Read Warriors Of Legend Online
Authors: Dana D'Angelo Kathryn Loch Kathryn Le Veque
Warriors Of Legend (17 page)
“What is it?” Destry asked. He seemed distant and pensive. “What’s on your mind?”
Conor grunted as he looked around. Then he sniffed the air. “Smell that?”
Destry sniffed. She shook her head. “I smell trees.”
He looked at her. “Exactly,” he said. “No smog, no smells of the modern world. I suppose I had my doubts about this entire situation even until a few minutes ago, but walking out here, smelling the smells and hearing the birds and wind through the trees… I’m not feeling any more doubts. As much as I knew you belonged to me the moment I met you, right now, I feel like this belongs to me, too. I belong here. Whatever has happened to us, maybe it wasn’t a mistake. Like Padraigan said, maybe it really
was
magic. It was something that was meant to happen.”
Destry was listening to him seriously. “I guess all things happen for a reason,” she said with surprising acceptance; like him, she was coming to understand the reality of their situation. She looked down at Slane, sucking his thumb and holding her skirts, and smiled. “I told you last night that I know my children. These boys are mine and you are their father. I don’t know how this happened, but I’m not going to question it. After what we’ve been through the past day or so, I’m willing to take a few things on faith. So now what?”
He sighed, putting his arm around her, grinning when Slane pushed his way in between them and clung to Destry’s leg. “Now, we have a whole new world out there,” he said softly. “Just think about it; I’m supposed to be the king. You’re my queen. I’ve got an evil brother who’s stolen my throne. I want the damn thing back.”
Destry smiled at his animated speech. “I’ll help you.”
He looked at her, bending down to kiss the tip of her nose. “I think you already have,” he said. “I wouldn’t be here it if wasn’t for you. You brought me back, Destry. You gave me my destiny.”
She hugged him, trying not to squish the child between them. “Padraigan said that time and space couldn’t keep us apart,” she said quietly. “Whatever I did, I was meant to do it. We were meant to do it. But I think I’m a little afraid.”
“Afraid of what?”
“Afraid for you,” she said, gazing up at him. “Your brother went through a lot of trouble to separate us. He’s not going to be happy to see you. These guys have swords and stuff. They’re going to try to kill you.”
He grinned. “I told you that I can fight with swords, feet, fists, and anything else they throw at us,” he said. “You don’t need to be afraid but you need to be smart. Listen to what I tell you and what the white witch tells you. I didn’t find you after a thousand years only to see you taken away from me again.”
Destry lifted her eyebrows in agreement. “Same goes for me,” she murmured. “You have no idea what it would do to me if you were killed. God, it sounds so scary even to say that. We’re facing a whole new world out there.”
He kissed her forehead. “New and deadly and beautiful,” he said. “We have the opportunity to shape the world, I think, or at least our little corner of it. Are you ready for it?”
Destry’s gaze moved out over the green, green foliage, enormous trees reaching for the untamed sky, and the beams of light piercing their way through the canopy. There was such raw beauty to it and when she gazed up at Conor, all she could see was her past, her present, and her future.
“I’m ready,” she said, laying her head on his chest as Slane begged to be picked up. “It sounds corny, but as long as we’re together, I’m ready for anything.”
“Me, too,” he whispered. “I love you, sweetheart. Until the end of time, I will love only you.”
She smiled at him, a genuine and heartfelt gesture that sent his heart fluttering. “I love you, too,” she whispered.
He kissed her and picked up Slane, who wanted to go with his mother and not his father. Conor handed the boy over to Destry just as Mattock and Devlin raced over to him, explaining that they had seen something magical and wonderful over near the barn. Conor thought they mentioned a faerie of some kind but he couldn’t be sure. The modern man, now ancient ruler, was ready for anything as he went to see what had his boys so excited. This was his world and he intended to master it as he’d done once before. This time, there would be no failure. He was back.
The high king had returned.
***
Part II, the novella HIGH KING, will be published in 2014 or 2015.
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By Any Other Name
By Kathryn Loch
Text and Cover Art Creation Copyright © 2012
Karrie Balwochus
All Rights Reserved Where Applicable
Cover Art Attribution:
Rose – By L. Prang & Co. (publisher) (Flickr: Red Rose) [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
Dagger – By Jorgenah at en.wikipedia [CC–BY–1.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/1.0)], from Wikimedia Commons
Blood – By Nyki m (Own work) [CC–BY–3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons
By Any Other Name
Table of Contents
Prologue
Bourgthéroude, Normandy
1124 A.D.
And the king committed the Earl Waleram, and Hugh, the son of Gervase, to close custody in the castle at Rouen; but Hugh of Montfort he sent to England, and ordered him to be secured with strong bonds in the castle at Glocester.
~The Anglo–Saxon Chronicle
On a dusty battlefield, a part of Sir Micah de Montfort’s soul bled onto the ground with the red drops of life that christened the parched earth. His uncle’s sword had ripped through his right side and back out, sending him to his knees. Shock and horror clawed at Micah. The pain was nothing compared to the agony in his spirit.
Micah forced himself to move and look up at the man who, for many years had been like a father to him. Red hazed the edges of Micah’s vision as he saw a face that once held compassion, even love for him. Disbelief fogged his brain and blurred reality.
“Uncle!” he croaked in a voice hoarse with pain and the realization that his beloved uncle had attacked and wounded him. “Why?”
Hugh de Montfort, called Amaury by his family, stared down at him through icy, blue eyes. “King Henry drove his own brother from his lands. I fight to return him and you took arms against me.”
