Angie Arms - Flames series 04

by The Strongest Flames

  Reaching her side, a sob escaped her. The older woman’s frail body lay on its side, her brown hair lying across her shoulders, trailing in the floor, across her chin, and in her unseeing eyes as they stared at nothing.

  “Karen,” Emma whispered to her, as she reached a hand toward her. Quickly she rolled her onto her back, her hand, which lay across her hip, fell limply against her thigh, and her brown eyes stared upward, but there was no life behind them. No breath filled the woman’s chest.

  “Karen,” she said, shaking her. Fear, desperation, and self loathing for allowing it to happen, overwhelmed her, and she grabbed the woman by her shoulders and shook her. Emma was strong for her size and gender, and Karen’s head whipped back and forth. Emma thought she heard a noise and allowed the woman to fall gently back to the floor, yet still she did not move, her chest did not rise, and her fingers did not twitch.

  She’s alive, her mind screamed at her. She’s alive. Emma’s hand whipped out, and the crack of it against Karen’s cheek, echoed in the silent chamber. Still Karen did not move, an eye did not flutter, her chest did not move. “No, no, no,” she whispered, as she sank back on her heels, covering her face with her hands, she sobbed. Dawn streaked the sky before Emma left the tower. She long since came back to her senses, but the moon lit the tower chamber, and madness awaited her in the darkness of the stair well.

  Out in the light of day it was as dreary as her mood, with the low hanging clouds and the mist of rain that was no more than a soft caress against her cheeks, but slowly wet her clothes. She wondered about aimlessly, unable to return to her cabin, unwilling to see anyone, and tell them the news of the new horror that would haunt the tower. By noon she found herself sitting on the rock ledge she frequented often in her childhood. It looked out over the forest, high above the trees. When she was small she would imagine herself a bird, and would stand upon it, with her arms spread, as if she soared free above the life that kept her rooted to the ground.

  Now she sat watching the sun fight to break through the clouds, but it seemed as futile as the wind that buffeted the rocks surrounding her. There were no thoughts of flying, only thoughts of freedom, of leaving the horrors of the towers, of the life she grew up in. Always hiding, never knowing if her father and uncle would befall the same horrors of the tower women and children, because they did not support the King. She stood on the ledge for a long time, feeling the mist, while thoughts of her own mortality ran freely inside her head.

  By the time the sun set, she sat on the stoop of her home, rocking back and forth, the chill from her wetted clothes was only a small reason why she shivered uncontrollably. She stood on the ledge for what seemed like hours, and the only thing she could think of was jumping. Leaving it all behind, and sailing like a bird over the trees, if only for a moment, before she crashed to the earth, and she knew no more pain and sorrow. When the reality of her thoughts finally broke through, and her brain was able to comprehend them, she left the ledge quickly.

  She wondered through the woods for some time. Thinking of her father and uncle, and all they were willing to give up for what they believed. She thought of her love for her home, for the forest she lived in, for the people of the nearby village, and those who hid in the safety of the trees, so they could continue to live, and not be rotting in their graves. She refused to think of Karen when she left the ledge, and by the time she reached home, she knew what she had to do. She had to fight. She had to take up her father’s cause. He had no son to do it. No one to carry on the fight, unless it was her. Both her father and uncle were getting older, they couldn’t fight this war forever, not alone.

  Chapter 6

  Roland rolled onto his back. He thrust a leg from beneath the covers and scratched his itching balls. He turned his head, and his blue gaze fell on the girl who came back to the room with him last night. She lay naked, the covers bunched beneath her. She lay on her stomach, her alabaster skin glowed in the morning light, fighting its way through the one small window. Her leg was bent, pulled upward toward her stomach, leaving her thighs open, and herself exposed. Her hands were made into a pillow cradling her face, and her head turned away from him in her slumber. He could only see her head full of dirty blonde hair, and wished he could recall the girl’s face.

  With a groan, he rolled himself to a sitting position, planting his feet on the floor. At his feet was a wineskin. He picked it up, and in three quick drinks, emptied the contents. He used the back of his hand to wipe off his mouth. With the accommodating woman in his bed, all he wanted to do was put her luscious body to use again, but he would have Marcus waiting on him.

  Roland stood, and began a search about the room for his clothes he slipped on. Marcus got in over his head on this one, Roland thought, before leaving the room. Marcus, in his deep dedication of loyalty to Garrick, followed the King, and finally got an audience with him. Marcus thought it went well, but Roland thought it couldn’t have gone worse. Now the King was expecting Marcus to take over the hunt for rebels. Marcus really thought it would get the King to leave Garrick alone. Roland knew differently. He wasn’t sure why he chose to go with Marcus. Roland’s loyalty always had, and always would, lie with Damien. But Marcus could take him farther away. At Damien’s everyone could catch up to him. With Marcus, he could remain alone. It was different when he was with the army and fighting, even with Marcus they were never in one place for long. There was a certain level of peace in the nomad life. With all the men settling down with wives, he found himself growing afraid for his future.

