Dark Champion #2

Chapter 18

T he moon was waning and there were clouds, so it wasn’t hard for the twelve men with Imogen and Warbrick to slip over the open ground around the castle and up the slope of the craggy rise on the east side of Carrisford.

They moved in short bursts, darkly. Warbrick was a massive black shape, but Imogen knew that from the castle he would be just a shadow. The tightest watch was not kept on this side because apart from the passageways it was impossible to assault this sheer, blank wall. She wondered if Renald was keeping special watch tonight, though.

FitzRoger had tried to guess how his friend would think, but they couldn’t be sure of anything, which was why it was all up to her. She kept an eye on the walls. She saw nothing except the shadowy shape of a patrolling guard who seemed oblivious. She prayed that continue. No good could come of an alarm at this point.

Once at the cliff face, they all stopped to relax for a moment.

“Where?” grunted Warbrick.

Imogen looked up. “It can’t be seen from here, but we climb.” She looked down at her ruined skirts. Some torn tendrils had tangled her feet as they’d crossed to here. “I need a knife to cut my skirts.”

He gave her a hunting knife with insulting lack of concern. She wondered what would happen if she stabbed him. To begin with, it seemed impossible that the blade reach any vital spot in his great bulk.

She trimmed her skirt neatly at the knees and passed the knife back. “Shall I lead?”

“You know where we’re going.” But he produced a length of rope and tied it around her waist. He gave the end to the ever-obliging Lig. “Keep hold of her leash. We wouldn’t want to lose the Treasure of Carrisford, would we?”

Imogen began the climb, giving thanks for the knife pushing at her thigh. Nothing was certain, but at least, if the occasion arose, she could cut the tether.

Despite the appearance of the cliff, it wasn’t a hard climb. There were ledges which made it almost like climbing steep stairs. Imogen had done it only once, at her father’s insistence, and remembered from then how new muscles had complained, but it still was not particularly difficult.

She could feel the pull now, and the scrapes on her hands from gripping the rough rock. She doubted she had any unbroken nails. She was aware all the time of a soreness between her legs, but that pleased her. That was a reminder of the fact that she was Tyron FitzRoger’s wife in every way.

She even smiled against the rock as she remembered. She had made him her husband.

After a while she began to worry that she had missed the way, that she would never find the entrance, but then she spotted the arrowhead rock and breathed a sigh of relief. In moments she was in front of the narrow black shadow that was the secret entrance to Carrisford.

More than three men couldn’t gather by the entrance, and Warbrick had brought twelve. Most had to find their own resting places on the nearby rocks like birds of prey. Warbrick pushed forward to join Imogen and Lig.

He scowled at the narrow space. “This is the only entrance?”

“Yes.”

She could see he’d love to hit her, throw her down the cliff even, but as he’d said, he had control when he needed it.

“Then I will wait here, Lady Imogen. If you are not out with the treasure by the first hint of dawn, I will go down to amuse myself with your husband. Do you understand?”

She shuddered but said steadily, “I am not stupid, Lord Warbrick.”

“All women are stupid and good for one thing only.” He seized her throat and kissed her. The foul taste made her want to gag, his tongue choked her, but worse than that was the sense of smothering in his bulk and sweaty miasma. When he released her she crumpled to her knees.

He dragged her up by her plaits. “Get on with it.” He pushed her toward the entrance and Imogen scurried into it with relief. Anything to be away from him. She felt the rope tighten then slacken as Lig followed. She went a little way and waited.

She heard someone striking flint. “It’s better to do without a light,” she said, her voice echoing in the passageway.

Lig reeled in the rope until she was close to him. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? No, I want to see what you’re up to.”

The man with the lantern was three back, so Lig wouldn’t be able to see very much. Imogen couldn’t help but be grateful for the light, which would keep away rats.

She began to lead the way, which required no thought, as the narrow passage offered no alternatives. The next opportunity would be at the trap.

She could undoubtedly cross over without warning Lig, and send him hurtling down into the oubliette, but even if she cut the rope and so wasn’t dragged down with him, the other men would not be caught. They would go back to Warbrick, and even with the alarm sounding, Warbrick would have time to return to the woods and kill FitzRoger slowly before anyone could interfere.

