Roaring, he charged me, swinging his blade like a madman at anything that got in his way. Nimbly jumping around, I did my best to stay away from him, not even bothering to retaliate.
Suddenly, a bullet shot past me, striking him in the shoulder and I glanced back, surprised that either of my companions had managed to load a gun and fire it under their current circumstances.
Captain Lomas stood at the entrance of the room, covered in bruises and bleeding from his hairline, the liquid running down his scarred face. His pistol was aimed right at Randall, a grim look of satisfaction on his face. He was soon blocked by a skeleton figure, which he immediately began dueling with. Another Templar slid into the space behind him, pulling one of the guards away from the group Tristan was grappling with.
That’s when the realization hit me.
The Order had arrived and was fighting their way in from the outside.
With a thud, an arrow soared streaked across the space, stabbing into another skull, the Apache man who’d fired it appearing among the Knights. He let out his own battle cry, yanking a small axe out of his belt as he charged the nearest warrior. Mark, shouting something in their language, moved through the mess to meet him, the two of them dueling the macabre creations together.
Turning back to Randall, I smiled triumphantly, holding my sword up. “Too bad you let them kill all your men,” I said, goading him. “You probably could have used some help becoming king of the world.”
Shot, bleeding, and raging mad with his chest heaving, Thomas Randall glared at me. “I could still kill you, you know,” he puffed, stepping closer. “There would be others.”
“Others?” I asked, faltering for a second.
“Others proven worthy by the gods,” he explained, grinning in a sickly kind of way. “Those worthy of my presence. Zeus already marked you, when he let you come back in time instead of destroying you. Of course, if I kill you now, I’d never get the satisfaction of knowing I took something that belonged to O’Rourke and broke it so completely.”
His words didn’t make sense for a second and then I almost threw up, looking at him in disgust. “I’m not yours to play with,” I told him fiercely. “And I never will be.”
“We’ll see.” Laughing breathlessly, he shrugged his shoulders, as if throwing off the pain from being shot. “Snake Eyes was proven worthy, but he won’t do for what I need. He’d only get in the way of me taking you.”
“You’ll never take me anywhere again.” The cold defiance in my tone made his nostrils flare in anger and I knew our talking had ended.
Charging once more, our blades clashed, clanging against each other and joining the din of the battle going on all around us. There was no opportunity to look at the others, or to see if we were about to be attacked by the skeleton guards. All that mattered was to me was stopping Randall, right now.
Pushing him into a corner, I layered all the pressure I could on him, hacking away, punching, kicking, and doing whatever I could to keep him occupied. The golden belt still glittered around his waist, just out of reach. As I tried to sidestep him and grab it, he turned, catching me under the chin with the pommel of his sword.
Stunned, I arched through the air as I fell, twisting around. The water of the spring was waiting to break my fall—the gem-lined basin, sharp and unforgiving. Dropping my sword, I flung my hands out to catch myself, cutting them on the rocks as my face dunked into the liquid.
Fingers pressed against the back of my head, Randall held me under the surface, and I screamed in frustration, the sound escaping as giant air bubbles from my mouth. Struggling against him, I opened my eyes, struggling to find something, anything I could grab and hit him with.
Two tiny vials shone from the bottom of the pool, their dark red contents sending a thrill through me. They almost blended in with all of the jewels around them, sparkling just as brightly. For half a second, I reached for them, finding them just out of the grasp of my fingers, and then I was yanked out of the water, coughing and sputtering as I tried to see straight again.
Randall dropped me on the floor, kicking me in the ribs as he growled, but then he stopped, his eyes trained on the pool. Slowly, he knelt down and dipped his hand in the water, reaching until his entire shoulder had been submerged.
Drawing the two bottles out, he stared in wonder at the diamond cases, the lights still shining off them as he examined the small items. It was as if he’d forgotten everything going on around him, the danger he was in.
He was completely devoted to the blood, curling his fingers around it protectively.
