Elisha Magus (11 page)

“T
here’s a road ahead,
my lady, that aims the right direction,” Elisha pointed between the mounds, but Rosalynn headed resolutely back the way they came.

“I saw a branching just in the woods that will take us there. I know it’s a little farther, and a little darker, but it will get us out of the rain.”

And away from the mounds, Elisha thought, but he followed in any case, understanding that her dread of the ancient burial mounds overcame common sense. Brigit and her men disappeared into the forest ahead of them and turned away toward the lodge.

As he followed Rosalynn through the woods, the rain and their footsteps the only sounds, Elisha carried the talisman in the crook of his arm, beneath his cloak. He left the wrapping on, remembering too well the way his fingers froze to the metal the first time he touched it as a witch. He wished he could carry it a little further from himself, but he had no satchel. When they reached the abbey, the duke’s men would be waiting for them, ready to turn back to Dunbury, and he could accompany them; aside from simply leaving the forest, he wanted to know if Allyson had learned anything more about the slaying. But first, he must endure another long ride to remind him of his aches. In the rush of seeing Brigit again, he put aside all of those annoyances, but they returned now with a low but constant pain, the aches of riding the day before, the singed soles of his feet, the stinging wound upon his chest. No doubt the pretty silk tunic would be stained with blood as well: unworthy of a prince, even an outcast. There must be an enemy—at least, Brigit believed there was—even if Thomas was in no position to raise an army.

Then he had the thought that stopped his breath. In befriending Thomas, Elisha made himself her enemy. She was set to marry Alaric, to become queen. Under no circumstance could Alaric allow his brother to live. And as much as he hated to admit it, Duke Randall was right: The power Elisha had drawn upon was no trifle, even if the way he had used the talisman could never be repeated. Everyone who knew what had happened to King Hugh must believe that a man who had Elisha on his side was a formidable opponent. If they found out—

Rosalynn screamed.

Three men emerged from the trees before them, bows in the hands of two, the third thrusting out a sword. “Give us your cloaks and your money,” shouted the leader.

A quick glance showed three more behind, fanning out to form a circle. Elisha extended his awareness. At least three more presences hid in the forest, he could feel their heat and sense their stillness. Brigit and her men must be well away by now, too far to hear Rosalynn’s cry, for he felt no sense of them. He did feel something strange, like a distant echo, but Elisha hadn’t time to consider it as the men advanced on Rosalynn.

She leaped back, grabbing Elisha’s arm. They both had knives, but no other weapons, aside from the talisman he carried.

“Your cloaks! Quickly!” Each word was emphasized with a jab of the sword. Two of the men behind ran up, pulling Elisha and Rosalynn away from each other. Elisha’s hand found the hilt of the surgical blade tucked at the back of his pouch.

“Yes! Of course. Don’t hurt us!” Rosalynn fumbled with the clasp and struggled the wet garment off her shoulders, flinging it toward them. But she didn’t let go of the hood, and it swung out from her, smacking the leader and knocking free the arrow of the man on his right before slapping itself around the man who held her.

“Christ on the Cross!” shouted one of the men. Then she was running.

Elisha slashed the hand of his keeper, stabbed for his arm and dove beneath it as he drew back. Before he’d taken three steps, his own cloak jerked back against his throat, and he was down, a brigand on top of his legs, twisting the fabric to keep hold of him. In his memory, he fought the hanging rope, doused by a cold rain just like today, his feet flailing, his arms bound, and he cried out against the constriction. Stone scraped his cheek, returning him forcefully to reality.

A bow string twanged, and Elisha kicked at the man sitting on him. “Run, lady,” he gasped. He pulled free his blade, then an arm clamped around his throat, dragging him back. Another hand clamped his wrist, twisting until Elisha dropped his knife.

“Get back here, bitch, or he dies on the road!”

Run, Elisha pleaded in his mind, but he couldn’t breathe. Pain shot up his right arm, and his left felt numb from clutching the thing he could not drop. His vision throbbed around the sight of Rosalynn, pulled back by her hair, wailing.

