Romancing the Rogue (183 page)

With a thud, Marek’s claymore dropped to the ground. The impact of metal striking bone whipped his body violently against the side of a wooden structure. The thatch burned bright, lighting the night sky above them. Unable to withstand the shocking pain, Marek slumped to the ground. The wall collapsed under his weight sending a support beam crashing down, pinning him.

Fuck
. That was all that came to mind. Leave it to his bloody pride to get him in this unbelievable situation.
Fucking Engels. Never could fight fair.
His body screamed out, furious the blade was still imbedded deep in his flesh. The beam had trapped him well — even shoving with what little strength he had left wouldn’t budge it. Marek grit his teeth and heaved one last time, roaring out the madness consuming his thoughts. Nothing moved, except for the flowing stream of blood etching its own erratic path. Sobering realities edged their way to the forefront of his thoughts. He was defenseless, unarmed and unable to fight — definitely not the way he wanted to join the gods in the afterlife.

Westmore limped forward. “It is a shame such a fine fighter as yourself should die alone and in such a manner. Such a waste. I could have done great things with you in my army.”

“I welcome death rather than fight for you.” A metallic tasting ooze lingered on his lips. “So finish it!” He was dying. There was no sense in prolonging it. Rather than swallow the blood, Marek spit it at the Engel. He furiously kicked his legs, shocked to realize they wouldn’t move. He must accept the fate that lay unwelcome before him.

Westmore stood to tower above Marek. Reaching down, he gripped the handle of his dagger and wrenched it from the highlander’s body, lengthening the gash before wiping the blade on Marek’s tunic. “You’re bleeding, you know.” Westmore chuckled. “You should see to that.” Then the Engel left Marek to die.

Warmth oozed from Marek’s wounds, trickling to the softening mud below. He wouldn’t allow himself to die this morning, not when that man still lived and breathed. He refused it. He would not die.

He sighed. If only he had the choice.

Marek sat alone, left to suffer a slow, agonizing death as his wounds refused to clot. His legs grew numb from the heavy weight staunching the blood flow to the lower half of his body. Thankfully, the burning building behind him had fizzled out long before it had the chance to claim him. Marek focused on memories he could recall in his scattered thoughts, but soon his vision grew too weak to focus any longer and the world around him tunneled into blackness.

Unable to keep himself conscious, his body went limp, defeated.

Fallen Angels

Ronan paced the ground.

The sun had risen well above the horizon before the people of Cairn started retrieving the bodies of their dead. Those that made it to safety before the attack returned to their homes only to find those who resisted were missing or hanging from rafters. The death toll in Cairn was high, but for reasons unknown, the Engel raiding party retreated.

Six Highland warriors herded together near the tree line, waiting for their leader and further instruction. Marek had always returned victorious; how could he not have shown himself by now? The Archaeans voiced their concerns — had he been defeated by the Engel?

Trudging up the hill were Aiden and Gavin, dragging several bundles of weapons and armor.

“What?” Gavin shrugged, dropping his cargo at Ronan’s feet. “They won’t be needing it again.”

“Aiden, have you seen Marek?” Ronan questioned.

Aiden paused, wiping his brow. “I lost him after the Engels charged last night. I assumed he was with you.”

A lump rose in Ronan’s throat. “Did he… fall?”

“I cannot be sure. We parted ways.”

“Marek would not fall to an
Engel
,” Gavin scoffed. “It is unthinkable.”

