands tightened.

  Before he could lift his swords, Maarten had reached down to grab at something beside the door.

  “Andrew,” Rory whispered, his heart lurching, splitting inside his chest.

  Unresisting, barely conscious, and also free of cloth, Andrew looked like a child against Maarten’s chest.

  “Andrew,” the man called, hand cradling to lift Andrew’s chin. “Lille due, open your eyes. Look who has come to play.”

  Rory shook with fury. Blood ran from Andrew’s nose, his mouth, and streaks of shining seed mingled on his chin. There were bruises of all sizes scattered across his throat and shoulders, and deep scratches down his chest. With obvious effort, Andrew opened his eyes. There was a moment of dazed confusion in which he glanced around the room without focusing. His gaze sharpened, at last. He saw Rory…and started to cry. Only there were no sobs, merely gasps and huffs of air.

  “Oh, dove, why do you weep? Do you not wish to greet him?” Maarten was saying, running a hand down Andrew’s stomach. He cupped Andrew’s cock. “Perhaps we should take him to the dungeon, hmm? Would you like that, my love?”

  Andrew did not answer, except to struggle weakly against Maarten’s hold.

  “Come in, Rorik. Come in,” Maarten said, the most gracious of hosts. He maintained his shield, though, holding Andrew close to him. Before Rory could cross the threshold, said, “Drop the swords.”

  Hesitating, feeling the pain of wounds old and new and the weakness of partial recovery, Rory knew he faced his death. Yet he could not attack and risk hurting Andrew. He looked to Laurent, still standing beside the door. His face was smooth, expressionless, but he gave a small nod with something like faith burning in his eyes.

  Maarten took a firm grip on Andrew’s jaw. “Do it now or I snap his neck.”

  The swords clattered to the floor. Rory stepped forward.

  “Laurent, bar the door behind him.”

  The sound of the bar sliding into place was soft and final as death.

  “Do not think that I was fooled by this charade.”

  “What charade?” Rory asked, following Maarten as he backed farther into the room.

  “That you were dead. That he hated you. He is quite good, though, with his distractions,” Maarten chuckled. He turned Andrew in his arms and licked a clean swath through the blood and come on Andrew’s cheek.

  Rory felt ill, his eyes tracing lash marks, easily two dozen striping from Andrew’s shoulders down to his thighs. They were still fresh and bleeding and Maarten’s fingers dug into the angry, torn flesh. Andrew went limp, head falling back in a faint.

  “He believed I was dead. What he says he saw was truth.”

  Maarten grinned. “Seeing you must have been quite a shock. Poor boy, no wonder he wept.” He dipped his head, eyes still on Rory, and bit into Andrew’s shoulder. The pain was enough to rouse Andrew from unconsciousness; his mouth opened in a scream that was disturbingly silent.

  “Let him go,” Rory snarled.

  Straightening, still smiling, Maarten pulled Andrew closer, until Andrew’s toes barely touched the floor. One hand slipped between Andrew’s buttocks and the smaller man lurched forward in an attempt to escape. “I do not begrudge your taking him. He is beautiful,” Maarten breathed, pushing all the fingers of his hand into Andrew’s body. “So responsive.”

  Andrew cried out, a dry, crackling sound that raised the hairs on the back of Rory’s neck. He felt his hands clench, bones creaking in helpless frustration. He could not attack Maarten while the man still held Andrew, could not risk that Maarten would act upon his threat. Neither could he stand and watch Andrew suffer.

  Maarten forced his hand up higher, lifting Andrew off of his feet completely. Arching, hands pressing at Maarten’s shoulders, Andrew threw his head back with another soundless scream.

  “Stop it!” Rory cried, stepping forward.

  The laugh Rory heard was threaded with madness. “Come, Rorik. We could have him together. We could tear open this sweet fruit and fill it with our seed.”

  Rory squeezed his eyes shut. He cast his mind out to catch any thought, any idea, that would aid him. It could not end like this! Not with Andrew in Maarten’s hands, himself trapped by his own fear and helplessness. When he opened his eyes again, ready to hurl himself upon the man, he found Maarten’s gaze on his, unwavering. Always watching him, always taunting him, goading him to fear, anger…

  …jealousy.

