Deryni Checkmate (29 page)

 

 

DUNCAN lunged and parried, feinted and recovered, as he fought to keep the attackers at bay. Blocking one assailant with the dagger in his left hand, he lashed out with his foot to kick away another man’s weapon.

But there was no time to press the advantage with four other swordsmen to take the place of one disarmed. A chance sword-thrust slipped past his guard on the right and would have finished him, had it not been for the mail, which deflected the blow. And before he could fully recover from that, another swung a flaming torch at his face.

He dodged and slipped on blood—luckily. For as he went down, a broadsword whistled past where his head had been—a blow that surely would have decapitated him, had it connected. He rolled with the fall and came to his feet with a short upward thrust that nearly disemboweled one man, then cut down the wielder of the torch with a desperate slash that also wounded another. Blood pumping from the man’s half-severed neck spattered Duncan and his attackers with crimson. The torch falling from the man’s lifeless fingers set the bloody straw alight.

The stench of burned blood was strong in Duncan’s nostrils as he made an attempt to stamp out the flames—but that was impossible while he was under attack. As he retreated before fire and swords, he nearly tripped over Morgan and a struggling assailant, who were grappling on the floor trying to choke one another, Warin’s man on top. Morgan, in his drug-befuddled weakness, was getting the worst of it.

Duncan shoved an attacker onto the blade of one of his fellows and raised his sword to finish Morgan’s opponent. As he did so, his sword arm was grabbed from behind, and someone else flung an arm around his neck in an effort to pull him over backwards. Wrenching his right arm free, Duncan rammed his elbow back in a short arc that caught Warin full in the stomach and sent him to the floor, sobbing for breath. He felt a dagger slide harmlessly off the mail covering his back, and then he was ducking to flip his second attacker over his head in a heap at his feet. It was Gorony.

Biting back a snarl of disgust, Duncan reached down and grabbed Gorony by the neck of his robe, stomped on the hand still holding the dagger until Gorony released it with an anguished cry. Then he jerked the priest roughly to his feet to shield himself from further attack, left arm across his throat to force obedience. Warin’s two remaining men fell back in confusion.

“Hold!” Duncan shouted, setting his sword to Gorony’s throat. “Come any closer, and he dies!”

The men stopped, looked to Warin for guidance, but the rebel leader was still gasping for breath on the blood-drenched straw, in no condition to give orders. The man with the wounded leg had crawled to the side of a more seriously injured man and was trying to stanch his wounds. But there was no other movement in the chamber save for the growing flames behind them. Duncan, his reluctant captive in tow, edged his way back to Morgan and glanced down to see his cousin straddling a dead or unconscious assailant, exhaustedly beating the man’s bloody head against the wooden floor.

Had he gone mad?

“Alaric!” he cried, not daring to take his eyes from Warin’s men for more than a few seconds. “Alaric, stop it! That’s enough! Come on, let’s get out of here!”

Morgan froze and seemed suddenly to regain awareness of his surroundings again. He glanced at Duncan in surprise, then looked down at the battered form beneath him. Reason returned in a rush, and he drew back to wipe his hands against his legs in horror.

“Dear God,” he murmured, staggering to his feet and steadying himself on Duncan’s shoulder, shaking his head. “God in heaven, that wasn’t necessary. What have I done?”

“No time for that now. I want to get out of here,” Duncan said, eyeing the flames behind Warin’s men and beginning to edge toward the doors with his human shield. “And these fine gentlemen aren’t going to try to stop us, because killing a priest is very serious business. Almost as serious as killing two.”

“You are no true priest!” Gorony rasped, clawing ineffectually at Duncan’s arm and trying to ease the pressure across his throat. “You are a traitor to Holy Church! When His Excellency hears of this—”

“Yes, I’m sure His Excellency will be suitably horrified,” Duncan said impatiently, keeping a wary eye on Warin’s men as he and Morgan sidled toward the door to the outside. “Stop struggling, or you’re going to get your throat cut! Alaric, can you get that door open?”

The door was heavy, ornate, grilled with iron at the top and barred with a stout oak beam across black iron clamps. Morgan struggled to lift the bar, grunting with the effort, then eased it free. But as he pushed against the door itself, then pushed harder, nothing happened. As Duncan glanced behind to see what was holding them up, Warin climbed shakily to his feet, assisted by his two surviving men-at-arms, and moved slowly toward them.

