by Elise Marion
“Please, hurry back Serge,” she whispered before following Primus to the stairs leading down from the wall.
When she reached the courtyard, she found the men watching, wide-eyed as the battering ram pounded against the gate. She could see the rebels, many of them cheering and whistling as the iron shook and bent from the battering ram’s powerful blows.
She retrieved her bow and notched an arrow, aiming through the iron bars. She inhaled as Mudiwa had taught her, and exhaled while relaxing her fingers to release the bowstring. Her arrow struck true, whizzing through the bars and into the throat of a rebel.
“Archers, to the gate!” she shouted before notching another arrow.
The thunderous sound of the archers’ feet flooded her ears, as they descended to join her in taking down as many of the rebels as they could with their arrows.
The gate groaned and bent inward, only seconds remaining before the courtyard would be flooded with rebels. She slung her bow across her body and turned to her gathered men and women. Many still looked frightened, others portrayed an outward resolve.
“Hold this line,” she commanded. “We cannot allow them entrance to the castle. Our families are hidden in there, and their lives depend upon us holding this line. Do not falter, do not retreat.”
Beside her, Ava clenched the handles of her battle axes and glared at the rebels through the gate. At her other side Desmond trembled, but held his sword aloft, prepared to fight alongside her. She grasped his shoulder, and met his gaze, willing him to calm.
“Steady Desmond,” she whispered. “Just breathe and try to remember what you’ve been taught. I’m right here with you. It’s my first battle too, you know.”
That got a little smile out of him, and he seemed to relax a bit.
A few more seconds with the battering ram, and the rebels tore the gate asunder, then began swarming the courtyard. Isabelle raised her sword and signaled her men to meet them head-on.
She barely had time to think before she countered an attack, plunging her sword into a rebel soldier. The hot gush of his blood stained her hands and face, and Isabelle watched in wide-eyed horror as he fell at her feet. The first enemy to be killed at her hands, a life taken and another person’s blood on her hands.
When another rebel rose in that one’s place, she reacted without hesitation, snapping out of her dazed stupor. She had told herself to remember everything she’d learned in Gladstone, but found there was no time to think. She let her body move from memory, allowing her mind to go almost completely blank as she fought for her life. Her training took over and she fought by rote, her arms and legs seeming to hold the memory of the deadly dance of swordplay.
A few rebels managed to slip past their formation, but the archers—led by Mudiwa and Hanako—put them down with a volley of arrows.
After what felt like hours of holding the line, keeping the rebels back until their bodies began to pile up in the courtyard, a cheer went up from where the archers fired from atop the wall. Shouts of ‘the king is here!’ rang out through the air and drew her gaze beyond the broken gate and to the horizon.
Her heart soared as she recognized the Barony battle standard flapping in the wind, hundreds more soldiers riding hell for leather to come to their aid. She threw herself back into the fray, her soldiers following suit. They fought with renewed vigor, determined to hold their defense for the several minutes it would take reinforcements to reach the gates.
A sudden pain exploded through her, stabbing from her leg and up into her hip and back. With a scream, she fought to remain on her feet, her gaze growing hazy as the agony threatened to steal her consciousness away. She found an arrow sticking out of her thigh, and a crimson stain spreading on her breeches. She glanced up to find Ava’s eyes on her, wide with shock. She reached down to grab the arrow, but Ava halted her with a firm hand around her wrist.
“No, Your Majesty! Don’t pull it out. You’ll do more damage than good.”
Ava wrapped her arm around Isabelle’s shoulders and dragged her toward the stairs leading to the castle doors. She forced Isabelle to stand still while she broke off the feathered end of the arrow, leaving most of it embedded it in her thigh. Isabelle groaned in agony as Ava ripped a strip of fabric from the bottom of her own tunic before binding her thigh tight. She gritted her teeth and waited for Ava to finish tending to her, her thigh throbbing with every swift beat of her heart.
The binding had helped slow the flow of blood, but every step would prove agonizing until the arrow was removed.
“You should go to the infirmary,” Ava said, eying Isabelle as if waiting for her to collapse. “That leg could become infected.”
She tested her weight on the injured leg. It stung like hell, but she found that she was able to abide it so long as she ignored the pain.
“Later,” she rasped as she lifted her sword. “I won’t stop until Serge arrives. We must hold them back a bit longer.”
* * *
Serge unsheathed his sword as they neared Guthrie Hall. He pulled one loaded pistol from his belt before yanking on the reins, and dismounted. Every soldier under his command followed suit, and they charged as one toward the castle gate. Rebels mingled with Barony’s villagers and lords within the courtyard. The cries of the wounded and dying assaulted his ears as he leaped right into the fray.
He searched for Isabelle as he fought, but could not find her amid the chaos. He fought down the sharp spike of fear that rose in him, reminding himself that she was a soldier now. She would fight until her last breath, and the people he’d entrusted to keep her safe would never allow her to be killed while they still drew air into their lungs.
Vernon appeared at his side, hands and face stained with blood and grime, sword smeared with another man’s innards.
“Impeccable timing, Your Majesty,” he said before running his sword through a rebel.
