by Kim Bowman
The world swirled around her. Brynn willed herself to stand. She glanced to her side. “I’m sorry,” she mouthed, watching Marek scream against the restraints of his men. Brynn lowered her bow and tilted her head to the sky. Three black ravens circled above her, eagerly awaiting her death. She was dying. Blood pooled in her mouth, and she spat it to the ground. It dripped from her nose, cascading to the powdery blanket of snow below. It congealed around her toes, forming steaming balls of red clumps on her boots and carelessly staining the front of her pretty gown. Her breath crystallized in the air before her, but yet, she felt no cold.
Brynn reached up toward the ravens, searching the heavens for strength. Her dreams had proven to be true. The ruse of her death would at last give her people freedom from Westmore, and she prayed Marek would find the writings she had left for him in time. She would die this day — her dreams had shown her so — but with the proper planning, and a bit of luck, it wouldn’t be so for long. She twirled her palm in the air and watched it intensely as it rotated. It felt disjointed from her body, as if it did not belong to her. The potion she made had served its purpose. She gaped at the gash on her palm as it wept bloody tears — watched as they dripped in steady rhythmic beats to the perfect white earth.
There were others surrounding her — faceless, lifeless beings standing where hearts once beat to the tune of life. Blood trickled from their burning eyes and spouted from their fingers. Swirls of white and crimson danced around the corpses of the fallen in victory. The death walkers beckoned her to join them.
Blood filled her mouth, and she spat it to the ground. Breathing had become a task she had to concentrate on as her lungs filled with fluid. Her eyes fluttered, but she continued her attack, drawing her last arrow. She took her time aiming — it was imperative her shot find its mark. Her fingers released and the arrow cut through the air.
At the same time her shot lodged itself in Julian’s chest, a barrage of arrows flew from behind her. The Archaeans joined in her battle against the Engels. She watched as Julian stumbled forward, lost his footing, and slipped from the bluff. His limbs tangled in the vines protruding from the ridge wall, and his bones cracked in perverted ways, leaving him hanging precariously.
The third arrow sent her careening to the bloodstained snow. She attempted to crawl to safety, but her arms couldn’t support her. She fell to her back and sucked in a breath that wouldn’t come.
Arms gathered her limp body, carrying her from the clearing. Marek propped her up against the trunk of a tree, mumbling incoherent words. He wiped the blood from her mouth and kissed her lips with the tenderness of an angel. “Ronan, help me with these arrows.” Marek searched her body for exit wounds, finding two.
He let them be.
Brynn attempted to speak but only blood flowed from her lips. She brought her hand to Marek’s face and placed a stained palm to his cheek. He closed his eyes and cradled it with his own, while hot tears streamed between their entwined fingers.
“I will take you home, love, I promise it. We will watch our children play in the fields under the summer sun. We will grow old together, you and I, and I will love you all the days of my life.” When her eyelids began to flutter, Marek pulled her close. “Stay with me, Brynn.” She fought against her body for a breath, arching violently in his arms. His tears splattered on her face as he cradled her head. “Damn it, Brynn, breathe!” His hands wandered aimlessly over her body, unsure of how to help her. “Please don’t leave me,” he whispered, a cry shattering his words.
“Kill him.” She focused on the ocean waves crashing in his eyes and inhaled sharply then breathed no more.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Return to Me
“Ronan, help me!” Marek begged for assistance as his wife’s lifeless body hung limp in his arms. Gripping an arrow, he pulled it from her flesh, tossing it to the side. “I need bandages. Hurry!” Marek pressed his palm to the wound to stanch the flow of blood. “Return to me, Brynn. Please.” He lowered her to the ground, oblivious to the battle still raging around him. Pressing his ear to her chest, he listened for a heartbeat.
“Marek,” Ronan muttered, his voice soft — sympathetic.
“No.”
“Marek.” He placed a firm hand on Marek’s shoulder. “She is gone.”
Marek ignored the words. “Why are you standing there? Ronan!”
“She is gone, Marek. Let her be.”
