“Okay, you will go at dawn.”
Another sleepless night and dawn was upon them. The gates slowly opened and the three riders rode quickly threw, even as they began lowering once more. Ryann watched them ride away, up the small incline. The enemy came to the rise opposite, and her three men stopped, waiting. They spoke, but she could not hear. Five of the men broke away and rode forward, all the way to Christopher. Good, they would talk and be sent on their way. No sooner than the thought left her mind than her men were under attack.
One minute it seemed as if Christopher was talking, and the next one of the men produced a sword and was arcing it toward Christopher’s head, before anyone could react. It was a clean swing, all the way through. There was no hesitation on the blades behalf, as it sliced cleanly through Christopher’s neck, and his head rolled from his shoulders.
Christopher’s horse reared, and the rest of his body fell, as the other two men were dispatched nearly as quickly.
“Nooooo, noooo!” her mind screamed as she fell onto the parapet. “God, no!” her mind pleaded as she hugged herself against the chill of the morning, and rocked back and forth the tears streamed freely from her eyes, but she made not a sound.
Chapter 19
He fled like the little bitch he truly was. When Stroud had given them the slip five days ago, from beneath their very noses, Garrick had been furious. Five days ago he could have had Stroud and ended this, but Marcus had let him down for the first time. Roland had found a woman, and Marcus was found in an alley after being nearly beat to death. Marcus took responsibility, said he picked the fight. Garrick felt betrayed, and despite Damien’s protests, the armies had been in hot pursuit of Stroud, relentless as Garrick ran them to their limit and beyond.
Now as they approached the manor house where they chased Stroud, Garrick had his men cover all possible exits and routes away from the house. If he was here, the coward would not be able to run this time.
The manor had no defenses, but it sat upon the hill overlooking all four directions, so their prey would know they had arrived, just as Garrick knew they would, before placing his men. Up the hill he rode at a fast trot, Malik pulling at the bit feeding off Garrick’s need for bloodshed. Like his rider, he wanted to charge up the hill and slay anything that moved, and be done with their journey. Garrick had a warm bed and a lovely wife to return to, and Malik had a comfortable stall and fresh oats he was missing. Both creatures enjoyed the comforts they had just recently come to appreciate, and now they were out here on this fool’s errand.
Fool’s errand? No, it was not that. Stroud took something special from him. Though Ryann’s virginity would have been a most special gift, the fact that Stroud sent men to hurt her was unforgiveable. If it happened once, it would happen again, and he could not allow that, not again.
He gained the small courtyard just as an arrow was unleashed from the alcove entrance. If the arrow was aimed at Malik, the shooter’s aim was true, for it embedded deep when it struck the horse’s chest. Malik screamed, half reared, and staggered nearly falling. Nimbly Garrick slid from the saddle, one hand still on the reins, the other pulling his sword from its scabbard, as he nudged Malik toward the cover provided by the stone of the house’s corner. His men spread out, seeking their own cover, and he knew his other men were surrounding the manor. Before dropping the reins, he went to the arrow protruding from Malik’s chest and broke it off, so it did not cause further injury. A quick assessment and he knew it did not penetrate vital organs, lodged in the muscle, perhaps chipped a piece of bone in his chest cavity, but he could wait. Turning he edged along the wall, toward the alcove, and the archer. Another of Garrick’s men advanced from the opposite corner, crouching to go undetected beneath the windows. They both halted for a moment, and Garrick listened for any sign of the aggressor. No noise came from the alcove, and Garrick charged forward, his sword at the ready, to meet with an empty alcove and a closed door.
“The cowards have barred themselves inside,” Garrick said. “Halvor!” he yelled, and immediately the man was by his side. “Get us in,” Garrick ordered.
Resheathing his sword Halvor did not waste a moment of time to nod or acknowledge his commander in anyway, but lifted his large foot and using all his strength, he kicked the door. The door shuddered but did not give way. Again Halvor lifted his foot.
“Stroud!” Garrick yelled at the top of his voice. “You coward! Come out and face me like a man!”
Halvor’s foot continued to pound away at the door, and it began to splinter.
