The Scourge of Muirwood
Page 94
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“By Cheshu!” Kent roared. The Prince was facing the river. The arrow had come from behind.
“In the trees!” Tethys shouted, pointing. “I saw a man! Over there!”
The Prince fell from the saddle and struck the ground with a jolt that smashed his arm and stunned him. The pain in his back burned hotter and hotter. Spots danced in front of his eyes. He could not move. He could not scratch an itch on his nose.
“My lord!” Braide was off his saddle in an instant, gladius in hand.
“Ride,” the Prince wheezed. “They…come…”
The sound of hooves, a chorus of hooves, an avalanche of hooves sounded from the trail ahead.
“Carry him!” Kent ordered. “Toss him on my saddle. We can ride with him.”
Braide looked at the Prince’s eyes. His face turned as hard as stone. “I had hoped you were wrong, my lord,” he whispered.
“Go…” the Prince moaned, shutting his eyes as the pain overwhelmed him.
He heard the sound of stirrups, the creaking of leather. “Ride hard,” Braide ordered.
“But we cannot leave him!” Kent shouted.
Braide whistled crisply and his stallion plunged into the forest.
“There he is!” Tethys warned. “I will draw his fire. He must be a kishion!”
The others rode hard, their hooves thundering in the loam. It was not long before the knights of Comoros arrived. Not long before they were assembled to stare at their fallen foe, jostling and jeering with each other, trying to get a better look at him. The Prince listened to the mocking laughter, at the boot jabs that nudged his body this way and that.
“Roll him over,” said a voice. It was a voice he recognized and knew. A voice he had not heard in person since the day of his wedding to Elle. It was the king’s own voice.
“The arrow,” someone said. “In his back.”
“Well, you had best pull it out first,” came a chuckled reply.
The prince readied himself for the pain, but he was not prepared for it when the arrow was yanked from his back. He nearly choked on the vomit the pain caused. Someone twisted him roughly on his back, facing the sky. He blinked, teeth clenched, and tried to see or even breathe. There was the king of Comoros, on his war horse, in full armor. The Prince could sense the power of the kystrel around his neck. He could sense the despair and hopelessness that were showered on him, thrust on him, swirling around him. The king wanted him to feel every awful emotion before he died.
“Where is the traitor?” the king asked.
Tethys approached, flanked by several knights. The king looked at him disdainfully. “Give him his pay,” he said. “I keep my promises. Of that you can be sure.”
Someone thrust a bag of jangling coins into Tethys’ hand. He looked at the king in confusion, at the distaste and distrust on his face. There was a subtle nod and then Tethys slumped to the ground without a sound.
Each breath was a torture. The Prince’s mouth would not work. He tried to turn his neck, but the pain in his muscles prevented anything but blinking. Someone scooped up the bag from Tethys’ dead hand.
The king turned back to Prince Alluwyn. He had a similar expression on his face – a look of utter contempt. “Die, maston,” the king said with a look of satisfaction. He nodded to a knight with a huge battle axe gripped in his hands.
The Prince stared at the king, heard the mash of the earth as the boots approached him. He did not have much air for words. Already part of him was slipping away from his body. He felt the pull of the Apse Veil drawing him. He spoke in a clear voice, in the king’s own language. “Fitting that an arrow…brought me down. You will die the same way. A Pry-rian arrow…in your back.”
He remembered an oak tree struck by lightning on a hillside near a village called Winterrowd. He died just before the axe came down and severed his head from his body.
CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR:
Muirwood Burning
A sickening lurch plunged into Lia’s stomach as the Apse Veil drew her inside, hurtling her to Muirwood in an instant. She stumbled from the Apse Veil on the other side, falling to the ground with a rough jolt. Tremors shook her and, clenching her fists, she squeezed her eyes shut to stop the sensation of spinning long enough to brace herself. She opened her eyes again as she realized by the heat, haze, and smell that the Abbey was burning.
No!
Lia struggled to her feet, but clues were unmistakable. The dread and warning that had oppressed her in Dahomey was revealed fully – the Leerings throughout the Abbey were all burning, consuming the stone with raging fire. She marched past the Rood Screen, the intricate woodwork separating the inner sanctum from the large interior corridors. As she passed through the portal, she saw in horror that the vaulted ceiling was thick with swirling smoke and green tongues of fire. The stones were blackening quickly, charred and pocked by the intense heat coursing through the rock like blood. Smoke masked everything, and it took several halting steps before she saw the bodies.