  Marcus sat on Ebony, the horse calmly waiting for his rider to give him a command, while Roland could detect the man’s agitation. He became an ass since leaving Alena behind. Roland wished he could feel for the man, but he could not relate at all. Roland married his childhood sweetheart and was with her until she died, so he didn’t know what it was like to have to leave the woman he loved behind. For Marcus, there was still hope they could one day be together. Roland was not living under such fantasies.

  Roland’s horse Luke, was already saddled, and he stepped to the horse and took the reins. As soon as he touched the bridle the horse’s head came up, and his ears pricked forward. Each line of the gray horse turned into that of a graceful dancer, nostrils flared. Roland moved with the horse as he danced sideways, his foot in the stirrup for only a second before he anticipated his horse’s move, and put his trust into that intuition, and propelled himself into the open air, aiming for the position the saddle would be in, by the time he made it there. Like every time before, he was on the horse’s back and the animal half reared, dancing sideways, letting out a snort of anticipation. Roland could not help the prideful smile that creased his face as he turned to canter after Marcus.

  ~ ~ ~

  Helthpool

  Marcus watched the man grovel beneath Roland’s foot. He was one of the rebels, Marcus had no doubt. He saw the doubt in Roland’s eyes, the man was balking at every decision Marcus made since leaving Kinsey. He was not used to the insolence the man was showing him, and it was wearing on his nerves.

  “Please. I don’t know what you want,” the man pleaded.

  “You know what we want,” Marcus yelled at him, from his position still on the horse. “Tell us where the others are, and we will make your death a quick one.”

  “I don’t know. I am not a rebel. I am loyal to King Richard, and only his majesty.” The man was elderly, old enough to be their father. His gray hair was long, his clothes torn, and it looked like he had not had a square meal in years.

  “So you are only out for a stroll this time of evening?” Marcus sneered at him.

  “Hunting. My wife is ill and she needs food.”

  Tears squeezed from the corner of the man’s pale blue eyes, their color made the old man look sickly.

  “Do you know who we are?” Marcus asked. The old man tried to shake his head, but the effort only served to make him gag, as it increased the pressure of Roland’s foot on his throat.

  “I am S
ir Marcus Kinsey, I serve the Fenton Bastard, and the man who is going to kill you is Sir Roland Deveroux, who serves Lord Damien Leforte. Have you heard of these men?”

  Marcus’s irritation shot higher when he watched Roland ease his foot up a little to allow the man some comfort, so he could respond.

  “The Fenton Bastard killed many here years ago. The ghosts still haunt Helthpool.”

  “And your ghost will haunt these woods, because you will die a most slow and agonizing death if you do not tell me where the rest of the traitors hide.”

  “I am not a traitor and all I know are loyal to his majesty. I swear it.” The last words ended with a croak, when Roland applied more pressure.

  “Do it,” Marcus snapped. Roland looked up at him with the question in his eyes.

  “Cut out his heart.”

  “Please,” the man begged. Roland’s foot cut the plea off, but the man only stood there, staring down at him.

  Quickly Marcus swung from the back of his horse and stepping toward the two, drew his dagger. “Have you never cut a man’s heart out?” Marcus snapped. Reaching Roland, he shoved him roughly away and bending, did not hesitate to open a deep wound on the old man’s chest. Marcus placed his knees above and below the man’s chest to hold him still, as he cut through the bones of his chest, and lifted the man’s heart from the gaping wound. It did not beat. Garrick was much more adept at such a tactic, causing less damage so the man would have suffered longer, but Marcus could do only what he could. Rising, he ignored the blood soaked into the knees of his pants legs, and sheathed the knife.

  “Are we going to have problems with this?” Marcus demanded, turning his attention to Roland. The man stood staring wide eyed at the carcass of the dead man, his blue eyes round and filled with horror. “I don’t need you to do what needs to be done.”

  “I think you do,” Roland said, gathering his wits, and letting the horror wash off his features.

  Marcus half grunted, half snickered, as he moved back to his horse. He easily swung into the saddle.

  “You’re going to need me because if you keep doing this,” he said, sweeping a hand at the carnage lying on the forest floor. “You will be killed in your sleep. I do not think he was a rebel.”

  “And I know he was,” Marcus screamed with anger. He had the urge to cut Roland’s heart out for still questioning him. “I will make Helthpool my home while here. I suggest you go running back to Damien and the soft life. You are clearly not cut out for the King’s work.”

  He turned and rode away, disappointed when he heard the hoof beats behind him, and he knew by the rhythm of the hoofs it was Roland. He felt the urge to turn and drive a sword into him, to make him go away. He didn’t understand what Roland had to gain from following him, hunting out the traitors. For Marcus it was an effort to protect Garrick, give him some respite. It was as if he switched personalities with the man. Garrick now had a life, and something to live for, and Marcus was left with nothing, so it only seemed right Marcus was here, and Garrick was at Kinsey, with his beautiful wife.

