He continued on, oblivious to the rumble of thunder that was growing louder with each passing moment. A sheen of perspiration covered his brow when a little while later he made it to the top of the first ledge. He stood and looked over the thick clusters of trees below him, stretching as far as the eye could see. It was a breathtaking view, but he had no appreciation for it under the circumstances. Then he turned his sights to the next terrace, scouring it for any sign of a face. To his disappointment, the next terrace looked much the same as the first. Now he had to decide if he should continue on or go back to the camp for the evening. As he was about to turn back, he saw something—a slight variance in the rocks. He looked closely and realized that on the far left side of the second terrace, nestled beside the sharp point, the rocks were different. It looked like it could be a face, but he wouldn’t know for sure until he was up there. He blew out a breath and hurried up to the next terrace. It was drizzling rain, but he hardly noticed. The view from the second terrace looked much like the first. He increased his pace so that he was nearly running, keeping his eyes fixed on the sharp point. He let out a breath of wonderment when he saw it. It was just as his mother had described. The face wedged in between the mountains. Had he not been looking for it, he might have passed by it without noticing, but since he knew, it was obvious. The face was the height of the average man, and the nose was especially large. He looked at the sunken holes that made up the eyes. That is were he would place the stone. Excitement rushed through his veins. He looked up at the sky, trying to judge whether or not the sun had actually set. It was still light enough to see without difficulty … perhaps … He retrieved the parchment that his mother had given him. Words that he would repeat as he placed the stone into the socket—strange words—in a language he didn’t understand.
He held his breath and placed the stone into the socket. Nothing happened. He swallowed hard, stepped back, and began reading the words on the page. Still nothing happened. Disappointment settled over him. He had feared that his mother might be going mad, but until this moment, he had not been sure. The rain was getting harder, and he needed to get back to camp before dark. A shudder ran through him. He had to go back through the tip of the forest, and he did not want to do that in the dark. He went to take the stone, but it wouldn’t move. He clasped his hands around it and pulled with all of his might, but he could not budge it. He let go of the stone and began reciting the words. Nothing happened. He reached for the stone again and tried to remove it from the socket but to no avail. It was as if the stone had always been a part of the face. Strange. Then the remembered that his mother told him he was the only one strong enough to withstand the energy.
He looked down at the words on the parchment that he was holding. “I wonder,” he said aloud. He clasped a hand around the stone and began reciting the words. He got through the first sentence when he felt a slight tingle. He looked at the stone, which was beginning to glow a faint red. He read the next sentence, his voice growing louder and more confident. The stone glowed brighter, and he felt the energy building. It was illuminating his body, so that he was also glowing.
“Halt where thou art!”
He spun around, his hand coming off the stone. The parchment fell to the ground. He unsheathed his sword and crouched into striking position, wielding it out in front of him. His blood ran cold when he realized that there were at least a dozen men, and they had him surrounded. The ones on the rock ledge above had bows with arrows pointed at him, and the ones on the ground had drawn swords. Judging by their crude clothing and savage expressions, he knew in an instant that they were the thieves the company had been searching for. It went through his mind that they had seen the energy and had come for the red stone, but as he glanced, he saw that it had again turned back to its original color, making it hard to tell that it was even there. He was grateful that the parchment was the color of the dirt upon which they were standing. If he could keep the attention on himself then perhaps the thieves would not notice it.
The tallest of the thieves stepped forward. The corners of his mouth drew into a cruel smile. “It seems that one of the lambs has gotten separated from the fold.” He looked over his shoulder at the men behind him. “Pity … we shall have to make an example out of him.” They laughed. The leader cocked his head, his cool eyes trailing over Rushton’s chainmail and cape that was embroidered with the royal crest. A trace of avarice flickered in his eyes. “Fine sword you have there.”
Rushton tightened his grip as a cold dread settled in the pit of his stomach. There was no way he could take on all of these men. He was a dead man for sure. His only hope was to die valiantly.
