Romancing the Rogue (199 page)

~~~~

Ronan cleared the first floor without finding a trace of Marek. He encountered several Archaean slave girls who didn’t bat an eyelash at seeing an Archaean warrior in the stronghold, but he didn’t see a single Engel worth exposing himself for. He headed to the stairwell, intent on searching the second level. Hearing footsteps, Ronan pressed his back against the wall, keeping to the shadows. His fingers wrapped around his sword, ready for attack. A familiar face rounded the corner. Gavin. Grabbing him by his armor, Ronan hauled him into the shadows. “What the hell are you doing in here? You were supposed to be in the courtyard. I could have been an Engel and you would be dead right now!”

“They show no interest in us outside the walls, and you need me in here, to find Marek.” Gavin removed Ronan’s grip from his brigantine. “Two sword arms are better than one.”

“I hate it when you’re right, Gavin.”

“Be thankful ’tis not that often.” Gavin approached the stairwell first, sword drawn. His feet fell soft on the stone steps as he ventured up two at a time. Nearing the top, he spotted the dark shadow of a woman hiding in the threshold. She turned to face him. She gripped a weapon, poised for attack. “Brynn?”

She sighed in relief. “There is a passage behind that tapestry,” she told him, pointing down the corridor. “Marek might be at the bottom of it. However, the Engels gather in the study just across the way. I cannot reach it without being seen.”

Gavin and Ronan conversed in hushed tones, devising a quick plan. When finished, Ronan placed his palm on Brynn’s shoulder. “No worries, Brynn. When the timing is right, get to the passage. Under no circumstances do you enter the study.”

The two Archaean warriors hesitated just outside the open study door. Inside, several Engels conversed over battle strategies and war tactics. They counted at least five voices, but wouldn’t be sure of the count until they entered the room, Ronan first.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen!” he greeted, sauntering into the study.

The voices hushed at the unexpected interruption.

“I’m terribly sorry to disturb you, but I seem to be missing one of my men. Have any of you seen him, by chance? Tall like me, golden hair… foul mouth when angry?”

The Engels looked at one another, unwilling to answer.

Gavin paced the room, eyeing the furniture and decorations, feigning interest in the Engel fabrications that covered the previous Archaean tapestries. “I think we have enough to work with in here,” he told Ronan in his native tongue.

Ronan insisted again. “One of you must tell me where he is, or you will all die.”

“The gods piss on you!” spat one of the Engels, rising from his chair near a desk.

“Gavin, kill him.”

Before the others could take in what was happening, Gavin singled out the man and tore a gaping wound through his abdomen with his broadsword. The Engel slumped to the floor, landing in a pile of guts and blood. The others backed away, seeking escape through the door, but the Archaeans had them cornered. Gavin surveyed the ceiling. “Get me that rope if you wouldn’t mind, Ronan.”

“My pleasure,” Ronan replied, using his blade to free the ceiling chandelier. It crashed to the floor below, and Ronan severed the binding rope then tossed the length to Gavin.

“Come on, all together now.” Gavin clapped his hands as if he were herding sheep into a corner. “Do not fear, Engels, all you need to do is tell me where my man is and you can all go about your merry way.” After tossing one end of the rope to Ronan, he cinched the thick binds around the remaining men, twisting it around each of their arms, lining them up back to back. When the rope was secure, Gavin perused the documents on the desk. There were maps, detailed outlines, and descriptions of the Archaean territories, and more importantly, correspondence letters from Lord Westmore to his Engel benefactors. “Where is this Lord Westmore?” Gavin asked the restrained men.

“Probably killing your friend right now,” one of them answered.

Gavin frowned, turning to Ronan. “We cannot have that now, can we?”

“Certainly not,” Ronan answered. “Pass me that lamp, would you?”

“This?” Gavin picked up the table lamp, but dropped it on the desk. The oil spilled from the round pot, seeping into the documents on the desk. “My apologies, take this one.” Gavin picked up another lamp from the desk and tossed it to Ronan, who backed away from the throw, letting the lamp crash to the floor near the group of Engels.

“Ahh, there is another lamp, just over there.” Ronan crossed the room to a small table, picking up the lit lamp. The radiant heat burned his palms and he flung it to the floor, cursing it.

“Well, damn it, Ronan, we seem to be running out of lamps. Light a few candles, would you?”

“Pass me that torch, dear brother?” Ronan pointed at the wall behind Gavin. It burned with a steady flame.

Gavin removed the torch from the sconce and flung it at the oil-soaked desk. It landed among the papers and books, setting them ablaze. “There.”

“You idiot,” scolded Ronan. “You were supposed to throw it over there!” Picking up the torch by its handle, Ronan pitched it at the wooden floor, slick with oil. The fire spread the length of the spill, licking at the wooden legs of chairs, steadily making its way to the bound Engels. They shuffled together in a panic, backing from the fire, but couldn’t escape its clutches.

“Goodbye, gentlemen.” Ronan waved before bolting to the door on Gavin’s heels. “Sorry we couldn’t stay for tea.” Ronan heaved the door closed.

