Destined for a King (24 page)

She closed her fingers about his right hand—the one that wielded his sword; the one Hammerfell had nearly cut off. The calluses on his thumb and palm raised by the constant rubbing of the hilt and guard were rough against her skin. “Am I not real?” She released him to sweep her hand up his arm to his chest. “Is my touch a chimera?” She pushed herself up on her toes to press her lips to his. “Is there a lie in my kiss?”

“No.” His reply emerged half a whisper, half a groan. “By all the gods, no.”

Then he pulled her flush against the firmness of his body. His mouth claimed hers, his kiss nothing less than fierce. Whatever he'd come to feel for her, passion drove his emotion. She opened to him, allowed the conquest, and desire roared to life inside her.

“Yes,” she murmured into his lips. “Yes, it's been too long.”

Too long and too seldom, even for the short time she'd known him. She might spend the rest of her days learning his depths and revealing hers. She would gladly do so.

Never once breaking the contact of their lips, he dipped, swept an arm beneath her knees, and swung her against his body. The world tilted, and her head whirled with it. He strode to the pallet, laid her out, and straightened, his form a tall shadow in the flickering light from the other chamber.

His fingers tore at the fastenings of his jerkin, and he yanked the garment over his head. The soft linen shirt beneath followed it to the stony floor. Her throat went dry, but she held out her arms. As much as she enjoyed the rippling play of muscles across his bare chest, she craved contact, full and complete, without and within.

He stretched over her, his pelvis grinding against hers.

“Yes.”

He lowered his lips to her throat, and his tongue traced a trail downward. Heat blazed in its wake, speeding far beyond pleasure into burning pain.

“Ah!”

Her entire body went rigid. Images flashed through her mind, an entire succession too fast to follow, but her brain grasped at a few threads. Blackbriar Keep, a bolt of lightning, a flaming sword, the king's palace, the throne room.

She opened her eyes to find Torch staring down at her, his breathing ragged as hers. Her pulse throbbed beneath her ear.

“What happened?” he asked, wary.

“You…you kissed along the scar.” That awful black line that now permanently marred her throat. He'd doubtless meant to prove that the mark did not matter to him. “It…it became too much. Didn't you feel it?”

“No.” He heaved himself off her, muttering curses under his breath. “What does it mean? I can't even enjoy my wife?”

“It…it was like touching your Stone. We both felt it then. I thought surely…” But her mind was already racing ahead. “I saw…” What had she seen?

The way forward.
Yes. As it had the night she made the Kingsbane, the path glimmered in her mind, just a little way ahead. But in that moment when Torch had kissed her scar, she'd seen it clearly through to the end.

“Whatever you saw, I don't want to know. I'll no longer cling to visions. I want reality.”

“It can be real.” She extended a hand. “Please trust me. You can accomplish what you set out to do.”

“We've just been through how no one can predict the future,” he argued. “Even your Acolyte said as much.”

Inspiration sparked in her mind. “The future is a series of possible outcomes. Your Stone showed that. It was possible for your brother to die in battle. It was possible for you to marry me.” And fall in love. Gods, she hoped so.

“Not all possibilities come true.”

“But winning is still one of those possibilities. If you choose to trust me, you must act now. Summon your Brotherhood. Take back Blackbriar. Now.”

From his perch high in a tree, Torch scanned the walls of Blackbriar Keep. The soft glow of the moon ought to reveal the pacing of the guards on the parapet, but in the shadows, nothing stirred.

He didn't like it.

The branches below him rustled. Reaching for his knife, he looked down. In the next instant, the whistled twitter of a thrush broke the night stillness. Following the signal, Wolf's face appeared among the leaves.

“What news?” he called quietly.

“The scouts have seen nothing.”

The hairs raised on the back of his neck. “Nothing, as in nothing out of the ordinary or nothing at all?”

“The second.”

Torch pressed his lips together. Calista might have called this anxious feeling a premonition. She might have even told him what it meant, except he'd left her at his sanctuary. Before the sun rose, he'd see battle of one kind or another. A fight was no place for his wife. “Something isn't right. It has to be a trap.”

He wasn't even completely convinced he should be here. Visions and premonitions and feelings. They'd proven untrustworthy, but Calista had been so damned certain.

Besides, action was better than sitting idle. He had a plan, at least, a way of fighting back from a hard defeat. It was certainly a move Magnus's men would not expect.

Yes, and perhaps he should continue in that vein.

“Do you want me to slip over the wall and open the postern?” Wolf asked, already scrambling toward the ground.

“No.” If anything stood under guard, it would be that gate, since he'd used it as a means of escape. “Send word to Hawk.” Hawk was waiting deeper in the woods with the bulk of the Brotherhood's forces. “When the sun comes up I want him to mount an attack on the main gate.”

Wolf's face reappeared in the branches, her brow furrowed. “From what I've seen, he'll be marching straight into trouble. They've got your trebuchets covering the approach.”

Bloody marvelous. In the few days it had taken for Griffin to wake from his fever plus the planning of this expedition, Hammerfell had set his men to finishing what Torch had begun. Now his own weapons were turned against him. “Not if I can help it. You see, by the time Hawk gets within bowshot of the walls, we'll already be inside.”