When they came to the trap, she carefully explained it. It had one good effect. Lig relaxed, convinced that she was too frightened to try any tricks.

She led the way on, keyed up and ready to act. She didn’t know if her state of mind was healthy or not. Her heart was racing, and her limbs felt almost weak, but she could sense that her body was prepared for action. She wished the slowing would come on her again, but she didn’t sense it.

They were still passing through solid rock, but soon they would enter the castle and the walls would be stone. She wouldn’t point it out to them. Shortly after, there was the first adjoining passage, a narrow one designed for the ambushing of intruders.

It had been on the drawing she had so reluctantly done for FitzRoger a lifetime ago, but she hadn’t emphasized it. The chance of it being used then had been remote.

If Renald had found the map, would he recognize the passage for what it was? And would he use it?

She eased the knife out from her garter, praying that the shadows concealed her. She felt the sting as she cut herself, but it didn’t matter. She had the knife in her hand now.

She gripped the rope and began to cut at it against her waist, trying not to let the motion travel back to Lig so close behind her.

She was only half through when they reached the passage.

It was empty.

Imogen swallowed a mixture of disappointment and relief. She wasn’t really ready yet, but she was afraid of time and hovering disaster. How much time had passed? How soon till daybreak?

She forced herself to consider her real dilemmas. Ahead, the passage would soon branch. One arm led toward the treasure but also through out-of-the-way passages. The other led up, closer to the hall, where Renald might have watchers.

If she went up, though, it would take much longer to get to the treasure and carry it out. She’d give Warbrick her wealth, every last coin, to buy FitzRoger’s life.

She paused for a moment, then headed up. FitzRoger had wanted her to get help, so she’d try. Another advantage was that the higher passages had more intersections. She passed two more junctions without any sign of help and knew she was going to have to act on her own.

“How much farther?” whispered Lig, and she heard his fear. Strange, she’d been so absorbed in her plans, any fear of these dark ways had left her.

“Not far,” she said back, and worked at the rope a bit more.

“What’re you doing?”

“The rope galls me,” she complained.

“It’ll do more than gall you in a moment. Move on.”

“I need a key,” she said, thinking he’d have to hear her thundering heart. “It’s here somewhere. Bring up the light.”

Surely her breathy, tremulous voice would give her away. But then she understood that he expected her to be terrified, and would hear only fear.

There was a sidling and a shifting as the lantern was passed forward. Imogen took the opportunity to slash the last threads of the rope, keeping hold to maintain the tension.

She realized with joy that the slowness had come. The men were moving as if in water, against pressure. Her mind was clear and fast, and able to choose between a score of options. When Lig slowly reached forward with the lantern, she had all the time in the world to smash it into the wall, plunging them into darkness, and to leap away and run.

But her guard flailed and caught one of her long plaits, yanking her back. Again she had time to think.

She gripped the imprisoned plait near her head and slashed it off.

She ran, hand lightly on the wall for guidance, hearing the clamor behind speak of panic.

She even laughed for the joy of the first victory.

But she needed more.

She twisted left, the map in her mind, then up some narrow stairs. She pushed the wall and it swung, flinging her out into the space beneath the hall stairs.

Voices.

Sudden caution.

Instead of rushing around the wall to burst into the hall, she crept, all senses alert, to check if further disaster awaited.

Renald was there with a bunch of men, arguing, worried.

She ran in. “Renald! There are men in the passageways, and we have to block their return. Now. I know how. Come.”

They gaped then obeyed. She led them fleet-footed down the hall stairs and across the bailey to the guardhouse by the gate. There she commanded four bemused armed men to follow, too.

She opened a way there into the passage. “Go down,” she said crisply. “Go forward. There are no turnings. Your passage will meet another. Wait there. Men will come back. Stop them. Kill them if you have to. Try to be as quiet as possible.”

The dazed men looked to Renald for confirmation. “Do it,” he said. “Stephen. Go with them.”

One of the younger knights immediately obeyed.

As soon as they were gone, Imogen collapsed against a wall, shaking, all the power drained from her. She became aware of a sting on her face and her hand found a cut there. Her mind ran back over the last little while and she recalled a shard of the lantern horn hitting her as Lig grabbed for her....