~~~~

Darkness surrounded her, but Brynn found her way one step at a time, ever closer to Marek. She dragged her fingers over the moist walls of the stairwell, steadying herself. The dank smell of mildew and stale blood filled her nostrils. She was heading to the prison cells. A muffled scream made her heart race, and she stumbled on the stair, falling to her backside. She slid down several steps before recovering. Righting herself, she followed the sound of the scream.

Rounding a corner, light from a wall sconce flooded her eyes and she shaded them until she adjusted to the brightness. Muffled voices echoed off the walls as she pressed onward. A dull pain from her side radiated across her middle, and she covered the area with her palm. She needed to hurry; she didn’t have much time left.

A threatening voice rumbled through the corridor, followed by a laugh and a grunt. She continued until the voices were clear. She stopped before a door. Peeking through the crack, she spied the back of a large Engel man.

“Is that the best you can do?” said a slurred voice from within.

Marek!
Frantic, she searched for a shield, anything she could use to protect herself while entering. She found nothing, not even a scrap of wood. Deciding to rely on the element of surprise, she clutched her dagger, practicing a few thrusts. Saying a quick prayer to the first god she could think of, Brynn tiptoed to the door and widened the crack just enough to slip through.

The Engel’s back faced her, protected by a thick leather vest. She would never have the strength to penetrate it, so she took aim for his neck. But as she raised the dagger to strike, the Engel moved, revealing her form to Marek.

His bloodied face sunk to an ashen shade of pale and his eyes grew wide, as if he stared at a walking corpse. Marek choked back a scream, alerting the Engel to a presence within the cell. The Engel turned.

She shoved the dagger upward, striking the man just below the neck. The hilt of the dagger protruded from the area at an odd angle, but she’d hit her intended target. The Engel stomped in her direction, swinging a fist, but Brynn dodged the blow. Retreating from the cell, the Engel stumbled through the door, collapsing in the corridor.

Brynn lunged at Marek. He hung from a beam, his wrists clasped in irons. His feet dangled above the floor. His chest was bare and mottled with dirt, bruises, and oozing wounds. Fresh blood was smeared over dried blood. A gash just above his temple flowed down his chin.

“Are you a spirit that stands before me?”

“No,” she said, stepping closer. “I stand before you flesh and bone.”

Marek shook his head. “It cannot be. You are dead. I held you in my arms when you took your last breath.”

“We do not have the time for me to explain, but you must believe me. I am alive.”

“I don’t know what kind of enchantment this is, but you are
not
my wife.”

“Dead or alive, it does not matter. I am still your wife. We must hurry.” Brynn glanced at the ceiling. A thin, velvety smoke flowed through the cracks of the wooden floorboards above. “How do I get you down?”

“The key — the guard carries it. Are you a white walker, then?”

“No, ’tis me.” She left his side, returning to the Engel. Searching his belt, she found a key ring and unhooked it. With hands that shook too much, she fumbled with the mass of different keys. “Which one is it?”

“Just try them all.” Smoke continued to fill the small cell.

Brynn stretched toward the beam but could not reach the lock. A short sob followed a whimper as a cold fear consumed her. She wasn’t tall enough to free him. “I cannot reach it,” she cried. In the midst of her effort, she lost her grip on the iron ring and it fell to the rushes below.

“Calm down, love, we have plenty of time.” A few hot ashes trickled from above, settling on his shoulders.

Brynn fell to her knees, feeling for the keys. Her fingers touched the cool metal, and she snatched them up. “I must find something to stand on.”

“Brynn, behind you!”

She turned in time to see the guard reach for her, dagger still protruding from his neck. Tumbling backward, she avoided most of his assault, but his elbow caught her shoulder, sending her spinning to the floor.

Marek managed to swing his legs enough to wrap his thighs around the guard’s neck and pin him. The more than man struggled, the tighter Marek squeezed. “Brynn, climb.”

She hesitated, not fully understanding. “You mean climb the guard?”

“Yes, Brynn, just like you would a tree.” Marek locked his ankles together, trapping the Engel.

