Alaric stiffened, remembering the guard they had shot back at the junction. He had died reaching for a chain, and the chain had slipped several links before drawing taut in his death grip.
“Christ! The alarm is already given! Gil, Sparrow: the guards!”
The two archers stepped into the doorway and without questioning the order or the unexpected savagery, fired down on the two visible sentries. The arrows both struck the same man an inch apart, and while Sparrow gaped up at Gil and fumbled another bolt from his quiver to rearm his crossbow, Gil swore and nocked another of her longer arrows, catching the second, startled guard squarely in his opened mouth. The cry of warning was strangled short, but given nonetheless and a scramble of heavy boots, chain mail, and the scrape of crossbows being armed reached the top of the stairs.
Alaric and Sir Roger were halfway down the flight of steps when the first guard stepped out from cover and fired his weapon. Sparrow was ready for him, releasing a bolt that pierced De Gournay’s mercenary neatly through the heart. Almost immediately two more guardsmen appeared, one kneeling to shoot, one discriminantly diving behind a table the instant his bolt was loosed. Both shots were wild but Gil’s returned fire sent an arrow furrowing halfway up the length of one man’s arm, expending its force in an eruption of bloody tissue at the elbow. The guard screamed and spun sideways with the agony of his shattered arm, landing close enough to the man crouched behind the table to splatter him with gore. The latter wiped away a hot splash that had landed on his cheek and, with his weapon rearmed, fired triumphantly at a much larger, much broader target who leaped down the stairs two at a time, bellowing Welsh oaths on every step.
Sparrow aimed for the guard, but his bolt struck the wooden face of the overturned table. He slung his bow over his shoulder and with a hop and leap that appeared to take him flying out into empty space, he grabbed hold of a crossbeam and swung himself into the jungle of wooden arches. Several more swinging leaps carried him halfway across the ceiling rafters, and while Gil kept the guard pinned effectively behind the table, the little man unslung his bow, nocked a bolt, and settled the matter with a definitive whoop of satisfaction.
Unfortunately the whoop was followed instantly by a yelp of dismay as he lost his balance and felt his remaining bolts fall out of his quiver and clatter to the floor below.
The last pair of guards rushed Alaric and Sir Roger at the bottom of the stairs, their swords glinting in the murky half-light. Alaric disposed of his adversary with a vehement cut and slash, but De Chesnai wheeled his blade again and again, taking pleasure in driving his opponent into a far corner before delivering the death blow.
Mutter and Stutter ran down the steps and, obeying Alaric’s sharp commands, cut the ropes lashing Eduard to the table. They were helping the boy carefully to his feet even as Alaric was answering a summons from the chained occupant of a nearby cell.
“You took your bloody time getting here,” the Wolf said, grinning through the blood and grime on his face.
“There is gratitude for you,” Friar remarked, cursing fluently over the discovery of locks on each of the fetters chaining the Wolf to the wall. “Keys?”
“You want keys?” asked a coarse, gritty voice from the shadows. “Come. Take them from me.”
Alaric whirled around. The bald and glistening, half-naked monument of sinew and muscle—D’Aeth—stood a few paces away, his one fist closed in a crushing grip around Sir Roger’s throat, his other wrapped around the end of a length of heavy chain. De Chesnai’s sword was gone. His eyes bulged and his lips were turning blue, his face was florid and his fingers were scratching desperately at the five-pronged slab of iron D’Aeth called a hand.
“Throw down your sword or this codpiece dies,” D’Aeth snarled.
Out of the corner of his eye, Alaric could see Gil creeping slowly down the stairs, but it would take her several seconds to reach the floor of the donjon—several seconds longer than De Chesnai’s neck would bear the strain. Mutter and Stutter had laid aside their weapons to help Eduard to his feet, and Sparrow was somewhere up in the vaulted gloom, but without his quiver of arrows his bow arm was useless.
“Let him go,” Alaric said, laying aside his sword with exaggerated care.