“There’s no way out Stroud. You’re a dead man!” The pounding seemed to wedge into his brain, and fuel his rage. When the door finally exploded into the interior Garrick pushed passed Halvor, and was stepping over the shattered wood as some of his men crowded behind him, ready to follow his lead, ready to shed blood alongside their commander.
“Stroud!” Garrick yelled, as he stood in the entranceway, looking left then right, and up the winding steps to the second floor. Not a sound was heard from within the walls, except the tread of his own men’s feet.
“They’re here,” Garrick said, loud enough for anyone near to hear. “Clear the rooms here and keep vigilant. Marcus, Halvor.”
The men fell into step with him as he took the stairs two at a time. Garrick’s foot barely touched the upper landing when something from the shadows came flying at him, hitting him squarely in the chest, and flung him backward, into the two men behind him and beyond, all the way down to land on the floor of the lower level. His breath exploded from his chest and he knew if he had not had his armor on, it would have been a blow that would shatter all his bones. As it was, he heard the yells of men as they engaged the enemy. Garrick tried to rise, but he found it difficult to draw breath, to rise from the floor. His vision was blurred as he finally sat up and looked around himself. Drawing in great gasps of air he tried to steady his breathing, but felt as if he would pass out. The effort made his ears rumble with his own breath, and the noise seemed to fade in and out as the fighting flowed from the upper level down around him, as he sat there on the floor like some kind of fool. Slowly he gained his feet, his legs wobbly as he pulled his sword from its sheath.
A blow struck him from behind before he could raise his weapon, and nearly knocked him back to the ground. Instinct took over and he spun quickly, his breaths still aching within his chest, but he had a battle to win. He had a man to kill, and a wife to avenge.
The other men were heavily armored, they had been waiting here, and Garrick took satisfaction knowing they had run Stroud to ground as hounds would a rabbit, and this was his final stand. Garrick’s entire army was gathered outside the manner, those who had not entered to fight. If Stroud somehow managed to escape the battle, the man would not make it far before he would be caught.
Garrick swung on his attacker. A smaller man he was quick, but he was young and unused to battle, if his awkward swings were any indication. There was a time Garrick had been apprehensive about killing an untrained knight, no more. If he allowed the unskilled to live, they would meet again on a battlefield after their skills had time to improve. Without regret and with cold blooded accuracy, Garrick’s blade slid between the plates of the young man’s armor, ripped through the flesh of his side, and deep into the man’s organs. He barely let out a gasp, the last sound to pass between the man’s lips, before Garrick tore his blade back from his body, and turned to the next man.
A battle ax barely missed his head. If he had hesitated with the young man, likely Garrick would be dead. As it was, the man found he was off balance as he tried to bring the battle ax back around from the missed blow, but Garrick was ready. Quickly he saw the man’s vulnerable spot, his helmet was lifted slightly as the man struggled with the momentum of his weapon, and Garrick’s blade slid home, all the way through the man’s neck to protrude from the other side. Blood covered Garrick as he pulled his blade from the man whose eyes had grown round in surprise.
Turning Garrick had time t
o use his foot to drive one of his men’s attackers forward, and onto his blade. Again, Garrick turned, and blocked the swing of a sword driving down toward his shoulder. Quickly pivoting, he used the momentum to twist the sword from the man’s hand, and Marcus’s blade was there, cutting the man’s life short.
They fought, it seemed to Garrick like hours. His chest still ached, his chest plate made it feel impossible to draw in a full breath. His armor felt as if it suffocated him, yet he had to block that feeling of panic from his mind while he fought. Most of Stroud’s men were seasoned warriors, trained by the best, but Garrick trained his own men, and there was no chivalry involved. No rule of war, only the instinct to survive as they rained blow after blow down upon their enemy.
Silence finally fell across the manor. Through his hazy vision Garrick saw his men standing over their dead enemy. He tried drawing in his breath as he straightened from his last kill, but it was coming no easier than it had before. He dropped to a knee, gasping. Had he received a death blow? He tried to assess himself, but his breathing was too shallow, and he fought blackness moving in on him.