I, however, had not forgotten what was going on.
Gripping my sword, I raised it high over my head, standing as I did so, and brought it down as hard as I could, pressing harder as the blade met his skin. It crushed through bone, severed veins, and came out the other side, Randall’s hand falling to the floor, the vials still in it.
Screaming, he grabbed at the bloody stump, stumbling away from the edge of the pool he was now coloring red with his own gore. His cries echoed off the walls, overpowering those of the other fighters, practically paralyzing me as I stared at the now useless appendage that lay in front of me.
“My hand!” he cried in anguish. “My hand!” Shaking, he gaped up at me, the color fading from his face as blood pumped from him, the artery in his left arm now disconnected.
“I’m sorry,” I said, surprised to find that I meant it. Slowly, the realization of what had just happened seemed to wash over me and I jolted myself, knowing I needed to get the vials to safety.
Reaching down, I pulled the bottles from the detached hand, turning to find Tristan and Mark. The room was still a mess of fighting, and I worried that most of the objects kept here were being destroyed in the process.
Suddenly, someone grabbed me from behind, yanking me by the hair and I cried out, dropping the vials. Randall was right there to catch them, scrambling across the ground. Shoving the first one he grabbed in his pocket, he grasped the second in his hand, gasping for air as he stood. He looked ready to topple over, blood still slowly spurting from his wound, his skin so pale he looked like a ghost.
Panic seized me and I slapped at him, knocking the vial from him, the glass stopper in the top shattering as the contents splattered against the wall.
“No!” Randall screamed, running over. Even with the belt, his energy was spent, his body collapsing along the stones, tears seeping from his eyes.
“The world could have been great under me,” he said hoarsely. “I had so many . . . plans.” Reaching up, he touched the blood on the wall with his stump, his breathing slowing as he died right in front of me.
My breath caught, everything seeming to freeze in that moment, our eyes meeting as the life slipped from him. A film covered his, the lights in them growing darker, fading into almost nonexistence.
And then, just as slowly, the glow started returning, his skin turning pink, and then the tan I knew him to regularly have. Air filled his lungs as he gasped, his back arching as his body twitched, his remaining hand grasping at nothing. Before my eyes, the stump I’d given him started to heal, the bleeding stopped, skin growing over the clean cut.
“What?” Stumbling away, I tried to understand how he was still alive, how he was coming back from the dead. My gaze raked over him, searching for any explanation.
And then I saw it.
The blood on the wall had disappeared.
As I’d been watching him die, breathing in the peace his death offered, the liquid had absorbed into him, healing him from the inside out.
Standing, he stared at his wrist in wonder, the amputation site perfectly rounded and without scars. It was as if he’d never had a hand in the first place, the skin flowed so smoothly together. Glancing up at me, he smiled, the wicked grin that made my stomach twist in horror.
“The blood of the gods runs in my veins.” It wasn’t a question or a statement—he said it like a power phrase, a declaration meant to strike fear into people’s he
arts.
It worked.
Backing up, I felt my body hit the wall. There was nowhere left to run and no telling what he might be able to do with the essence of a god running in his veins now. If he could heal himself, the odds were no longer in my favor.
Stepping closer, he reached for me, wonder on his face, and I slammed my eyes shut, not wanting to see whatever it was he planned to do with me.
Heart pounding, I held my breath, steeling myself for the touch of his fingers, for the sound of his voice in my ear, for him to force me to go with him again. He thought I was his chosen one, picked by the gods, worthy enough to be in his presence. What would I have to do to get away this time?
But there was nothing. No touch, no words, not even a movement of air. Slowly, I opened my eyes and peered around the room.
Thomas Randall was gone, and he’d taken the blood of the gods with him.
The skeletons seemed to fade and fall apart, the brightness of the room dimming some. It appeared that, without the essence of those who had enchanted them, the warriors became simply bones, breaking into pieces and laying still at last. All around me, Templars stood dazed, beaten and tired, appearing confused as to what was happening.
