The Sword And The Pen (25 page)

Also, if he were killed, Shallon and its people would lose a great leader. Without him, Shallon would flounder and fall back into the barbarity it had known before he took the throne. She couldn't let that happen.

Inside, she knew she lied. If he fell, Shallon would survive; it was she who would not. What she feared most had already happened. She'd given him her heart.

Yet, they had no future together. When he woke, his pride would never allow him to forgive her deceit and betrayal. Would he still demand she be his bond mate? She doubted it. Whatever feelings he held for her would dissolve beneath his fury. Considering his pride, after being drugged and kept out of a battle. . .Even if she succeeded and was victorious over Roark, she'd have to face Donoval's rage. She'd be fortunate if he merely banished her from her country.

"Be safe, my heart," she whispered. Then she shook off her hopeless longings and marched out of the tent.

I woke to the rumble of thunder and the sound of rain pelting the tent. My body ached, and my mouth tasted like the bottom of Seri's kittens' litter pan smelled. How long had I been out? Prying open my gritty eyes, I stood and walked to the tent flap. Peering out, through the torrents of rain I couldn't determine the hour. I pulled on a shirt, trousers and boots, but my armor and weapons were missing.

Once I was outside, wind-driven rain soaked me through to my skin in seconds. I shivered.

Except for the sentries guarding the camp, no able-bodied men or warhorses remained. I scanned the horizon. Because the camp lay behind a wooded hill several miles from the fortress, I couldn't see or hear anything of the battle.

As I entered his tent, Hausic looked up from where he huddled by the stove. "My lord. You should not be up." He came to my side and tried to lead me to the chair he'd vacated. "Sit. Warm yourself."

The cheery fire blazing in the stove couldn't dispel the cloud of worry hanging over him, or the fear growing inside me.

I shrugged off his hand. "How long have they been gone?"

"Four hours."

Fortunately for me, in Donoval's first book I'd set him up as resistant to most drugs, so we'd only slept for a short time. Still, by now, Seri's troops had attacked the western gate; she was with luck infiltrating the castle, and Donoval's men were in position. If all went according to plan, within the next hour Roark's soldiers would be defeated, Seri would triumph and the usurper would die. But in order for this to happen, I--Donoval--had to be there. I'd finally recalled how I'd written the ending.

In my original book, when Seri confronted Roark she slipped and he plunged his blade through her. In my revised version, at the last moment Donoval stepped in and deflected Roark's blade. If I didn't get there in time, Seri would die.

Of course, things weren't proceeding as I'd rewritten them. Nowhere had I written that Seri drugged me. And Donoval hadn't been injured or sick.

I'd begun the book with Serilda destined to die. Everything in the story led to that final confrontation between her and Roark, led to her tragic death. Now, it seemed, no matter how I re-wrote the pages or acted, something insisted on maintaining the integrity of my original concept. Fate was conspiring to keep her alone--alone and likely to die.

I wasn't about to give up. Whatever it took, I was going to be there to save Seri.

"Mauri is gone," Hausic said.

More memory of my book's original ending came back to me. "When?"

"She disappeared shortly after the troops left. I fear she's followed young Jole."

My fears ran in a different direction, one where Mauri was under Roark's control. He'd orchestrated the death of her family shortly after she reached the age of seven and had chosen her enchanted name. Through trickery, he'd learned her enchanted name then set her in Serilda's path to become his eyes and ears in this camp. During the attack on the castle, Roark finally played his trump card; he'd summoned Mauri and used her.

But, was this still the case? I'd looked for hints in the girl since my arrival in Seri's world, and I'd been able to find none. Everything here was a jumble of the versions of this story I'd written; plus things happened that I hadn't written or even imagined. What could I trust? What changes could I effect? And was I more apt to be successful with the sword or the pen?

I decided on a course of action. "I need quill and parchment," I told Hausic. I had to trust who and what I was.

Curiosity burned in his eyes, but he didn't question my request. He quickly produced both items, and I set to work.

Ink splotched both the parchment and my fingers as I scratched out another ending. The writing was horrible, stilted, passive, without my usual attention to detail or flowing language; it was a rough outline rather than a finished draft, but it said what needed to happen. I hoped it would work.