A feral grin spread across Wolf's face. “Sabotage. I like the way you think.”

Hand over hand, Torch followed Wolf to the ground. At least the Avestari rider approved of his plan. Kestrel or Griffin might come up with a more intricate strategy, but Torch was on his own here. He could only rely on his own brainpower and his faith in Calista's advice.

As his feet struck the ground, another birdcall brought him up short. Wolf stood a few strides away, squinting into the underbrush. His eyes rounded in fear, Blackbriar's former stable boy burst from the fern brake.

“Hawk sent me,” he panted. “Said to tell you he's found a fight. Armed men in the woods.”

Torch patted the lad on the shoulder. “Catch your breath now…What are they calling you these days?”

The boy pulled a face. “Wren, sir.”

Torch smiled grimly. “If you'd like a more manly name among the Brotherhood, you'll have to earn it. You've started, though. Did Hawk say who was leading?”

“Dunno, sir.”

“Off with you, then, and tell Hawk you've done your duty.”

When the boy had melted back into the bushes, Wolf asked, “Are you still going over the wall?”

Torch rubbed his chin. “Hammerfell's got his men out looking for me. Sounds as if Hawk's run upon a search party. That may explain why the keep seems so quiet. We'd better have a look around and see what's what. Besides, I have a score to settle with the justiciar.”

Griffin, son of Jaffe Vandal, was every bit as pigheaded as his older brother. Calista drew that conclusion when Griffin staggered to his feet much too soon after his injury. Just like his brother, he broke into a sweat and grasped for any available handhold. Just like his brother, he insisted on donning mail, the agony its weight caused be damned.

She couldn't even imagine how the strap that secured the crossbow to his back felt, despite the padding over his wound. The band of leather across her own chest dug in uncomfortably enough. His shoulder had to be ablaze with pain.

When he'd learned that the Brotherhood had left on their quest to retake Blackbriar Keep, she could say nothing to dissuade him from mounting up and following. Of all the idiotic notions. She'd never have believed in the possibility, but Griffin was far, far worse than Torch.

Gods preserve her from stubborn men. If she could not stop him, she had no choice but to accompany him. At least she'd won that particular argument. The fool had wanted to set out alone, claiming he could catch up to his Brothers.

As they picked their way through the trees, the moon lighting their path, she kept close watch on her charge. He sat rigid, holding himself in the stirrups through sheer grit, guiding his horse one-handed. So far, at least, he'd shown no signs of slumping in the saddle.

This is the path,
the voice in her head reassured her.
He must be present.
A good lot that voice knew. If Griffin passed out, there was no physical way he could be present. Calista certainly could not transport his inert body to battle.

The Faceless One only knew why she was trusting in it now, but it
had
led her to create Kingsbane, and it
had
guided her to releasing Torch and his men. At any rate, they were nearly to Blackbriar. Griffin was closer to help at the keep than if they headed back for the cavern.

Griffin reined his horse to a stop, and held out a hand. She heeded the signal and halted.

“Listen,” he whispered, his voice taut.

She strained her ears. His breathing came more rapidly than it should, but that was not what he wished to point out. From somewhere to the left came the echo of cries and clashing swords. “They've engaged.”

Griffin nodded. “How much farther?”

“Not much.” She eyed him. The moonlight caught the fine sheen of sweat on his forehead, the tightness to his jawline, the uncompromising line of his back as he held himself firm by sheer will. “I'd say the fighting must be in the woods outside the walls.”

Griffin tensed, apparently ready to spur his mount toward the sound.

Not that way.

“No,” Calista all but shouted.

“Quiet,” Griffin barked. “There may be watchers in the trees.”

Any sentries would have shot them by now. Griffin knew it as well as she did. “You are in no condition to ride headlong into battle.”

“I did not come all this way for you to coddle me at the end.” Again, that adamant insistence that so reminded her of his brother.

“What would you do?” she argued. “You cannot wield a sword.”

“I can shoot.”

One bolt—if he could manage that. And would he even be able to hold the bow steady? After that, he'd be vulnerable while he cranked the string tight on his bow. But she did not need to tell him that. As a seasoned warrior, he knew.

“You cannot have me stand by idle,” he went on, “not while my brother puts his life on the line.” He'd been stating as much since rising from his sickbed.

The keep. Your path leads to the keep.

“Your brother means to take back Blackbriar. That is where our road lies. I can get us in.” She forced the words through her teeth. This time, by all the gods, he would listen to her.

After a long moment, he relented. They rode on, Calista in the lead, now that she was on familiar terrain, but all the while she sensed his growing resentment. Not at her so much as at the situation that prevented him from fighting at his brother's side—or so she hoped.

The din of battle faded, as they guided their mounts in the opposite direction. Before long, the trees gave way, and they found themselves within sight of a solid stone wall looming three fathoms high. All lay under the eerie silence of a bone yard.

She scanned the crenellations, in search of the guards. Nothing moved. How strange.

