The Sword And The Pen (26 page)

"Fool! What are you doing here?" Seri pressed herself against my back, I could feel her breasts burning into me. "And how did you awaken from the sleeping draught so quickly?"

I turned to face her. Relief at finding her alive and intact rendered me immune from the anger and confusion glittering in her eyes. "Fortunately for you, my body is resistant to most drugs." I sheathed my sword then grabbed her face between my palms and kissed her. For a moment she resisted; then her lips softened beneath mine.

The world dissolved around me. Nothing existed but the heat flowing between us. Then she jerked free.

"Never mind," she decided. "Come. We have only minutes before your troops reach the gate."

Apparently unaffected by our kiss, she pulled me out of the doorway. I stumbled behind her. Rain washed away any lingering warmth in my body.

Three men appeared from the shadows to join us as we ran toward the eastern gate, and I groaned in horror. Jole was among them. This was another divergence from my rewrite. When I'd changed the ending, I'd had him stay safely behind the troops attacking the western gate.

Along with Seri and Jole, I climbed the stairs to finally reach the drawbar on the gate. On the far side, the three other men attempted to pull the second bar. Swollen with rain, the heavy wood resisted our efforts to drag it through the rusted metal guides. I wondered if these gates ever had been opened since the castle was abandoned.

Shouts rang out. I glanced up from my task. Men streamed out of the narrow corridor from the western gate into the bailey--Roark's men. Did that mean the main attack was succeeding? Outside and beyond the eastern gate I heard Gerhan's voice, but couldn't make out his words.

Something rammed into the heavy metal-studded wood, jarring the drawbar under my hands. Gerhan and my men were using a battering ram. Rust from the metal guides flew into the air, and the vibration jolted through me. I lost my hold and stumbled. Seri grabbed my shoulder and kept me from falling.

Arrows thudded into the wood around us. One of Seri's men screamed and tumbled. Apparently some of Roark's archers had spotted us.

"Open the gate!" I grabbed at the drawbar and pulled once more. The muscles in my arms bunched and strained in protest. Despite a rain of arrows, Seri and Jole threw their strength behind mine, while the remaining two men on the other side did the same. The drawbars started to move.

Over the drumming of the rain and rumble of thunder, I barely heard the creaking groan as inch by inch the drawbars slid back. Before the last foot on our side cleared the gate, it flew open. Splinters of wood showered me. The weight of the crumbling gate struck and cracked the rotting supports of the catwalk upon which we stood. It gave way beneath us.

Led by Gerhan, my--Donoval's--troops stormed into the bailey. Swords flashing, they charged on foot and on warhorses toward Roark's men. In seconds, the bailey was a maelstrom of clashing steel and screaming warriors. Blood joined the rain, turning the ground to a pit of steaming mud.

Jole tumbled off the catwalk, but he rolled against the wall, out of the way of the oncoming hooves. Seri caught the top edge of the gate as it swung open. Now she dangled above the fight. I managed to be standing on the only part of the catwalk that didn't collapse, but I couldn't reach her. Nor could she jump to where I was. From the far side of the fighting, several of Roark's archers continued to shoot at us.

"Gerhan!" I shouted.

He looked up and headed toward me.

"No," I yelled, and pointed to Seri. "Help her."

With a quick nod he fought his way into position beneath her. "Seri, jump."

At the sound of his voice, she glanced down. An arrow hit her left arm. Her body jerked. She lost her grip and fell.

"Seri!" Though I knew I couldn't reach, I lunged forward. With an ominous crack, the catwalk collapsed.

*** *** ***

Pain and rain blurred Serilda's vision, but as she fell she saw the catwalk disintegrate. Donnie shouted her name and lunged toward her.

"No!" she screamed as he staggered and fell. His body disappeared into the crush of oncoming men and warhorses.

She herself landed belly down across Gerhan's saddle. Air whooshed from her lungs.

Through the tangle of men and horses, she caught a glimpse of blond hair on the ground; then it vanished as a warhorse fell. Pain lanced through her heart as she feared the worst. Tears burned her eyes.

Around her, swords continued to clash. Men and horses screamed. Mud and blood spattered her face. Rain sluiced it away.

"Donnie," she gasped and tried to pull herself upright.

