He moved along the hallway in search of Damien. For two days he procrastinated, telling himself he was giving the girl ample time to gain strength with rest and food, while Damien treated him like an old friend, giving him a tour of his property, and the little village adjacent.
Damien was the kind of lord King Richard needed to covet. He organized his people well, he always had an obedient and loyal army, so why not his people. The village was growing with many new construction projects underway, despite the threat of annihilation from the King. Damien was proud of his land and all the improvements he and Keri made while in residence.
Throughout the two days the girl clung by Garrick’s side and he balked at killing Damien in front of her. He realized over the last two days he came up with a million reasons to delay the inevitable. In all that time, he only found one reason to complete the task, and it was the same reason from the beginning. No matter how many excuses he gave himself, he knew the time had come.
He found him in the upper level sitting room. He stood at the table next to the window, overlooking the courtyard. His back was to Garrick, and he found he hesitated again. Garrick was as unsure of his next move, as he was throughout this entire ordeal. He should rush him and get it over with. The end result had to be the same.
“An army will not be coming for you,” Garrick informed him.
He watched Damien’s back straighten, but he did not turn, or move away from the window. He heard the man sigh.
“You already knew this?” Garrick questioned, stepping into the room.
“I knew,” Damien confirmed.
“Why did you let me in?” Garrick asked, the confusion stronger than ever.
“I don’t know. I guess I hoped.” Damien shrugged his shoulders. “We’ve been through a lot together, you and I.”
“I suppose,” Garrick said, not wanting to think of their time on the battlefield, in a prison, or that Damien helped get his wife back.
“Does Ryann know?”
“Of course not,” Garrick said quickly. “She will never know.”
Damien turned to study him for a moment, before returning his attention to the view outside. “You love her don’t you?”
Garrick studied Damien’s stiff back. “I have never loved anything.”
Damien snickered. “Do you care if she knows the things you’ve done, or would you rather she never know, so she will never see you for the man you are?”
“I care.”
Damien turned to study him again. After a moment he turned back to the window. “Then you love her. I hope Keri never knows some of the things I’ve done. I think my heart would stop beating if she were to look at me, and know the man I am.”
Garrick felt as if a horse kicked him in the chest. So that was love? Such a fragile thing he knew would be shattered if she knew he was here, ready to kill Damien. The man offered to be Ryann’s knight-in-shining armor when he first met her, if she needed protection from Garrick. But there was the thought, what love would they share if he allowed the King to kill her?
The sound of the blade clearing its sheath froze Damien. Hadn’t he known? “You don’t want to do this Garrick.” He did not turn, instinctively knowing the man remained where he was. Despite outward appearances he was ready to defend himself, one hand on his dagger, the other ready to grab the candelabra and turn it into a club.
“You’re right Damien. I don’t want to do this.”
Damien turned, sliding his hand away from the handle of his dagger, but not far, close enough he could pull it, or his sword, in the blink of an eye. Garrick stood, his feet braced apart, his arms were crossed over his chest, knife in hand. He was a formidable man. “But you know I have to.”
“So you can get more land, more riches? What did Richard promise you this time?” Damien asked with a sneer. “My land?”
“Do you know what the King promised me?” Damien asked, with a snarl curling his lips, his arms coming unfolded as he slowly advanced. “If I don’t kill you, he has promised to take away everything I have fought for. Everything Damien, down to the last coin. Do you know the things I have done to be where I am?”
Damien’s sword cleared its sheath. Garrick stopped instantly, his eyes flew to his face, and cold dark eyes locked with Damien’s gray-green ones. Garrick did not move a muscle for several breaths. Damien faced many men in his time, but he knew he would always hate to face off with the Fenton Bastard. As they studied one another, Damien felt fear walk up his spine, seize his breath, and send his heart in a panicked rhythm.
“I am surprised to find I would relinquish it all.” As Garrick spoke, the frigidness seemed to recede in his eyes, and confusion reigned for a moment. “If only I could keep one thing. The prize I covet above life itself is my wife. He will kill her, as sure as we are standing here. The one man in all Christendom who knows what will bring me to my knees.”