  “I don’t want to share you with anyone.” The words fell from Rory’s lips before the thought had completely formed. He made his voice softer, imploring. “It is what drove us apart, so many years ago.”

  Maarten stopped, still holding Andrew but no longer digging and tearing at him. “What are you saying?”

  “I took him to make you angry, so that you would come for me. But you never came,” Rory said, holding his hands before him.

  “Oh, Rorik. Oh, my precious one,” Maarten sighed. He dropped Andrew, who fell hard upon his back, and stepped over him to take Rory in his arms. He ran his hands down Rory’s back, up his arms, and then held Rory’s face. “Do you know what pains you have caused me? You took my ships, my gold, my amusements…and for what?”

  Bringing his own hand up to touch Maarten’s cheek, Rory whispered, “To hurt you, my lord, to bring your attention back to me. You dismissed me, out of spite, and you hurt me more with that than any whip or blade ever could.”

  “Then we will be together, always. Now that you are here, you will never leave my side again,” Maarten said, and kissed him.

  Rory fought against the sickness rising in his throat. He couldn’t move, couldn’t tear himself out of the embrace. He was as frozen and impotent as he had been that night, seven years before. He held his breath while Maarten’s tongue searched his mouth, unable to complete the farce. He heard a harsh, wet cough. Andrew, he thought. Andrew…I’m here…

  He found the strength to pull away but Maarten followed, eagerly, his fingers pushing up into the wrap on Rory’s head. They found the bandage behind his ear and dug. When Rory grunted and whipped to the side, Maarten laughed. “You are still the same in some things. Must I always force you to submit?”

  “It is,” Rory began, had to halt to swallow the gorge in his throat. “It is a recent wound. I didn’t lie when I told you Andrew thought I was dead.”

  “Ah, so it seems,” Maarten chuckled, the look on his face now fond.

  “Wait a moment, please. Let us drink to our new start. A drink, my lord,” Rory said.

  Maarten stared at him for a moment, searching his face for something but Rory did not know what. “Yes, a drink,” he said, at last, and released Rory. “Then we will see to your delicatus.”

  Rory was dizzy and stumbled in his freedom. He saw the goblet on the table and moved toward it. He did not look at Andrew, knowing that one glance would have him kneeling, aching to touch and comfort. The table was sturdy beneath his hands when he leaned on it, breathing deeply and shutting his eyes against the mounting panic in his chest.

  Fingers closed on his ankle and Rory jumped. Andrew was there, prostrate, looking up into his face with desperate eyes. His gaze moved from Rory to the wine and back to Rory.

  The wine.

  The poison!

  Lifting the goblet, Rory pretended to sip and savor the libation within, twice, then thrice. He shook Andrew’s hand away without looking. When he turned to Maarten again, the man was no longer smiling, but was stroking his hardening prick. Rory took slow steps, lifting the cup with both hands. “Drink, my lord. Seal our covenant.”

  “Our covenant,” Maarten repeated, taking the cup in one hand. He drank, deeply, f
inishing it. He threw the goblet away and reached for Rory once more.

  He met Rory’s fist. The crunch of bone as his nose burst into blood was the most gratifying sound Rory had ever heard. Stunned, Maarten reeled backwards, but recovered in time to block the next swing towards his face. He sent his own fist into Rory’s stomach, slamming into his bruised organs. The pain stole Rory’s breath and he dropped, catching himself with one arm as the other wrapped around his middle.

  “Clever boy,” Maarten growled, his foot connecting with Rory’s chin.

  On his back now, Rory stared at the ceiling timbers until Maarten’s face swam into view. The man straddled him, wrapped long fingers around his throat, and lifted him. “You toy with my heart, Rorik. Why?”

  The question made Rory laugh and he was rewarded with the back of Maarten’s hand. Rory still laughed, spitting blood into Maarten’s face. “You have no heart! There is nothing in you but rot and filth.”

  Maarten slammed him back down and he cried out as his head rocked upon the floor. There were lights dancing above him, bright in the fog crowding his vision. He felt Maarten’s breath on his face as the man hovered over him, grinding against him. With a rush of nausea he realized the man was hard.