"Be still." With a hand in the middle of her back, Gerhan held her in place. His warhorse whirled and danced beneath her. Each movement pushed more air from her lungs and jarred the arrow protruding from her arm. She gasped for breath. Gritting her teeth against the fiery pain, she pulled it free.

"Let me down," she commanded.

Gerhan moved his warhorse to put more room between them and the battle raging all around. He lifted his hand. Ignoring the hot blood seeping from her arm, she twisted and slipped down the side of the horse to her feet. She pulled her sword and moved around the warhorse. Mud sucked at her boots in the unpaved bailey. Shaking his head but relieved of the need to protect her, Gerhan reentered the fray.

Off to her right Serilda saw Jole, sword in hand, fighting. Part of her wanted to push him back into the shadows out of harm's way, to keep him safe. Another part took pride as he fought with skill and courage.

Donnie was nowhere in view. She wasn't sure if he'd been crushed by the fallen horse, but she had to find him. She fought her way toward the base of the wall where he'd disappeared.

With a quick sword-blow, she dispatched a man standing in her way. Donnie did not lie amidst the rubble of the catwalk or beneath the dead warhorse. A flower of hope bloomed inside her. Until she saw his cold, dead body, she'd nurture that fragile blossom.

"To the keep!" a man shouted.

Overwhelmed by the unexpected number of foes advancing into the bailey, and by the crush of warhorses, Roark's men ran for the central stronghold. High above, Serilda saw a light. Roark. He sheltered there. She couldn't allow his men to get inside and barricade the doors. In this fortress within a fortress, they could still hold out for weeks. Finding Donnie would have to wait.

"Stop them!" She ran toward the castle door. Rain sheeted down, keeping the world a murky grey.

Shouting directions from the back of his warhorse, Gerhan directed his men. They surged around the fleeing soldiers of the tyrant, barring the path into the castle. Fierce and unremitting, Roark's men fought to reach safety.

Lightning crackled across the sky. Thunder drowned the cries of the wounded and dying as their bodies were trampled into the mud. Again and again Serilda swung her sword, clearing a path. Blood and gore covered her. Men screamed and fell. Pain and thought receded as training and hours of practice took control.

Suddenly, she was through the keep doors. Inside, she paused. Heavy stone walls muffled the sounds of fighting. In the relative quiet, battle lust subsided. She wiped the rain, mud and blood from her face and looked around.

Torches flickered as rain trickled through the gaps in the ceiling. The smell of disuse, of rotting wood, mold and animal droppings filled the damp air. No rushes covered the stone floor. No fire burned in the massive hearth. No tapestries softened the walls. No servants cowered in corners waiting the outcome of the battle. Aside from the drips of water in the empty hearth, nothing stirred.

Outside, the fighting raged on. None of Roark's men had broken through Donoval's troops.

Her sword arm ached. Blood seeped from her wound, and from other numerous cuts.

Where was Roark? A master swordsman, he often fought alongside his men. Though evil, cruel and merciless, Serilda didn't believe him a coward. Why did he now hide inside this keep?

Not waiting for answers, she sheathed her sword, closed the heavy wooden door and dropped the bar. She'd allow nothing and no one to interfere with her justice against this man who'd destroyed her world. Long ago she'd sworn he'd die by her hand and no other. So, why, now that the moment to extract vengeance had come, did she hesitate? Why did the need to find Donnie seem more urgent?

She shook off her doubts and questions. Alive or dead, Donnie would wait.

Pulling her sword, she made her way through the main hall to the stairs leading to the keep's living quarters. To keep her sword arm free in case a defender descended, she kept to the outside edge of the spiral staircase. No one challenged her. But muddy footprints on the stairs told her someone had recently come this way.

Following the prints, she soon reached the top level of the keep. She moved cautiously into the dark hall. No torches burned here, but she smelled the faint scent of a fire.

She rounded a corner and stopped. Ahead, light, warmth and the aroma of meat and bread leaked from beneath a closed door. She tightened her grip on her sword. Behind that portal Roark awaited. In minutes, one of them would die.

Serilda stood frozen. In the five years since she'd last been in Roark's presence, she'd buried deep inside the memory of what she'd endured, her terror, her weakness, her guilt. Now, like a tidal wave it rushed over her, until she couldn't breathe.

