The Red King (40 page)

…jealousy.

“I don’t want to share you with anyone.” The
words fell from Rory’s lips before the thought had completely
formed. He made his voice softer, imploring. “It is what drove us
apart, so many years ago.”

Maarten stopped, still holding Andrew but no
longer digging and tearing at him. “What are you saying?”

“I took him to make you angry, so that you
would come for me. But you never came,” Rory said, holding his
hands before him.

“Oh, Rorik. Oh, my precious one,” Maarten
sighed. He dropped Andrew, who fell hard upon his back, and stepped
over him to take Rory in his arms. He ran his hands down Rory’s
back, up his arms, and then held Rory’s face. “Do you know what
pains you have caused me? You took my ships, my gold, my
amusements…and for what?”

Bringing his own hand up to touch Maarten’s
cheek, Rory whispered, “To hurt you, my lord, to bring your
attention back to me. You dismissed me, out of spite, and you hurt
me more with that than any whip or blade ever could.”

“Then we will be together, always. Now that
you are here, you will never leave my side again,” Maarten said,
and kissed him.

Rory fought against the sickness rising in
his throat. He couldn’t move, couldn’t tear himself out of the
embrace. He was as frozen and impotent as he had been that night,
seven years before. He held his breath while Maarten’s tongue
searched his mouth, unable to complete the farce. He heard a harsh,
wet cough.
Andrew
, he thought.
Andrew…I’m here…

He found the strength to pull away but
Maarten followed, eagerly, his fingers pushing up into the wrap on
Rory’s head. They found the bandage behind his ear and dug. When
Rory grunted and whipped to the side, Maarten laughed. “You are
still the same in some things. Must I always force you to
submit?”

“It is,” Rory began, had to halt to swallow
the gorge in his throat. “It is a recent wound. I didn’t lie when I
told you Andrew thought I was dead.”

“Ah, so it seems,” Maarten chuckled, the look
on his face now fond.

“Wait a moment, please. Let us drink to our
new start. A drink, my lord,” Rory said.

Maarten stared at him for a moment, searching
his face for something but Rory did not know what. “Yes, a drink,”
he said, at last, and released Rory. “Then we will see to your
delicatus
.”

Rory was dizzy and stumbled in his freedom.
He saw the goblet on the table and moved toward it. He did not look
at Andrew, knowing that one glance would have him kneeling, aching
to touch and comfort. The table was sturdy beneath his hands when
he leaned on it, breathing deeply and shutting his eyes against the
mounting panic in his chest.

Fingers closed on his ankle and Rory jumped.
Andrew was there, prostrate, looking up into his face with
desperate eyes. His gaze moved from Rory to the wine and back to
Rory.

The wine.

The poison!

Lifting the goblet, Rory pretended to sip and
savor the libation within, twice, then thrice. He shook Andrew’s
hand away without looking. When he turned to Maarten again, the man
was no longer smiling, but was stroking his hardening prick. Rory
took slow steps, lifting the cup with both hands. “Drink, my lord.
Seal our covenant.”

“Our covenant,” Maarten repeated, taking the
cup in one hand. He drank, deeply, finishing it. He threw the
goblet away and reached for Rory once more.

He met Rory’s fist. The crunch of bone as his
nose burst into blood was the most gratifying sound Rory had ever
heard. Stunned, Maarten reeled backwards, but recovered in time to
block the next swing towards his face. He sent his own fist into
Rory’s stomach, slamming into his bruised organs. The pain stole
Rory’s breath and he dropped, catching himself with one arm as the
other wrapped around his middle.

“Clever boy,” Maarten growled, his foot
connecting with Rory’s chin.

On his back now, Rory stared at the ceiling
timbers until Maarten’s face swam into view. The man straddled him,
wrapped long fingers around his throat, and lifted him. “You toy
with my heart, Rorik. Why?”

The question made Rory laugh and he was
rewarded with the back of Maarten’s hand. Rory still laughed,
spitting blood into Maarten’s face. “You have no heart! There is
nothing in you but rot and filth.”

Maarten slammed him back down and he cried
out as his head rocked upon the floor. There were lights dancing
above him, bright in the fog crowding his vision. He felt Maarten’s
breath on his face as the man hovered over him, grinding against
him. With a rush of nausea he realized the man was hard.