“So, how is it that ye became separated from the group?” His voice was friendly, conversational, but his eyes glittered with a peculiar light that Rushton had seen before on the battlefield—blood lust. These men were savage killers of the worst kind. They’d left a trail of blood on the King’s Road, not to mention the bodily appendages left on the castle steps.
“I was sent to scout out the area.”
The thief lifted an eyebrow. “Really? You were sent out alone to the dreadful Briarbane Forest—the place of dark magic and unknown terrors?” He shuddered in mock horror. “I think not.” His voice became hard. “Dost thou think I am a fool? We have been watching thy group’s every move since ye left the main road. Your company of men—those serfs of the King—were too afraid to venture into the forest at night, so they camped outside of it. Unfortunately, they will meet an untimely demise before the cock crows on the morrow.”
Rushton had to think fast. “I was sent to deliver a message.”
Interest bubbled in the thief’s eyes. “A message.”
“Yea, a message from the King.”
He sneered. “I doubt that. I should kill thee now and be done with it.” There was a hint of amusement in his voice, the predator toying with its prey. “Although a quick death seems too kind. Perhaps I will cut off thy hand and send it as a warning to the others. Or thy limb.”
A shiver of terror ran through Rushton. It was one thing to be killed and quite another to be dismembered. He pushed the fears away, allowing a lifetime of tactical training to take hold. The only chance he had of besting this thief was to outwit him. Every foe had a weakness, and he had caught a glimpse of this man’s earlier when he looked at his sword. The thief was envious of the King’s men with their fine clothes and weaponry. He only hoped that he could use that envy to his advantage. Rushton’s chainmail would give him the edge, whereas the thief’s cloth overclothes made him an easy target. His voice became musing—condescending. “Yea, thou hast me outnumbered, although I would venture to say that if it were a fair fight—between the two of us—then my odds of winning would drastically improve. After all, I am a squire to the King while thou art only a poor vagrant, slinking around in this wretched forest.” He met the thief’s glare full on. “I’m quite certain that my skill with the sword outmatches yours.”
The thief laughed, but a hot anger flashed in his eyes. “This will be more amusing than I thought. Very well. We shall fight.” He drew his sword.
Ruston made the first hit, the clanging of metal echoing off the rock walls surrounding them. The thief looked surprised and stepped back to regain his footing. Then he struck back with a blow of his own. Rushton met it with his sword, and around and around they went. Both were expert with the sword. The thief was stronger, but Rushton was faster. The drizzle had turned to a steady rain that left them sloshing in mud. The thief let out a yell and charged full force. Rushton sidestepped the attack and leveled a hit to the man’s arm, cutting through the crude tunic and into the man’s flesh.
The thief staggered backward and looked down at his injured arm. Rushton went at him full force, slashing through his feeble attempts to defend himself. A moment later, the thief fell to his knees when Rushton’s blade went to his throat. A part of him was tempted to run the blade straight through the neck of this loathsome man, but a lifetime of chivalry
prevented it. “Dost thou yield?” Rushton’s voice cracked like a whip through the group of men. Judging from the stunned looks on their faces, it seemed that they’d never before seen their leader lose a fight.
Silence.
I’ll ask only once more before I take action. “Dost thou yield?”
Rather than answering, the thief motioned with his eyes. In a flash, the men closed in behind him. Rushton felt the tip of several blades in his back. He lowered his sword. The thief got to his feet, a murderous expression on his face. He took the sword from Rushton and held it in the air for inspection. Then he spit in Rushton’s face before hitting him across the jaw. The brunt force sent Rushton tumbling to the ground. Before he even had time to move, the thief had him by the neck and was pulling him to his feet.
“I won that fight and let you live,” Rushton seethed through gritted teeth. “Any man of honor—”
The thief’s raucous laughter stopped him short. “I never claimed to be a man of honor. Honor is for the weak! Honor will get thee killed.” He motioned at the man standing on his left. “Cut off his arms.”