“Where’s Isabelle?”
“Somewhere in this madness,” Vernon replied with a little smile. “Your wife may have saved us all with her bravery.”
“I do not doubt it,” Serge said, before moving away from the bodyguard and fighting his way deeper into the twisting morass of bodies.
The dead had begun to pile up—soldiers lost from both sides. Others carried the wounded up the front steps, where footmen waited to carry them inside to the infirmary.
He fought his way in that direction, praying Isabelle had possessed enough sense to stay close to the inside and away from the worst of it. He did not doubt her skill, but would hope she’d be strategic in her movements.
He had just spotted her near the steps—hair in a wild tangle about her head, face streaked with grime—when a rebel shrouded in black stepped between them and filled his vision. His hand balled into a fist and trembled with barely suppressed rage as he recognized his adversary.
“Lucius,” he spat.
“Your Highness,” the rebel leader replied with a chuckle. “It’s about time you made an appearance. I had started to wonder if you were going to miss all the fun.”
“Not a chance, you snake.”
Serge went on the offensive, fighting for control over his boiling rage as he attacked. Lucius was both cold and calculating; losing his head would only give the man what he needed to end him. The other man countered Serge’s every swing with expert flair, his arm moving with the fluid motions of one familiar with his weapon.
His body cried out from the fatigue of a long and trying day. After hours in the saddle to and from Gladstone, he had grown weary and his leg ached like the devil. The sun had almost disappeared in the distance, and soon the full moon would rise above them. Serge prayed for the strength to go on as he focused all of his energy on landing a fatal blow to his opponent. The sooner he put an end to this, the better.
Lucius feinted left and then struck right, thrusting his sword into Serge’s side. He clutched at the wound as he fell to one knee, faintly registering feminine screams behind him as pain wracked his body. Isabelle … she’
d seen him take the blow, seen him fall on the edge of the other man’s sword.
His vision blurred, and Lucius’s face swam before his eyes. Lifting his gaze to the enemy, his hand curled around the hilt of his sword. He fought against dizziness as blood drained from the wound. His wife … he had to survive for her. Isabelle could not lose another husband, and he could not leave her to face this alone. Waiting for Lucius to draw close enough for him to attack, he remained on his knees, letting the other man think he was too weak to go on.
Little did the rebel leader know, Serge would never stop fighting for Isabelle, for the people depending upon him. They had not survived so much pain and loss only to fail so close to the end.
Lucius stood over him, his mouth quirked into a sardonic smirk. “You are not the first king to fall at the hands of a Winthrop … but you will be the last.”
“Not if I have anything to do with it,” snarled a woman’s voice.
“Dear God, no,” Serge moaned, struggling to his feet as Lucius turned to face the voice.
Isabelle approached, her sword raised and her gaze defiant.
“If you want him, you’ll have to kill me first,” she cried, her chest heaving with labored breath.
By the time Serge had regained his balance and shook away the haze that clouded his consciousness, Lucius had already turned to Isabelle, his sword raised.
His laughter as he walked toward her was heavy with derision, as if he expected to make easy work of her before returning to Serge. Isabelle’s eyes narrowed as she parted her feet and bent her knees, motioning for Lucius to come for her with one hand while she raised her sword with the other.
“Isabelle, no!” he bellowed, stumbling toward them.
He was not fast enough, the pain in his side making his steps clumsy. He could only watch as his wife met his enemy, their swords clashing with a loud clangor. If he tried to intercede too soon, he could distract Isabelle and she would be killed. All there was for him to do was stand back and wait for an opening.
He breathed through the pain stabbing through his side, and drew upon the last of his strength so that he would be ready when his moment came.
He was surprised at Isabelle’s skill as she countered Lucius’ every swing. Her sword moved as an extension of her arm, her feet keeping her moving in the dance of a fight. Even with her injured leg, she was faster than Lucius, who might be bigger and stronger but struggled to land a single blow while growing more frustrated with each passing second.
He silently cheered her on, still watching for an opening. The wound in her leg obviously pained her, and after a while she began to slow, struggling to keep her balance on the wounded limb.
When Lucius brought his fist down on Isabelle’s wrist, sending her sword clattering to the ground, Serge launched himself toward them without hesitation.
He caught Lucius around his middle and took the other man to the ground, but not before his fist had connected with Isabelle’s jaw. She fell to the cobblestones, groaning and pressing a hand to her bloodied mouth.
Serge snarled his rage, cocking his fist back before slamming it into Lucius face. Cartilage and bone snapped beneath his knuckles, not nearly satisfying enough after the man had struck his wife.
Lucius snarled, and countered with vicious intent, digging his fingers into Serge’s wound.
Stars filled his vision, and he struggled to maintain consciousness as the pain became almost too much to bear. In the moments that Serge fought to breathe through the pain and stay awake, Lucius had reversed their positions, putting him on his back. Lucius loomed over him, eyes alight with madness, a hideous grin curling his lips back from his teeth.
“Let it be known from this day forward, that I was the one who toppled the mighty King Serge from his throne.”