Garrick’s eyes changed again, as quickly as the flip of a fly’s wing, back to the dark view of a cold grave. “I know you to be an honorable man Sir Damien LeForte. So I ask you to see to my wife’s safety, if I do not survive this day.”
Damien studied the Fenton Bastard. All the tales he heard through the years made him out to be a devil of a man, but Damien couldn’t help but remember his own hands were not clean. What difference did it make if a man fought in the name of a king or himself? Fighting was fighting, and killing was killing. Putting his own fear aside, he did not want to kill Garrick.
From nowhere came Garrick’s attack. There was no warning, no drop of his gaze, no twitch of muscle, before the man was in motion. Damien was in enough battles with the smaller man to know he was quick, but quick did not begin to define how Garrick moved. He was upon Damien so fast the bigger man didn’t have enough time to raise his sword. He got it up in just enough time his arm was able to deflect the inward swing of Garrick’s knife, cutting the arc and blade short.
The blow was a strong one. A blow that would have ended it as quickly as it began if it hit its target, Damien’s throat. Garrick was intent on killing him. It did not seem to matter to the smaller man Damien held a sword while Garrick had his wicked looking knife, larger than a dagger, but lacked the reach of the sword still strapped at his hips.
Damien’s sword made it to a defensive level, but Garrick twisted away, and was rushing again from the back. Damien considered himself a superb soldier, his broad chest and tall height lent him strength against his opponents. Despite his size he was fast on his feet, always quick to thrust and defend. However, as he tried to gain the advantage, Garrick made him feel like a cumbersome oaf.
Damien turned the sword around, thrusting its deadly blade under his left arm. Garrick seemed to know his move before he made it, and dodged. He felt the strength of Garrick’s hard muscled body latch onto his back. An arm snaked up to pin his head. Damien knew if he did not stop him now, his throat would be cut wide by his next breath.
With a roar Damien used his superior height and bulk to propel them backward, slamming Garrick into the wall. As his weight mashed into Garrick’s, he brought his elbow up behind him, and slammed it into Garrick’s face. The Bastard’s fingers released him, and Damien spun away.
Damien expected the other man to be addled, but his knees only buckled for an instant before he rose, using the wall as leverage, and propelled himself halfway around Damien, and out of his reach. In the midst of Damien’s turn toward Garrick, the smaller man dove under his sword, bringing his blade up toward Damien’s chest.
Damien dropped his arm with all the strength he had in that shoulder, and caught Garrick in the neck with his forearm. It was a blow that would floor lesser men. Garrick took two quick spinning steps, Damien found impossible to track, before Garrick was out of his reach again.
Blast this man, Damien thought, his anger rising as he went on the defensive again. Garrick came at him from the opposite side, his body low, his knife rising, going for his throat again. Damien swung his sword, his aim off, as he moved out of the
knife’s path. Pain ripped through his chest and he didn’t have to look down to see Garrick’s knife drew blood. Blood appeared on the sleeve of Garrick’s shoulder, and Damien felt satisfaction, knowing it was matched blow for blow. Now Damien had to take the advantage and gain the upper hand.
Again, before Damien could advance, Garrick was attacking, a full on assault. One of them would not walk away, the ferocity of Garrick’s attacks insured this. Straight at him Garrick came, and Damien had a straight target to drive his sword into the smaller man’s side. At the last minute Garrick dodged to the side. Damien’s sword struck the man hard, he felt it reverberate up his arm, but Garrick made not a sound as the flat side of the sword struck him on his back. Luckily for Damien, Garrick did not anticipate such force throwing off his aim. Garrick’s knife barely caught Damien’s forearm, opening a small nick there, before the blow propelled Garrick forward. He spun about, taking two extra steps backward.
He paused and Damien pressed the advantage with his own attack. He rushed the smaller man as he whirled his sword in front of him. The movement was fast and confusing, for the average man, but Garrick was not the average man. It was as if Garrick picked up the rhythm of the sword to dodge beneath it. The movement was lightning fast, but Damien knew the strength of his opponent. As Garrick missed the blade, Damien stopped the spinning momentum to bring the hilt driving down into Garrick’s back.
