Sworn Loyalty - A Medieval Romance (3 page)

He swung at her left hip, and she spun her sword counter-clockwise, slamming her blade down on top of his, driving both into the ground. A sword came in toward her right bicep, and she rotated her right foot back, whirling her sword clockwise, deflecting the blade across the front of her body.

Erik’s voice was sharp behind her. “Duck!”

She snapped her head down, and the whistling sound of a blade stirred the hair on the back of her neck. She drove her sword in a forward thrust, catching the center man in the abdomen. He screamed in agony, falling back to the ground.

“Right!”

She drove hard right, a fiery snake burned up her left leg, and she spun with focus, driving the flat of the blade against his ribs, then pulling up hard. The blade cut into his under-arm, and he fell like a stone.

There was one man left, but the world was coming in and out of focus, and heaviness descended on her body. She feinted left, then swung toward his right thigh, but his sword slammed down on top of hers. She leapt back to open up some distance between them. Her body slammed into Erik’s.

The aroma of leather and anise enveloped her, his chest was strong and sturdy, and for a moment she simply wanted to close her eyes. She could lean against him for an eternity; slip serenely into the darkness which waited patiently for her.

His voice was steady in her ear; calm, quiet, and firm. “Reverse J.”

She gave the tip of her blade a quick clockwise turn, then drove it straight up with every last ounce of her energy. The sword slammed into resistance, there was a scream of pain, and then the world shivered into ebony stillness.

* * *

Someone was calling her name, low, urgent, but it seemed an eon before she could blink her eyes open. She was sprawled on her side in a dusty room, staring at a moisture-slick stone wall. Her sword hilt was still in her right hand, and she wrapped her fingers around it, the texture of the leather comfortable in her gloved grip.

“Mary. Reach up to your right. Find the belt buckle.”

The words swirled in her head, and after a long minute she released the sword, forced her arm to move, and sure enough the shape of a buckle came under her fingers. With careful attention she undid the latch and tugged the leather free.

His voice wrapped around her, supporting her. “Put the belt around your upper left leg. Pull it tight.”

It took longer than she thought, and her hand was slick by the time she finished, but finally the belt was cinched. She fell back, exhausted.

Erik’s voice eased into her thoughts. “Now fling your sword as far from you as you can. When Caradoc shows up, tell him the men fought over you.” There was a pause, and his voice added a note of respect. “He will believe that in a heartbeat.”

Alarm sounded in Mary’s head, and she pushed herself up to a sitting position. Her head throbbed, but she forced herself to turn and look up to him. He seemed miles above her, his arms stretched up in a letter Y, his wrists tied with thick, coarse rope. She rolled onto her side, wriggling her way over to Geoff’s corpse. Her leg was beginning to throb with pain, and she knew she didn’t have much time.

Geoff’s eyes stared blankly at the ceiling, and she wrapped her fingers firmly around her dagger’s hilt before yanking it from his throat. She put the blade between her teeth, then turned her attention to a nearby stool. It seemed to carry the weight of the universe, but inch by inch she managed to drag it over to rest beneath Erik’s right arm.

His voice was rough. “Mary, once you do this, there’s little chance of turning back.”

She gave him a wry smile, speaking through the dagger’s metal. “That was never an option.”

She took in a deep breath, gritting her teeth, then pushed herself up onto her knees. Staggering pain seared through her, and she nearly lost consciousness again.

Erik’s voice swirled around her. “Mary –”

She shook herself back to awareness, putting her hands on the stool, forcing herself to stand. Sweat beaded on her forehead and she drew in long breaths. She balanced herself carefully on her injured leg, then, closing her eyes for a moment, pushed hard to step up onto the stool.

The pain nearly sent her collapsing to the floor. She flailed out, grabbing hold of Erik’s shoulder, her full weight slamming down against him. She knew the strain on his shoulder joint must be immense, but he did not make a sound, simply remained still beneath her. Slowly she was able to right herself. She worked her way up to hold onto his wrist with both hands.

