The Red King (30 page)

There were voices, coming closer.

“Go!”

Andrew stumbled to his feet and ran as best
he could with his head swimming and his shoulder throbbing. He
found his way to a villa, the last corner standing with walls only
waist high, and ducked into the shadows. Taking a moment to calm
his breathing and his sick, aching head, he waited. He listened for
the sounds of a fight, but heard nothing. The silence was
maddening.

Peeking around the edge of the wall, he saw
four men in armor moving slowly across the paved causeway. They
were alert and cautions, eyes seeking every corner and shadow with
swords raised high. One of them pointed, suddenly, shouting,
“
Det! Det!
”

Rory came out of the darkness like a charging
lion, Andrew’s staff in one hand and his own sword in the other.
With frightening alacrity he dispatched the first of them, the
sword neatly piercing the man’s throat. The next he bludgeoned with
the staff, hitting so hard Andrew could see the blood arc high from
his damaged face. The third had enough presence of mind to parry
and dodge, avoiding the swift death visited upon his fellows, but
not enough to pull up his lunge. Rory neatly severed his arm,
striking between the vambrace and gauntlet. When the man opened his
mouth to scream, Rory sliced through this neck, cutting off the
cry. He kicked the man away as the forth raised a pistol…

And shot it into the sky.

Rory started for him, but did not get far
before the familiar thunder of cannons rolled across the bay. The
signal was all they had waited for and they let lose their volley
with precision. The colonnade at the cliff exploded, sending great
pieces of marble in all directions, shards splintering into deadly
projectiles. Rory and his opponent were both knocked to the ground.
Another standing wall disintegrated and a piece caught Rory as he
was rising to escape. It hit him a glancing blow to the head and he
fell again, but still struggled to his feet and ran.

Rory made it to another wall, this one still
tall and rounded and topped with capstones too large to quarry for
the village’s building material. Andrew could see blood, dark and
wet, running down his face, his chest. There was one last booming
report from the sea. Andrew saw Rory wipe the blood from his eyes
and look up, just as the top of the wall shattered and the rest of
it came crushing down upon him.

“NO!”

Andrew was running, mindless of his shoulder,
his hand, the danger, seeing only the pile of rubble beneath which
Rory lay. He was nearly there, could see one hand, a bit of hair
and he called, “Rory! Rory!”

The last capstone fell, sliding from its
place to roll and stop atop the pile of stones.

Flinging himself down on his knees, Andrew
dug at the rocks, at the earth beneath them. He screamed as his
hands slipped and his fingers bled and yet he continued. He was
able to move some smaller pieces, to see the hand and hair once
again, and he put his own into the small space to touch. “Rory,
Rory, please,” he whispered, seeking warmth, the thrum of a
heartbeat at his wrist. There was not enough room. He couldn’t
tell.

Seeking the tangle of hair, Andrew found it
and stretched farther to feel for Rory’s face, his skull. To his
horror, he felt nothing, just a wet, sticky mass of hair.
Unattached, torn away, as if the skull was crushed, gone. Andrew
pulled out his hand and looked at it; a gory trophy of auburn
locks, with a bit of scalp still clinging.

Andrew retched, violently. He collapsed
beside the rubble, sobbing. For a while it was all he could do, no
thoughts of escape or rescue, of the danger to him or the villagers
could penetrate his pain. He was weak with it, struck dumb and deaf
and helpless. All he could see was Rory, looking up as the wall
fell and then the stone rolling into place. The vision restarted
itself, again and again, and Andrew did not fight it.

When numbness swept through Andrew, icy and
bitter, he welcomed its coming. Now he could think. He could
remember. The villagers, yes, he must help them, and soon. He
looked at the stones, at the bundle of hair in his hand. Yes, he
could think. And he had an idea.

“It has been one hour.”

“No, please!” Idir begged. The sword was
placed at his throat.

Andrew could see now, who held that sword. He
felt only mild surprise to see a familiar face.

“Release him” he called, walking into the
torch lit circle with his hands raised.

Three guards placed themselves before him but
the dark-haired man ordered them away.

“And who are you? Do you bring me the Red
King?”

Andrew moved closer. There was blood and dirt
on him but he was certain his face would be recognizable.