“Hasn’t got no purse, boss. Few rings and some hairpins.”

“No purse?” He touched the flat of his sword against Rosalynn’s cheek, bringing her to face him. “None but what’s beneath her skirts.”

“I’m the duke of Dunbury’s daughter,” she stammered. “If you hurt me, he’ll never rest until he’s got your heads.”

“Only if he finds a witness.” But as the men laughed the leader shared a sharp look with one of the archers.

“ ’Sides, the duke’s daughter ain’t traipsing the woods without a proper escort. This one ain’t no fighting man.” The leader flexed his muscle, twitching the sword against her face.

Elisha’s pulse thundered in his skull. Rosalynn knelt weeping, framed by a rapist and his sword. The man twitched his head toward the forest, and they pulled her away, shrieking, leaving four men on the road with Elisha.

He choked and struggled, his lungs already burning.

“What’s he got there?” one of the men asked, drawing near and pointing with his sword. “Might’s well search him ’fore it’s our turn.”

Elisha gripped the talisman tighter. Through his pain and panic he felt the awful burden inside, the child he swore to return to its rightful resting place. Who but a necromancer would use the child’s death for sorcery? Then Rosalynn screamed.

Thrusting aside his shame, Elisha called upon Death. It was not a stranger and never far from his thoughts or his work. To work magic, he needed contact with whatever he would affect, he needed knowledge of the change, and he needed to grasp the mystery: to acknowledge what he could never know. Death, he knew. Through his years as a barber-surgeon, through the battlefield, through the horrible day of the child’s birth and his brother’s suicide, all the way back to the moment he watched Brigit’s mother burning on the stake. Oh, yes, he knew Death better than he had known any lover.

Creeping up from the talisman, chills feathered his arm, even through the wrappings, piercing him like thorns as Death reached back, entwining into him, and his spirit answered, as if he were the talisman, resonating to the witch’s call, welcoming the familiar numbness. Elisha tried to hold it back this time, to force the cold to do his bidding and no more, but it strained against him with a murmur of power. He could kill the man who held him. He could wither the man to dust, through the agonizing contact at his throat. The sound of rain and the creak of leather and sinewed bows died back to nothing. The taste of his own blood on his lips faded, along with the smell of damp earth and the sweating bastard who held him. Death dominated his senses. His pain grew numb, his burns cooled, the thunder of his heart slowed to the beating drum of a funeral march.

Elisha tipped his head as a chill wind touched his shoulder, followed by the swift crack of dying. Strength flowed to him where a man fell dead in the forest. It surged up from the ground through his body to circle round his heart.

“Where’s Joseph?” a voice on the wind. “Joseph! Did you hear that!”

The arm at his throat jerked the cloak tighter. Elisha turned his chin into the elbow and breathed out Death. The fabric of the man’s garments parted, scattered to threads, and fell away. His skin beneath blackened and shook, then Elisha was free, a mindless howl rising up at his back, another before him as the bandits lunged with their weapons drawn. Something stirred in the calm that infused him, a quiver of interest, first from one side, then another, as if a choir suddenly heard the note that told them to be ready. It was an awful alertness, an eagerness that stretched in his direction, drawn by the dreadful thing he carried and the dreadful things he’d done.

Elisha’s stomach clenched and his calm was shattered by a rush of shame. The heat of it shot through him, and he pushed away the icy strength that filled him, forcing it back into the talisman which suddenly shook in his hand. Raindrops trickled down his face and arms, dripping from the bundle as if the child inside it wept.

The man at his back staggered, clutching his arm, and crashed into Elisha. The talisman tumbled from his grip, and a sword slashed at his chest.

A shaggy, gray form burst from the leaves and barreled into the swordsman, its teeth snapping into flesh as they rolled together across the ground. A wolf? No—Cerberus.

Elisha fell and instinctively drew back his aching wrist. The sword swung over his head, then jabbed at his stomach.