Renald picked her up and carried her to the wooden table and sat her on a bench there. He poured some of the mead the men had been drinking and held it to her lips.

“What’s going on?” he asked. “Hell’s fires. Who cut your hair?”

“I did.” Imogen wanted time to mourn that, but didn’t have it. She drank the mead and let the strength of it seep into her. Then she looked at them. “Warbrick has FitzRoger.”

“Warbrick!”

“He has him tied to a tree not far into the woods, and Warbrick is waiting at the entrance to the passageways. That’s why I had to stop the men getting back to him. He would have gone straight back to kill FitzRoger. Now he’ll wait until first light unless he suspects trouble.”

Renald glanced at a window slit. “About three hours, perhaps.”

Imogen sucked in a deep, calming breath. “We have to rescue FitzRoger before that. Heaven knows what they’re doing even now....” She caught herself up. That way lay madness.

“If we come on them unawares...” said Renald.

“It still might not be enough. Warbrick’s men have cudgels, and orders to break his ribs at any sign of trouble. They’re more afraid of Warbrick than of death itself, and with reason. There’s about fifteen of them in the camp, four with orders to do nothing but guard FitzRoger. Warbrick intends to kill him anyway, I’m sure of it, but he’s keeping him as a sword to hold over my head.” She suddenly covered her face with her hands. “Oh, Mary, I’m so frightened!”

Renald gathered her into a firm embrace. “With me by your side? Come, little flower, you have done well. We will find a way.”

Imogen steadied herself. “FitzRoger had a plan.”

“Then how can we not succeed?” asked Renald with a cheery grin that summoned a watery smile from Imogen. “Tell us what we are to do.”

“We are to take some of the treasure and slip out of the postern. Then take it back to the camp, saying it’s the first of the load and they are to begin to share it out. We’re hoping that the sight of such wealth will distract even Warbrick’s men for the moment it takes for you to free him.”

“Is that it?” asked Renald, dismayed.

“It’s all we could come up with at the time,” she snapped. “However, Warbrick is waiting at the passage entrance with only four men. Perhaps we can take him to bargain with.”

“On a cliff face? I doubt it. We could probably kill him, but who’s to say what his men will do then?”

“We could wait for Warbrick to go down at first light.”

“And risk the attack being seen by the men holding Ty. No. We’ll have to try your plan, though I’ve heard better. Are you sure Ty came up with this one?”

“It’s not easy,” Imogen pointed out, “making plans for unknown situations when in fear of one’s life. We did think,” she added bitingly, “that you might already be in the corridors, expecting something like this.”

“By the cross,” said Renald admiringly, “you’re even beginning to sound like Ty. I’m sure he will have words to say. But we didn’t even know there was a problem till noon, and certainly never expected an attempt to enter the castle. It...” He rubbed his nose. “It didn’t exactly surprise us that you and Ty were dallying on your way home.”

Imogen colored. “Are the men in the corridor taken care of?”

He stood with a wink. “I’ll check.”

Within moments, Sir Stephen was back, a little rumpled but uninjured. “Those men fight like wild animals. We’re bringing up three prisoners, but the rest are dead or close to it. We lost one. Kevin.”

Renald just nodded, but Imogen felt her hard purpose waver. So thoughtlessly she’d ordered a man to his death, a man who’d been sitting here drinking his ale and scratching his fleas... But then she thought of FitzRoger, waiting bound for her to act.

Lig was one of the survivors. He snarled at her. “I’ll get you! And your man’ll die screaming once Warbrick hears of this.” Behind it all was sheer terror.

“Don’t worry,” said Imogen sweetly. “Warbrick won’t live to make you pay. Strip and secure them,” she told her man. “We need their armor, and men of ours who can impersonate them. Three should be enough.”

The men cursed as they were forced to strip, so she ordered them gagged. She had no time at the moment for any trace of compassion. Their white naked bodies reminded her of maggots and she waved them away to a dungeon.

Three men-at-arms of the right build put on the leather armor and conical helmets, and she assessed them. “It will do in the dark for the few moments we need. The nasal helms obscure your faces. But remember, as soon as we get into the camp you are to flaunt the treasure. We want everyone’s attention on it.”