I carefully dried the ink, folded the parchment and tucked it inside my shirt. Last time I'd destroyed the parchment, and maybe that had affected the outcome. I didn't know, but this time I wasn't taking the chance. And I had more yet to do.

"I need a horse and a sword," I told Hausic.

"Yes, my lord."

Hausic hobbled out of the tent. I followed him into the storm.

Though morning had dawned, pewter rainclouds dropped their loads and churned the world around us to murky soup lit only by bright streaks of lightning dancing across the sky. Wind-whipped rain stung my exposed flesh and blew wet hair into my eyes.

Moving silently, his robes billowing in the tempest, Hausic guided me unseen past the sentries to a tent on the far edge of the encampment. Inside, I found a sword and a dagger, but still no armor. I strapped the belt and scabbard around my waist.

"I need a horse or I'll never get to the castle," I shouted over the growing crash of thunder as we moved outside.

"The soldiers took all the warhorses," Hausic replied. "He's not trained for battle, but you can use my mule to get to the castle."

I followed the old man to a corral where Seri kept animals not suited for combat. Oxen and mules used to pull the heavy wagons, along with goats and sheep for milk and meat, all mingled with several horses less massive than the average warhorse. Using the cover of rain and thunder to avoid the sentries' eyes and ears, we sneaked into the pen and retrieved Hausic's mule.

Standing outside the camp perimeter, I eyed the animal with dismay. Every insecurity I possessed now crowded my mind. Though smaller than a warhorse, the mule was a big, rawboned beast. During the fight, the well-trained warhorse had masked my pathetic riding skills. Now I had no such cover. And try as I did, I couldn't tap into Donoval's persona. I'd have to ride this animal alone. Bareback. We couldn't risk alerting the sentry guarding the tack tent.

"Give me a boost," I told Hausic.

Stepping into his cupped hands, I hoisted myself onto the mule's bony back and took the reins.

"He's called Honey." Hausic patted the animal's rangy neck. Drenched by rain, its brown-grey hide looked like mud.

"I hope he's as sweet tempered as his name," I muttered.

At the sound of my voice, Honey's ears flattened against his head. He swiveled around around and gave me an evil look.

Hausic shook his head. "He's named for his sweet tooth. He's not pretty, but he's strong. He'll serve you well. King Donoval?"

The old man gripped my hand in his. Through sheets of rain I met his anxious gaze. Water plastered his robes against his frail body, and slicked his parchment-colored hair to his scalp.

"Yes?"

"Bring them all back safely."

After I nodded, he turned and disappeared into the storm.

Against my better judgment, I pushed Honey into a run. It was the right choice. Fleet and surefooted, the beast ran across the uneven plain while I clung precariously to his back. The wounds on my thigh and belly screamed at the abuse. I grimaced as the stitches on my thigh ripped. The rain soaking through my pants swept away the trickle of warmth running down my leg, and I similarly ignored the pain.

In the woods, without direction from me, Honey slowed to a trot. Here the thick trees blocked the howling wind, but the bare branches did nothing to ease the cold rain beating down. Steam rose off Honey's hide. My teeth chattered.

At the edge of the woods I paused to take stock. Larger and more forbidding than I remembered, Roark's fortress rose before me. Built from blocks of black stone three feet high, five feet wide and three feet deep, the outer wall stood twenty-five feet high and nearly ten feet deep. Across the top of the wall ran battlements where guards stood watch. The eastern gate opened into the central bailey, which led to the castle proper.

Off to the east, hidden from the battlements' view, I could see Donoval's troops lying in wait. At the western gate Seri's troops engaged Roark's. Over the roar of thunder I heard the clash of swords and the screams of men and horses. The shudder running down my spine owed nothing to the cold.

I slid off Honey's back. "Time for me to go on alone," I told the beast. "Thanks for your help."

After turning him toward the camp, I tied the reins across his withers and slapped him on the rump. He sprang forward and quickly disappeared into the woods.

