by Lisa Jackson
“Abergwynn?”
“Aye—Baron Garrick is here now. Seeking shelter.” Marshall’s grin was evil.
Ralston, who had returned, looked confused. “But what of the baron?” he asked, eyeing the groaning mass that was Darton.
Marshall smiled wickedly. “Break his other leg, then kill him.”
Eighteen
ever before had the gates of Erbyn been closed to him. Now, as the wind keened across the heavens, Hagan glared up at the looming castle that had been his home all his life—a fortress impossible to scale. No battering ram could break through the gates, no catapult could throw stones large enough to pierce the thick curtain walls, and no ladder was long enough to reach the battlements. Laying siege was not an answer, for it would be months before the supplies ran out, and in that time Darton would have married Sorcha, taken her to his bed, and got her with child.
Curses filled his mind, and his fingers curled around the reins of his mount. If given the chance he would strangle his own brother—his twin—for all the evil Darton had brought to Erbyn.
Astride an unfamiliar horse, wearing the hauberk and surcoat from Abergwynn, Hagan eyed the castle and wondered if, even now, as the first gray light of dawn pierced the clouds to touch the forests of Erbyn, if Sorcha and Darton were married. Wolf had finally admitted that he had several spies within the castle, and one girl, Ona, had a loose tongue. It had been she who had told one of Wolf’s men of the impending marriage.
Again he silently cursed the fates. Though his head was hidden by a skull cap and helm with a nose guard, he felt the sentry’s eyes upon him. In the darkness of early morn, he appeared just another knight in the vast army of Abergwynn, though he was not far back, his own horse stood close to the flank of Garrick’s steed.
His lips pressed together as he waited. If his plan failed, then all was lost. Desperation scraped at his soul until he heard the surprised shout of a guard and the unlikely clang and grind of the gears of the great portcullis as it was raised.
“The gods are with you this dawn,” Wolf said as he leaned closer from his own horse. He, too, was dressed as a soldier rather than the ruffian outlaw who had terrorized the forests of Erbyn and Prydd for years.
Garrick held up his hand, and Wolf and Hagan rode forward with him at a slow trot.
“State yer business,” the first guard said, his surly gaze, in the thin light, passing over Wolf and Hagan without much interest.
“I’m Garrick of Abergwynn. My army and I come seeking shelter. Some of our men were wounded by outlaws in the forest, and we cannot ride on without them.”
“You are out late, m’lord.”
“Aye … The battle was long and hard, the ride tedious. It took us all night to outwit the bastards.”
The guard did not doubt him, for Garrick’s face was streaked with grime from hours in the saddle and the lathered, mud-spattered horses were weary.
“Lord Darton bids you welcome,” the guard said, standing aside to let them pass.
“I thought Hagan was baron here.”
“Aye, he was, but he was killed recently.”
“A pity,” Garrick said, and Hagan felt his lips curve into an evil smile.
Sorcha turned and faced her tormentor. “I’ll not be locked up,” she said to Marshall. Quick as lightning, Ralston reached for his sword.
But Bjorn was fast. He struck first, springing like a cat and shoving his knife deep between the stunned soldier’s ribs. Ralston let out a groan, faltered, stepped back, and swung wildly with his sword. Blood spurted, spraying the walls and the front of Sorcha’s hated dress.
“Idiot!” Marshall roared, grabbing his own weapon as Ralston’s sword clattered to the ground. Marshall aimed for Bjorn, but the stableboy twirled away and scooped up Ralston’s weapon.
“So now we’re even, Marshall.”
“Hardly.” Marshall grinned with an evil leer, and Sorcha felt as if death was surely upon them all. Marshall was an accomplished knight, and Bjorn, though lithe and strong, was no match for him.
Quickly Sorcha reached into her boot, her fingers searching for her knife. She heard shouts from the bailey and then the thunder of hooves, as if a hundred horses had raced through the gates, but she could not worry about whoever had intruded, not while there was an ounce of breath left in her body.
Her fingers coiled around her knife as Marshall pressed forward, pushing until Bjorn was backed to the window.
“Stop!” Sorcha commanded.