“Let us spread out, leave nothing unturned. We must find him.”

~~~~

“Marek.” She smiled, gently caressing his soiled cheek with her palm. “Marek…” She whispered his name time and time again.

His eyes fluttered and he tried to focus, but the bright morning sun nearly made it impossible to see her shadowed face.

“Stay with me, Marek. The gods do not need you yet.” Her voice was the sweet music his lonely heart longed for. “
Marek
,” she called to him, rousing him from the cusp of unconsciousness. “They do not need you —
I
do, Marek. Stay alive. Find me.”

He muttered her name incoherently, desperately trying to gaze upon her beautiful face.

“Shh… I’m here,” she comforted. “Stay with me, Marek.” The woman leaned over his battered body to kiss his forehead before disappearing in between two passing shadows.

A gust of wind cooled his burning skin, carrying with it the hint of heather and lilac, arousing his senses. He heard voices — they were deep and Archaean. Had he finally passed over? Was his Brynn dead as well? Would he now spend his afterlife in a continuous search for her? No, the voices were drawing closer and speaking of Cairn. He was still alive. How, then, had he seen an angel?

“Found another one. Doesn’t look promising, lads,” said a man as he passed Marek. “Such a shame, is not it? If only we were warned of this. Give me a hand, will you?” The Cairn warrior sighed deeply before fishing out another casualty.

As Marek’s body was cleared from the ruble, the warrior paused. “Ronan…” he called. “I found your brother.”

“Let me pass!” Ronan thrust his fingers to Marek’s neck, searching for a pulse. Not finding one, Ronan promptly hushed the others and pressed his ear over Marek’s heart. “Come on,” he muttered, changing positions.

Marek groaned.

“Marek?” Ronan gave his brother’s face a light slap. Marek winced from the sting, and Ronan sighed with relief. “By the gods, the son of a bitch is breathing! Help me get him up!”

With utmost care, the men lifted Marek from his would-be grave and carried him to the infirmary, not far from the walls of Cairn.

It was there Marek would spend the next five days, fighting high fevers and body chills as his wounds were irrigated and treated. Many of the women had taken it upon themselves to care for those who had survived the battle. Several, in fact, had taken a liking to Marek, taking turns nursing him back to health. As soon as he had regained consciousness, Marek quickly learned flashing them his roguish smile could get him far with extra food and fresh water. He had even overheard two younger girls fighting over whose turn it was to change his bandages.

His men kept Marek informed of every detail during their visits. He’d learned a large funeral ceremony occurred several days after the attack. Connell, when approached, denied he ever received a warning from the riders and gloried in his triumph over the Engels. Ronan told him of rumors that Lord Westmore had fled with his nobility to the Crossroads to recover circulated throughout the village walls. Some insisted he was dead, that he had fallen not far from Cairn after fleeing, too mortally wounded to continue. Still, four days later his body had yet to be found, so his death couldn’t be proven. Learning that Westmore could possibly still walk the lands angered Marek the most.

~~~~

Ronan rarely left his brother’s side. He chided those who tended to him as if he were a callous old woman with nothing better to do than order them to find olive leaves and black-weed to pack in Marek’s wounds. “You’re quiet, brother. What bothers you?” he asked during a moment of silence.

“’Tis nothing, really. Don’t worry about me, Ronan, although I thank you for all you have done. I couldn’t have had a better nursemaid looking out for me.”

“If you weren’t battered like a rag doll, I would cuff you.”

“There’s nothing bothering me, Ronan. Nothing of importance and nothing a few drinks cannot cure.” Marek shrugged off his brother’s concern, filling his mouth with a piece of bread so he wouldn’t have to continue with the conversation.

“We leave in the morning. You should rest.” Ronan nodded in farewell.

As he made his way to leave, Marek called out behind him. “I saw her, you know… there, in the village.”

“What?” Ronan stopped in his tracks to turn toward his brother, his brow furrowed with confusion. “Saw who?”

“In the rubble. She kept me alive.”

“Who?”

“Brynn.” Saying her name aloud sent shivers up his spine, as if he spoke of the dead. Perhaps he was. Maybe that was why she appeared before him. She was singing with the gods and had been able to protect him in spirit form.

“That is impossible.”

“I saw an angel, of that I am sure.” Maybe it hadn’t been her, but someone had comforted him during his struggle for life. Perhaps only in the afterlife would they be together again.

“You were on the edge of death, Marek. There was no one.”

“I’m sure of it,” Marek snapped. How else could he still be breathing if it weren’t for her? He sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Thank you for the visit,” he added, changing the subject. “Forget what I said, Ronan. It must have been the fever. Sleep well.”

“Goodnight, Marek. I will fetch you at dawn.” Ronan ducked into the darkness.

Marek collapsed on his pallet. Perhaps he had more injuries that weren’t so visible to the eye.

He stretched the tightness in his shoulder, seeking a comfortable position for the long night ahead. Sleep never came easily for him, now less than ever. Endless thoughts were a constant river flowing through his mind. He thought of Brynn, of her infectious smile and the delicious taste of her kiss. He mulled over the idea of Lord Westmore presumably dead, and immediately pushed the thought aside. Perhaps Westmore thought him dead at this very moment. Rolling, Marek shifted his weight, relieving the pressure in his chest. The cold shock of metal touching warm skin diverted his attention to the charm still strung around his neck. It had been the first thing he had checked for, even before limbs, when he had regained consciousness. Marek pulled the cord over his head to hold the charm in his palm. He brushed his thumb over the engravings before drifting off to dream.

Morning welcomed daylight all too soon. A chill numbed his weakened muscles, making an early rise a struggle. His shoulder throbbed from overuse and a dull ache enveloped his chest.

“Out of bed early, are we?” a sweet voice echoed from just inside the threshold. One of the women who favored Marek perhaps a bit too much had arrived to see to his wounds.