On the battlements, torches sputtered in the downpour. In their flickering light, outlined against the flashes of lightning, I saw the dark shapes of at least four guards moving back and forth, their eyes scanning the ground through the storm. And perhaps there were more. Whatever else Roark was, he was no fool. Though he'd moved the bulk of his men to repel the main attack on the western gate, he hadn't left the eastern gate completely unguarded. If one of those guards sounded the alarm in time, Seri's attack would fail before it began.

Using rocks and shrubs as well as the downpour as cover, I crept across the hundred yards of open land toward the fortress wall. Fortunately for us, the construction had been abandoned before a moat had been dug. Water dripped into my eyes. I wiped it away.

Fifteen feet from the castle wall, I paused and waited for a guard to turn away so I could cross that last open space. This close, despite the storm, I feared my blond hair and white shirt would catch the eye. Another shape rose behind him. The guard went down and didn't get back up.

I watched as the same happened to the other three guards. Seri had made it inside! So, the hidden entrance truly existed. It was about time something went right.

"Yes," I whispered, then dashed across those last fifteen feet.

Back pressed against the wall, I knew I was an open target as I moved toward the secret entry. At last I made it. Rough stone tore my skin as I searched the grooves between the blocks for the concealed latch. Something moved beneath my fingers; then, with a creak barely audible above the rain and thunder, a section of stone swung inward. I tumbled backward into darkness.

My backside hit the stone floor with a thud. After the waterlogged air outside, inside the wall smelled dry and dusty. A fine mist drifted through the opening to dampen the grit beneath my palms. I blinked to clear the water from my eyes. Dim light illuminated a short distance along a passageway between courses of stone.

I pushed the stone door closed and immediately wished I hadn't. Complete black surrounded me. In the abrupt silence, the beat of my heart sounded louder than the thunder outside. The weight of the invisible stone walls pressed down. In that dead space, I struggled to breathe.

Resisting the urge to panic, I blinked rapidly. Bit by bit the darkness receded. Ahead, a sliver of light turned the black to grey. I stumbled along the narrow corridor until I reached the source of light, a door that led into the stables. Scuffs and damp boot prints in the dust on the floor indicated someone had been through here recently.

I pushed open the door. The smell of manure burned my nostrils. My eyes watered. Faint sounds of fighting drifted through the pungent air.

In the quiet of the stable, a hungry cow bellowed at an empty manger. Unconcerned with the disputes of men, a handful of scrawny chickens scratched and pecked the dirt, looking for non-existent grain. A guard, his body covered with dirty straw, lay motionless in a corner.

Though Roark had commandeered the castle, he clearly didn't have the people necessary to maintain it. After standing empty for nearly twenty years and being occupied by Roark's troops for a mere twenty days, it was barely fit for habitation. If things were as bad as they seemed, long before they ran out of food or water Roark and his men would die of disease.

With one hand I covered my mouth and nose, and with the other hand I drew my sword and moved cautiously through the stable into the main bailey. A quick look around confirmed no guards patrolled nearby. Not a single soul seemed to lurk in the derelict buildings.

In a window high in the keep, a light flickered. Was that Roark, waiting inside? It seemed likely. From there, a person could keep watch over the fighting. And though an excellent swordsman, if he could avoid it Roark preferred not to dirty his hands by engaging the enemy. He'd certainly see no need to venture out in the rain to fend off an attack. Not unless things turned truly dire.

The sounds of fighting grew louder. When and if they broke through the western gate, Seri's troops could only maintain the attack there for a short time without sustaining unacceptable loses. In the narrow corridor beyond, Roark's archers would easily pick them off. Roark would also soon become suspicious of such an ineffective attack, and pull his extra forces back to protect the eastern gate--the gate that needed to be open for Donoval's soon-to-arrive troops.

Two thick drawbars barred the eastern gate. It would take at least two men to move them, but Seri and her team were nowhere in sight.

Rain sluiced over me as I moved along the wall toward the gate. A hand clamped on my arm and yanked me off balance. Before I could react, I stumbled backward through a doorway. Thud! Where a second before my chest had been, an arrow sank into the wood. A surge of fear-induced adrenaline drove the chill from my body. I looked up in time to see an archer tumble soundless from the battlement to land and lie motionless in the mud of the bailey. Another figure appeared. A torch flared, then sailed out into the storm. The signal had been sent. The figure disappeared from the walkway.