“Tristan!” I yelled, pushing through the crowd in his direction. “He’s getting away!”
My husband turned to look at me, just as shocked as everyone else. His face was covered by the blood trickling out of his hairline, his shirt missing a sleeve. Despite his haggard facade, he glanced to the entrance of the cave as soon as he understood what I was saying, his hands tightening around his blade. By the time I reached him, he was already running down the long tunnel, hurdling fallen Aztec warriors, shoving stunned Templars and Apache out of the way.
Feeling like my lungs might burst from over-exertion, I followed him, the light from outside a pinprick in the distance. Sounds of rain still cascaded softly down on the mountain, the rumble of thunder rolling through the sky. Randall’s form was barely visible, a shadow racing toward freedom ahead of us.
Reaching the mouth of the cave, Tristan skidded to a halt, throwing his arm out and catching me before I went any further.
Gasping, I looked out into the storm, marveling at the sight in front of me.
Randall stood in a Viking style boat, the golden belt still around his waist. Lightning flashed as he took the helm, waving at us with his stump, and the entire vessel rose into the sky, disappearing into clouds above without a sound.
“What the hell?” I muttered, watching the clouds with fascination and dread.
“I think that covers my own feelings,” Tristan agreed, peering at me with identical confusion.
“Where is he?” Captain Lomas burst past us and into the rain, turning around wildly, his sword raised. He looked a little like a zombie himself, he was so beat up, a crazed glimmer in his eyes.
“Did you catch him?” Mark stopped on the other side of us, breathless, the hammer still clenched tightly in his gloved hand.
Tristan stared at me, his mouth opening and closing in bewilderment, and then stared up at the sky.
“He’s gone,” I said, to Lomas.
“What?”
“He . . . flew away.” Tristan sounded like he didn’t believe it, even though he’d just seen it. “In a ship.”
“I’m sorry?” Mark stepped forward, eyeing the cut on Tristan’s head like he thought it might have impacted his vision.
“It’s true. There was a Viking ship and it just flew into the sky.” Swallowing, I glanced at Lomas.
Sighing, he nodded, sheathing his sword. “Skíðblaðnir.”
“Bless you?” I said, confused.
“No. Skíðblaðnir is the name of the ship. He must have taken it from the vault.” Running his hands through his wet hair, Lomas shoved back past us, seeking refuge from the weather.
“How could we have missed him taking an entire ship?” Mark sounded just as baffled as I was. Tristan, meanwhile, continued to stare at us all blankly.
“It’s a magical ship,” Lomas explained. “Besides being able to fly, it can be folded up to fit inside your pocket when you aren’t using it. The Norse considered it their finest vessel, able to travel over water, land, or air, and hold whatever you needed, no matter the size or weight.”
“Are you sure that’s what we just saw?” I pressed.
“I’ve spent my lifetime as a Templar searching for this treasure and studying the contents of it,” he snapped, glaring at me. “If you saw a ship fly away, trust me, it was that one.”
“He was still wearing the belt,” Tristan finally said, seeming to come to his senses.
“Thor’s belt,” I added, grimacing as Lomas’s face turned a deeper shade of red.
“What about the vials?” Mark asked, closing his eyes tightly and rubbing the bridge of his nose.
Biting my lip, I stared at the three of them, not replying.
“Dios nos ayude,” Lomas muttered, crossing himself.
“I had them,” I said, stumbling over my memories of the fight. “I cut off his hand to stop him from taking them, but—”
“You cut off his hand?” Tristan stared at me with wide eyes.
“Yes! He was dead; I watched him bleed out from it. But one of the vials had spilled and . . .” Frowning, I took a deep breath. “He absorbed it.”
Lomas grabbed me by the front of the shirt, yanking me to him as he stared in my eyes. “He did what?” His voice was dangerous and low, gaze burning furiously into my own.
“Get yer hands off her,” Tristan growled, pulling me back. “It’s not her fault that things didn’t go as planned.”
