Chapter XVIII

Tourth

I knew she would follow me. The sympathy in her eyes could only be born of similar circumstances. She had family, siblings, but she hardly ever mentioned them. However, before Kat left, I caught her watching us as though remembering something lost.

Snow turned the courtyard into a mess of slosh and muck. The space didn’t welcome the kind of activity I intended. My hands itched to grasp a weapon and everything in my being screamed that I destroy something. Not a safe state of mind for plotting logically or sitting still. I strode through the slush to the heavy keep door. The great hall would work perfectly for my short term plans, open area and shelter from the elements.

I turned back before opening the door. Wren was close on my heels.

“Care for a round of sparring?”

Her strange eyes cleared from worried brown to an amused amber. “Do you have an extra sword?”

I shook my head as I shoved the door. “I was thinking along the lines of staffs or cudgels, something that won’t kill you if I miscalculate.”

“Miscalculate? You should be a bit more concerned about me hurting you.” The wooden door closed behind her with a muffled thump. “Do you want to be disturbed?”

She indicated the repaired bolting system. “Lock it. Let them wonder if we are killing each other.”

The worn stone floor, spread with rushes, lay empty. An old trestle table dug out of storage rested against the far wall and the newly beaten tapestries adorned the walls. I ignored them. Now was not the time to dwell on the past. I needed to drive history from my mind, far from my mind. Exercising until I was too exhausted to think would numb the pain. Distance the ache enough so I might progress beyond the inclination to kill the enforcer slowly with my bare hands. He killed my parents!

“Weapons?” Wren’s voice cut through my thoughts at just the right moment.

“Take your choice.” I indicated the rack of various implements next to the trestle table. Walking to the far end, I shed layers of clothing down to tunic and britches. “Are you sure you are up for this?” Discarding the last overtunic on the heap, I shivered in the frigid air. I welcomed the discomfort.

“Of course,” she said from right behind me. “On guard.”

A wooden club whizzed past my head. Striking the wall inches past my shoulder, it clattered to the floor. I stared for a second. Gone was the quiet, withdrawn woman I thought I knew. Hair wrapped around her head, stripped to her leather jerkin, shirtsleeves, and leggings, she moved like a sleek cat, feminine, yet deadly. Confidence radiated from her as she whipped another cudgel into her dominate hand.

“Remember what I do for a living.”

She advanced and I retreated to the fallen weapon. Scooping it into my hand, I swung it up into a defensive stance seconds before she struck at my shoulder.

I retaliated with a series of strokes that should have reduced her to begging for leniency. Instead, she met my hit for hit, backing away into the center of the room. Although she was giving ground, I grew wary. She was holding back. Fury boiled in my belly.

I changed my attack. After faking to the left, I jabbed at her right. She took advantage of a small defensive weakness and landed the first blow, a hard jar to the ribs. I renewed my onslaught, taking a risk. She saw the move and sidestepped at the last moment, dancing out of my reach. Breathing hard, we faced each other.

“The point of this was for me to work out some frustration.”

“I know.”

“This is hardly satisfying.”

She laughed, a clear sound that echoed in the rafters. “I am not about to submit to a beating just to help your frustration level. I will help you wear yourself out though.” She leapt forward and attacked again.

Round two ended with my upper arm developing a bruise and her nursing a sore finger. My muscles, weak from lack of training, ached satisfyingly. Balanced on the balls of her feet, she still looked ready for much more.

“You are holding back,” she accused.

“You forget what I have done in the past.”

Her eyes darkened slightly. “I haven’t forgotten. It was a long time ago now. You are a different man.”

“True, but instincts rear their head at inopportune times.”

I attacked this time. Pushing my size advantage, I pressed her backwards toward the opposite wall. She was difficult to pin down. Slight and quick, she darted back and forth, trying to escape my advance or at least turn me. Former training settled over me and my muscles remembered old moves. Then she tripped on the uneven stone. She went down, weapon skittering across the floor and out of her reach. Before she managed more than rolling to the side, I pinned her on the floor, wooden club against her throat. Old instinct flared demanding the kill.