His body felt numb, as if it was no longer his own. “Where is my son?”
“I sent Aiden and Gavin to find him. They should return soon.”
“They will not find him,” said a voice from the shadows. “He is in the hands of Westmore.”
Recognizing it, Marek jumped to his feet and charged into the darkness, rage spewing from his mouth in a violent scream. He lunged for Michael, pummeling him to the ground. When Marek realized Michael didn’t fight back, he hesitated, fist still poised for attack.
“It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.” Michael stared at Brynn’s body. “She finally found happiness, and I destroyed her. She is dead because of my own greed.” Grief for his sister contorted his face into a deep scowl.
Grabbing a fistful of clothing, Marek hauled Michael to his feet. Anger and frustration seethed throughout his body, his chest rising and falling with each painful breath. “Twice now, this Westmore has killed a woman I loved. Twice, he has taken what matters most from me. It will not happen a third time. You will take me to him — you will take me to my son!”
“I’m sorry. I cannot help you, for I do not know the way.”
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you.”
“I cannot.”
Marek stared at the Engel and all he saw was pity and a saddened heart. They both mourned the same woman. “There has been enough death this day.” Marek released Michael, shoving a distance between them before he changed his mind. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Marek wrapped Brynn in a blanket and draped her over the back of a horse while the others regrouped. Michael followed behind Marek and his men at a safe distance as they cleared the White Forest. The battered warriors marched in solemn silence, leaving Marek to ponder over just who had won the battle.
The Archaeans made camp under the setting summer sun, its rays illuminating their souls and restoring hope to the world. Marek sorted through his supplies, but it was more of an aimless wandering to make his actions seem as if they had purpose. Instead, he found his eyes drifting to the shape of the beautiful woman now resting in eternal peace. He couldn’t stand the thought that underneath the woolen blanket she lay torn apart like a practice target. He would never again hear a sweet melody leave her lips or taste the delicate skin only he knew. Never again would she say his name. Dampness settled on Marek’s cheek, and he brushed it with a finger, clearing his throat. “What is the count?” He turned his attentions to Ronan.
“Nine.”
A curse slipped from Marek’s mouth as he exhaled. “That is all? Tell them all to go home.”
“What is your plan?”
“Promise me you will look after the lads.” Marek checked his blades before securing them to his mount.
Ronan gripped Marek’s forearm. “What are you going to do?”
“Something stupid.”
“Don’t go getting yourself killed now, aye? Your son is out there, and he needs his da.”
“Just promise me you will look after them. They will go getting into a heap of trouble without someone keeping eyes on them. Keep Gavin away from the forest. I’m sure he’ll see every woman he has fornicated with and run off to find his death.” He paused, unsure of how to approach the subject of Brynn’s ceremonial burial. “If I’m not back in three days, you can proceed..” Marek turned to meet Ronan’s gaze. “A proper Archaean burial. Take her home, Ronan, like I promised.”
“I give you my word, brother.”
Marek clasped Ronan in a tight embrace, knowing it might be the last time he would se
e him in the worldly realm. “Three days, Ronan, or I will find you in hell.”
~~~~
The White Forest was just as formidable the second time through as it was the first. Marek retraced his trail through the trees, searching for any signs that might lead him to the Engels and his boy. The death walkers lingered in the shadows, keeping their distance, but Marek still heeded their silent warning to make haste. If he were to be sucked into their spell again, he would never recover.
Passing the blood trail from Brynn’s death nearly sent him over the edge. Breathing in a heavy gulp of air, Marek somehow kept from vomiting at the sight. He closed his eyes as Cyran walked through the crimson-stained snow, unable to withstand the coloration. Blood had never bothered him before, but now it had new meaning.
Marek pressed onward, breaching the depths of the trees. The bluff on which the Engels had attacked edged ever closer. A dark shadow dangled near the middle of the ridge, tangled in the tree roots jetting from the dirt. Marek recognized the body of Julian as he approached, looking for the path leading to the top of the bluff. “Burn in hell.” He spat at the body as he passed, satisfied Brynn had been the one to kill the monster. Sweet revenge.