“Perhaps,” Maarten purred, lips against
Rory’s neck, above the hand that still choked him. “You will not
know the truth of it until we meet in Hell.”

Fingers tightened, cutting off the air. Rory
reached for Maarten’s face but the man’s arm was too long. He could
not reach, could not loosen the hold on his throat.
Andrew!
he thought,
Andrew I’m sorry!

There was movement and Maarten released him.
He coughed as his head cleared, dragging air through his bruised
and aching throat. There was added weight on his legs and a pleased
murmur from Maarten. “
Lille due
, have you come to play?”

Rory opened his eyes to see Andrew wrapped
around Maarten. His hands pressed Maarten’s close to his own chest
and he nuzzled at the man’s throat. His gaze was on Rory, though.
“I am not your dove,” he ground out, barely loud enough to hear. “I
am a wolf.”

He shut his eyes, tight, bared his teeth, and
sunk them into Maarten’s neck. He held on as Maarten screamed,
shaking his head to tear the skin. His jaws were clamped together
and would not release, even when Maarten thrust his elbow into
Andrew’s face to knock him away. Andrew fell back, taking a great
chunk of flesh and muscle with him. Blood sprayed over Rory; it
covered his face and chest as he lay unmoving, astonished.

“Devil!” Maarten roared, staggering to his
feet as he bled down his shoulder, arm, and chest. He reached for
Andrew, who was retching on his hands and knees, and lifted him
with an arm around his waist. “Vile imp!” He threw Andrew into the
wall, head first. There was a sickening crack and Andrew fell. He
did not move again.

“No!” Rory cried, using the table to help
stand.

Maarten turned back to face him. “I will kill
him. I will kill him while you watch,” the man snarled, swaying
where he stood. He fell to his knees, glaring up at Rory. “And then
I will…will kill…you.”

“You will kill no one else, Maarten. You will
touch no one else, ever again,” Rory panted, standing straight.

Blood still poured from the gaping wound in
Maarten’s neck, vivid and wet, dripping onto the floor. The man’s
complexion was fading to grey, his lips taking on a bluish hue. He
brought his hand to his neck, attempted to stop the flow, but it
was too late. The poison would not even have time to work. Maarten
would bleed to death first.

When Rory pushed at his shoulder with his
foot, Maarten fell back. The man grabbed his leg and held it.
“Ror-ik,” he whispered, his eyes wide. “I will…see you…in
Hell.”

“Perhaps, but not today,” Rory snarled,
pulling his foot away to let it fly at Maarten’s face. The man’s
body seized for a moment longer, and then went still.

Weak and sore, trembling from the rush of
triumph and the nearness of his own death, Rory waited. He stared
down at Maarten, expecting him to rise up again. But Maarten did
not move. The man was still. The blood that had flown from the
wound in his neck was now merely a sluggish drip, for the heart
that had pumped beat no more.

“Andrew,” Rory whispered, stepping over
Maarten’s corpse. He dropped to his knees, reaching out to take the
battered body into his arms, but paused. There was no part of
Andrew that he could touch, hold, which did not bear Maarten’s
mark.

“Andrew!” he cried, hands hovering, afraid to
feel the torn flesh gone cold.

There was a sharp intake of breath. Andrew’s
chest rose and fell and there was no end to the thanks Rory sent to
Heaven.

Rory pulled him close, resting Andrew across
his knees and supporting his head with his arm. His other hand
swept away the gore from Andrew’s face, flesh and blood from
Maarten and Andrew’s own blood from a terrible gash that ran from
his forehead to his ear. Andrew did not stir to respond, and Rory
called his name, over and over, pressing their lips together. He
trailed kisses up to Andrew’s eyes, down his jaw, still crying for
Andrew to wake.

“Please, open your eyes! Andrew! Andrew!”
Rory wept.

When the pounding on the door came, Rory
jumped, but did not release his burden. “
Ruaidhri
!”

“Malik!” Rory shouted in response and heard
the bar slide away.

The door swung open and then Malik was beside
him, one strong arm going around Rory’s shoulders, the other
wrapping his great cloak around Andrew’s naked form. “Gods of All,
do not let it end like this,” he prayed, his deep voice low and
broken.