The blow knocked the man flat, but as agilely as a cat, he rolled away, and Damien’s deadly blow struck the floor.
Move, move, move, Garrick’s mind told him, as he rolled onto his feet. Fighting Damien was like futilely trying to bring down a mountain with only his fists. His back was on fire, with a throbbing that quickly moved to his head, as he regained his wits. Damien attacked again, his sword came directly at his head. At the last second Garrick stepped to the side, bringing his own blade up, and it struck Damien in the side. He tried to follow immediately by spinning and coming at him from his back, but despite the wound Garrick just opened up, Damien was ready, and slammed him into the wall again, before he could get the blade to his throat.
The sensation of a thousand pins driving into Garrick’s arms and legs made bile rise in this throat. He knew Damien’s elbow was going to come back and hit him in the face again, but he could do nothing to stop it. The force of the blow made pain explode inside his skull. He felt Damien’s body leave his and he was falling. His feet landed on the floor, and his numb legs crumpled under him. He rolled, keeping his screaming body in motion. He was out of reach and struggled to his feet. He gripped the knife tightly, the sensation in his arms and legs, radiating all the way to his fingers. He had to finish it quickly.
Damien’s hand pressed to the wound on his side, but he advanced quickly. Garrick straightened, and with his own fast strides, went in for the kill. Damien’s sword rose and fell, the blade intent on slicing his head into two pieces. Garrick ducked, a forearm coming up to block the arm bringing the blade down. The blow knocked him down to his knees, and he could not hold back the grunt as the pain exploded in his back, across his shoulder blades, where Damien’s sword handle hit him only moments before.
The pain stabbed into Garrick’s head as he lunged upward, his aim true as he rose up to drive the knife into Damien’s chest. Damien’s weight shifted. The one movement told him the big man was going to bring his leg up to block him. Garrick’s knife was coming down to drive home, when the other’s man leg struck him in the side. It was like being hit by a horse, the blow drove him sideways. As his reach was pulled away from Damien’s chest, Garrick continued his downward drive, going for his thigh. The blade embedded itself in Damien’s leg. Damien roared with the pain and Garrick struck the wall with a grunt. Garrick landed on his back, the corners of his vision went black.
Garrick rolled to his hands and knees quickly. Pausing to gag as his stomach rolled. He watched Damien pull the blade from his leg and toss it into the corner behind him. Damien ripped a piece of his shirt off at the bottom, and quickly wrapped it around his thigh, to help control the bleeding. The big man straightened, his eyes locked on Garrick. Garrick staggered to his feet, the movement made him gag again, as he forced his eyes to stay focused on Damien.
Quickly he pulled his sword from its scabbard, the feel of it was odd in his tingling hands. He took two steps and coughed back the bile. Damien had lost a great deal of blood, all he had to do was hold out longer, Garrick kept telling himself.
The amount of blood Damien was losing weakened him. He knew the wound on his leg had slowed, but the one in his side was causing the problem. He didn’t think it struck any vital organs, but he could feel the warm blood wetting his pants, all the way down the leg.
He swore when he watched the Bastard draw his sword. He held the weapon oddly Damien realized, taking a tentative step forward on his injured leg. It hurt to put weight on it, but not nearly as bad as the pain that radiated from the wound in his side. Each time he tried to straighten, it felt as if it was tearing open a little wider.
Garrick rushed at him, his sword rose, swinging toward him. Damien tried to side step, while he remain hunched over slightly to ease his pain. His sword met Garrick’s, the power behind the blow nearly made Damien drop his sword. They spun away from one another. Damien favored his right leg, as it began to radiate a nearly debilitating discomfort.
Garrick shifted his sword back and forth, between his right and left hand, before he made another move toward Damien. This attack was low, obviously Garrick saw his pain, and was going to take advantage. Garrick wasn’t moving as fast, so Damien had time to side step, and lunge forward with his own sword. Garrick’s foot came up, and with a groan coming from the man’s lips, he planted a foot in the middle of Damien’s chest, knocking him backward.