“I asked you to yield. I had no desire to kill you,” Micah said, his thoughts tangled in torment. A deep anguish threatened his sanity and he fought for breath.
“Then you should have never taken the field,” his uncle said.
“I believe Henry is a good king and he had to banish his brother.”
“Henry is a traitor to his blood, as are you.”
His uncle’s once benign features grew harsh and his eyes radiated hatred. This was not the man Micah had known as a child. Memories assailed him; the Christmas revels, joyous family celebrations, and Amaury’s pride when his nephew earned his spurs. There was no vestige of that man now. Only the ruthless glare of a warrior facing a mortal enemy on the battlefield.
“I stand for what I believe is right,” Micah said, straining to speak the words through burgeoning pain. “Just as my father – and you – taught me.”
“You have learned nothing, boy.”
And Micah was suddenly six years old again, sobbing over his father’s grave.
“Do it,” a voice snarled.
Micah’s vision blurred but he strained to see a knight looming behind his uncle. The man stood fully armored and held a bloody sword. Cruel planes etched his face, his dark eyes cold, and soulless. An ominous chill clamped Micah’s heart.
“Waleran?” he whispered in shock. The earl of Meulan had been a longtime friend of the Montfort family. Micah could scarcely believe he would encourage such division let alone push for Amaury to kill him. “How can you do this?”
“Do not allow sentiment to cloud your judgment,” Waleran snapped.
“‘Tis a shame that you must now die,” Amaury said.
Amaury de Montfort, the man who had been a father to Micah since he was six, moved in for the kill.
Anguish threatened to destroy Micah’s reason. All he had been taught was a lie. The bonds of love and family were a facade. The foundations of his life crumbled, plunging him into a black chasm of despair. In youthful idealism, Micah had set out to heal the rift between his uncle and the king – and convince Amaury to lay down his arms. He had been a fool.
Right hand still locked on the hilt of his sword, left hand clutching the bleeding wound in his side, Micah stared up as his uncle stepped forward. Micah’s sorrow ebbed. A fury burned purely feral, and his pulse quickened. Rage and agony knotted the pit of his stomach but indecision froze him.
Could he kill the man who had been his surrogate father – the mentor he had loved and whose very presence had been his security? Would he be able to live with himself if his soul was stained with the blood of his uncle?
Amaury’s face, filled with malice, told Micah that he must decide quickly. It was kill or be killed and if his beloved uncle would not spare his nephew’s life – then Micah would pay him the same regard.
An unusual strength flowed through his body. At twenty–three, Micah was tall and strong. He could break a man’s neck with just his hands.
Amaury’s sword descended. With startling speed, Micah blocked. Sparks flew from the weapons as they locked. Micah rocked on his back and kicked upward. Pain shot through his body and spun the world. His foot slammed into chainmail and his uncle staggered with a muffled groan. Micah lurched to his feet, cutting outward blindly.
Amaury leaped backward then thrust at Micah’s left side, forcing Micah into an awkward block with his sword because of his left hand still holding the wound. But Micah parried and lunged again. He snapped his sword out, in a backhand cut that drove Amaury away a second time.
Micah knew he had to use the advantage of his longer reach. His pain blurred his vision and slowed his reflexes. Blood loss weakened his body and muscles burned with exhaustion. Micah brought his sword down in a slashing arc, keeping Amaury on the defensive. He dare not relent in his attack, he dare not think of the consequences of his actions.
Micah caught a glimpse of Waleran, his face twisted in a gruesome smile. With the malevolence Micah sensed from the man, he wondered if he would leap into the fray. But the earl remained where he stood, an unknown factor in Micah’s battle for his life.
Micah launched an overhand cut. Amaury’s block flicked quick but wild. Micah snapped his weapon around, his attack tightly controlled and precise. He cut at Amaury’s vulnerable legs. His uncle was unable return his errant sword. Micah’s weapon gouged through armor then bit solidly into flesh, jarring to a stop against bone.
Amaury howled in agony, dropping like a stone. His sword flew from his hand and tumbled away. Micah’s weapon had ripped a huge gash in Amaury’s leg, slicing muscle and tendon. Micah pursued the advantage, standing over Amaury as foreboding as his uncle had been to him only a moment ago. His sword tip hovered inches above Amaury’s nose. All Micah had to do was shove it forward but he suddenly could not make himself move.
“I yield,” his uncle said, his voice hoarse with fear and pain. “I yield!”
Micah suddenly remembered Waleran and glanced up. The earl turned and ran, abandoning his ally to suffer his fate alone. But Waleran sprinted only a few paces before a group of Henry’s approaching soldiers intercepted him and took him into custody. Micah turned his attention back to Amaury.
“You would kill your own nephew rather than take him prisoner. Why should I not kill you?” Micah loomed over him, fury still pounding through his aching body.
Amaury stared at him, his expression frightened and confused. All semblance of anger vanished, and the benevolent mentor Micah once knew returned. “I am sorry…forgive me…please. I don’t know what happened. I love you like a son.”
Confusion assailed Micah and he lowered his sword slightly. It was as if he faced two completely different men. Disgust filled him, sickening him with revulsion. Amaury, the man who only a moment ago tried to kill him, spouted words of love in an effort to save his own life. But now Micah knew the truth. He had seen and felt its agony when Amaury’s sword cut through his side. Love did not exist, the bonds of family meant nothing, they were lies and fallacies.
Yet Micah’s heart screamed in denial. Amaury had never lifted a hand against Micah, he had never spoken a word of hatred. Micah shook his head, the pain of his wound only confusing him more. But his hand tightened on the hilt of his sword.