A second blade clanged against it, swept it away, and followed through with a backhand thrust that spattered blood across Elisha’s face. He dimly felt another death and gasped, arching his back as the dead man’s blood seared him with cold.

A third bandit sprang to the attack, his blackened arm dangling as Elisha’s defender feinted around him, drawing his blade. The great dog snarled to one side from bloody lips. Swords clashed and slid.

With tearing, desperate fingers, Elisha finally freed himself from his twisted cloak and gulped for breath. He lay on his side, head throbbing, then pressed his palm to the dirt and tried to rise.

A shriek and a curse. The injured bandit backed away from Elisha’s ragged defender, who faced him with a sword in one hand and a curved knife in the other. A dodge, then the bandit leapt to the attack. The ragged man ducked and twisted with exquisite grace, taking the blade on his dagger and sliding it away, bringing up his sword to the other man’s gut. He straightened with the thrust, letting the bandit fall free of his weapon, then glanced back. Sharp blue eyes found Elisha’s gaze. Thomas.

“Rosalynn,” Elisha struggled to speak, though his throat burned. He pointed toward the wood beyond.

Thomas gave a tiny nod and swung away, lunging between the trees.

Elisha groped to retrieve the talisman and took up his fallen knife, forcing his hand to close around the grip. Then he staggered to his feet to follow. In the clearing beneath a towering beech tree, Thomas circled with the leader. A second man gripped Rosalynn’s arm, holding her up beside him. Her gown hung open, the bandits having finished the tear that her own efforts had begun. She fumbled with her dress, trying to cover her nakedness, sobbing breathlessly, but she and her keeper both watched the fight.

Treading carefully, Elisha thanked God and the king for the wide spacing of the well-tended trees. Elisha sidled nearer to the bandit and his captive.Rosalynn took a sharp breath, then flopped forward, causing her captor to stumble ahead with her fall. Elisha’s medical mind performed a quick calculation—the dozen places he could thrust and incapacitate the bandit. He aimed low, to cause maximum pain without killing, but a chill ripple passed through him, a moment of wanton lust for blood as if the needs of Death still lingered in his flesh. With all the strength he had remaining, Elisha rammed the dagger home into the brigand’s heart. Skin and muscle parted beneath his blade. The hilt twisted as the knife struck bone and he shoved it past, then a spurt of blood, hot and sticky, gushed over his fist. A successful surgery, Elisha thought bitterly.

The bandit’s tiny cry gave Thomas the opening he needed to slice through the leader’s doublet and shove him away to groan out the last of his life. Thomas withdrew, panting, shaking back his dark hair.

Setting the talisman among the tree roots with shaky hands, Elisha crawled to where Rosalynn sprawled on the ground, hair tangled over her face. Her hand crept upward, tugging at her bodice. He found the cloth for her and drew it over her quaking chest, concealing her breasts and bringing her hand up to hold it closed. With the blood on his hands and on the knife, kneeling once more over a fallen innocent, Elisha thought of the French magus who died in his arms.

“My lady, are you hurt?” His voice rasped. He kept his hand over hers, lightly touching the pulse at her wrist, reaching for some measure of comfort and calm that he could share with her. He had none.

“Who’s there?” she cried, and Elisha tightened his grip, letting his warmth and stillness tell her he meant no harm.

He swallowed hard, and tried again, “It’s just Elisha. Are you hurt?”

“No,” she whispered. “They … touched me, they started—I’m not hurt.” She lay there, panting, her knees drawn up.

As gently as he could, Elisha brushed the wild tendrils of her hair back from her face, but she turned away, her eyes clamped shut. He wet his lips, controlling his breathing. If he kept his voice low, it didn’t hurt so much. “My lady Rosalynn.” She stirred vaguely. “You are the most courageous woman I ever knew. Ever. We will take care of you.”

“Who’s with you?” she said, almost a whimper.

“A friend,” Thomas answered, and his voice was soft and strong as he knelt on her other side.