She turned to Renald. “The rest of you will be ready to take advantage of whatever happens.”

“Of course.” But she saw the bemused look in his eyes. In all their eyes.

She heard herself giving crisp orders and almost felt she should apologize. But she stopped herself. Survival was all that mattered.

She led the way at a run to the best entrance to the passageways, not caring anymore who knew of them. She plunged into the darkness without a thought for rats, lit the lantern with steady hands, and went quickly to the key.

Then, followed by the clanks and bumps of the clumsy men, she led the way to the treasure. She realized the gift was still with her. She could weave through a nest of blades without hurt.

But then she remembered FitzRoger caged in just such a nest of blades and faltered for a moment, offering a prayer. She collected herself and hurried on.

She struck straight through the curtain of spiders’ webs, waded the shallow pool, turned into the corridor, and clicked open the lock.

Once in the chamber she stood back. “Take what you think most tempting.”

The men, even Renald, gaped at the glittering hoard.

“Move!” she snapped, infuriated by their slowness. “Take what you would most want. If FitzRoger comes out of this whole, you can have it.”

“Imogen...” said Renald hesitantly.

“Do I care?” she overrode him, and swung on the bemused men-at-arms. “Well?” She flung open a chest full of silver pennies, and another containing gold. She opened her father’s jewel chest and pulled out pouches, spilling chains, rubies, and pearls.

She remembered the chain she had selected for FitzRoger. Dear heaven, she had never given it to him.

The men suddenly scrambled into action. One grabbed an armful of golden platters, another the whole chest of jewels. The third took the chest of gold coins.

“Imogen...” Renald said again, but she just said, “Are we ready?”

The men nodded.

She led the way back into the castle. The idea of giving FitzRoger the emerald chain, of putting it on his live, healthy body, had become an obsession.

They had not been secretive about all these activities, and rumors of events were beginning to spread through the castle. Renald hastily assembled his force of men, dressed for quiet dark work in the woods. Another party was to watch for Warbrick coming down the cliff. There were not that many men in the castle, though. About the same number as Warbrick had had to begin with.

To Imogen it took so long, but the rescuers must be ready when she created her diversion.

She suddenly thought of something. “Renald, I want a good knife. A useful one.”

Without a question he brought her a long blade in a sheath and she fixed it on her girdle. It would not be noticed in the time they had, and she needed something.

Knives made her think of her hair, and in the midst of all this turmoil, that almost caused her to weep. She felt the stubby end of it... She stopped being maudlin when she realized it could be noticed by someone. The short end came just past her shoulders. She tucked it into the neckline of her tunic.

At last, at long last, they were ready. They all moved quietly out of the postern gate. They would have to work their way around to the east through the woods, which would take time. Imogen looked anxiously at the sky, but there was not even a hint of morning grayness.

The woods were full of night life, and they slipped quietly through, trying not to cause a disturbance that might alert their quarry.

Imogen was sure it was growing lighter and whispered so to Renald.

“We have at least an hour, Imogen. It’s just that your eyes are growing accustomed to the dark.”

Her eyes might be growing accustomed, but her body wasn’t. There seemed to be a limit to how long she could hold the power, and it was leaching away, leaving only fear. Sweet Lord, what would they find when they got to the camp?

She was assailed with visions of FitzRoger bleeding, bruised, perhaps already dying of splintered bones.

Then came the time when Imogen and her three men would have to part from the larger force, so as to appear to be coming from the castle. Renald grasped her and kissed her. “For luck, little flower. Don’t worry. We’ll do it.”

She clung to him a moment before heading out of the woods, down the open slope. This was the time when they were most likely to be seen, but the approach of morning was bringing a hint of concealing mist.

Then they began to climb again, heading toward where she thought the camp must be. Now the mist was a hazard. They could miss entirely.

A sharp whistle from the left.

They headed toward it and found one of Warbrick’s men peering at them in the gloom. “What’s going on?”

This was the tricky part. It would be more logical for one of the men to speak, but their voices would give them away.

“You have your treasure,” said Imogen angrily. “That’s what. So much treasure that Lord Warbrick wants more men to carry it down the cliff.”

“That right?” asked the man of her “guards.”