“We both know I am no good with trees, Marek.” Placing the key ring between her teeth, Brynn hiked her gown and placed her foot on the man’s thigh then grabbed his chest armor, pulling herself upward, finally high enough to reach the locks. The first key she tried wasn’t a match. She tried the second. No luck.

Marek grunted as the man shook beneath him. “A bit faster, Brynn.” Smoke seeped between the wooden slats, filling the air around them. A steady heat bore down on them from above.

“I’m going as fast as I can. I’ve been mostly dead all day,” she chided, trying the third key. The lock clicked and the iron ring released Marek’s wrist. He grasped the loose chain to keep his balance. Using the same key, Brynn unlocked the other cuff. The three of them tumbled to the floor in a heap.

Marek scuffled with the guard but managed to grip the dagger. He pulled it free for only a moment before readjusting its position, this time through the Engel’s vertebrae, finishing him.

Brynn collapsed, clutching her middle.

Crawling to Brynn’s side, Marek lay beside her. “Am I in hell?”

“I would hope not,” she wheezed.

His palm hovered above her, hesitating.

Brynn grasped his hand, bringing it to her heart. “Feel how it beats.”

“I don’t know what sort of trickery this is, but you are alive.” Marek took her in his arms, pulling her close. “You are alive.” He kissed her lips, her eyes, her cheeks with a fervid purpose.

“Aye.” She glanced up at him, her smile weak. “But not for long, I fear.” Marek shifted his gaze to the patch of red under Brynn’s palm. Her stitches had torn through. “Do not fret for me.”

Rolling to her side, Marek let out a cynical laugh. “What a sordid pair we make, wife. Look at us. You were dead, but have risen to rescue me, only to be trapped in a fire together.” Taking in a smoke-filled breath, he found the strength to rise. “I believe it’s time we leave this place. There is no need to die twice.” Kneeling beside her, he lifted Brynn to his chest. She wrapped her arms around him, burying her head in the crook of his neck, content to breathe in his scent. “Westmore,” she whispered. “We must find him before the potion fades.”

“And why is that?” he questioned, leaving the cell and heading to the stairs.