She carefully removed the knife from her teeth and began sawing. The rope was thick, and she pushed hard to work her way through the layers.

Her knife slipped, and suddenly there was a gash on his palm, blood slipping from it in a thin curtain.

Mary gasped. “Oh, Erik, I’m –”

“I am fine,” he reassured her. “Just keep going.”

She nodded, struggling to focus, and bit by bit the strands unraveled. The world was fading from her, and she could almost see the energy draining from her arms. Just another inch, just –

The world spun, she was falling, and then Erik had ripped his arm through the remaining rope and pulled her tight against him, holding her. She hung limp, her energy spent.

After a long moment his hand slid down her arm and gently took the dagger from her grasp. “Hold onto my waist,” he murmured.

She dutifully slid her arms around his torso, drawing even closer to him, and he moved his free hand up to his other wrist, making quick work of the tie there. The ropes fell. His arms came around her, supporting her, holding her close as he drew in several long breaths.

At last he stood back, turning to sit her on the stool. He dropped to one knee at her side, examining the tourniquet at her leg, then made quick work of Geoff’s shirt to create a bandage. He swaddled her injury, using the belt to hold it in place, then eased her sword and dagger back into their places. His eyes lit on the tambourine, now spattered with blood, and he hooked it on her waist.

His voice was a low murmur. “If we are lucky, none who arrive later will ever know you were here.”

He then strode to the side of the room, where he picked up his own sword and dagger. The sword stayed in his hand as he returned to Mary, wrapped her cloak around her, and drew her up cradled in his arms.

He glanced at the closed door. “What do we have waiting for us?”

Mary’s throat was tight with growing pain. “One man in the chamber upstairs. Then five on the wall.”

Erik glanced at the bodies on the floor, giving a wry grin. “Sounds fair to me.”

She shook her head. “These men were half-drunk and were the dregs of the band,” she countered. “You have both Espan and Arbert waiting for you up there. Plus three of Caradoc’s trusted lieutenants.”

His eyes shadowed, but he nodded. “Then I will have to get through them.”

He pulled open the door and began the ascent. The slow, careful climb up seemed to be even longer than her descent had been, but Erik showed no sign of weariness as they finally arrived at the dimly lit landing area.

She turned to put her mouth near his ear. “Let me go in first,” she murmured. “I can distract him.”

He nodded, carefully placing her down on her feet. She swayed, but forced herself to take a step forward, hobbling, pulling the door open.

Wymon’s eyes lit up as she stepped into the room, then darkened in frustration as he took in the blood caked on her leg. “God’s teeth, look what they did to you,” he snapped. “Surely they knew I was next.”

Mary nodded. “Yes, you are,” she agreed without inflection.

She took a staggering step to the right, and Erik moved like a panther, thrusting at Wymon, taking him through the ribs before he could call out. The man slid down to the ground, his head falling back.

Erik nodded toward the guttering fire. “You stay here; stay warm. I will come back for you.”

It was tempting, so tempting, but Mary gave her head a sharp shake. “No.”

Erik’s eyes snapped to hers. “Surely you know you cannot fight, Mary. You can barely stand.”

“I cannot fight, but I will not have you face them alone,” she insisted. “Even if all I can do is sit on the stairs and be a witness, I will be there for you.”

A note of respect came into his gaze, and he put his left hand out to her. She pushed the main door open for them, stepping out into the late afternoon sunshine, the frosty air causing her breath to billow in soft clouds. Erik was right at her side, his eyes sweeping the empty courtyard, drawing up to the surrounding walls, to the men who lounged along its length, watching the forest beyond.

He eased Mary down to sit on the rough stone stair, his eyes holding hers for a long moment. “However this turns out, you have my heartfelt thanks for all you have done.”

His eyes were blue-grey, the misty color of a distant sea, and she was lost in their far horizons. She wanted to fold herself into his arms, to immerse herself in his warmth, and leave the rest of the world behind.