“Garrick?”
Marcus and Halvor were there, their voices sounded far away. Garrick couldn’t tell them what was wrong as they hovered around him. With the last of his strength he pounded himself on his chest armor. He felt them pulling at him, tugging and twisting, until suddenly Garrick was able to draw in a deep breath, his lungs expanding with the much needed air.
“Are you injured?” Marcus questioned, as hands lifted him to his feet.
“No,” Garrick said, finally gaining enough air to speak. “It was only my armor.”
“You took quite the blow,” Halvor said, holding up the chest plate. The metal had been crushed, but had done its job other than not allowing him to draw in deep breaths needed for his exertion level. It saved his life, gave him another day to live, another battle to be victor of.
A loud cry of agony came from the stairs, and all eyes turned toward it as one of Garrick’s men half carried Stroud down them. Reaching Garrick the man released Stroud’s elbow, and with another cry, the man fell heavily onto the floor. He lay in the filth of many kills, his red rimmed eyes staring up at Garrick, his face pale, his shaking hands protecting the stomach wound.
“Nice of you to join us,” Garrick said, with no sympathy for the dying man lying at his feet. Sword still in hand, Garrick used the tip to move Stroud’s hands from the wound. The injured man convulsed when the tip penetrated the wound slightly, as Garrick studied it. “I see it won’t be for long.”
“Kill me,” Stroud whispered between his lips. A cough escaped, spewing spittle and blood out onto the front of his shirt, and the floor he lay upon.
Garrick saw Daley come to stand off to the side. When he spared a glance in the boy’s direction he saw an impassive face. When Garrick looked back at Stroud he shook his head no, a satisfied smile crossing his lips. Garrick crouched down, his sword lending him support as he stared hard at the injured man. “You terrorized my wife, left her for dead, now you will know her pain before you die.”
The man’s eyes closed, but he did not die. “Please, kill me,” barely was heard pass between his lips.
“Beg all you want you cowardly pig. It will not save you from your fate.”
“Garrick,” Halvor’s voice came from halfway across the room. With one last glance at the man they had come for, Garrick rose.
“Watch him,” he told Marcus, before making his way through the dead to his commander’s side.
Halvor pointed down at one of the bodies. Bruce de Montford. The man had trained with Marcus and Halvor, so Garrick had no qualms about putting the man in charge of one of his seized holdings. Bruce was a coldhearted bastard, and was able to keep any rebellion at Hawknest under control throughout his years of service. Apparently somewhere along the way, the man’s loyalty had switched.
“I need to speak with you,” Halvor said quietly, as the realization of the man’s treachery settled on him.
“Can it not wait,” Garrick snapped, his irritation at the events of the day was evident.
“Now.”
Garrick nodded, somewhat surprised at Halvor’s forcefulness. Normally Halvor would have agreed to later, but apparently it was important enough to risk the wrath of the Fenton Bastard. “Assist me, I have an arrow to remove from Malik.”
Together the two men went to retrieve the grey horse from where Garrick left him.
“Hold him steady,” Garrick warned, as he crouched in front of the horse to study the arrow. The horse’s movements during the battle moved the arrow about, so the animal’s light gray chest turned crimson, all the way down the front of his legs.
“I have served you well over the years, have I not?” Halvor asked, as Garrick pulled his dagger. A glance to his man showed he held tightly to Malik’s head.
“Far more then I could have wished,” Garrick said, as he concentrated on cutting the arrow from his horse.
“I must ask a favor of you.”
“Shhhh,” Garrick soothed Malik, as the horse tried to move away from the pain the arrow, and Garrick’s blade, was causing him.
“Ask it,” Garrick said, though the words came out more like an order as he stayed focused on his task.
“Bruce’s wife, the lady Jillian, I ask for her hand.”
Though he did not show it as he slowly began to pull the arrow from the horse’s chest, the request surprised him. “I can provide you with a younger, more inexperienced one,” Garrick suggested, as the horse tried to sit back suddenly, letting out a squeal of protest.
“I do not require younger or inexperience. It is her years of circumstance that makes me wish to join with her in marriage.”
