Chained (Chained Trilogy) (12 page)

Fear stabbed Caden in the gut, causing a bitter taste to rise up in the back of his throat. Even as his men found their way to Harlot’s Row, Caden realized that they were outnumbered—not only by the knights, but by the peasants milling about on the street. Caden could not know how they would react if he were to slay Sir Marcel, one of the most powerful knights of Dinasdale, right there in
front of them. His eyes locked with Asher’s and he saw the terror there, hidden behind a veil of defiance.

“Caden.” The single word was a low and whispered plea that cut Caden to the quick. Asher was only twenty and three
years of age … a man young. Just then, he was a boy begging his elder brother to save him, and Caden felt powerless. He abhorred that feeling.

“Listen to me,” Caden said
to the knight, his patience slowly slipping through his fingers. He wanted nothing more than to bury his sword in Sir Marcel’s belly. “You are mistaken. Dinasdale and Daleraia are at peace. If there have been raiders, they were not sent by my father. Upon my honor, I swear—”

“Your honor?” Sir Marcel spat into the dirt to show Caden what he thought of his honor. “You dare speak to me of honor? Elaine, come forth!” he barked. Fr
om the crowd, a wide-eyed girl of no more than twelve appeared. Her dark fingers twisted her apron and trembled as she met Caden’s gaze, then swiftly glanced away.

“Yes, Sir,” she mumbled, her head lowered.

“Tell these men what you saw.”

The young girl trembled, her first word coming out on a sob as tears ran down her cheeks. “I saw them … riders in black. They wore helms, but I could see through the slits … they were D
aleraian.”

“Tell us
who led them.”

The girl swallowed noisily and wiped her eyes with her apron, continuing
, “He wore a helm trimmed in gold. It had a face … the face of a fox.”

Caden’s eyes widened as he
glanced at Asher, who looked as if he were going to be ill. Asher was known by that helm … Jarin had laughed when he’d had it made, claiming that Asher was more like a hen than a fox. Asher lowered his head and Caden was overcome with dread.

“And what did the man in the fox helm do?”

“He and his men descended on Heywick,” she said, her voice growing stronger as she glanced at Asher, and her eyes narrowed. “They tried to put the village to the sword. The dead were everywhere … women, children. And then there was Lady Breena …”

Sir Marcel’s face hardened into a mask of pain and anger. “My lady wife. Tell us, child, what
they did to her. Tell Sir Caden so that he may know my pain.”

“She was riding in a litter,” she whispered, her eyes glazed as if remembering every moment of it. “They killed her carriers and tore her from it. The man in the fox helm and three others. They … they beat her, Sir. Then they tore her gown from her body. Right there in the street they
—”

“Enough, girl!” Caden bellowed, causing the girl to flinched, frightened. “Sir Marcel, where I come from
, a man stands trial before a council and is sentenced. Are the laws in Dinasdale not the same? Where is the council? Where is Lord Bauldry or High Lord Clarion? I understand your grief, Sir, but my brother has the right to a fair trial, and more than one frightened girl as a witness.”

Sir Marcel held his hand out to one o
f his knights, who came forward holding Asher’s helm. Sir Marcel took the helm and held it up over his head for all to see. “I am his judge and punisher. I seek vengeance, and you will not stand in my way.”

“Sir Marcel,” Caden
said, edging forward, his longsword raised. Ten knights stood between he and Asher. “I am warning you. Harm a hair on his head, and I will spill your blood here and now.”

Sir Marcel leered at him before bringing the helm down with a resounding crash against Asher’s head, causing it to whip violently to the side as more blood flowed, spraying across the dirt in a crimson shower. Caden roared his fury, his swor
d slashing as he ran forward. His slash was parried by the first knight in his path, but Caden swiftly dispatched him when his blade found the vulnerable shoulder joint of his armor, taking the limb from its owner. The knight went down screaming, and Caden slashed again, taking his head from his shoulders and leaping over his body to meet another attack.