D’Aeth grinned, displaying two rows of teeth filed into wickedly sharp points. He gave Sir Roger’s neck an additional squeeze before flinging the knight aside, then with a sneer of malicious delight, he slashed out with the length of chain. The end snaked across the floor and found Alaric’s ankles; a jerk of the trunklike arm pulled the chain taut and swept Alaric’s feet forward, bringing him crashing to the stone floor.
The Wolf strained against his own chains, but they were anchored well and only caused the iron rings to gouge deeper into the flesh of his wrists. Friar’s head had snapped back in the fall, landing hard on the stone and he was momentarily too dazed to defend himself as the chain curled outward again and cut him across the tops of his thighs. His hose was torn as the links bit into his flesh; blood smeared across the floor as he rolled in agony and tried to avoid the third whiplash of iron.
Mutter and Stutter ran forward, but the direction of the chain was easily changed, slashing them both across the chest and hurling them against the rack that held an assortment of curved pikes, metal starbursts, and clawed pincers. Mutter landed harder than his brother, striking the side of his head against a protruding iron bolt.
Gil rounded the base of the pillar but was so shocked by the sight of Alaric crawling through his own blood, that she released the arrow without allowing for D’Aeth’s reflexes. She saw the shaft streak past his head, killing nothing but a block of wood, and with a cry, she turned the bow in her hands, intending to use it like a club. Once again the chain lashed out and gleefully tore it out of her grasp, the force spinning her brutally into the wall.
Screaming, Alaric dove for his sword the same instant a small shrieking form came sailing down out of nowhere, arms and legs splayed wide to break his fall as he swiped across the path of the charging D’Aeth. Sparrow landed hard, plastered flat against the bulwark of chest muscles, knocking more air out of himself than out of D’Aeth, but before he was swatted aside like an annoying insect, he managed to plant his stingers—two glittering knives—one in each side of D’Aeth’s massive neck.
Alaric was on his feet, the sword gripped in both hands as D’Aeth lunged forward. The first cut barely creased the rock-hard mountain of flesh, the second carved a deep welt of gore from shoulder to ribs, and still he came on. Alaric backed up, hacking and slashing at the grinning monster. He was pressed into the corner, his sword red the full length, and D’Aeth was there in front of him, the chain raised in one hand, a leather-shanked battle-ax in the other. The first swipe of the axe broke Alaric’s sword in half, the second would have sheared his head from his shoulders if both the axe and arm were not halted midstroke by the arcing fury of a steel morning star. The rounded, spiked club tore a swath through flesh and muscle, bone and sinew, opening a raw gash from the top of D’Aeth’s skull to the base of his spine.
D’Aeth’s ugly face registered surprise, then shock, then an incredulous horror as his legs folded beneath him and he pitched forward like a felled tree. He was dead before he struck the ground, a torrent of blood gushing out of the hideous wound, some of it spattering a wall ten feet away.
The morning star was clotted with shreds of flesh and bone right up to the handgrip as Gil sank onto her knees beside Alaric. They were both winded and badly shaken, but there was no time to do more than exchange wry grimaces of pain to assure each other they were not mortally injured. After a moment, Alaric groped at the fallen behemoth’s waist for the ring of iron keys, while Gil went to extricate Sparrow from the tangle of hooks and barbs he had been flung into.
The right key was found and fitted into the padlocks at the Wolf’s wrists and ankles. The two men helped one another to their feet and took toll of the wreckage surrounding them.
De Chesnai was alive, but breathing with
difficulty through a partially crushed windpipe. Sparrow was complaining—a good sign that the blood leaking from his arm was not critical. Mutter was dead, the spike still jutting from a small, bloodless hole in his temple. Gil was unharmed but for a few bad bruises and scrapes. Robert the Welshman, forgotten in the general melee, was the second unexpected casualty, a man whose courage and fighting strength they could ill afford to lose. He had been struck in the chest by one of the guards’ bolts, and while not quite dead of his wound, would most certainly be if he tried to move.
