The Huntsman's Amulet (40 page)
He had been edging forward as he spoke, and by the time he finished speaking, he was within striking distance.
Soren’s concern for Alessandra was such that he was almost caught off guard. He gathered his wits in time to fend off the attack, and realised that the gamesmanship betrayed the fact that Ferrata was not as confident of victory as he was trying to make out. As reassuring as this was, Soren wasn’t confident either. No matter what he did, he couldn’t find a way through.
He launched his own barrage of attacks, a mixture of cuts and thrusts, trying to find any opening, but failing each time. Despite his frustration, he found it oddly fascinating to fight someone so good, so fast. Possibly his equal. Possibly his superior.
Now there was a numbness spreading through his left arm and into his body. He might be able to continue fighting at the height of his ability until the end, but blood was streaming from his fingertips, and he knew that once he had lost too much, he would drop.
And then Alessandra would be left to Ferrata. He breathed in deeply and allowed the Fount rush in with the force of a breaking wave. He felt refreshed and uninjured, his skin tingled and his senses were sharp. His sword felt like an extension of his arm as he stepped toward Ferrata, as though his sense of touch continued along its metal edge. He saw a look of unexpected concern on Ferrata’s face and realised how things must seem to him, Soren injured one minute, fine the next. Ferrata’s movements slowed so much it seemed he was almost frozen.
Soren attacked with such grace and speed it felt as though he was in a dream, completely detached from his body. It acted almost without command and it was difficult to give any attention to Ferrata, so intoxicating and fascinating was the sensation rushing through him. He could feel his blade contact with steel, flesh, bone and viscera as though it was the edge of his hand doing the cleaving. He could feel the pulse of Ferrata’s heart slow as the blood coursed from his body. He felt more alive, more powerful than he ever had before. Then he felt nothing.
Chapter 58
Hope
T
he first thing that
he became aware of was a rolling sensation, and at first he thought that he was on board a ship. As his eyes took in his surroundings, he realised that he was still in the desert, and he began to recall what had gone before.
He was sitting on the back of a camel, strapped into position. The rolling sensation was caused by its unusual, loping stride. He looked around him. There was another camel in front of him and another behind. His sight was still heavily blurred, but the rider behind looked up at him and began to move forward.
He heard a woman’s voice, and then a man’s. The camel lurched to a stop and then crouched down on its knees. He felt more than one pair of hands hauling him off the camel.
‘Soren, can you hear me?’ said a woman’s voice.
‘Alessandra?’ He recognised the voice, but there were so many thoughts and memories that he couldn’t sort one from the other.
‘I’m here, Soren,’ said the voice.
Alessandra’s. Definitely Alessandra’s.
‘Where are we?’ he said.
‘We’re safe. Don’t worry, just rest.’
He felt some water splashing against his lips and drank it down, its coolness soothing his throat. His heart raced when he remembered Ferrata, but he realised that if both he and Alessandra were alive, Ferrata must be dead. Darkness embraced him once again.
The gentle movement beneath Soren when he woke was familiar and had become more of a comfort than a dislike in recent days. He stretched his legs but his feet hit the wooden bulkhead at the base of the bed he was lying in, stopping him from going far enough for the stretch to have been of any use. He hopped out of bed and wobbled slightly. Soren instinctively moved to put his left arm out to steady himself but it didn’t respond. He was still not used to the fact and regularly forgot; something that caused problems on board a moving ship. The day before he had felt pins and needles in his left fingers and this made him hopeful that feeling and the ability to use the arm would return. Alessandra told him to be patient, and he was trying, but it was difficult.
He pulled on some clothes and went out on deck. Alessandra was standing in the spot that she had made her own since coming on board several days before, staring out across the sea.
‘Good morning, my love,’ he said, embracing her with his right arm and kissing her on the neck.
She took his hand and pressed back into him with her shoulders. He loved the way her hair smelled. They both looked out to the horizon in silence for a moment.
‘Do you think he’ll send anyone else?’ she asked, voicing the concern that blighted them both.
It was the first time she had mentioned it, the first time she had considered him recovered enough to cast his mind to things other than rest.
‘I don’t know, but we can go anywhere we want now. And anywhere’s fine with me, so long as it’s with you.’
Duncan is a writer of fantasy fiction novels and short stories that are set in a world influenced by Renaissance Europe. He has a Master’s Degree in History, and is particularly interested in the medieval and renaissance periods.
He doesn’t live anywhere particularly exotic, and when not writing he enjoys cycling, skiing and windsurfing.
You can keep up to date with Duncan at his website,
duncanmhamilton.com
, or by signing up for his new release emailing list by clicking
here
.
Table of Contents