The arrow slid free and Halvor had a cloth ready to press against the wound, to slow the bleeding. Garrick stood, turning the arrow in his hand, studying it before tossing it away. He reached a blood covered hand up to rub his horse’s neck, calming him.
“What circumstances are those?”
“You sent me to Hawknest with him for the marriage.”
Garrick said nothing and within a moment Halvor continued. “Jillian was just a child and Bruce took her virginity right there in the hall, as he beat on her, and allowed his men to watch. By the next morning, she had broken bones he beat her so bad. I could not stay there because I could do nothing for her.”
“So your guilt makes you want to marry the woman now?” Garrick asked, as he took over the pressure on the cloth.
“Not my guilt, but my desire to see she does not have a husband such as Bruce again.”
Halvor stood before him, his gaze direct and steady, as he looked to his leader for this favor. Garrick could not recall the man ever asking for anything that did not center around his sisters, providing for their safety and comfort.
“That would solve my immediate problem,” Garrick said, easing the cloth from Malik, only to see the blood still flowed though not as strongly. Pressing it back to the wound he looked over at his knight, and his friend. Garrick had a moment of relief flood him so deeply he felt weak with it, felt as if he wanted to sob. Here he stood with his ever courageous steed mending a minor wound, and spoke to Halvor of marriage, while he too had survived to claim a bride. Even a year ago, he doubted he would ever see the day he would claim a wife. He needed Halvor to command his army, but he could find another. The man deserved his peace. “I need a man loyal to me to take over the property there. Since it has become burdensome, I would like to deed it to another. The property and the widow are yours.”
Halvor’s face appeared impassive, but it was in his eyes, Halvor’s eyes always gave the man away once Garrick had come to know him. Property was fought over, died for, and he just granted a nice keep to the man with enough property to sustain it and prosper, he was pleased.
“I never would have known a man such as you, a man born to the circumstances you were. We are close to the same age, you and I. I heard of the Fenton Bastard before I eve
n earned my spurs. I envied you, your bravery for fighting for what you wanted, yet I could not understand why Marcus would give his entire inheritance to you, and fight by your side. Now I do. You are the bravest man I could ever hope to know. Many see you as evil, I see a man who made his own place in the world, when your birth would have made you a man not even fit for me to wipe my boots on. You have earned my respect, and my undying faith, I would give my life for you. You will always have my loyalty.”
Garrick turned his attention quickly to the wound again, unable to respond to such open confidence. He was not a man to deserve such faith. He was not a kind man, or a forgiving man. He did not understand why Halvor or Marcus would choose to serve under him. Halvor was right, he was not worthy of wiping their boots, and yet here they were, after coming so far together. Perhaps it was something he was beginning to understand, for he was pleased to give this gift to Halvor.
“When we return I will give it into your capable hands. For now, we have men to bury,” Garrick said straightening. The wound on Malik had nearly stopped bleeding, and Garrick had work to do. Marcus brought news the other two of Ryann’s attackers had been killed in the fight, and Marcus turned away with the hope Stroud had already died, and he could be on his way, back to his wife. He found it strange he would miss her as he had, but he was glad to have something to look forward to.
Stroud had not died, not even by the next morning. The man looked as if he had already passed over to his maker, his eyes were red and sunken into his head, but he hung on. If he would slip into unconsciousness Garrick would feel satisfied in killing him then, but the man remained alert enough to feel his pain, and Garrick could not relieve him of it, it was Stroud’s fate, Garrick had insured it. So they waited.
By the end of the second day Stroud’s wound had begun to take on a putrid smell, and he sweat rivers as he lay upon the floor, where he was left since the battle. He stayed in the fetal position, and Garrick wished the man would just give up his ghost, for he could not move without a moan escaping him, growing weaker each time. Rarely did Garrick stray far, preferring to watch over the dying man than leave the task to someone else. He had thoughts of putting the man out of his misery, for surely a death such as his, was hell within itself. Then he remembered what Stroud left his men to do to Ryann. He saw her face, the broken look that had twisted Garrick’s gut. What Stroud had sown, he was now reaping.
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