“Kill me…”
Marek jerked the reins, pulling Cyran to a stop. The voice sounded real enough.
“Please…” Julian coughed, struggling for a breath.
Marek approached the bottom of the cliff, sword at the ready. “Where is my son?” he asked, dismounting.
“Please, kill me, Archaean.”
“Where is my son?” Marek screamed the words.
“They head to Braemir. Kill me!”
Marek sheathed his sword. He gripped a nearby root and heaved himself up to eye level with Julian, who hung helpless. “No. You are going to take me there.” He curled his arms under Julian’s then pulled the broken man to the forest floor. Julian landed in a heap. Marek rolled Julian with his foot until his bloodied face was visible. “What should we do, drag you? No, that won’t do. Can you walk?” Marek rammed his boot into Julian’s ribcage. “Get up, Engel.”
Julian coughed, gagging on his own blood. “My legs are broken, please just kill me. I beg you.”
Marek knelt beside the Engel. “Oh, you will die eventually, and when you do, I shall be standing at the gallows of hell to tighten the noose around your neck, making my face the last thing you see on your journey to the underworld. I will never give you the satisfaction of a warrior’s death.” Marek left Julian in the snow, twisted in an unnatural position, while he looked for a forgotten horse. He found one nervously awaiting the return of its owner at the top of the ridge — spooked but travel-worthy. With reins secured to a tree, Marek returned to the forest floor to drag Julian back up the footpath.
A whimper left the Engel’s mouth when Marek hoisted him to the horse. “Will you shut the hell up? I have seen maimed children die braver than you.” Marek secured Julian to the saddle, placing a foot in each stirrup and tying his hands to the saddle horn.
“I’m going to die anyway, Archaean, why should I give you what you desire?”
“Would you rather I turn you over to Westmore? I’m sure he would take great pleasure in a torturous death for you, especially now that you have failed him.”
Julian didn’t reply.
“I will offer you this — take me to Braemir, and I will kill you before Westmore has the opportunity to tarnish your Engel nobility, or whatever it is you fools like to believe.”
Julian curtly nodded in agreement.
Marek took the reins to Julian’s horse before ascending into his own saddle and turned toward the road to Braemir. He cut across the forest since the bridge was at the bottom of a ravine, but at the pace he was keeping, Marek would arrive soon. Several times, he noticed Julian hunched over in the saddle, and Marek would tap Julian’s backside with the flat edge of a sword, exclaiming there would be no dying yet.
As abruptly as it began, the White Forest and its ice-covered enchantments dissipated and the road to Braemir emerged under the cool breeze of night. The moon kept watch in the midnight sky, illuminating each crack and crevice as Marek came to a divide in the road.
“Which way?”
“Left. It will take you to Braemir.” Julian titled his head to the sky to gaze at the twinkling stars. “Think my gods will welcome me?”
“Your gods do not exist.” Marek recalled the time he had spoken those words to Brynn.
“There is a bend just ahead where the river meets the bank. Take me there, if you don’t mind, Archaean. I wish to see the heavens when I take my last breath.”
Marek complied, following the split in the road until he came upon the river. He dismounted, untied Julian, and pulled him from the saddle. Marek dragged the Engel down the grassy embankment and set him near the river’s edge. The quiet babbling of the water reminded Marek of a child’s voice, rekindling his purpose. “Would you rather do it yourself or have me get it over with, Engel?” Marek drew his sword, waiting on the decision.
“I fear I do not have the courage to dispatch myself, Archaean, so I give you leave to take pleasure in completing the task for me.” Julian, positioned flat on his back, focused on the sky above.
“A great pleasure, indeed.” Grasping the hilt with both hands, Marek placed the tip of the blade over Julian’s heart.
“He will no longer seek your death… Westmore… with her now dead.”
“’Tis his turn to die.”
“I thought I could love her, you know, long ago,” Julian spouted, his voice ripe with wasted melancholy.