Rushton flew into a rage, kicking and fighting with all his might, but he was no match for the other men. They forced him to his knees. The rain seemed to blur everything, making the situation seem surreal. One man encircled his neck in a chokehold. Another grabbed his arm, pushed up the chainmail to his shoulder, and pulled his arm out to the side. A terror like none other he’d felt before seized Rushton as he watched the man raise his sword in the air.
“Halt!” a commanding voice boomed. The man holding the sword immediately dropped it to his side and stepped back. Rushton looked up to see a middle-aged man approaching. He had the confident stride of a man in complete control of himself and his surroundings. The rain flattened his dark hair, making his head look square. He was solid like the trunk of a tree with muscles that bulged beneath his wool tunic. He gave the leader a scathing look. “Must I do everything for thee, Huntsden?”
The leader ducked his head under the reprimand. “Father, I was handling the situation.”
The beefy man’s face went flush and rope-like veins popped from his neck. “Didst thou not hear the man say that he had a message from the King?”
“’Twas a lie, Father. He was merely attempting to save his own skin.”
The older man pointed to Rushton’s cape. “The royal crest doth not lie.”
The young man’s jaw went slack. “Every man camped out near the forest has the exact same crest. Wouldst thou have me spare them too, Father?”
“Not like this one!” the older man roared. “This is not some meaningless guard. He is a squire of the highest rank, a confidant to the King.” He gave Rushton a calculated look. “He could be useful to our cause.”
That this man knew so much about the crest and the inner workings of the castle surprised Rushton. Then he remembered something his mother had said. He looked up at the fortress of a man. “Thou art Ruben, brother of the King.”
A look of astonishment crossed the man’s weathered face, and then he threw back his head and laughed. He looked at Huntsden. “See, I told thee that this one is important.” His eyes went as hard as the stone around them. “And who might you be?”
He briefly considered concealing his identity but decided against it. After all, it was his identity that was keeping him alive. “Rushton Porter, First Squire to the Crown Prince.”
“Ah, a squire to Prince Edward.” He motioned at the surroundings. “And you have been sent here, to the outer forest … on a suicide mission?” He laughed. “Someone is trying to get rid of you.”
“I prefer to see it as a rescue mission,” Rushton said evenly. He’d come with the express purpose of saving the kingdom from the likes of this man and his band of bloodthirsty thieves. And while he’d failed in his attempt to strengthen the protective shield, there was still a chance that he might be able to warn the camp of the impending attack.
A strange expression came over Ruben’s face as he peered down at Rushton. “Porter? Son of the Lady Wisteria Avalonia Porter of Florentine?”
Rushton looked Ruben in the eye. “Aye.”
The rain was slacking off, but it was now dusk, making it harder to read Ruben’s expression. He crossed his massive arms over his chest. “Interesting. How is the Lady Wisteria?”
“My mother is well.”
His eyes went hard. “Still in collusion with the King?”
Rushton shook his head. “I don’t understand the meaning of thy words.”
Ruben smirked and gave him a knowing look. His voice grew menacing. “Don’t lie to me, Squire.”
“I assure thee, I’m not,” Rushton said, hoping his tone was convincing.
“And thy sole purpose in coming here was to protect the King’s Road from my thieves?”
“Aye.”
The slap across the face caught him off guard, and he tasted blood as a thin trickle ran from his lips.
Rueben yanked him to his feet. “Where is the stone?”
“I don’t understand—”
This time, the blow was a fist. White lights exploded in Rushton’s head as he stumbled backward. “The stone!” Ruben said, a feverish excitement in his voice. “We are looking for a blood-red stone,” he said to the men. He motioned at Huntsden. “Search him.”
As Huntsden began methodically searching him, all Rushton could feel was relief. He didn’t dare look over at the stone face for fear they would follow the trail of his eyes. Ruben didn’t realize that the stone only glowed red when the words were spoken while holding it. Then he remembered the parchment. He felt a wave of panic. He’d dropped it when the thieves first surrounded him. For the first time, he was grateful for the rain and approaching darkness.