But Marshall drew back as if to cleave Bjorn in two. “Go now and meet Satan,” he said as Bjorn ducked. The sword struck the windowsill, showering sparks through the room. Anne screamed as Bjorn whirled, and Sorcha threw her knife as she had so many years ago when she’d first learned how to use a dagger. The blade sliced through Marshall’s tunic and delved deep into his back. With a hideous roar, the traitor spun around, his eyes round in horror, spittle collecting near the corner of his mouth to run down his beard, as he faced the woman who dared attack him.
“You … By the Gods …” He staggered.
Bjorn swung his sword without mercy. The blade sliced Marshall’s shoulder before hitting bone, and the evil knight crumpled with a sickening squeal. He writhed on the ground before his soul swiftly fled this earth.
“Thank God,” Anne whispered.
“Come!” Sorcha pulled Anne off the bed and, stepping over Darton and Ralston, said, “We must find Leah and make good our escape before any more who are loyal to Darton find us.”
Bjorn paused to grab the weapons, which he handed to Sorcha and Anne. “Oh, God,” Anne whispered, shaking her head at the sight of the blood dripping from the curved blade of the dagger. “I cannot.”
“You must!” Sorcha curled the older woman’s hands over the carved handle. “You may need it. We know not who is laying siege to the castle.” Through the halls, she heard the sound of swords clanging and men fighting. Curses and screams and the sickening stench of death filled the castle. “Hurry! There is no time!” Together they scurried down the hallway to the room where Leah was locked. Torches nearly dead from burning throughout the night flickered faintly as they passed, casting moving shadows on the walls.
No guard was standing outside Leah’s chamber, and it was little trouble to throw off the bar. The door swung open, and Leah, her face white as death, stood waiting, as if she’d heard the skirmish. “What is happening? I heard fighting—swords and men cursing and—” She gasped. “Bjorn!” She threw herself into his arms and began to sob. “I thought you were dead!”
Bjorn held her close and caressed her hair. “Beautiful Leah,” he whispered. Sorcha thought of Hagan and how he had once touched her, how his body had felt pressed against hers. To think that he was dead, that she would never see him again … Tears studded her eyes, but she sniffed quickly and would not dissolve into a weeping woman, not yet. There would be time for grieving later. Clearing her throat, she said gently, “Come, we must make haste. There is not much time.”
Leah, her eyes damp with tears, finally let go of the man she loved.
Sorcha started for the hall. “We have not yet escaped.”
“And you won’t,” an authoritative voice boomed from the shadows. Sorcha’s heart turned to stone. Tadd!
Spinning, she was sickened to find her brother filling the doorway. “What has happened here? Where’s Darton?” he commanded, looking as fierce as the night. “Don’t tell me, sister, that you have been plotting some kind of rebellion against the man you’re to marry?”
There was confusion in the yard. Without a leader, Darton’s army was nervous. A few men drew their swords. Curses were muttered and threats issued.
Garrick stood his ground. “I asked for an audience,” Garrick yelled over the wind that screamed over the cliffs and brought a sudden lash of rain.
“Darton was to come out and meet you,” one of the men Hagan recognized as a traitor said. Sir Brady. The bastard. He seemed as much in charge of the men as anyone.
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nbsp; “I’ll not be kept waiting.” Without another word, Garrick slid off his destrier, and Ware and Hagan did the same. “Let in the rest of my men.”
“I have orders—”
“Change them,” Garrick growled, and Hagan could stand the deceit no longer. He grabbed Brady around the waist and pressed his knife to the Judas’s throat.
Ware jumped from his steed to challenge the guard at the gate. The sentry cried, “Wait! What think you—”
Without a word, Ware slit the sentry in the arm, and as the man howled, he cranked on the portcullis. The gate ground upward just as some of the soldiers realized they’d been caught unawares.
“What the bloody hell—” Brady whispered, then caught sight of the eyes behind the nose guard. “Lord Hagan—?”
“Aye,” Hagan bit out, wishing he could kill the man right here. He tossed off his helmet and let the rain drive down against his hair. In a voice that resounded throughout the castle, he shouted, “Lay down your weapons, for I’ve returned. Those of you who wish to obey me, swear again your fealty and drop your weapons; those who oppose me, let it be known that I will see that you’re all slain.” He pressed the knife point closer to Brady’s thick throat, and the traitor squealed. A drop of blood slid down his neck as the army from Abergwynn rode into the keep. Through gritted teeth, Hagan growled, “What say you soldiers?”