“I concede.” Face flushed with exertion, sleek braid no longer smooth, eyes bright, for a moment I had an incredible urge to kiss her.

Where had that come from?

I blinked.

“Surrender. May I rise?”

“Of course,” I responded, climbing to my feet and offering her a hand up. Her slender, but capable, hand in mine did things to my chest. I struggled to regulate my breathing, suspicious the lack of oxygen was unrelated with the activity of the past hour. As soon as she gained her feet, I moved away. Distance would help.

She examined the spot where she had tripped. “The floor is uneven here.” She knelt to clear away the rushes. I knew what she would find. A stone shifted in its bed so one corner rose barely and inch above those around it. My hand fingered a divot in my scalp. The same stone gave me the scar. When I was ten and tearing through the hall, my toe caught the lip. I fell and cracked my head on a bench.

“Home advantage,” Wren said ruefully. She rubbed the shoulder she had landed on and reached to collect her weapon. I waved her off as she assumed a defensive stance.

Grief gripped the handhold. I closed my eyes as memories of my mother’s scent, apple blossoms, and the soft touch of her hands on my forehead as she calmed my shuddering sobs. The murmur of her voice as she assured me all would be fine brought fresh tears. I sank to the floor, resting my face in my hands. The ache of homesickness settled in my chest as raw and powerful as the first day after I left for war. One memory led to another. I followed helplessly. Cold seeped into my bones from the stone below, but I didn’t care.

“This belt was my mother’s.” Wren’s voice pulled at my attention. I blearily attempted to focus on the object in her hands as she knelt beside me. Worn leather, old, but just as clearly well cared for, the strap looked like an ordinary belt. Until now she wore it constantly. “A gift before she died, she said I would grow into it one day. It is all I have of her.”

“How old were you when she passed?” I grasped at the distraction.

“Young enough to not remember her well.” Tears glistened on her cheeks. “You at least have your memories.”

“Do you have family?”

Bittersweet sadness slipped over her features. “Eight siblings.”

“No father?”

“Died with my mother, murdered.”

The word hit too close to home. I couldn’t ask the question that came next. Instead I asked, “So who taught you to fight someone larger than you?”

She smiled. “Aiden and Arnan made certain I gave my all every time. I am thankful they never handed me a win.”

Yelling came from the direction of the courtyard. My chest constricted as panic grabbed hold. Anger and alarm tinged the sound. I gained my feet and started toward the swords hanging along the rack. Wren moved even faster. Grabbing two from their slots, she tossed one to me and pulled the second soundlessly from its scabbard.

I reached the door first. Tilting my head, I listened. My hand rested on the bolt, body tensing to face the nameless foe.

“I will check in here!”

Someone tried the latch and then pounded on the outer door. Wren and I both jumped back. My heart hammered at my ribs.

“It’s locked. Find another entrance.”

Silence.

“Other doors?” Wren asked quietly as she moved toward her discarded gear.

“One, Kitchen,” I answered. “Unlocked.” I scooped my own clothing off the floor, suddenly shivering despite the sweat of before. No time to add layers. They would be upon us in moments. My body hummed with the familiar rush of adrenaline.

“We won’t beat them. Stand and fight?” She retrieved the clubs from the floor and turned to me.

“We hide. Follow me.” I trotted over to the stairs to the turret and started up.

“Do you think that wise?” She kept on my heels as we took the first turn.

“We take the tower, bar the door, and unless they are persistent, breaking a door down will not be worth the effort if they don’t know we are beyond.”

“It is a risk.” Her tone clearly indicated her uneasiness. I understood. This fought against my instinct too. However, I needed to live. I had too many people counting on me. Although every fiber of me wanted to charge down and confront the invaders, the logic held.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wren

He bolted the door behind us. We stood in a small room with barely room for the two of us. The roof partially opened to the sky above where the rickety wooden stairs climbed to the rooftop.