“He must die for me to live.” Her voice hitched and she coughed. A spurt of blood splattered against Marek’s skin, mixing with his sweat. “The longer he lives, the sooner I die. When he is dead, the spell will be complete, and my wounds healed.”

~~~~

Reaching the main stairwell, Marek wrenched open the door with a great urgency. Thick, black smoke gushed into the corridor, clouding his vision. He turned, shutting the door with his hip. “The fire has reached the exit,” he told Brynn. Searching each cell, he looked for another way out.

Instead, he found a ladder and a few pieces of a broken sword in an abandoned cell. After returning Brynn to her feet, he placed the ladder against a wall and climbed it, testing the damaged ceiling for heat. Finding it cool, he rammed the jagged blade against the wood. It splintered but not enough to break it. Marek rotated the sword and assaulted the barricade with the hilt. Letting out a fierce scream, he thrust his shoulder against it, cracking the board. He hacked at the pieces with the blade. Marek managed to create a hole large enough to fit his fist through by pulling at the edge of the boards until he could squeeze through the hole.

The splinters grated his skin as he wiggled his way to freedom. “All right, your turn,” he told Brynn, reaching his arm back through the hole.

She scaled the ladder, taking his hand. Marek pulled her through the opening. Fire roared above them, rippling from beam to beam, consuming anything within reach. Marek lifted Brynn in his arms before working his way to the front of the stronghold. Dodging a piece of burning wood as it fell from above, he ducked into an alcove to catch his breath.

“Which way, love?” he panted, wiping his brow on his arm.

“The main hall is through one of those corridors,” she told him, pointing him in the right direction. “We must find him soon.”

Braving the smoke and fire once more, Marek worked his way over the falling rubble. Choosing the first corridor he saw, he jetted through the exit, freeing them from the fire. “We are almost out, love,” he muttered, planting a kiss to her forehead.

Rounding a corner, Marek nearly tottered to the floor as he unexpectedly collided with Westmore.

The Engel drew his sword, circling the pair. Confusion settled in his brow. “Well, if it is not my whore and her mongrel. You… are supposed to be
dead
. My men killed you… they saw you die.”

Marek lowered Brynn to her feet.

“You are the third raven, Westmore. It is you who must die,” she said.

“Am I supposed to know what that means?” Westmore spoke through his gritted teeth.

Marek pulled Brynn behind him, positioning himself between her and Westmore. “Brynn, you need to leave now. Let me do what needs to be done.”

“But you do not have—”

“
Now
, Brynn.” Marek circled the Engel in a twisted battle dance.

Hiking up her skirts, Brynn found the strength to leave. She clutched her middle as she staggered down the corridor.

“Are we dead, Archaean?” Westmore surveyed his surroundings.

“Not yet,” answered Marek.

“Then how is it she lives?”

“That is for the gods to answer.”

“It looks as though you are sadly unarmed, Archaean.” Westmore swung wide, testing Marek.

“Looks that way,” Marek replied, dodging the swing. “I don’t suppose you will throw down your blade and fight me like a man, Engel?”

Westmore shook his head.

“You Engels never could fight fair.”

“What fun is there in fair?” Taking a long stride forward, Westmore stabbed his sword frontward, following the movement with a blow meant to strike.

Marek leaped out of the way, spiraling around the Engel. Seizing the opportunity, Marek shoved his foot between Westmore’s legs, tripping him. Balling his fist, Marek planted a solid blow to the Engel’s jaw.

Westmore swung wildly, the tip of his sword connecting with Marek’s chest. “Another mark to add to your list of injuries, Archaean, if only to help you bleed a bit quicker.”

“I will fight you until the very last drop is shed, Westmore.”

“Then I fear this battle will not last very long.”

“Then drop your sword and best me as a man, not some sniveling Engel that needs to hide behind a blade.” Marek held up his fists, planting his feet.

“Very well, Archaean.” Westmore tossed his sword to the side and removed his overcoat. He circled Marek then stepped to the side, delivering a punch to Marek’s ribs.

Marek hunched forward. His body near submission, his recovery was slow. Westmore delivered two more strikes before Marek could retaliate.

The Engel backed away, emitting a sinister laugh. He held out his arms gesturing toward the burning embers and blood splatters. “All this… for a
woman
?”

“
My
woman. She is my constant, the reason my heart beats. I will die to protect her. Without her, I am nothing.” Marek charged Westmore, locking his arm around the Engel’s neck. They scuffled, each trying to best the other in a never-ending battle of blows.

Westmore freed himself from the grappling and took a step back, sucking in a breath. “You are never going to best me, Archaean. Give up now, and I promise you a swift death.”

“I must kill you, Westmore.” Marek wiped the sweat from his eyes. “Her life depends on it.”

“She is already dead! They
killed
her in the forest!” the Engel argued. “Three arrows, Archaean — you were there! That
thing
cannot be mortal!”

“We shall end this now.”

Westmore bent over his sword, picking it up. “Well, seeing as I’m the only one with a weapon… let us get this over with, shall we? I’ve become rather bored.”

Marek dodged Westmore’s assault using what he could to defend himself — pieces of broken timber, hanging tapestries, and the occasional wall torch. Without a weapon, he stood little chance of becoming the victor. Making the decision to rid Westmore of his sword, Marek charged him, intending to knock him to the ground. Instead, his face met with the pommel of Westmore’s sword, sending him careening to the floor.

Westmore tossed his head back in a wicked laugh. “That was too easy, Archaean! What a delight it will be to watch the life leave your eyes.” The Engel raised his sword high, ready to plunge it into Marek’s chest.

“I will see you in hell.” Marek said.

Westmore took a breath, gripped the hilt of his sword, and plunged. His death blow came to an abrupt halt inches from Marek’s heart. Eyes wide, they traveled to his chest, and to the bloodied blade protruding from it.

From behind, Brynn released her grip on the sword.

Westmore floundered from his stance over Marek, lurching violently against the corridor wall. A sickening gurgle caught in his throat as he slid to the floor, leaving a blood smear on the gray stone as he fell, dead.

Marek let out a long breath and chuckled, which developed into a full belly laugh.

“Are you all right?” Brynn towered over him.

He smiled up at her. “I thought that was it… that I was going to die. You, my love, are my angel. My savior.”

From the end of the corridor, battle cries cut through the heat of the fire. Gavin and Ronan charged, swords fully drawn. When they reached the scene, their attack slowed, morphing into visible disappointment. Gavin turned to the body of Westmore, nudging it with his boot. After casting his sword to the floor, he threw his hands up in disgust. “I missed it? What the hell, Marek?”

“The spell is complete.” Brynn smiled at Marek, surveying her wounds. “It is finished. We did it.”

Marek rose to his feet and wrapped his arms around his wife. “No,
you
did it. You succeeded where I could not. You returned for me.”

“I will always come for you,” she told him, tightening her grip on him.

Pushing a lock of matted hair behind her ear, he kissed her, full and unyielding. “Let us go home, aye?” he told her, his breath hot on her skin. “I have a lot of making up to do.”