  They found the body of the woman in the tower. The rope around her neck was tied to nothing, the knot loosened as if someone tried to help her, save her from her own folly, but it apparently was too late. It hadn’t been so long ago, the body just began to smell. Roland became quiet when they entered the tower room and found her. He commented on her thinness, the wild hair, and mumbled about how the woman must have been mad when she came to this place to kill herself. He lifted her gently and spent well past dusk digging a grave for her, and burying her. Marcus suggested they burn the body and save themselves a great deal of trouble. Roland snapped at him he didn’t have to help, so Marcus left him alone to do the task himself, while he went inside and readied a room to sleep in.

  ~ ~ ~

  Roland stretched out on the mattress, the fresh straw was far better than the moldy smelling mattress he slept on the first night they stayed at Helthpool. He put a great deal of effort into making the small castle habitable, comfortable even. But he did not think anyone would ever be comfortable in this place. They had been living there for nearly a week, enough time that Roland learned of the story behind the place he now dwelt in. Marcus wasn’t a part of the slaying, but Garrick was, and the horrors the people found the next morning made Roland uneasy, for surely there were many souls inside the walls.

  He heard many sounds in this old place, when he knew he was alone. Sounds that would be easy to blame on other things, but other things would not make the hair on the back of his neck stand up. The fact he slept not far from the man who was loyal to the Fenton Bastard, made him even more uneasy.

  The sound shot Roland off the mattress and onto his feet. He schooled his breathing as he clutched his sword tightly, his heart hammering, drumming in his ears. How did one fight a spirit? Not all ghosts he reasoned, close to the thousandth time, would be evil. Some would just be troubled, confused, afraid even, and could not make sense of where they were, what was happening to them.

  Roland swallowed, and moved to the door of his chamber. He looked upward, the stairs rising toward the very top chamber of the tower. He heard footsteps, a quiet whisper, but something just passed by his door, going up into the top chamber. He gripped his sword tighter. Perhaps it was the man, Wade, who was a part of the killing. Marcus said the man had not returned with Garrick. Perhaps he too was dead, and was climbing the stairs again, to carry out the evil the two men had long ago.

  He realized he was being silly. Yet, he could not stop the imaginings, and his strong belief they were not alone here. Slowly he moved up the steps, try as he might not to make a sound, his steps were far louder than those that passed. He felt as if his heart was about to beat from his chest. That brought on the thought of the old man, and fear hit him anew. It could be him, and in the morning Marcus would find him in the top chamber, with his heart lying on his mangled chest. He swallowed the bile, and swore at himself for building such fear in his own mind. He was not some untried youth. He was bred and born to be a knight, fought alongside the legendary Lord Damien. But that was under King Henry, a man who appreciated and could recognize true loyalty. Roland knew Damien stood on shaky ground with Richard from the beginning, that’s why he knew there would be nothing to save Garrick, or Damien, from the King. They would be dead as surely as Henry himself.

  Now anger filled him, instead of his fear. Marcus would not listen to reason. He seemed to not understand, or care, the King now had not only one Fenton Bastard, but two. Marcus learned well the ways of Garrick, for a colder hearted individual Roland did not know, until now. Rebel or not, the old man was too old to fight, something Marcus did not seem to care about. What a horrific way to die, and Marcus did not bat an eye.

  He stepped up into the floor of the chamber, easing around the last corner of the stairs. It was lighter here, the difference between the black steps and the moon coming into the windows of the chamber, seemed to light it up like daylight. He did not mistake the crouching figure in the center of the room. The woman turned toward him quickly and he heard a gasp.

  It was not the old man. He felt himself release the breath he was holding.

  “Where is she?”

  The voice was a whisper, and eerie in the silent chamber.

  “Where is who?” Was this a mother’s spirit come back looking for her child? His heart felt like it exploded from his chest, and he bit hard on his lip, the pain and the presence before him helped chase the sorrow away.

  “Karen.”

  The figure stood as she spoke, and he heard the crack of her voice, still but a whisper. Perhaps she returned looking for a mother, or a friend.

  “I do not know Karen.”

  “Of course you don’t know Karen,” the woman said, impatiently. She stepped forward and he saw hair a red he never saw before. It was intense under the moonlight, glowing as it flowed around her shoulders. Then she stepped out of the light and close enough he grew nervous. “But where is her body?”

&
nbsp; “I don’t know what happened to the bodies,” he said, feeling the urge to take a step back, but knowing the stairs were behind him and a certain death. Instead he eased to the right, away from the stairs, and into open space so he might be able to keep his distance. He felt sure he should just close his eyes, as he did every night he heard the sounds.

  “I don’t want all the bodies,” she snapped, her voice rising. She moved closer and Roland moved further around, deeper into the room. “I only want hers.”

  “I don’t…”

  “You are the only two with the audacity to live here after what happened. So you are the only two who would move her. What did you do with the woman with the rope around her neck?”

  The woman’s voice was impatient, hostile even, and she moved closer, menacingly.

  “I buried her. Out by the back gate.”

  The woman turned and suddenly Roland was glad he had moved away from the steps, because the woman plunged down into the darkness. She was gone in the blink of an eye, no sound came from the dark abyss of the stairs. He knew if he was standing at the top of the steps he would go down them with her. He would break his neck long before he reached the bottom. He drew in a shuddering breath and waited for several minutes, before moving back into the darkness, and the safety of his chamber.

  ~ ~ ~