“Over here,” one of the men said. Rushton’s heart dropped when he saw him hold up the parchment. Ruben snatched the parchment out of the man’s hand and began reading the words. Nothing happened. As Rushton had learned earlier, the stone only glowed red when the words were spoken. Ruben got up in Rushton’s face. “You will tell me how this works … one way or another. Where is the stone?”
“I don’t have it!”
Ruben unsheathed his sword and ran the tip down the length of Rushton’s arm. “I won’t kill thee, but that won’t stop me from taking thy hand.”
A cold fear seized Rushton. Telling Ruben about the stone would be detrimental to the kingdom, but he didn’t want to lose a hand. He frantically searched for a lie that he could tell Ruben, something to pacify him.
The screech came out of nowhere, the screams of a thousand tortured women all rolled into one. The screech came again, but this time louder. The men went to the ground, holding their ears. Rushton fought the urge to do the same. He looked up in the air and saw a ball of fire flying toward them.
“Dragon!” one of the men yelled as panic ensued. The men on the ground scattered in all directions, forgetting about Rushton entirely. Rushton had never before seen a dragon, but he’d heard plenty of tales about them. Two things registered simultaneously in his mind as he scurried for cover—the dragon was larger and more horrific than he could have ever imagined and he needed to escape while he could. First, he had to get the stone. As he ran for the face, a river of fire blazed in front of him. He looked up, shielding his eyes, as the dragon swooped down, breathing out another line of fire behind him. Fearing that the dragon would take him, he braced himself, but instead it clutched the frantic man beside him in its talons and tore him in half as easily as if it were breaking bread. Then it let out another shriek that shook the ground, causing loose boulders from the terrace above to come tumbling down. He dodged one that narrowly missed him before it pummeled the man to his right, knocking him to the ground where he began writhing in pain. Rushton ran to the face and reached in the hole, but there was no stone. He looked down at the ground, but it was too dark to see anything. Then the dragon breathed out another burst of fire, lighting the night sky momentarily. That’s when he saw it
laying on the ground. He grabbed it, shoved it into his pouch, and began running. He might have gotten away had something from behind not flattened him to the ground. He rolled and tried in vain to fight off the attacker, but it was no use. The attacker rolled him on his back.
“Ruben,” he breathed as a feeling of despair overtook him. He tried to reach for his dagger, but Ruben pinned him so that he couldn’t move.
“Where is the stone?”
“I do not know.”
Ruben pulled him to his feet and pointed a sword at his chest. “My patience is fading, Squire. Tell me now, or I will kill thee.”
As he looked into those merciless eyes, Rushton knew it was true. “The face! The stone is in the eye socket of the face!”
“What face?”
He motioned with his head. “The stone face over there by the terrace.”
Ruben grunted and clutched his neck with his massive hands. He began to squeeze. Rushton sputtered and tried to fight back, but it was no use. “Dost thou not see the face?” he managed to say.
“Nay, ’tis no face. Only rocks. I am growing weary of thy lies.”
Everything was starting to fade as Rushton struggled for breath. His eyes closed, and he seemed to be floating far away. An image of Cinderella, smiling, flashed before his eyes. He wished there had been more time—time to hold her in his arms once more. Time to let her know how much he loved her.
Then came another ear-splitting shriek. The hands around his neck loosened, and he was able to draw in a sliver of blessed air. He coughed and breathed again as his clarity returned. He looked to his side and saw that Ruben had been tossed aside where he lay in a crumpled heap. He sat up to run but then looked up in horror, for coming straight at him, was the dragon. Eyes glowing yellow, putrid breath, paralyzing terror. He shielded his face from the onslaught. He felt himself being raised and then yelped in agony as the dragon lifted him in the air, its jagged talons piercing through his chainmail and into his flesh. He tried to wiggle free, but the dragon squeezed harder. Intense pain such as he’d never felt before racked his body as his insides crushed together. He heard the sickening cracking of his own bones, and then he blacked out.
Banished: Book 1 of The Grimm Laws Page 28