“In the trees!” Tethys shouted, pointing. “I saw a man! Over there!”
The Prince fell from the saddle and struck the ground with a jolt that smashed his arm and stunned him. The pain in his back burned hotter and hotter. Spots danced in front of his eyes. He could not move. He could not scratch an itch on his nose.
“My lord!” Braide was off his saddle in an instant, gladius in hand.
“Ride,” the Prince wheezed. “They…come…”
The sound of hooves, a chorus of hooves, an avalanche of hooves sounded from the trail ahead.
“Carry him!” Kent ordered. “Toss him on my saddle. We can ride with him.”
Braide looked at the Prince’s eyes. His face turned as hard as stone. “I had hoped you were wrong, my lord,” he whispered.
“Go…” the Prince moaned, shutting his eyes as the pain overwhelmed him.
He heard the sound of stirrups, the creaking of leather. “Ride hard,” Braide ordered.
“But we cannot leave him!” Kent shouted.
Braide whistled crisply and his stallion plunged into the forest.
“There he is!” Tethys warned. “I will draw his fire. He must be a kishion!”
The others rode hard, their hooves thundering in the loam. It was not long before the knights of Comoros arrived. Not long before they were assembled to stare at their fallen foe, jostling and jeering with each other, trying to get a better look at him. The Prince listened to the mocking laughter, at the boot jabs that nudged his body this way and that.
“Roll him over,” said a voice. It was a voice he recognized and knew. A voice he had not heard in person since the day of his wedding to Elle. It was the king’s own voice.
“The arrow,” someone said. “In his back.”
“Well, you had best pull it out first,” came a chuckled reply.
The prince readied himself for the pain, but he was not prepared for it when the arrow was yanked from his back. He nearly choked on the vomit the pain caused. Someone twisted him roughly on his back, facing the sky. He blinked, teeth clenched, and tried to see or even breathe. There was the king of Comoros, on his war horse, in full armor. The Prince could sense the power of the kystrel around his neck. He could sense the despair and hopelessness that were showered on him, thrust on him, swirling around him. The king wanted him to feel every awful emotion before he died.
“Where is the traitor?” the king asked.
Tethys approached, flanked by several knights. The king looked at him disdainfully. “Give him his pay,” he said. “I keep my promises. Of that you can be sure.”
Someone thrust a bag of jangling coins into Tethys’ hand. He looked at the king in confusion, at the distaste and distrust on his face. There was a subtle nod and then Tethys slumped to the ground without a sound.
Each breath was a torture. The Prince’s mouth would not work. He tried to turn his neck, but the pain in his muscles prevented anything but blinking. Someone scooped up the bag from Tethys’ dead hand.
The king turned back to Prince Alluwyn. He had a similar expression on his face – a look of utter contempt. “Die, maston,” the king said with a look of satisfaction. He nodded to a knight with a huge battle axe gripped in his hands.
The Prince stared at the king, heard the mash of the earth as the boots approached him. He did not have much air for words. Already part of him was slipping away from his body. He felt the pull of the Apse Veil drawing him. He spoke in a clear voice, in the king’s own language. “Fitting that an arrow…brought me down. You will die the same way. A Pry-rian arrow…in your back.”
He remembered an oak tree struck by lightning on a hillside near a village called Winterrowd. He died just before the axe came down and severed his head from his body.
CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR:
Muirwood Burning
A sickening lurch plunged into Lia’s stomach as the Apse Veil drew her inside, hurtling her to Muirwood in an instant. She stumbled from the Apse Veil on the other side, falling to the ground with a rough jolt. Tremors shook her and, clenching her fists, she squeezed her eyes shut to stop the sensation of spinning long enough to brace herself. She opened her eyes again as she realized by the heat, haze, and smell that the Abbey was burning.
No!
Lia struggled to her feet, but clues were unmistakable. The dread and warning that had oppressed her in Dahomey was revealed fully – the Leerings throughout the Abbey were all burning, consuming the stone with raging fire. She marched past the Rood Screen, the intricate woodwork separating the inner sanctum from the large interior corridors. As she passed through the portal, she saw in horror that the vaulted ceiling was thick with swirling smoke and green tongues of fire. The stones were blackening quickly, charred and pocked by the intense heat coursing through the rock like blood. Smoke masked everything, and it took several halting steps before she saw the bodies.