I studied the thick wood slabs held together by bands of iron and tried to swallow the panic at the back of my throat. No way out. Please, Deus, don’t let this end in a final stand. Request made, I shoved at the fear, attempting to stuff the anxiety away and let the Lord handle what I could not.

“Keilvay must have followed me.”

“What? How?”

“I don’t know. I laid a false trail, waited before returning, and the snow covered my tracks. How…”

He stopped me mid word with a cool finger pressed against my lips. Footfalls came up the stairs. My breath caught and a reaction unrelated to the approaching danger. This is not the time.

The latch rattled and then the thumping receded.

He leaned down and breathed into my ear. “You should move to the roof. See if you can spot anything.”

My mouth passed inches from his ear. “And you?” I withdrew until I could study his face. His eyes were blue. Unlike Kat’s clear hue, his were dark, bottomless, and flecked with green.

“I will stay at the door if they should make it through.” His expression changed. Worry and fear flashed past before resolve settled around his mouth. “Be careful. They might have brought archers.”

I turned away. He caught my hand. “No heroics.”

“You either. Warn me if they start on the door.”

He nodded. I took the stairs at a stealth run.

Reaching the top, I paused to catch some deep breaths. Where did that come from, Father? I didn’t expect it. The sudden heat of his gaze during the sparring disturbed enough, but the response in my gut was unexpected. I had never envisioned myself in this situation. I am too… I couldn’t even describe it to Deus. I was too masculine, too aloof--what had Daelia said all those years ago--too detached. “A man would have to reconnect your heart before he was able to woo you.” Of course, she exploded in a moment of anger when I relentlessly pestered her about some detail.

“Seems to be the last of them.” I started. The voice wafted from below and I recognized him. Creeping to the edge, I poked my head over. “We searched the buildings and found no more stragglers. I told you there was too much activity this end of the valley for just farmers.” The voice tugged at my memory, but I couldn’t grasp his name.

“Yes, you did. I shall mention you when we bring this bunch of ruffians back to the enforcer.” The sound of Kielvey’s voice soured my stomach. “Too bad we didn’t find the Romany woman among them. Hawthorne was hoping to get his claws into her before King Orac showed up.”

“Perhaps the Westerner will soften his mood. I’ll bet he will reward me for the capture.”

“I wouldn’t hold your breath, Aexlem. Enforcer Hawthorne is still put out about the other outlaw’s escape. Contrary to your report, the man isn’t here. You have much to account for already.”

Aexlem? I rolled the name around on my tongue. It didn’t taste familiar.

“Shall we move out?”

Keilvey looked up and I pulled my head back. For what seemed like hours, I held my breath and waited for him to raise the alarm and send someone up to secure the battlements.

“Yes, might as well. Seems a shame to leave this fortress empty though. The rebels did a pretty good job repairing things.”

“You should mention it to the Enforcer,” Aexlem suggested.

“Be sure I shall.”

The men moved away. Keilvey called for the company to move out.

I found Tourth crouched at the base of the stairs, sword across his knees, back to the curved outer wall, and head bent so the nape of his neck showed. The slump of his shoulders pulled at my heart. The poor man had been through a horrendous eight hours.

“They have Svhen, but Arthus eluded them. They didn’t mention the rest.”

He lifted his head and rested it back against the wall as he met my gaze. Emotional exhaustion haunted his eyes. “Dardon and Iscarus are out hunting. I don’t know how many they took with them.”

“That means…”

He nodded wearily. “Hiller is among the captured.”

“I can go up and count the hostages as they leave.”

“Sounds good. If you were to wager a guess, will the enforcer execute Svhen immediately or wait for King Orac to arrive for the spectacle?”

I considered a moment. “He will wait.”

“I hope so. I don’t think I could handle another death on my conscience.”

A retort jumped to the tip of my tongue, but I bit it off. Now was not the time. I quietly climbed to the roof and settled in to watch, my thoughts full of Tourth and his trials.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

© 2011 Rachel Rossano