“Let me see him,” Laurent said, pulling them
apart as he knelt beside Rory. He carefully opened each of Andrew’s
eyes to peer into them, put his ear to Andrew’s nose and mouth,
then to his chest. “He breathes and his heart still beats strong.
His eyes are the same, one no more black than the other. He is
alive, and if we treat his wounds and get him to a restful place,
he will recover. But we must move quickly.”

Rory glanced up, catching Laurent’s gaze.
“You can see this? You swear it?” he asked, hope swelling in his
breast despite the evidence in his arms.

Laurent nodded, his eyes filled with promise.
“I do. Bring him to the bed.”

“No!” Rory snarled, clutching Andrew closer.
“He’ll heal, but far from here.”

Malik cut Laurent off before the man could
speak. “
Ruaidhri
, we must go now.”

“Go? You cannot take him out in the cold! His
wounds must be cleaned! He must be kept warm!” Laurent argued, one
hand landing on Rory’s shoulder.

“And you can do all of this?”

“I can, but it will take time. You must give
me time.”

Rory shook his head. “Bring whatever supplies
you need. Come with us.”

“With you?” Laurent asked, slowly, his
expression slack with amazement. “Where?”

“Does it matter? You will be free of this
place. You are free, Laurent. Come with us,” Rory answered. “Let me
save you, this time.”

Laurent was silent. Staring.

“Please,” Rory begged. “You cannot stay here.
Let me take you somewhere safe, somewhere warm. Allow me this.”

“I will, yes. I will come with you.”

Rory let himself smile. “We don’t have much
time.”

“I need little,” Laurent said, smiling in
return as his eyes filled with tears. “I will be only a
moment.”

The man rushed from his side, but his
footsteps went no further. Rory looked over his shoulder to see him
standing beside Maarten’s body. Before he could speak, Laurent drew
back his foot to deliver a powerful kick to Maarten’s face,
followed by another. There was a high, pained cry as he continued
to kick and stomp on the dead man, crushing the bones until no
feature was plain. Maarten’s face was now a pulpy hollow. Laurent
spat on him and turned on one foot to grind his heel into Maarten’s
groin.

Malik stood and took Laurent by the arms.
“Your greatest revenge will be to leave him here to rot while you
live on. Please, if you can help us, get what you need. We don’t
have much time.”

Laurent was panting but otherwise silent.
After a moment he covered one of Malik’s hands with his own and
nodded. “In the chest you will find robes and cloaks…all manner.
Wrap yourselves and keep the cloth close, for the wind will cut you
to the bone.”

Rory’s lips turned up at one corner. “I
remember. Hurry.”

Laurent left and Malik went to dig out the
necessary wrappings, Rory looked back to Andrew. There was a
bruised, grotesque swelling where the bob of his Adam’s apple
should have been. Rory realized that had been why no cries had come
from Andrew, only the harsh and awful grating of gristle. The pain
must have been tremendous; the strength need to speak through it,
to dispute Maarten’s “
Lille due
,” immense. Rory’s tears were
falling onto Andrew’s face and tracking through the blood.

“God damn the man,” Rory cursed, bending to
press a kiss to the damaged flesh. “He crushed your voice, your
beautiful voice.”

“Here,” Malik said, returning. He had in his
hands two heavy cloaks and one plush, velvet robe. “We will wrap
him in the robe, first, and then the cloak. The other is for
you.”

“I will not need it,” Rory argued.

“You will put it on, or I will tie you in it
and carry you out, as well,” Malik ordered, sternly.

The look on Malik’s face brooked no
dissention. “As you wish,” Rory said, relenting.

Malik smiled, but it was replaced by a wince
and a glimmer of fury as he helped bundle Andrew into the robe. “If
the man could be killed, buried, brought back and killed again, it
would not be enough to pay his due.”

“That is true, but he is dead,” Rory said,
throwing the cloak around his shoulders. “And that is good enough
for me.”

Andrew was cocooned in velvet and fur-lined
wool, all but the smallest bit of his face showing as if he were a
swaddled babe. Malik stood with him, carefully, but the movement
jarred and Andrew stiffened. His eyes opened, wide with panic and
pain. “Easy, Coinin, I have you,” Malik soothed best as he
could.

When he saw Rory, Andrew’s eyes filled with
tears. “We’re going home, Andrew,” Rory said, leaning close,
touching his cheek. He pressed a gentle kiss to Andrew’s mouth. “I
love you. We’re going home.”