As Damien’s body instinctively twisted to keep his balance and remain on his feet, his wounds screamed at him. He heard Garrick making a gagging noise, as Damien caught himself on the wall and steadied himself. The room seemed to spin wildly for a moment. Garrick was having his own troubles, because he wasn’t attacking, while Damien tried to bring everything back into focus. He just had to outlast Garrick. Pressing his hand to the wound in his side, he moved toward him.
He felt the hard wood beneath his back. Terror gripped him like a vice squeezing his breath, while his stomach churned, and sadness beyond any he thought possible filled him. His mother gave him away. Sold him. The one person he hoped would never turn her back on him, had given him to the horrible men. His body ached, his head pounded, and there was a strange numbness about his legs. He heard the men shuffling about, coming closer.
Garrick’s eyes snapped open and the sitting room came to him in a blurry haze. Damien. Move, move, move, his mind screamed at his body, as he forced it to roll. He rolled toward the hulking figure, the tip of Damien’s sword struck the floor where his head had just been. His body struck Damien in the legs, and the weight of the big man came crashing down on him. Sharp pain sliced through Garrick as he lay beneath Damien, drawing in ragged, coughing gasps of air.
“Son of a bitch!” Damien exclaimed, his voice full of fatigue and frustration. Damien groaned, a hand going to his side, his breath coming in quick gasps. As he lay on top of him, Garrick felt the other man’s hand pressed to his side. “Why won’t you die already?” he finally managed to ask.
Garrick took the question as rhetorical, so did not respond. Garrick knew he could end this now. Damien’s fatigue was evident, but since the big man landed on him, Garrick was unsure if his sword was still in his hand, or if he dropped it. A welcome numbness radiated from the area between his shoulder blades, yet disturbing at the same time. It took away the pain, but it frightened him that it would take away more.
Damien waited another moment before rolling off Garrick. He managed to get to his knees and paused again, he leaned heavily on his sword, his breaths came fast and with difficulty, as he clutched at his side. Garrick looked away to stare at the ceiling above his head. He would move whe
n Damien moved, he decided. Even injured, he was faster than that oaf. So he lay there, trying to catch his breath, and take stock of what he could feel. Blessedly he was not completely numb, it was the tingling sensation desensitizing his extremities that was disconcerting. He did still hold his sword, but he waited to raise it. Until Damien moved.
He waited, and waited. It seemed like an absurd amount of time he lay on the floor with the man he was supposed to kill, or he was to be killed by, unmoving. Yet they both breathed heavily, and Garrick waited.
Finally, Damien shifted a foot, placing it flat on the floor. He leaned into his sword and shifted his weight forward, so his arms could assist his legs in straightening to a stance. He never got his other foot under him, groaning in the effort, until he finally eased sideways so he sat in the floor, and slid backward so his back rested against the wall.
Now was his chance. Garrick rolled sideways and forward, nearly blacking out from the effort. He managed to get his arm beneath him so he did not collapse. Damien could sit after all. If Garrick could sit, it would at least be even ground while they stared at each other. Garrick eventually shifted and used a table leg as a prop, and that was what the two men did for several moments, sat and stared at one another.
~ ~ ~
Warner watched the twisting, undulating performers as they entertained the King. They moved about the room, black and white capes floating on the air. They held them in their hands to extend them out, so they caught the breeze as they moved about the hall. The group with the white capes also wore white masks, and those in the black capes wore black and red masks.
The performance was a portrayal of the forces of good and evil, or some such tripe. One of the actors, a woman wearing one of the black capes, intrigued him. The way she twisted and swayed her hips, her short muscular legs could be seen in the outline of her simple tunic, as she danced. Her breasts stretched the fabric taught, as her chest heaved with the long and strenuous performance. As she squatted and twisted, the outline of her ass showed it to be well shaped. The dancers had to be in excellent condition, and her body seemed to reflect this.
Angie Arms - Flames series 04 Page 12