“My men and I ride for home this morning. We’ve been gone far too long.” Marek foraged his surroundings for his boots.

“Your wife must be missin’ a handsome thing like you, eh?” she teased, dipping her cloth in the bowl of water she carried. “Come now, sit up so I might take a look at you.”

Deciding to hold his tongue, Marek helped the woman remove his tunic. The water felt like chunks of ice as she pressed the rag to his shoulder, scrubbing flakes of dried blood from his tender skin. His muscles seized, sending a wave of nausea through his weary body. “Damn it, woman!” he cursed, pulling away from her coarse touch.

She apologized, continuing with the cleansing before wrapping a bandage around his wound, across his sculpted shoulder, and down his middle. “Some of us have heard you are heading to the Crossroads to find Lord Westmore.”

“Where have you heard this?” Marek asked, stunned from the bit of news. The idea hadn’t yet come to mind.

“Everyone is speaking of it — the warrior who gave Lord Westmore that nasty cut is going to challenge him to the death for control of Archaean territory. I assume that great warrior is you.” The woman fluttered her sultry eyes. Her fingers lingered on his bicep until Marek removed her hand.

“Stay on task, woman, I cannot stress this enough. Hurry and dress the wounds. I must leave soon.”

“Oh.” The woman pouted, arching her plump lips like a child. “There’s no harm in waiting a few more days. The others and I were hoping we might be able to… once you were healed enough, I mean… join us for…” She giggled, a seemingly sudden embarrassment overcoming her words.

“Trust me.” Marek rolled his eyes. “What you want is
never
going to happen. You would be disappointed, especially with a man like me.”

“Oh, I find that hard to believe.” The woman plopped down the extra bandages and trudged away.

Standing to wriggle his way back into his tunic, Marek heard horses.

Ronan plodded through the doorway. “Are you ready?”

“In a moment, just let a man fetch his boots, will you?” The thick leather slid on easily, hugging his feet and calves like warm winter gloves. After latching them tightly, Marek rose and slid the scabbard Ronan handed him in place. Marek hissed as the leather conformed to his body, tightening over his wounds.

“We found your sword not far from where you fell, but…” Ronan lingered behind Marek.

“Where the hell is my horse?” Marek bellowed from outside the infirmary.

“Marek, most of the mounts were taken when the Engel left. I’m sorry, I know how much—”

“That son of a bitch!” Arran was just an old battle-driven horse of no consequence to anyone. “He stole my horse — that bastard stole my horse! I’m going to cut his heart out, I swear it to the gods I am!” Marek kicked a nearby rock out of frustration, nearly tripping himself. For the next few tense moments, Marek proceeded to curse every vile word imaginable until he could no longer think of any more that would describe just how angry he was.

His men snickered but waited until his tantrum was through before helping him up on a spirited young filly for the journey home.

Nothing felt right about the horse. Her paces were off. He couldn’t find his seat as the saddle didn’t fit her properly. The replacement just couldn’t measure up to his old friend Arran. He scolded the filly throughout his long trek homeward, asking her what he was going to do with such an untrained horse if a battle arose and caught him unawares. Would she know the correct action to take? “
No
,” he informed her. She was terribly small and thin and he reminded her of that fact whenever they crested a hill. “
You are not fit for battle,”
he would growl. The filly snorted and swished her cream tail, swatting a fly from her flanks as she trotted alongside the others, oblivious of his maddened tirades.

~~~~

“Are you sure he didn’t take a hit to the head?” Gavin questioned Ronan, riding up alongside his mount. Glancing over his shoulder, he spied Marek, deep in conversation with his unresponsive horse. “He’s not right in the head.”

Ronan could only laugh. “He’s been through much — perhaps it’s the fever?”

“Perhaps he’s just gone mad,” corrected Gavin.

“Aye, me thinks you are right.”

“We both know he’s going after that Engel shit.” Gavin arched an eyebrow.

“He’ll want to get his precious horse back, I know that much.” Ronan turned to glance at Marek as well.

“He’s gonna get his wee self slaughtered if we let him go off by his lonesome. Well, he has gone mad, to be sure. I’ve seen mad — and Marek is far beyond that.”

Ronan sighed, running his palm across the back of his neck.

“And you know he’s damn well going to do it…” hinted Gavin.

“I know, and that’s why we’re going with him,” replied Ronan. “Let’s just let him recover a bit before we go putting ideas in his head.”

“That’s what I wanted to hear! The crazy bastard needs us!” Gavin’s loud laugh echoed through the trees. Birds took flight at the disruption, disappearing into the horizon.