But Griffin pointed to a far corner. Nearly at the top of the wall, two figures dangled from a rope. As she watched, the first disappeared over the battlement. A moment later, an arm extended to give the second a hand up.

“Torch and Wolf, if I don't miss my guess,” Griffin breathed.

Urgency spiked through Calista. “We must get inside. Now.”

“How? I cannot scale the wall.”

Thank the Faceless One, he was beginning to see sense. She glanced back at him to make sure he wasn't about to pass out, but he sat steady, rigid as ever. “There's a postern.”

One she wouldn't be able to open from the outside if it was latched, but the voice in her head pressed her in that direction.

“There's bound to be a guard.”

All too true, but their only other option was the main gate. “In that case, you'll find a use for your bow.”

Torch had almost reached the stairs that led to the bailey when the first shouts rang out. He flattened himself against the wall, Wolf beside him. The thunder of running feet echoed from ahead.

He drew his sword, a blade from the stash at the sanctuary, well balanced and serviceable, but the hilt felt foreign in his grip. Beside him, Wolf pulled out her own blade. Moonlight glittered along its bitter, curved edge.

The pounding feet came closer. At Torch's nod, he and Wolf leapt into the center of the parapet, weapons raised. Three guards dressed in Lord Tarr's livery raced out of the darkness.

Swords met with a clash. The hilt shuddered in Torch's fist as he parried a blow. In the next instant, he dipped around his opponent's guard and his weapon sheared through mail and flesh. With a cry, the guard slumped to the ground.

Next to him, Wolf dispatched her man. The third stared at them a moment, eyes round amid a scarred face, then spun toward the stairs.

“Catch him. He'll raise an alarm.”

Torch was on his tail before Wolf's warning finished echoing in his ears. At the head of the steps, he yanked the man back by an arm, pivoting to pin him against the outer wall. Torch set his blade to the man's throat.

“What is afoot?” he demanded. “Where is everyone?”

The guard whimpered. Incongruously, for the scar slashing across his cheek spurred the memory of a raised mace and Owl crumpling beneath the savage blow.

“Might as well answer. I'd just as soon cut your throat as talk to you.” Doubly now that Torch had recognized the man.

“Please. So many of us are dead already.”

“And the others?” Not on the walls, apparently.

“They're looking for you.”

“But you've found me. And now I have to do this.” Torch drew the blade across the man's throat. Quick and clean, a better death than he deserved. With a shove, Torch sent the body over the parapet.

“They were covering the postern,” Torch said to Wolf once he'd caught up to her. “They came from that direction.”

“They can't have expected us.”

“Maybe they were watching for deserters.” Clearly something else was going on. More than the wounded succumbing to the poison on their crossbow bolts. “Let's find Hammerfell.”

Torch padded down the steps. Wolf's soft footfalls reached his ears after a moment. Had she hesitated? He'd never known her to quail before an adversary.

There was no movement in the bailey. No sound beyond the rush of their own breath. Still, Torch kept to the shadows, making himself stop and listen before passing to the next dark corner. His pulse still pounded from the altercation on the walls, his mind sharp, his senses on edge.

He wanted another fight, damn it all. His arm itched to hammer at another. His body longed to absorb the impact of another's blows, while dealing his own. He'd keep looking until he found what he sought.

Up the steps, into the hall, and still they met no one. The forms of sleeping men littered the floor, but a second glance made Torch wonder if they were really sleeping. Not even the gentle rise and fall of breathing stirred the air. A familiar coppery scent filled his nostrils.

A harsh cry rang out from above, vibrating down the staircase and into Torch's gut. He exchanged a glance with Wolf. A metallic clash followed. Swordplay. No time to stop for questions. He raced for the steps.

More crashes. A grunt. Coming from the lord's chamber. Torch pelted toward it.

Through the open doorway, he spied the combatants. A naked blade clenched in his fist, Belwin Thorne faced Hammerfell's bulk. Neither man bore a shield. Nothing but light mail stood between flesh and screaming steel.

The justiciar lunged at Thorne, and his stroke cleaved the air, lightning quick. Too fast for a man his size. Nearly too fast for Thorne, who grasped his hilt in both hands and swung blindly. A hairbreadth from his nose, Thorne's parry turned the opposing blade. Sweat streamed from the older man's reddened cheeks and plastered his hair to his forehead.

Gripping his sword, Torch strode into the chamber. “Leave him. It's me you want.”

Hammerfell spun, while a panting Thorne retreated to a far corner. Torch raised his blade in a mocking salute. “We meet again.”

Hammerfell pointed his sword at Torch's heart. “To what do I owe this honor? I've sent all the men at my disposal after you and you deliver yourself willingly into my hand.”

Torch shifted his weight to the balls of his feet. “Shall we see about my willingness?” A lunge. A stroke. Merely a test that Hammerfell easily deflected. “Your blade against mine?”

The answering blow came fast, driven by rage. Although he'd already fought one opponent, the justiciar was not even winded. Torch dodged just in time and put up his guard.

“What good is the blade of a Freehold bastard?” While Hammerfell's stroke had gone wide, his taunt speared Torch to the quick.