Lord Guyar was beside him in an instant, as were Gareth Goodwin, and six men-at-arms. Their chances were bleak
; the knights of Heywick were armored and many, Caden’s men were unarmored and few. Still, Caden fought with greater focus than he ever had, parrying attacks and countering. Ducking to avoid the swing of a morningstar, Caden slashed with his longsword again, catching the knight at the back of his knees and causing him to fall like an axed tree. The spiked morningstar fell from the knight’s hand and Caden dove for it. The bludgeoning weapon was much more effective against the plate armor, and Caden used it to smash through the breastplate of one knight, and the helm of another. Blood spurted, staining his face and chest, but Caden was mad with rage now, his movements quick and flurried, his lust for blood insatiable.

Behind him, Lord Guyar cried out as a dirk found his ribs, but was saved when Gareth Goodwin plunged his shortsword through the back of his attacker’s neck, causing
the tip to appear through his throat in a bloody spray.

There
were only three left—three knights between himself and Asher—and even as Caden engaged the first, he knew that he’d never make it. Sir Marcel raised his long-handled halberd just as Caden grasped the uncovered head of the knight and twisted until it cracked, dropping his limp body to the ground. The axe fell as Caden swung the morningstar, caving in his second opponent’s skull with a sickening crunch.

Caden’s legs lost their strength as the halberd bit into the back of Asher’s neck. Sir Marcel was a poor headsman, and
the axe did not slice clean through. Asher screamed as he snatched the axe loose and swung again. Asher’s body jerked violently and he was silent, but his head still wasn’t completely severed. With the third blow, his legs danced and his arms jerked before he finally stilled. Caden was close enough to smell the blood as Asher’s severed head rolled, the blue eyes staring sightlessly up at him, his face frozen in the grimace that had been upon it when he’d died.

Lord Guyar’s angry cry was loud enough to be heard all the way in Minas Bothe, and his men-at-arms went into a frenzy, their thirst for vengeance unquenchable.
Metal clashed and sang as the Daleraian’s slaked their bloodlust with the last of Sir Marcel’s men. The crunch of armor and the cries of the dying filled Harlot’s Row.

Caden crawled toward Asher’s fallen body, his hand shaking as he reached out toward it. He fisted his hand around the front of his brother’s shirt, a large lump rising in his throat
when he gazed once more into the dead eyes. Grief mingled with anger as his eyes turned toward Asher’s executioner, who had handed the halberd off to his squire and drawn his broadsword once more. He raised an eyebrow at Caden.

“Is it a fight you want, boy? You’re welcome to my head if you can take it.”

Caden’s nostrils flared as he stood, his hands once more finding his longsword. He left the morningstar, deciding that he very much wanted Sir Marcel to taste his steel. All around them, Lord Guyar and the others had dispatched the knights, leaving only he and Sir Marcel. Caden circled him, refusing to strike first as he was sure the other knight wanted. His footsteps were slow and sure, his grip strong on the two-handed longsword. Sir Marcel danced with him, his feet moving in a slow promenade as they circled each other, each man taking measure of the other.

Sir Marcel soon lost his hold on patience and attacked, stabbing at Caden’s middle. Caden knocked the sword aside with his, and unsheathed his shor
tsword with his left hand, taking the longsword into his right. He wielded both weapons in the fighting style of a Daleraian, using the longsword to slash and parry, and the shortsword to stab. He spun and leapt to avoid his opponent’s blows. His men had gathered and were cheering him on, shouts of, “Sir Caden!” and “For Asher!” and “For Daleraia!” met his ears. Yet, Caden tuned them out as he and Sir Marcel continued their deadly waltz, the sounds of clashing steel ringing out the loudest of all. Sir Marcel became wild in his fury, his attacks becoming reckless as he lunged for Caden, swinging wildly.

Caden took the opportunity to
knock Marcel off balance, kicking one leg out from under him as he lunged, causing him to fall to the ground with a great clang of his armor. Before he could rise, Caden stood over him, his longsword at the knight’s throat.

The knight dropped his own weapon and raised his head defiantly, knowing he’d been beaten. “Go
on,” he growled, his eyes narrow slits of hatred. “Kill me.”