The dank torture chamber. Hanging by her wrists, naked, helpless, exposed. The smell of blood, sweat, and feces. Blood worms burrowing into her flesh. The unceasing agony. Roark, touching her, his fingers trailing gently over the raw wounds. His voice entreating her to end her torment. All she needed do was speak her enchanted name.

Despite the chilled air swirling over her rain-soaked body, sweat dampened her palms and trickled between her breasts. If Jole hadn't infiltrated Roark's troops and found a way to free her, how much longer could she have resisted? The thought of being Roark's puppet, her every thought, action and emotion controlled by him, sickened her.

She gave a mirthless laugh. Her capture and torture were not the beginning of his bid to control her. From the moment he'd slaughtered the royal family, Roark became the guiding star of her destiny, their fates entwined. Even before he entered her life, she realized she had never controlled her own fate.

An elusive memory of another life, another place, another time teased her. Since she'd nearly--should have--died several weeks ago, she'd felt strange. Her life before that moment seemed unreal, a bewildering dream. The here and now took on deeper meaning. Though she remembered everything, recalled every action she'd taken, every emotion she'd felt, every thought she'd had, she no longer connected with that person. She felt different, as if someone else had directed that prior her, the person she used to be. And since Donnie reappeared in her life, the odd feelings had grown stronger.

Though confused by the feelings, she felt herself expanding, becoming more complex, but at the same time she felt empty, alone, frightened. She needed, wanted to destroy Roark. Even with his fortress breached, his forces defeated, his reign of terror ended, he was still a force to be feared. He'd built an army once. If allowed to live he could do so again. For Barue. . .for people to be free, Andre Roark had to die.

Her goals all but reached, Serilda wondered what was left for her. If Donoval lived, her pledge to him would take her far from here. But she knew her warrior skills did not qualify her to rule as queen of Shallon. Perhaps it would be better if she died along with Roark. As long as he died.

With nowhere to go but forward, she approached the door. The latch opened easily under her hand, and she was surprised the tyrant hadn't locked her out. She stood to the side and pushed the door inward to reveal a large chamber. She peered inside. Warmth from the fire burning in the hearth bathed her chilled flesh. The tantalizing aromas of roasted meat and wine hung in the air. Her mouth watered.

She scanned the room. Nothing moved.

Never one to forgo his comfort, Roark had outfitted this chamber with a comfortable bed, thick fur rugs on the stone floor, heavy tapestries on the walls and several upholstered chairs in front of the hearth.

"Come in, my dear." The voice came from one of the chairs facing the hearth.

Warmth drained from Serilda. Hunger, briefly stirred, turned to nausea. How well she remembered Roark's rich, seductive voice, how he used it to charm and manipulate, terrorize and dominate. Even while he had her tortured, he'd tempted her with assurances of respite at the same time he threatened her with promises of further degradation, all in the same low, soothing tones, until wracked with pain, she nearly succumbed.

Muscles clenched, she stepped into the room and barred the door behind her. This fight was between her and Roark. She'd allow no others to interfere.

Her fingers tightened on the hilt of her sword. To be whole again, she needed to confront him, to deal with her bone-deep fear of his evil. "Face me, villain," she demanded.

He didn't oblige. "In due time. First I have something for you. Come."

"Beyond your death, you have nothing I want," she said as she moved closer.

"Are you sure?"

The amused confidence in his voice worried her. "Your men are defeated. Barue is free of you."

"Sadly, I fear you're correct."

"Then, why do you hesitate? It's time for you to die." She did not voice her fear that he might destroy her instead.

"I think not." He stood and stepped around the chair to face her. He was as she remembered, a tall, handsome man of middle years, with sharp features, thin lips and emotionless eyes. But it wasn't Roark that held her attention. It was the figure he clasped against his chest, his blade against the fragile expanse of her throat. Eyes open but empty of expression, she stood passive in Roark's hold.

"Mauri!" Instinctively Serilda raised her sword and stepped forward. The girl didn't respond.

"Hold or she dies." Roark fisted his fingers in Mauri's long hair and jerked her head back. His blade nicked her skin. Blood appeared.