Together, Gil and Sparrow propped him more comfortably against the stone cistern, then turned to their leader for guidance.
“We are almost certain an alarm has been sounded,” Alaric advised. He hurriedly explained about the guard and the chain, and added unnecessarily, “Our men will put up a good fight and delay them as long as possible, but they are sure to break through.”
Lucien clenched his fists, still numb from having watched his friends fight and die for him. “The price of vengeance … was too steep this time, I fear.”
“Tell that to your son … and to the Lady Servanne, if and when we find her.”
The burning gray eyes moved slowly to Friar. “What did you say?”
“Lengthy explanations and formal introductions will have to wait for a more prudent moment, but for now—” Alaric nodded toward the trembling but steadfastly upright young squire. “Here is your son: Eduard. Nicolaa de la Haye birthed him, but I trust you will not hold it against him. It seems he gave a good account of himself trying to step between the Dragon and Lady Servanne.”
The Wolf’s eyes flicked up from the wound on Eduard’s thigh and turned to Alaric. “Servanne … you know where she is?”
Friar glanced up at the arched doorway, his neck prickling with an unmistakable warning. “We were, ah, hoping you could tell us.”
“What?”
“According to Biddy, she was taken to something called the eagle’s eyrie. Do you know what it is, or where it is?”
The Wolf frowned. “The eagle’s eyrie? The eagle’s—” A gasp of shock cut the words short. “That bastard! How could he do such a thing to her? I will kill him, by God. I swear I will kill him if it is the last thing I do!”
“Yes, well, we would be more than willing to help you fulfill your vow … providing we solve one small problem.” He gazed pointedly at the stone walls, the crisscross of solid beams overhead, and the single door representing the only way out. “Unless of course, you think we have a good chance to fight our way past a blockade of guards?”
“Was that your plan?”
“My plan was to get us in. Since I did not think we had a hope in hell of succeeding, I must confess, we made no contingency for getting out again.”
The Wolf barely heard him. “The monk’s wall,” he murmured. “I wonder—”
He searched the row of cells until he came to the one he thought served memory best, then crouched in front of it. “The story goes … a monk was once imprisoned down here and used his crucifix to wear away at the mortar in his walls. His cell was next to the shaft of an old well that went dry, and when it rained, he could hear the water leaking down. Mind you, it was a long time ago that I found the loosened stones. They could have been discovered by others since then and resealed.”
The men exchanged a glance, then looked up at the doorway as the sound of fighting grew distinctly clearer.
“We will not know until we look,” Alaric said, plucking one of the torches out of a wall sconce and following the Wolf into the small, slimy cell behind them. At first there was no noticeable difference in the feel or texture of the mortar, but as the Wolf began scraping and scratching the seams around the middle block with one of D’Aeth’s iron pokers, it began to crumble and fall away. In no time at all they were able to shift the stone and drag it forward to the centre of the cell.
The Wolf took the torch and thrust it through the opening. Bits of broken mortar were pushed inward and fell a long way into utter blackness before rewarding the two worried faces with a distant splash of sound. Craning their necks upward, there was nothing to see beyond the glare of the torchlight except for more blackness.
“An enterprising monk,” Alaric muttered. “I presume his bones lie at the bottom somewhere?”
“No. No, he escaped. He escaped up the well and, by God, so shall we. Look there … and there, above!”
Alaric slid his hand up the wall over their heads and felt the step carved into the hard surface. In the flickering torchlight, he could see the shadow of another step above, and another above that until it climbed into darkness.
“The damned fool must have been mad! It would have taken months to cut such a ladder into the stone … years!”
“What else had he to do with his time?”
“True. But where does it lead?”
“Up,” the Wolf said succinctly. “Which is all I care about for the moment.”
They backed out of the cramped cell and hastily explained the escape route to the huddle of wounded men. Gil and Sparrow exchanged a dubious look, but Sparrow, being the smallest and nimblest, agreed to at least see where the ladder went. He was back in a trice, coughing and spitting up dust through an impish grin that stretched ear to ear.