He detected the flash of a dagger in Lucius’ hand as he raised it, poised to kill. Before he could deliver his fatal blow, a hot spray of blood burst forth from his throat, soaking Serge’s face and neck.
Eyes widened and mouth dropped open in shock, Lucius fell back onto the cobblestones, an arrow protruding from his neck. As he choked and gurgled, Serge lifted his head to find Isabelle standing a few feet away, her empty bow still raised in one hand. Serge’s heart swelled with pride as he realized that she’d saved him. He turned to Lucius and laughed, the act making his side ache all the more. The man lay beside him, choking and gasping for air as the flow of blood surged up through his mouth, soaking his armor and the ground in the crimson gore.
“Let it be known from this day forward, that the mighty leader of the rebellion was brought low by a woman.”
Within seconds, Lucius was gone, having drowned in his own blood. The life drained from his eyes with Serge looking on, and Lucius fell limp onto the cobblestones.
Collapsing onto his back once again, Serge placed a hand to his side and groaned. Lucius’s blade had found him right in the vulnerable area where the front of his breastplate and the back of it were attached by its buckles. If there had been time to put on his best armor, there would have been no such vulnerability. But, there had been no time, and now he was suffering for a choice made in haste.
Isabelle crouched and offered him her hand, helping him into a seated position. Biting back a string of curses, he fought to remain conscious so he would not miss a moment of their victory. She pointed to where Ava had gathered the men for one last charge, bringing a smile to his face.
Discouraged by the death of their leader, the rebel army quaked in fear as Primus led the charge with Ava beside him. The battle standard flew from the captain’s hand, high over their heads. Intimidated by Barony’s final show of strength, the remaining rebels turned tail and ran. Primus ordered the archers to take the cowards out, and with one final volley of arrows, the last of the enemy’s forces was wiped out.
A great cry went up from the men and women who had fought so bravely against the rebels. Isabelle fell into his arms, sobbing and laughing while holding him tight. He wrapped one arm around her and used his other to keep them from toppling back onto the ground. The pain in his side was well worth the sweet relief he felt at having her here with him, alive and well.
When she pulled away, he raised one hand to wipe away the tears that had left streaks of her skin showing through the grime on her face.
“You did it, Isabelle,” he said, his voice hoarse from the pain. “I am … I’m so proud … of you …”
He groaned, the pain in his side intensifying into an intense burn.
“You’re hurt,” she said, indicating the blood draining from the wound in his side. “Serge …”
He shrugged, nearly losing his balance but held upright by her arm at his back. “Just … another scar among many … I’m afraid.”
“You’re going to be all right,” she said, her words breaking off onto a sob. “You have been through worse.”
“Yes, I will be all right because you saved me,” he whispered, brushing a strand of hair back from her face.
She smiled through her tears, and reached up to cover his hand with hers. “How could I not?”
Her voice was the last thing he heard before the edges of his vision grew hazy. As he fell limp in her arms, the world around him faded to black.
* * *
Once she was assured he still lived, Isabelle reluctantly allowed Primus and Nell to carry Serge off to the infirmary. The healers there could help him in a way she could not.
She wanted to go to the cave and inform those hiding inside it that the battle had been won, but Ava would not allow it.
“I will see to them, Your Highness. You need to have your wound tended to. If you do not have the rest of that arrow removed soon, you’ll contract an infection.”
Seeing the wisdom in Ava’s logic, she allowed Hanako and Mudiwa to escort her to the infirmary, trusting the captain to see to those hiding within the cave. The pain of the arrow being removed proved so great she nearly lost consciousness. She fought for to remain alert as Akira’s face appeared
within her line of vision. The old woman had shooed the physician away after he’d removed the arrow, and now applied a foul-smelling poultice to the burning wound. Already, heat and redness began to spread along the outer edge of the hole in her thigh.
“What in God’s name is that?” she asked, wrinkling her nose against the stench.
Akira chuckled as she wrapped a bandage around her thigh to hold the poultice in place. “It will keep you from fever and infection. You will be sore for several days, and it will take time to heal, but you’ll live.”
Isabelle studied the Gypsy woman as she removed the bloody rags from the small cot she had been lying on. When Akira’s eyes met hers, she couldn’t help but smile.
“You knew this was going to happen all along, didn’t you?”
Akira shrugged, fighting the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Perhaps.”
“And what of my dream about Lionus?” she questioned as she stood and tested her full weight on her injured leg. It ached like the devil, but she was determined to look in on Serge before resting it. “Will you confess to being responsible for that?”
Akira’s puzzled frown was genuine as her head came up sharply, her eyes meeting Isabelle’s. “What dream?”
She fell silent as Akira moved on to the next cot to tend to Desmond, who had sustained a deep cut on his arm, but was otherwise fine. Her mind reeled as she thought over her dream once more. Akira had not been responsible for it, as Isabelle had first suspected. It could only mean one thing, the realization of it washing over her in a swift and rushing tide.
She loved Serge.
The insight hit her in the face as if she’d been doused with cold water, and she nearly collapsed from the force of it. She loved him … truly loved him. Her heart had given her what she’d needed to admit it to herself, to face the truth of it.