“It will do you no good,” Warin said, his breathing still labored. “The door is locked.”

“Then open it,” Duncan said, “or he dies.” His sword moved back to Gorony’s throat, and the priest whimpered.

Warin stopped about fifteen feet from Duncan and smiled as he spread his arms in a helpless gesture. “I can’t open it. Brother Balmoric locked it from the outside, at my order. Gorony may have been your insurance, sir, but Balmoric is mine. I don’t think you’re going to escape after all.”

He gestured behind him at the growing fire, and Duncan’s heart sank. The flames were rising at an alarming rate, singeing the inlaid panels lining the chamber and licking at the ancient paint on the carved cornices and moldings. Once the ceiling caught, which would be shortly, the flames would quickly eat their way up to the shrine itself. The place would become an inferno.

“Call Balmoric,” Duncan said evenly, bringing his blade to rest lightly against Gorony’s throat.

Warin shook his head and folded his arms across his chest.

“If we die, you die too.”

Warin smiled again. “It would be worth the price!”

Duncan glanced at Morgan. “How are you feeling?”

“Oh, splendid,” Morgan whispered, swallowing hard and gripping the bars of the door to keep from losing consciousness. “Duncan, do you remember what I’ve done to other locked doors?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re in no condition to—”

Duncan broke off and lowered his eyes, suddenly realizing what Morgan meant. Their only chance now was for Duncan to use his own Deryni powers to master the lock. And to do so in Gorony’s presence would be to reveal himself as Deryni, beyond question. As the being in the vision on the road had warned, the time would come when Duncan must make a choice. That time was now.

He glanced across at Morgan and nodded slowly. “Can you handle our friend here?” He jutted his chin toward Gorony, and Morgan nodded.

“Very well.”

Transferring Gorony to Morgan’s grasp, Duncan gave him his dagger and sheathed his bloody sword. He raised an eyebrow in inquiry as Morgan adjusted his grip, but his cousin seemed to have things under control. Duncan could guess what the effort must be costing Alaric in his weakened condition, but there was no other way. With a sigh of resignation, Duncan turned his attention to the door.

The wood was warm and sleek beneath his fingers, and looking through the upper grating he could see where the lock mechanism must be. Placing his hands lightly over the lock, he closed his eyes and allowed his awareness to surround the mechanism, began feeling out the inner workings. Sweat poured from his brow, and his hands grew moist as he worked; but he was soon rewarded by a click from deep inside the door, followed by another, and then another. With a glance behind at Warin and his men, who had remained spellbound all the while, Duncan gave the door a strong push—and it opened.

“Oh, my God, he’s one of them!” Gorony murmured, his face going white as he squeezed his eyes shut. “A Deryni serpent in the very bosom of the Church!”

“Shut up, Gorony, or I may just stick you,” Morgan said softly.

Gorony’s eyes popped open and he gasped as Morgan’s dagger pressed against his neck, but he did not say another word. Not so with Warin.

“
Deryni?
The Lord will smite thee for this, thou spawn of Satan! His vengeance will seek thee out and—”

“Let’s get out of here,” Duncan muttered under his breath, taking Gorony and pushing his cousin through the door as Warin and his men pressed forward. “Get to the horses and ride. I’ll catch up with you.”

As Morgan began scrambling up a short slope toward the front of the shrine, Duncan dragged the protesting Gorony through the door and closed it behind him, giving the lock a mental nudge to set the pins again. Warin and his men immediately crowded to the door grating to peer out, Warin screaming maledictions as Duncan urged Gorony up the hill.

Almost at the top, Duncan found his kinsman collapsed, staring in horror at a tall stake set in the ground amid piles of kindling. Iron chains hung from the stake, ready to fetter an unwilling victim, and a torch smoked and guttered in the wind before Morgan’s fascinated gaze.

“Alaric, let’s go!”

“We must burn it,” Morgan whispered dazedly.

“Burn it? Are you mad? We haven’t the time for—Alaric!”

At Duncan’s protest, Morgan had begun to drag himself toward the torch, crawling painfully on hands and knees to reach the flame. With a grimace of indecision, Duncan glanced over his shoulder at the shrine, back at Alaric, then roughly jerked Gorony around to face him.