Ortega held his sword out, point at Andrew’s
chest. “I know you,” he said. He stared at Andrew, hard, his silver
eyes carefully categorizing Andrew’s face. “Well, well, you are the
little priest. I admit I didn’t believe you were the one he kept,
despite Burke’s description. Yet, here you are.”

“
Ruaidhri
has fallen. Release these
people.”

“Fallen, you say? You must think me a fool,”
Ortega chuckled.

Andrew held up Rory’s hair. “Your cannons
fired on the ruins. He was crushed.”

There was a murmur through the villagers,
some crying, others praying. Andrew did not look at them.

Ortega reached for the trophy but Andrew held
it away from him. “I would like to present to you an offer.”

“What would that be?”

“Take this, the remains of
Ruaidhri’s
skull, to retrieve your reward from your employer. Take this,”
Andrew turned his other hand to display the sapphire, “for your
further benefit. It can only improve your standing, and hence, your
purse. “

Ortega considered his words.

“And take me to your master.”

Ortega was surprised by the final request.
“What?”

“Take me to your master, Maarten Jan de
Worrt. I was meant for him, was I not? You’ll be able to return not
only the gem, but the lost plaything of a madman. Again, would this
not improve your standing?” Andrew answered.
For Rory
, his
mind whispered.

“And you want in return?” Ortega asked,
curiously.

“Leave this place and these people in
peace.”

“Captain!” One of the remaining guardsmen
rushed into the circle. “We found them, four are dead, the rest
injured but alive. They’re being taken to the ship now.”

“And
Ruaidhri
? What sign of him?”
Ortega asked, still looking at Andrew.

“Soren saw him crushed by falling stones,
Captain.”

Andrew fought the tears burning his eyes. He
swallowed hard. “Do you truly believe I could have taken this,” he
shook the bloody remains of Rory’s hair, “whilst he was alive?”

Ortega’s eyes narrowed. Andrew could sense
his calculations, his machinations, for those eyes were beyond
shrewd. “Give me those,” he told Andrew.

“When we have agreed you will leave, with no
more bloodshed,” Andrew stated, firmly.

Ortega laughed, heartily. “I could have you
killed, take what I want, and leave nothing but bones and ash. Why
should I make any bargains with you?”

“Because,” Andrew began, slowly, “I believe
you were to take
Ruaidhri
alive. When you return with only
his…scalp, who will bear the brunt of your master’s rage?”

Those silver eyes flashed again, with rage
and a bit of fear. “Do you think yourself a tastier morsel?’

“I have heard much about Maarten Jan de
Worrt,” Andrew said, his lips lifting in a small smile. “I think
that I might be able to tempt him.” He lowered his eyes, scanned
his form quickly, and looked back up. “I would require a bath,
however, to be properly appealing.”

Now Ortega frowned. “You are mad as he.”

Andrew merely smiled sweetly and widened his
eyes innocently. He was breathless with anxiety, waiting for the
man’s confirmation was straining his composure.

“Mister Frederik!” Ortega called.

“Yes, Captain!” The young guardsman came
forward.

“We will leave, in peace,” Ortega said,
inclining his head towards Andrew. “And we take on a
passenger.”

Andrew nodded back, and placed the sapphire
and the…trophy, into the man’s open hands. “May I have a moment
with this one?” Andrew looked at Idir, into his wide, horrified
eyes.

“A moment, that is all.” Ortega left
them.

When they were close, Idir stood from his
where he kneeled and put a hand on Andrew’s arm. “What are you
thinking, Andrew? Are you mad? Have you lost your senses?” he
whispered, desperately.

“Shhh,” Andrew answered. “When all of the men
are gone, go to the woods until the sun rises. I wouldn’t trust
them not to open fire on you as we are leaving. Don’t forget
Brighid. She likes apples and pears and soft oats. Tell Malik he is
my brother and my angel and…” Andrew had to stop, for the tears
were coming.

“No, no, you mustn’t,” Idir said, also
crying.

“What else can I do? You must be kept safe.
Rory…if you can move the stone, will you please, take him from
there? I think,” Andrew’s strength faltered and he choked on a sob,
“I think he’d rather rest in the sea. Please.”