Her men grunted in agreement.

“Don’t expect much of them,” she sneered. “They’re too busy clutching the choice items.”

The man moved nearer, eyes glittering. “Let’s see then...”

“I want to see that my husband is safe,” snapped Imogen. “Out of my way!”

The man swung a fist at her, but halted it. “You’ll get yours from Warbrick, you shrew. I’m going to enjoy that, I am.”

With a start, Imogen recognized the voice of the man who had guarded them at the cave, and almost broke into nervous giggles. Instead she plunged ahead to the camp, her men following. A quick glance showed her the guard following too. He was trying to keep an eye out behind as well, but clearly the lure of the glinting gold was too much for even a man of Warbrick’s.

She silently praised the man who had picked up the platters. Those shining disks of gold were lures of the most potent kind.

They stepped into the camp. There was a small, carefully shielded fire and it gave just enough light for her to see Warbrick’s men sitting around, and FitzRoger by the tree still guarded by the four club-wielding men.

He was slumped. Mary, Mother of all, don’t let him be unconscious.

The man carrying the plate let one drop with a clang. It spun, flashing gold, near the fire. The second man tripped, and his chest of gold spilled. The third clutched his part of the treasure like a true miser.

For a moment, no one moved, then one of Warbrick’s men reached to pick up a gold piece. Another man moved. Then another. In moments a madness took them.

But the four guards by FitzRoger didn’t move. They twitched. They yearned. She could almost see their need to scramble for some of that gold, but they stayed by FitzRoger.

Imogen spun on the last of her men. “Give me that chest, you oaf. That’s my father’s jewel chest. You shan’t have it!” She pulled it out of his suddenly lax grasp and it spilled, by her careful design, toward the guards.

She had taken the time while they waited in the castle to empty all the pouches, knowing those men wouldn’t know how unlikely it was that such ornaments be all jumbled together. Precious gems sparkled through the air toward them.

She scrambled after them, wailing.

They lunged to get there ahead of her.

Renald and his men stormed in.

One man was cutting FitzRoger’s bonds before Imogen got there, but her husband was hardly free before a guard realized what was happening and swung viciously with his club. FitzRoger twisted and caught it awkwardly on the back of his shoulder, falling to his knees. After hours of bondage he lacked his natural, fluid grace and Imogen feared that blow must have done even more damage.

She ran forward to defend him, pulling out her poignard.

The guard swung again, this time going for the ribs. FitzRoger’s men were all around, but seemed so slow, and Imogen had all the time in the world to choose her spot. She remembered FitzRoger saying once, “Go for the neck.” She plunged her long knife to the unguarded side of the man’s neck. He screamed and arched as blood fountained out onto her.

FitzRoger staggered to his feet and pulled her into his arms before the man hit the ground.

“Truly a baptism of blood, my virago,” he said with a shaky laugh.

Imogen used her tattered tunic to wipe blood and tears from her face, telling herself it was not so different from pig-killing time, but she was shaking head to toe. She stayed in her husband’s arms as the fighting swirled around them. She needed his comfort and protection, but she was also protecting.

Like a vixen with one cub, she would let nothing happen to him.

Renald ran by, laughing, and tossed FitzRoger a sword. He caught it left-handed, but awkwardly. Just how badly injured was his shoulder? He made no move to join the fight, but stood guarding Imogen and flexing his body carefully to overcome the stiffness.

As the fighting dwindled, he released her to stretch more thoroughly, working his damaged body as best he could. He said just one word. “Warbrick?”

“Is on the cliff or coming down.” The sky was definitely beginning to lighten. “We set some men to guard the way.”

Those of Warbrick’s men not defeated were realizing that they had no chance, and were surrendering. FitzRoger’s men were efficiently disarming and binding them. They had brought torches and now lit them from the fire to light the scene of carnage.

FitzRoger walked forward, arm around her as if he could not let her go.

Renald came over. “Your crazy plan worked after all, Ty.” His joy at his friend’s safety rang through the prosaic words.

“Greed works every time.” There was something flat in FitzRoger’s voice that made them both look at him.

“Warbrick?” asked Renald, almost with a sigh.

“Where is he?”