“I’m letting you go, Gorony. Not because you deserve to live, but because that man needs me more than I need vengeance for what you’ve done to him. Now, get out of here before I change my mind!”

With a shove, he sent Gorony sprawling down the incline, then scrambled the few remaining feet to Morgan’s side. Morgan had reached the torch and was struggling to pull it from the ground, eyes glazed with the effort. With a cry Duncan wrenched the brand out of his cousin’s grasp and flung it into the kindling around the stake, watched for just an instant as the wood caught and began to blaze. Then he set his shoulder under Morgan’s arm and helped him to his feet, and the two began staggering the rest of the way up the slope.

Far to the right, the monk Balmoric and a handful of foot soldiers came running down the incline toward the barred door and Gorony. One made as though to break away and pursue the two escapees, but Balmoric gave a curt hand signal and snarled something Duncan could not catch. The man continued down the slope.

The shrine was burning. Through the confusion Duncan and Morgan finally made their way to the paddock area. As smoke and flames billowed from the shrine, fed by the massive wooden foundations beneath the structure, Duncan boosted Morgan onto his horse and wrapped the reins around his hand, then vaulted into his own saddle. Guiding his horse only by the pressure of his knees, he led the way out of Saint Torin’s yard, flying hooves throwing a shower of mud over travelers passing beneath the arms of the forest saint. Morgan galloped at his heels but a half length behind, clinging to his horse’s neck with a desperation born of the ordeal he had just undergone, eyes tightly closed. As Duncan glanced back, he could see Saint Torin’s in flames, black smoke billowing up against the gray thunderheads; and the furious Warin and Gorony silhouetted against the blaze, shaking their fists at the escaping Deryni. There was no pursuit.

With a mirthless chuckle, Duncan leaned forward on his horse’s neck to retrieve the dangling reins, then pulled up slightly so that Morgan’s horse could draw even. His cousin was hardly in any condition even to ride just now, much less to make critical decisions, but Duncan was sure he would agree that their best plan now lay in getting to Kelson as soon as possible. Once this morning’s news reached the archbishops, Kelson would probably be the next target of ecclesiastical censure. And Duncan knew that Alaric would want to be at the boy’s side when and if that happened.

Of course, any appeal to the Curia in Dhassa was out of the question after this morning’s events. Both he and Alaric would probably be excommunicated and outlawed by nightfall. Nor could they return to Corwyn in safety. Once the Interdict fell—and he had little doubt now that it would—there was a distinct possibility of civil war in Corwyn. Alaric would be in no condition to cope with that for several days at least.

Duncan reached across and took Morgan’s reins, touching spurs to his mount as thunder rumbled ominously. Alaric must rest before too long. Perhaps at Saint Neot’s, where they had camped last night. In fact, if they were lucky, Duncan might even be able to locate a working Transfer Portal in the ruins. Alaric had mentioned an altar to Saint Camber. A Portal might not be far away. And it could save them more than a day’s ride to Rhemuth and Kelson, if they could find it.

Large raindrops began to fall, and lightning flared across the darkening skies. Resigning himself to traveling in the rain, Duncan settled into his saddle to ride hard and keep a watchful eye on Morgan.

They would be riding into the storm in more ways than one now. In a very short while, Gorony would be telling the archbishops about Morgan’s capture and escape, and how one Duncan Howard McLain had come to the rescue; and how that same Monsignor McLain, King’s Confessor and one-time promising star of the lower ecclesiastical hierarchy, was also a Deryni sorcerer.

He hated to even think about what Loris would say when he found out.

 

“I’LL excommunicate him! I’ll excommunicate the
pair
of them!” Loris shouted. “Of all the false, deceitful, reprehensible—I’ll strip him of his orders! I’ll—”

Loris, Corrigan, several of their assistants and clerks, and a fair number of Gwynedd’s bishops had been informally assembled in the Bishop of Dhassa’s drawing room when the news came. Monsignor Gorony, his robes bloodied and dripping with mud, had come staggering into the room at mid-afternoon and flung himself to the floor at Loris’s feet. As the clergy listened with growing horror, Gorony had gasped out the story of the morning’s ordeal: the thwarted capture, his personal peril, the perfidy of the two Deryni called Morgan and McLain.