“It is,” I replied, miserably. “The wound I gave him is where it absorbed into. He was completely healed, except for his hand returning.” Shrugging helplessly, I let my sword fall from my hands, clattering to the ground.
Distracted, Lomas looked down at it, a suspicious expression crossing his face. “This is the blade you cut him with?”
“Yeah. Why?”
Bending down, he picked the weapon up, examining it with careful eyes. “This is Dáinsleif. I’m sure of it.”
The name tugged at something from my memory and I frowned, thinking back to my many literature classes. “The sword that can’t be sheathed until it’s killed someone?”
“Or given them a wound that will kill them, sí.” Pausing for a moment, he seemed to think it over to himself, nodding. “Of course. That’s why his hand didn’t grow back—you hurt him enough to kill him. The blood he absorbed couldn’t override the magic of the sword. The power of the gods was already at work there.”
“What will happen now that he has the blood inside him, though?” Mark questioned, bringing up the question I hadn’t wanted to ask.
“I’ve no idea,” Lomas replied. “But it can’t be good.”
Falling silent, the four of us continued to watch the storm, the sting of our defeat hanging over our heads.
And it was my fault.
“You need to see a doctor, lass,” Tristan finally murmured, taking my hand in his and examining my wrist.
“I’m not the only one.” Smiling softly, I looked over his bloodied face, feeling my heart lighten some despite the position we were now in. We were together and that was all that mattered.
“There are men inside who need assistance as well,” Lomas spoke up. “We’ll have to make camp in the valley and assess our damages. There are the Apache to deal with, too.”
“They don’t need dealing with,” Mark spoke up roughly.
“On the contrary. They are now part of this entire ordeal; their secrecy must be obtained, or they will face the consequences.”
“Funny, I bet they’re thinking the same thing about you.” Glaring at the captain, Mark folded his arms. “This is the riches of their people. It belongs here, where they can take care of it.”
“What?” Lomas exclaimed. “Where it’s not protected? That would be disastrous to the artifacts that remain!”
“
It’s not unprotected,” he replied evenly, not seeming to care that his suggestion had angered the captain. “The Apache know what this place is. They’ve been the first line of defense for hundreds of years, even when they didn’t know if it existed or not. They’ll keep guarding it now. If you try and move these things, you’ll not only be disturbing a cursed treasure, but the final resting place of all the Aztec warriors we just fought with. Let the tribes take care of their own.”
“It’s not a bad idea,” Tristan agreed.
“I promised Runs With Wolves I wouldn’t let anything happen, if I could help it,” Mark added. “It needs to stay here.”
“Snake Eyes speaks words of wisdom.” The entire group turned back, watching the Indian man make his way to us. His eyes smiled, his strong form reaching out for Mark. Pulling his brother into a hug, the two men remained silent, breathing together after their battle.
“Who would have thought you’d be calling me wise someday,” Mark finally said, breaking away.
“Not I.” Runs With Wolves laughed, looking out to the storm. “But, I never thought this place was real, either. It seems I was mistaken about many things.”
“I don’t feel comfortable leaving the treasure here.” Lomas asserted himself to the man. “It’s my job to make sure it is taken care of, not left in the desert to rot.”
“It stays here,” Mark answered, his voice unwavering.
“No, it doesn’t!”
“It does,” I offered. “It will be safe here. All the stories in my time say it’s just a gold mine; no one will ever find it. The Apache will keep it hidden and secret.”
“The future can be changed. Our fight at the Mission proved that well enough.” Lomas’s voice was haughty and condescending, his expression one of triumph.
“Actually, I don’t think it does.” Mark sighed, rubbing his face, and then stared at his brother. Speaking quietly in Apache, he told Runs With Wolves something that made his eyes widen, his mouth pressing into a thin line.
“It is the truth?” the Indian asked, glancing between Mark and me.
Carried Away (The Swept Away Saga, Book Two) Page 33