“I hope our other party has stopped him. He must have heard this.”

“I hope so too.”

“Ty, we can take him for justice,” said Renald. “Henry will see to him.”

“Henry will probably only dispossess and exile him.”

“That’ll get rid of him.”

FitzRoger made no reply to that. He let Imogen go and walked forward toward the edge of the woods.

Imogen looked at her husband with clear sight for the first time and saw what Renald saw. FitzRoger’s face was a mess; he had clearly received a few more blows after she’d left him. That wasn’t the important thing, though; his movements were awkward. The arrow wound must be hurting his right arm, and it would be a miracle if that cudgel blow to the left shoulder hadn’t cracked something. He was also favoring his right leg.

He was in no condition to fight anybody, least of all Warbrick.

She knew it would be pointless to say that. She prayed that someone had had the sense to kill Warbrick as they took him prisoner. If she’d anticipated this, she would have ordered it.

She peered into the dense wispy grayness at the base of the cliff, but it was impossible to tell what was happening there. Nor could she hear. The activity in the camp blocked out more distant noises.

They began to descend the slope. Imogen stayed anxiously at FitzRoger’s side, Renald just one step behind. Some of the men brought torches, creating pearly pools of light.

“That was a nasty blow on the shoulder,” Renald said.

FitzRoger ignored him.

“Is something wrong with your leg?”

“Mere stiffness.”

“You seem to have some stiffness in your sword arm, too.”

FitzRoger ignored that, as well.

“He has an arrow wound in it,” Imogen said.

“Ty...” Renald protested.

“No.”

It was all FitzRoger. The sort of command no one ever disobeyed. Imogen prayed that Renald would knock his friend out before he went on with his madness. He’d done that in the passages, after all. Unfortunately, it didn’t seem to occur to him now.

They found Warbrick pinned at the base of the cliff like a maddened bear surrounded by mastiffs. And like a baited bear, he had drawn blood. A body lay nearby and Warbrick’s great sword glinted red in the torchlight.

FitzRoger pushed forward and Imogen went with him. When Warbrick saw FitzRoger, he cursed viciously. “I’ll have my men’s guts around their necks.”

“They tried,” said FitzRoger almost sweetly.

Warbrick straightened. “Well, Bastard. What now?”

“Now I kill you. You deserve to die for your many sins, but you will die for touching my wife.”

Warbrick laughed. “I did more than touch her! Has she told you what happened up there? Of course not. She’d lie about it.”

Imogen would have protested, but FitzRoger’s hand gripped her arm, telling her to be silent.

“She wouldn’t lie. But no matter what happened, only you will suffer. Shield.”

The one-word order immediately brought him a kite shield.

“And for him.”

More reluctantly, one was passed to Warbrick. Imogen took some comfort from the fact that it could not possibly cover his bulk.

Imogen pulled FitzRoger back a little, and he allowed it.

“This is madness,” she hissed. “Hang him. He deserves it.”

“I promised to kill him for you,” he said quietly, flexing his shoulder.

“Then use a rope.”

“No.”

“I take back my request. Let the king deal with it.”

“No. He must die by my hand.”

She wanted to hit him. “You’re in no state!” she protested. “You’ve that wound, and it’s a miracle that blow didn’t break your shoulder!”

His hand covered her mouth, and not gently. His eyes were almost cold with the killing fury that possessed him. “You will be silent,” he said. “You will stand here where it is safe, and watch in silence as a good wife should.”

When he released her, she snapped, “And what am I supposed to do if you lose?”

He shook his head. “I’ll have to take to beating you, won’t I? If I lose, at least don’t give yourself to the victor.”

She watched him limp away, filled with exasperation. Merely a stiff leg? She doubted it. If she thought she had any chance of accomplishing it, she would order his men to tie him back up to a tree while she hanged Warbrick herself.

They’d never obey.

The idea came to her.

It terrified her.

But these past days she’d done so many things that terrified her that one more hardly seemed to matter. Before she lost her nerve, she picked up a fist-sized rock and swung it hard at her husband’s unprotected head.

She’d not wanted to kill him and she thought for an awful moment that she’d not hit hard enough. He staggered and turned, rage blazing in his eyes.

Then he crumpled at her feet.