A furious shout came from the wall, and Erik ran his hand along her cheek before turning, standing, and striding down the few stairs to stand at the end of the unevenly stoned courtyard. The few out-buildings around the shadowed edges were run down with gaps in their timbers and sagging beams. Mary saw the skittering of a badger in what was once the stables, but it was the five men scrambling down the narrow stairs from the wall who clearly had Erik’s attention. The men formed a line before the gate, with Espan and Arbert in the center.

Espan spoke up first, his face mottled deep crimson. “What have you done with the others?”

Erik gave a smooth spin to his sword, loosening up his wrist. Mary wondered if the wound on his hand was giving him any difficulties with his grip. She cursed her clumsiness; it could easily lead to the death of them both.

Erik’s voice was smooth and even. “You five will find out soon enough where your friends have gone,” he promised.

Espan pointed his sword at Erik’s chest. “Get him!”

The three lieutenants hollered in unison, charging Erik with swords raised high. Erik brought his sword over his head, parallel to the ground and edge facing forward. The first attacker’s blade slid along its length, releasing off to his left. Erik whipped the tip around to the right, driving it hard into the attacker’s kidney, and the man went down with a groan.

Erik swept his blade diagonally across, tip down and left. He blocked the second man’s swing, lunging forward and right to continue his sword’s up-thrust motion. He caught the second man in the groin, turning to rip his blade through the attacker’s thigh.

The third man dove with a thrust straight for Erik’s heart. Erik smashed his sword left to right, knocking the blade off-center so it barely missed his right arm by inches. He spun in place, his momentum carrying his blade tip around at blinding speeds toward the man’s stomach, ripping it open in one long, crimson gash.

Erik glanced down at the three men writhing before him, then back up at Espan and Arbert. The two had lost their bantering arrogance and carefully contemplated Erik. They spread apart, stalking toward Erik, flanking him on either side.

Mary leant forward, her hands clenched together. Erik’s sword skill was better than she had expected, better than even the glowing reports of the men at the keep had made him out to be. After all, they had last seen him as a lad of sixteen, only beginning to realize his potential. He had been away for ten long years, deep in the harshest conflicts of the Holy Land. That the time there had honed him was an understatement.

But the two men in front of him also carried a reputation for their skill with a blade – and their ruthlessness in battle. They were the core strength of Caradoc’s band. Their entire focus was now on the blond man before them.

The men pounced, and it was all Mary could do to remain on the stair, to not dive in and offer Erik some relief from that maelstrom. It was as if three alpha wolves fought for control of a pack. The spinning blades, the thunder of a fist landing against a skull, the stomp of a boot against an exposed knee, spun in her mind faster than her eyes could follow. None could survive in that whirlwind of violence and razor-edged swords.

Erik’s sword drew high and right, slicing diagonally across Espan’s face. A pair of deep groans echoed as Espan collapsed and Erik’s abdomen simultaneously flowered with a ribbon of red. Mary’s breath froze. If Erik had a stomach wound, all was lost. His digestive juices would burn him away from within. It was a truly agonizing way to die.

Arbert was staring down at his fallen brother with unbelieving shock, and then he bellowed in rage, charging hard at Erik.

Erik did not move.

Mary’s heart stopped cold. Erik seemed to have gone beyond himself with the pain of his injury. He would be mown down, defenseless, like a lamb trussed and trusting on a pagan’s solstice altar.

Then, at the last moment, Erik leapt to the left, dodging the whistling blade by mere inches. He spun clockwise, whipping his sword around, and drove the edge hard into the back of Arbert’s neck.

The decapitation was instant.

Arbert’s corpse fell like a rag doll.

Erik sagged to one knee, the welling of blood from his stomach darkening the front of his tunic. Mary raced across the courtyard to his side, ignoring the excruciating pain echoing from her injured leg. She pulled up his jerkin to examine the wound.