Idir could not speak for weeping. He nodded,
kissed Andrew on both cheeks, and bowed to him.

“Your moment has expired. If you wish this
village left in peace, you will come now,” Ortega said.

Andrew turned to go, pausing when he heard
Titrit cry out, Malla Izza wail. He put one hand out as if to quiet
them, and followed Ortega to the skiffs without looking back. He
would not regret leaving them or trading his life for theirs. He
would never regret coming to Tipaza. He would not think on his life
here or the joy now gone. He had only one purpose left.

In the skiff, back to frozen silence, Andrew
watched as the clouds cleared and lit the ruins in silver and
white. His fingers tightened over the vial of hemlock, hidden
neatly in the swaddled bandage on his hand. He would have laughed,
had he not been so numb. He would be the one to kill Maarten Jan de
Worrt, after all.

“Do you not like the food?”

Andrew stared at the man across the table.
Ortega was chewing on a bit of pheasant, pausing a moment to wipe
daintily at his mouth before taking a healthy drink of wine. “I’m
not hungry,” he answered, blandly.

Ortega stared back, his eyes sharp with his
examination of Andrew. “You’re an unconvincing liar, but no
matter,” he said, waving a hand in dismissal. “Eat or don’t, it
will be only you that suffers.”

Andrew considered this, looked at the finely
prepared food, and conceded by taking a small bit of meat and a
piece of bread. He was not hungry, but he needed his strength, his
wits, and starving himself would only hinder.

He did not look at the apples.

He took a bite of the bread and watched
Ortega, warily, wondering what the man was about. Since boarding
the
Rovfugl
he had been treated with alarming consideration.
Andrew had thoroughly expected treatment similar to his first
confinement; a too small cell, chains, drugged water and only the
barest necessities. Instead, he was shown to a cabin, complete with
a narrow bunk and, of all things, a window. A wooden tub was
provided and filled with lukewarm water for him to bathe in, and
the ship’s surgeon had come afterwards to tend to the still oozing
wounds on his hand and shoulder.

There were new clothes, as well. They were
not as comfortable as his ruined tunic and trousers, but
well-constructed and fashionable. The shirt had the same sort of
wide, lace- trimmed collar seen on Ortega and his personal guards,
and was so white it burned his eyes. There was a velvet doublet and
loose breeches, both blue and silver with slashes to reveal soft
grey. There had been a moment of hesitation before he’d donned
them, wondering what kind of repayment would be expected for this
donation, but common sense won over disdain. They would soon be in
colder waters, and the heavy, plush fabric would serve him well.
There were black stockings that felt very much like silk against
his legs and high boots that slouched down to his calf. Once fully
clothed, Andrew did not feel like himself. That was good.

There had been a mirror in the room. Andrew
looked at his face, really looked, and practiced a hard, cold
expression while taking stock of his appearance. His hair had grown
longer, thick and curling over his forehead. The lamplight cast it
in shades of chestnut with hints of gold. He still did not require
a barber’s touch as his face showed no sign of whiskers. He was
thankful for to tempt Maarten he would need his youthful appearance
be ever present, not marred by shadows of manhood. His eyes were
striking, yes, as blue as the velvet he wore and wide and round. He
still had his freckles, perhaps more from his time in the sun, but
that served yet again to keep his appearance childlike and fresh.
The sun had also kissed his cheeks and lips, turning them a darker
pink. When he bit his bottom lip it turned red and plump, as if it
had been painted.

All the better to be the whore
, he
told himself, ignoring the ice that ran in his veins.

Now he sat at a sumptuous supper, hosted by a
slaver; a gentleman raider with thick black hair tied at his nape
and eyes the color of polished steel, solicitously seeing to his
needs with manners more befitting of a banquet hall. If one sliver
of humor had remained in Andrew’s heart, he would have laughed. As
it were, he silently ate his bread and sipped his wine, not
speaking unless provoked. The food was delicious, at least, and he
took a second helping of pheasant as his goblet was refilled by a
liveried guard.

Ortega did not miss this. “I suppose the
meager fare of the village has changed your tastes, though I
imagine you have never eaten as richly as this. What did the monks
feed you? Water and barley?”