“Not nearly as much as I.” Marek took a breath — said a silent prayer for Brynn — then thrust downward. Blood spurt from the wound, and Julian’s eyes rolled behind his eyelids. Marek withdrew his sword, wiped the blade clean, and returned to the horses. He removed the tack from the extra horse and left it piled near the road, releasing the steed to roam.
The hours upon hours he traveled had neither beginning nor end. When his horse demanded they stop, Marek would dismount, but only long enough to rest Cyran. Marek wouldn’t rest until he held Talon in his arms.
Just before daybreak, Marek breached the walls of Braemir. The Archaean stronghold reeked of an off-putting Engel stench. Highland colors had been removed and replaced with fat, sleeping guards in ill-fitting armor. Crops sat unattended and left to wither, while wagons loaded to near capacity with ale and mead lined the inner walls of the crumbling fortification. Shards of pottery crunched beneath Cyran’s hooves as Marek pressed deeper into the courtyard.
Marek pulled his horse to a halt. Two solid doors towered above him, locked from the inside, he supposed. No guards secured the gate to the stronghold — Westmore must have felt secure enough to leave his walls unattended. Walls that were, unfortunately, too high and slick for Marek to climb. He would have to find another way in.
He loped his horse along the length of the wall looking for inconsistencies, stairs, or crumbling stone, anything that would allow him entry, but he couldn’t find a single crack to slink through. Annoyed, Marek returned to the stronghold doors. “Well, it looks as if there is only one way in, my friend.” Giving the horse an appreciative pat on the neck, he dismounted. Cyran nickered, tossing his head. Marek clasped the bridle on both sides of Cyran’s muzzle, quieting the horse with the soothing words of an Archaean lullaby. Pressing his forehead to Cyran’s forelock, Marek whispered, “You go on now. ’Tis safer if you do not come with me this time, brother.” As if he understood, Cyran rested his cheeks on Marek’s shoulder in a final goodbye. A burst of warm air ticked the back of Marek’s neck, and he reached up to scratch the horse’s forehead. “All right, no more crying, beast, off with you now. Go find the others.” Marek removed his weapons from the horse, gathered a few items from the saddlebag and slapped the animal on the rump. Cyran trotted away, returning to the Braemir Road.
Adjacent to the stronghold wall stood a crumbling watchtower. Large stones barricaded the entrance, and several dea
d vines twisted throughout pieces of charred wood and broken foundation. He stashed his weapons behind the overgrown mess, knowing he would lose them the moment the Engels were made aware of his presence. He would need them later.
Satisfied with the covering, Marek sauntered to the middle of the courtyard before the massive entry door. He drew in a long, slow breath, finding the Engel words in his mind. “Oy! You there, you fat bastard…” Marek picked up a small rock and flung it at the guard, who was busy snoring on the overpass of the inner curtain wall. The rock ricocheted off the man’s metal armor, and he woke with a start, drawing his sword in a dazed confusion. “Aye, down here, you piece of Engel shit! Is your master at home? Enjoying his morning cup of tea, is he?” The guard rushed to the wall and peered over the edge, mouth agape. “Don’t just stand there, you idiot, go and wake his royal ass up! How in hell were you ever put on security detail? Do you even know how to use that sword? I bet your mother was a whore, was she not? A big fat one with tits so big even she could suckle them!” Marek continued with his taunting until the guard disappeared.
Moments later, several dark heads appeared in full battle regalia, just as stunned as the sleeping guard was to see him standing below. They muttered between themselves and pointed at him obscurely, almost ignoring him altogether. Marek rolled his eyes. “Who does a man have to kill to get some attention around here?”
Lord Westmore stepped forward into the morning sun, shielding his eyes against the harsh light in order to see who caused such a commotion below.
“You will do!” Marek shouted up at the Engel. “Good morning, your lordship!” He gave a small courtesy in jest then splayed out his arms to show he carried no weapon. Marek grinned at Westmore, cocking an eyebrow. “Miss me?”