“We know not of a rebellion,” Sorcha said, her fingers tightening around the handle of her knife, her gaze pinned to that of her brother.
“You lie, sister,” he said, his lip curling with disdain as he fingered his own dagger.
“Nay—”
Outside she heard voices, and imagined Hagan was among the men in the yard. But that was a silly dream, a dream she had to give up, for Hagan was surely dead.
“You’re a liar, Sorcha, but then you’ve always been a liar, haven’t you? Even your birth was a lie,” he said, advancing into the room and leaving two men to guard the door. “And that damned birthmark was a falsehood as well. To think that you had everyone believing you were the savior of Prydd. Now ’twould seem that you need saving.”
“I fear you not, Tadd.”
“Never too smart, were you.” He studied the blade of his knife, then said, “Now, tell me, where’s Lord Darton?”
Bjorn stood, feet apart, eyes centered upon Tadd as if he would gladly kill him with his bare hands. “Darton’s with Satan.”
Tadd’s eyes moved to the stableboy. “Pity Satan. Tell me, did you kill the Lord of Erbyn?”
“I would have tried.”
“One of his own men,” Sorcha said. “Sir Marshall betrayed him.”
“And where is Marshall?”
“Dead as well.” Bjorn’s fingers clenched his sword in a death grip.
“So that leaves the castle to …” Tadd’s eyes swung to Anne, who was still pale, but managed to square her shoulders.
“Aye. Lady Anne is in command,” Sorcha said, reading the turn of Tadd’s thoughts and stepping between her brother and the single heartbeat that controlled Erbyn. Anne stood at the window and gazed down at the bailey. “And … and … Lady Anne commands everyone to lay down their weapons,” Sorcha added, shooting a meaningful glance in Anne’s direction.
“Yes … yes,” Anne said quickly. “To meet Garrick of Abergwynn, we will go unarmed.”
“The Baron of Abergwynn is here … now?” Tadd asked, disbelieving. “I think not—”
“Have you not heard the commotion in the bailey?” Sorcha asked, her heart pounding as loudly as the heavy tread of more soldiers’ feet in the hallway.
“Aye,” Anne said, “I’ve seen him. He is with his army, and one of his men has Sir Brady by the throat. Now, as the lady of the castle, I ask you to lay down your weapon, Baron Tadd.”
Tadd looked unsure but held his ground. He listened for a second to the noise from the bailey, and the end of his tongue nervously rimmed his lips. “What matter if Garrick of Abergwynn is here? It is of no consequence. ’Twould still be easy to turn the tables on Erbyn, would it not? As for Garrick, I’ve no use for the bastard.” Tadd’s face was taut, but he managed a smile that looked like pure evil as he reached for his sword. “I’ll take Lady Anne as a hostage, and bargain with her for Erbyn.”
“Nay!” Anne cried.
“Why not?” Tadd lunged then, and Sorcha shoved Anne aside, for though Lady Anne’s words were strong, she could still barely stand from the potion she had drunk.
“I will not allow it,” Sorcha proclaimed as Anne nearly lost her balance and leaned against the wall.
“You will not allow it, sister?” Tadd barked out a sinister laugh. “We are not in Prydd any longer. No one here believes you to be their savior. Here, you are just a small woman with a sharp tongue. Now, get out of my way, you stupid bitch!” He swung at Sorcha with his blade. Her dress ripped with a sickening rending of threads.
“Nay, Tadd, do not …” Her dagger seemed a poor weapon against the sharp blade of his sword. “There has been enough death. Run!” she screamed to everyone in the room as she kicked a stool in Tadd’s direction and he fell over the upturned wooden legs. “Run!”
“Nay!” Tadd roared, holding his shin. “You will not—”
Bjorn led Anne and Leah through the doorway, pausing only to run each guard through with his sword before guiding them through the dark corridors of Erbyn. Rushlights flickered as they passed, and Sorcha hurried through the door, trying to close it. Tadd threw his body against the oaken slats, and she could do nothing but run down the stairs and into the bailey, where the very depths of hell were breaking loose.
Tadd scrambled after her and caught her at the door of the great hall. She stumbled out the door.