  “Perhaps,” Maarten purred, lips against Rory’s neck, above the hand that still choked him. “You will not know the truth of it until we meet in Hell.”

  Fingers tightened, cutting off the air. Rory reached for Maarten’s face but the man’s arm was too long. He could not reach, could not loosen the hold on his throat. Andrew! he thought, Andrew I’m sorry!

  There was movement and Maarten released him. He coughed as his head cleared, dragging air through his bruised and aching throat. There was added weight on his legs and a pleased murmur from Maarten. “Lille due, have you come to play?”

  Rory opened his eyes to see Andrew wrapped around Maarten. His hands pressed Maarten’s close to his own chest and he nuzzled at the man’s throat. His gaze was on Rory, though. “I am not your dove,” he ground out, barely loud enough to hear. “I am a wolf.”

  He shut his eyes, tight, bared his teeth, and sunk them into Maarten’s neck. He held on as Maarten screamed, shaking his head to tear the skin. His jaws were clamped together and would not release, even when Maarten thrust his elbow into Andrew’s face to knock him away. Andrew fell back, taking a great chunk of flesh and muscle with him. Blood sprayed over Rory; it covered his face and chest as he lay unmoving, astonished.

  “Devil!” Maarten roared, staggering to his feet as he bled down his shoulder, arm, and chest. He reached for Andrew, who was retching on his hands and knees, and lifted him with an arm around his waist. “Vile imp!” He threw Andrew into the wall, head first. There was a sickening crack and Andrew fell. He did not move again.

  “No!” Rory cried, using the table to help stand.

  Maarten turned back to face him. “I will kill him. I will kill him while you watch,” the man snarled, swaying where he stood. He fell to his knees, glaring up at Rory. “And then I will…will kill…you.”

  “You will kill no one else, Maarten. You will touch no one else, ever again,” Rory panted, standing straight.

  Blood still poured from the gaping wound in Maarten’s neck, vivid and wet, dripping onto the floor. The man’s complexion was fading to grey, his lips taking on a bluish hue. He brought his hand to his neck, attempted to stop the flow, but it was too late. The poison would not even have time to work. Maarten would bleed to death first.

  When Rory pushed at his shoulder with his foot, Maarten fell back. The man grabbed his leg and held it. “Ror-ik,” he whispered, his eyes wide. “I will…see you…in Hell.”

  “Perhaps, but not today,” Rory snarled, pulling his foot away to let it fly at Maarten’s face. The man’s body seized for a moment longer, and then went still.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Weak and sore, trembling from the rush of triumph and the nearness of his own death, Rory waited. He stared down at Maarten, expecting him to rise up again. But Maarten did not move. The man was still. The blood that had flown from the wound in his neck was now merely a sluggish drip, for the heart that had pumped beat no more.

  “Andrew,” Rory whispered, stepping over Maarten’s corpse. He dropped to his knees, reaching out to take the battered body into his arms, but paused. There was no part of Andrew that he could touch, hold, which did not bear Maarten’s mark.

  “Andrew!” he cried, hands hovering, afraid to feel the torn flesh gone cold.

  There was a sharp intake of breath. Andrew’s chest rose and fell and there was no end to the thanks Rory sent to Heaven.

  Rory pulled him close, resting Andrew across his knees and supporting his head with his arm. His other hand swept away the gore from Andrew’s face, flesh and blood from Maarten and Andrew’s own blood from a terrible gash that ran from his forehead to his ear. Andrew did not stir to respond, and Rory called his name, over and over, pressing their lips together. He trailed kisses up to Andrew’s eyes, down his jaw, still crying for Andrew to wake.

  “Please, open your eyes! Andrew! Andrew!” Rory wept.

  When the pounding on the door came, Rory jumped, but did not release his burden. “Ruaidhri!”

  “Malik!” Rory shouted in response and heard the bar slide away.

  The door swung open and then Malik was beside him, one strong arm going around Rory’s shoulders, the other wrapping his great cloak around Andrew’s naked form. “Gods of All, do not let it end like this,” he prayed, his deep voice low and broken.