He wanted to. Caden wanted nothing more than to slid
e his sword through the meat of Sir Marcel’s neck, causing blood to flow and his soul to leave his body. Yet …

“No,” Caden murmured, sliding his weapons into their sheaths
, “I think I’d rather let you live.”

Surprised gasps rippled through the gathered crowd, but they were loudest of all among
st his own men.

“Let him live?” Gareth Goodwin parroted as he stepped forward
, his strawberry-blond hair matted with grime and blood. “Milord, justice must be done for Asher. Your father would want it.”

“There will be justice,” Caden declared, never taking his eyes away from Sir Marcel. “Run back to Heywick,” he commanded. “Run home and tell your brother that I will ride upon him with the full
force of Daleraia at my back and the blessing of King Merek himself. As your lord, he will pay for what has been done here today, as will any Dinasdalian who dares to stand in my way. By the time I am finished, this land will be painted in the blood of your people, and you will beg for mercy as a parched man begs for water. Run, now, before I change my mind.”

Sir Marcel rose to his knees, his eyes darting wildly.
He reached for his dropped sword, but Caden was upon him before he could grasp it, his foot connecting with the knight’s hand. He howled as Caden’s boot made contact, causing the small bones in his wrist to snap. Caden let his foot fly again for good measure, sneering in satisfaction when he was rewarded with another snap and crunch as Sir Marcel screamed.

“Leave the sword,
it is mine now” he commanded coolly. “You are no longer a knight. Run to your brother. Tell him I am coming to bathe Heywick in blood and fire.”

Sir Marcel was on his feet in an instant, cursing and bellowing for his squire. The gathered crowed slowly parted for him, their wide-eyed stares taking in the scene with interest and fear. Caden ignored them all as he knelt once more beside Asher, reaching out with one hand to close his gaping eyes.
Inhaling deeply, he wearily lowered his head, forcing tears away. Now was not the time to mourn Asher. Not here, not now in front of his men. Lord Guyar made it bloody hard to remain taciturn when he stood beside Caden, resting a strong hand on his shoulder.

“He was a good man, your brother,” he said. “Those things that were said about him … don’t you believe them for a moment, Caden.”

Caden turned his hot gaze upon Guyar, swiping at the lone tear racing toward his jaw. “I don’t. Asher has hardly been out of my sight these past days, you and I both know that. Yet …” His eyes traveled to Asher’s bloodstained helm. “That was his helm. How can that be, Guyar?”

The elder man shook his head, his eyes sad and grave. “That, I d
o not know. But I fear that helm might just be the start of a new conflict between Daleraia and Dinasdale. Humber Bauldry will not take this lying down.”

C
aden’s eyes followed the silhouette of Sir Marcel as he disappeared down Harlot’s Row, mounted astride his black stallion, his broken hand cradled against his chest. “Good,” he spat, “I like my foes to stand when I kill them.”

Chapter Five

All of Seahaven had come to the keep for the engagement ceremony. In the great hall, fresh rushes had been laid and newly made candles lit. The kitchens bustled with activity as they prepared to offer the prince of Lerrothe their very best at his engagement feast. Within the temple, the families of the bride and groom would gather, and all guests of importance would stand in attendance. The gates were open to all of Seahaven’s villeins, who gathered outside, vying to catch a glimpse of their lady and her betrothed once the ceremony was over. This was a small affair compared to the pomp and opulence that would accompany the wedding, but that would be held in Lerrothe. The betrothal ceremony was the only chance the people of Seahaven would have to celebrate the occasion.

Lady Enid had ordered pavilions erected
in both courtyards, where the peasants would feast on the wild boar and quail being roasted over open cookfires. Casks of Seahaven’s best ale were rolled from the brewhouse and flagons of sweet white and robust red wines would be opened in the great hall. The temple was draped in garlands of wisteria, and the colorful banners of House Toustain and House Bainard flanked the statue of the goddess Kya. It was before her altar that Gwen and Gaiwan would promise themselves to each other.