Tadd swung his horrid sword, and Sorcha jumped.
Bjorn rounded the corner, his knife raised.
“Halt!” Hagan’s voice reverberated through the bailey.
Hagan! Sorcha could barely believe her ears. He was alive! Her spirit seemed to soar. Turning her back on Tadd, she began to run to him.
“Watch out!” Hagan shouted as Tadd twisted and, growling in fury, swung again at Sorcha. Bjorn intercepted the blow, his arm gushing blood against the walls. He stumbled and knocked Sorcha backward to teeter on the stairs.
With a roar, Hagan hurdled a cart and vaulted up the stairs. He caught Sorcha, then, seeing that she was unharmed, turned and jumped upon the man who would dare hurt her. His fist connected with Tadd’s jaw, and the burly man staggered backward.
“Nay, Hagan! He’s mine!” a strong, male voice insisted, and Hagan, muscles bunched and the cords in his neck straining hard, spat on the steps near Tadd’s face. Though he seemed to want to tear his enemy limb from limb, Hagan stood aside.
As Sorcha watched, a tall man with a cleaved eyebrow strode up the stairs with measured gait, so slowly that she believed he was enjoying Tadd’s discomfort, as if he was stretching out this scene that would surely be a battle to the end. The blade of his sword glinted in the early morning light.
Sorcha’s throat turned to sand. Death lingered in the air.
“You … But you are only a messenger,” Tadd said, his voice trembling slightly as he took up his sword.
“Aye, a messenger from Lucifer,” the tall man said. “Remember me not, Tadd of Prydd? I’m Wolf, the outlaw, but before that I was Ware of Abergwynn. We’ve met before, you and I—”
Remembrance flashed across Tadd’s face, and along with it came fear.
Ware kept closing the distance. “ ’Twas you who cut my face”—he motioned quickly to the cleaved eyebrow—“you who raped Mary the fisherman’s daughter, who let your men have sport with her, who ruined what was left of her poor life!”
“I know not what you’re saying,” Tadd said, but his voice sounded strangled, and as he eyed the tall warrior his face lost all color.
“Prepare to die, Tadd of Prydd. It’s time to face God for your sins!”
“ ’Tis you who will die!” Tadd declared.
; “No!” Sorcha said, hoping to stop the bloodshed.
Tadd lunged, and the tall man agilely stepped aside.
“Son of Satan, you will not live another day.” Tadd turned quickly and managed to keep his balance. He swung his sword wildly, a man possessed by the scent of blood. But the soldier dodged the blow and seemed to be toying with him.
“Stop this madness!” Sorcha cried, her knees weak at the sight of Hagan. “Please, Hagan—” He looked up at her, and in that moment Tadd twisted away from his attacker and, spying Sorcha, he struck, thrusting his sword toward Sorcha again.
“No!” Hagan threw himself in front of the blow just as Ware rammed his deadly sword between Tadd’s ribs. Tadd’s blade ripped through Hagan’s flesh.
Blood poured onto the stone steps as Tadd fell, striking his head. Hagan, too, staggered, and Sorcha ran to him, cradling his head in her hands, pressing hot kisses against his crown. “You’re alive!” she cried, tears streaming down her face. “Hagan, love, you live!”
His eyes blurred, and then she realized how badly he was wounded. Blood stained his tunic a horrid shade of scarlet, and his lips moved but no sound escaped.
“Oh, God, no …” she whispered, her throat swollen with sudden fear. “You cannot …” She would not watch him die again. She could not. She placed her hands over the blood, but still it ran hot and sticky through the folds of his tunic and through her fingers.
From the corner of her eye she watched Tadd try to struggle to his feet. He smiled though blood drizzled from his mouth. “You cannot save him, Sorcha. You have no power.”
“Nor do you, bastard.” Ware delivered yet another blow with his sword, and Tadd fell silent, his body jerking until all motion stopped.
Sorcha barely noticed, for Hagan was dying in her arms. She tore off his clothes and ripped strips of cloth from her hated dress. Though tears clogged her throat, she bound the ugly gash in his side and yelled, “Bring me water! Call Nichodemas! Oh, Hagan, no. No, no, no!” She held him close, willing him to live, praying to a God who seemed to turn deaf ears in her direction. “You cannot die!”