  “Let me see him,” Laurent said, pulling them apart as he knelt beside Rory. He carefully opened each of Andrew’s eyes to peer into them, put his ear to Andrew’s nose and mouth, then to his chest. “He breathes and his heart still beats strong. His eyes are the same, one no more black than the other. He is alive, and if we treat his wounds and get him to a restful place, he will recover. But we must move quickly.”

  Rory glanced up, catching Laurent’s gaze. “You can see this? You swear it?” he asked, hope swelling in his breast despite the evidence in his arms.

  Laurent nodded, his eyes filled with promise. “I do. Bring him to the bed.”

  “No!” Rory snarled, clutching Andrew closer. “He’ll heal, but far from here.”

  Malik cut Laurent off before the man could speak. “Ruaidhri, we must go now.”

  “Go? You cannot take him out in the cold! His wounds must be cleaned! He must be kept warm!” Laurent argued, one hand landing on Rory’s shoulder.

  “And you can do all of this?”

  “I can, but it will take time. You must give me time.”

  Rory shook his head. “Bring whatever supplies you need. Come with us.”

  “With you?” Laurent asked, slowly, his expression slack with amazement. “Where?”

  “Does it matter? You will be free of this place. You are free, Laurent. Come with us,” Rory answered. “Let me save you, this time.”

  Laurent was silent. Staring.

  “Please,” Rory begged. “You cannot stay here. Let me take you somewhere safe, somewhere warm. Allow me this.”

  “I will, yes. I will come with you.”

  Rory let himself smile. “We don’t have much time.”

  “I need little,” Laurent said, smiling in return as his eyes filled with tears. “I will be only a moment.”

  The man rushed from his side, but his footsteps went no further. Rory looked over his shoulder to see him standing beside Maarten’s body. Before he could speak, Laurent drew back his foot to deliver a powerful kick to Maarten’s face, followed by another. There was a high, pained cry as he continued to kick and stomp on the dead man, crushing the bones until no feature was plain. Maarten’s face was now a pulpy hollow. Laurent spat on him and turned on one foot to grind his heel into Maarten’s groin.

  Malik stood and took Laurent by the arms. “Your greatest revenge will be to leave him here to rot while you live on. Please, if you can help us, get what you need. We d
on’t have much time.”

  Laurent was panting but otherwise silent. After a moment he covered one of Malik’s hands with his own and nodded. “In the chest you will find robes and cloaks…all manner. Wrap yourselves and keep the cloth close, for the wind will cut you to the bone.”

  Rory’s lips turned up at one corner. “I remember. Hurry.”

  Laurent left and Malik went to dig out the necessary wrappings, Rory looked back to Andrew. There was a bruised, grotesque swelling where the bob of his Adam’s apple should have been. Rory realized that had been why no cries had come from Andrew, only the harsh and awful grating of gristle. The pain must have been tremendous; the strength need to speak through it, to dispute Maarten’s “Lille due,” immense. Rory’s tears were falling onto Andrew’s face and tracking through the blood.

  “God damn the man,” Rory cursed, bending to press a kiss to the damaged flesh. “He crushed your voice, your beautiful voice.”

  “Here,” Malik said, returning. He had in his hands two heavy cloaks and one plush, velvet robe. “We will wrap him in the robe, first, and then the cloak. The other is for you.”

  “I will not need it,” Rory argued.

  “You will put it on, or I will tie you in it and carry you out, as well,” Malik ordered, sternly.

  The look on Malik’s face brooked no dissention. “As you wish,” Rory said, relenting.

  Malik smiled, but it was replaced by a wince and a glimmer of fury as he helped bundle Andrew into the robe. “If the man could be killed, buried, brought back and killed again, it would not be enough to pay his due.”

  “That is true, but he is dead,” Rory said, throwing the cloak around his shoulders. “And that is good enough for me.”

  Andrew was cocooned in velvet and fur-lined wool, all but the smallest bit of his face showing as if he were a swaddled babe. Malik stood with him, carefully, but the movement jarred and Andrew stiffened. His eyes opened, wide with panic and pain. “Easy, Coinin, I have you,” Malik soothed best as he could.