“Never shall I call a monk a fool again for wearing out his skirts in holy pursuits. The ladder leads up to a grate, and the grate covers a hole in the garden overgrown with bushes and hawthorn. An easy climb too, if you think to keep your back braced against the wall as you are going. Easier” he said to Gil, “than clambering up a tree, even with one wing damaged!”
“I will take my chances here, Puck,” Gil said grimly. “I prefer to die with a bow in my hand, thank you, not wedged up some tunnel like a frightened rat.”
Alaric was about to join the argument when three of the Wolf’s men who had been left on guard in the corridors, came staggering through the door. All three were badly wounded and out of arrows. Helped down the stairs, they gasped a warning that De Gournay’s mercenaries were in the cellars and closing fast. There were only three, perhaps four men left between the donjon and the tide of murdering guardsmen, but how long those men could last before they too had to retreat, was anyone’s guess.
“That settles it then; we use the shaft,” Lucien said, and reached to arm himself. A crossbow was thrust into his hand and he found himself staring into eyes as gray and brooding as his own. The boy had gathered the guards’ weapons and quivers of bolts without being ordered to do so, despite the terrible pain of his wound.
“Do you think you can climb, lad?”
“I think so, milord. Yes milord, I can climb.”
“Good. Sparrow, off you go again. Take the boy with you and if you value your scrawny neck, you will not let him fall.”
“Aye, lord, and good luck to you too.”
“Gil—” The Wolf turned to the master archer and the look in his eye warned against any further arguments. “You and Sir Roger are in charge of the wounded men. Use ropes if you have to, but get them up that shaft and yourselves after them.”
“What about Robert?” she asked quietly. “He needs more than ropes, and he cannot make the climb.”
“Robert can bloody take care o’ himself,” the Welshman gnashed through his teeth. “I need no flame-topped wench keening after me. Now go! Do as the laird says, or by the saints, I’ll not only show ye how swift I can climb, but I’ll do it kicking yer backside up ahead of me!”
When Gil had moved away, the Wolf dropped onto his knee beside the burly Welshman. “Robert—”
“Do not trouble yerself, laird. I am almost dead now, and surely would be long afore ye could think of a way to winch me hand over heel up a wee tunnel. At least here, I can still be of some use to ye. Give me weapons—arm as many of the poxy crossbows as ye can set beside me, an’ I’ll keep the bastards honest as long as I can.”
Lucien grasped the Welshman’s big paw of a hand. “You have been a loyal friend, Robert. I have envi
ed you your courage and your laughter, and have been honoured to have you fight by my side.”
“Bah! The honour was mine in knowing there are still men who fight for what is good an’ just. As for courage—ye have all that ye need and more … and still more waiting for ye in some godforsaken place called the eagle’s eyrie. Save her, laird. She’ll help ye laugh again, see if she does not.”
Alaric had come up beside them and his attention was split between listening to their exchange and listening to the sudden, ominous silence coming from the top of the stairs.
“I do not think there will be any others joining us,” he said tautly as the Wolf joined him in staring up at the dimly lit archway.
“Did you get the wounded away?”
“Aye. Sir Roger argued to remain behind, but I threatened to throttle him myself if he did not start climbing. Lucien … the other prisoners cannot be moved. Most of them … have no hands or feet.”
The Wolf’s gaze followed Alaric’s to the row of low, dark cells that lined the walls. For a long moment he stood in stony silence, his face expressionless, yet more ominous than a gathering storm.
“I put the worst of them out of their misery,” Alaric said softly. “That leaves only the three of us and—” He tilted his head meaningfully toward the workbench where Stutter sat cradling his brother’s head to his heart.
“Go,” the Wolf said tersely. “We will be right behind.”
“God be with you, Robert,” Alaric said quickly, touching the brave man’s shoulder before he too was gone.
“Stutter, you are next. Off you go.”
Through a Dark Mist Page 41
