Chapter Fifty-Nine #3
Marcus was standing several feet away watching the door burn when he was hit from behind and a sharp, stabbing pain radiated through his back.
He knew immediately he had been gored and he let out a grunt of surprise, spinning around to face his accoster.
He fully expected to see a horde of soldiers or the sneering face of John, but instead, was confronted by an older, distinguished man he did not know.
His face was a mask of pain and surprise as he raised his sword against his attacker. The man’s face was expressionless.
“Richard’s bastard within my walls,” he mumbled. “You shall die here, then.”
Marcus could feel his wound throbbing, bleeding. Warm, sticky blood ran down his right leg. “Who in the hell are you?”
“Lord of the keep,” the man informed him with a boom. “This is my castle, you whoreskin. You have no right to be here.”
“I have a right by decree of Richard,” Marcus answered. “We shall take this fortress back in the name of the king and you, sir, shall be executed for treason.”
The man let out a growl and charged at Marcus.
Swords met and sparks sprayed, although Marcus knew immediately that the man was no match for him.
Even in his weakened state, he would have no trouble dispatching the man who called himself lord of the keep.
Within five strokes of the broadsword, John’s sympathizer lay in a pool of his own blood, his head half-severed from his neck.
Marcus stood back a moment, breathing heavily and feeling the sharp pain of his wound.
He put his hand to it, trying to assess it as best he could.
The man caught him between the joints of his armor, in the flesh and muscle of his torso.
It was a deep puncture, but it could have been far worse and Marcus sighed with relief when he realized it was not a life-threatening wound.
Even so, he was bleeding moderately and his hands were shaking, but he ignored it.
Smoke was thick in the corridor and he turned his attention back to the smoldering door.
*
Dustin was so surprised when she was grabbed from behind that she instinctively tried to pull away, swinging her balled fists at her unseen molester.
Christopher caught a punch on the jaw, unbalancing him slightly as he tried to come in through the window and he muttered a curse as his foot slipped out over nothingness.
“Dustin!” he snapped gently. “It is me. It is me, sweetheart.”
She let out a cry, ceasing her struggles and turning with the utmost shock to see Christopher’s face not a foot from her own.
“Christopher!” she gasped, throwing her arms around his neck with a great rush of relief and joy.
He grabbed her with one arm, steadying himself against the sill with the other; he still wasn’t completely through the window.
As great as his relief was that he finally held Dustin in his arms, his eyes immediately found Ralph on the opposite end of the smoke-hazed room and he hastened to climb out of the window sill with his wife clinging to his neck.
He kissed her face feverishly, as much as he dared to allow his attention to be diverted for one sweet, heavenly moment. But there was no time for anything else, and he released her with great reluctance and gentleness, pushing her against the wall.
“Are you all right?” he demanded with tender harshness. His hand moved to her belly and she realized he was speaking of her “attack” outside of the outer gates. “I am fine, truly,” she gushed.
He nodded stiffly, touching her face. “Then stay here, sweetheart,” he told her, his eyes riveting to the sheriff.
Ralph could not believe his eyes, yet in same token, he wasn’t really surprised at all. He immediately unsheathed his broadsword in a slow, deliberate move and took a few stalking steps forward.
“So you have taken to climbing walls now, have you?” Ralph remarked snidely. “Mayhap you truly are a phantom, de Lohr, in league with the devil for restoring you your life.”
Christopher raised an eyebrow. “Nay, Fitz Walter, the devil has enough henchmen with you and John to do his bidding. In fact, you shall be able to greet Great Satan personally in but a few moments.”
Ralph raised his sword in front of his face. “I do not think so. I have defeated you before, de Lohr. Do you not remember?”
“Aye, I remember,” Christopher’s sword was in his hand, though not raised, as he approached the sheriff. “As I recall, you had one of your young friends trip me before you tried to kill me in practice. I still bear the scar.”
“No one tripped you, you simply stumbled over your own feet,” Ralph said. “Not difficult for a boy of twelve.”
Christopher shook his head. “You shall never change, Ralph. You were a liar when I first met you and you are still a liar,” he said, his voice turning cold. “I have known you since you were nine years old, Fitz Walter. You have never changed.”
Ralph’s face continued to hold a slightly cocky, amused expression. “I do not like to admit that we squired together, either.”
Christopher shrugged. “The fact is inconsequential. What remains now is that I intend to avenge myself upon you for the grief you have caused me. Have you any last words before I spill your innards?”
Ralph was beginning to feel trapped. His sure manner, his advantage, was quickly slipping away and he knew he would be forced to defend himself against de Lohr. Strange, he felt no fear until this very moment when he realized he no longer held the edge. But now, terror flooded his veins.
Dustin watched, pressed against the cold stone wall, as her husband and the sheriff moved toward each other. Her gasps of surprise had died down, and now that her fears were alleviated at the arrival of her husband, she found she was remarkably calm in spite of her shock.
With loving adoration, she watched Christopher move on Ralph like a cat stalking a mouse and she knew her plight had ended.
A very small detail was to be taken care of; the elimination of Ralph Fitz Walter, and she could go home.
She almost wanted to tell Christopher to simply leave well enough alone so that they could depart immediately, but she wanted to see Ralph punished, too.
Her calm vanished the moment the clash of broadswords echoed though the room, and she gave a little shriek of surprise as Christopher plowed into Ralph.
Gabrielle, too, tied to the chair on the opposite side of the room, cried out in alarm.
Momentum picked up and the noise of the meeting swords grew more painful as Christopher and Ralph worked their way across the cavernous room.
Dustin’s hand was at her throat as she watched the fight; terrified.
She was always terrified when she watched her husband fight, be it in a tourney or in an actual battle.
She wanted to cover her eyes but she was afraid to, afraid that something would happen to Christopher while she was cowering like an idiot.
So she watched, afraid to breathe as her husband and the sheriff tried to kill one another.
Christopher was like a man possessed as he ripped into Ralph.
The sheriff, however, was fresh, and met his blows steadily.
Christopher chopped and parried, knocking Ralph over and goring him in the thigh before the sheriff could recover.
Bleeding profusely and swearing, Ralph dodged another, possible mortal blow and scrambled a few feet away to regroup and respond.
But Christopher was unmerciful. There was nowhere for Ralph to hide, nowhere for him to seek refuge as the Defender pursued him, literally tearing the room apart in his wake.
Several old candle stands met with their death at the hands of Christopher, toppled and dashed as his sword swiped them.
Ralph dashed behind a silk portiere and was promptly swaddled in it as Christopher slashed the supports.
Rolling away in panic; he twisted his way free of the confining material a split second before Christopher came down heavily with his sword.
Had Ralph been any slower, he would have been cut in half.
The fight progressed, each man sweating and grunting with sheer physical exertion.
Ralph was rapidly tiring and growing despondent because Christopher showed no signs of the same.
He had no way of knowing that Christopher had been fighting and moving for more than a week, greatly taxing the man’s already weakened state.
What Christopher was doing was accomplished on pure willpower alone.
His strength and his energy were gone, and his body was feeding off of the love for his wife.
After months and months of separation, he could taste her again and that thought alone gave him the strength of ten men.
The door was burning hotly, crumbling, and falling away.
The room was filled with acrid smoke, causing Dustin and Gabrielle to cough and choke.
Dustin was by the window, which afforded her a small amount of relief, but Gabrielle was virtually trapped on the other side of the room and was unable to escape the smoke.
Dustin was panicked to help her friend, but Ralph and Christopher were fighting directly between the two women, separating them, and Dustin could not make her way safely to Gabrielle.
With the ferocity of the fight and the swift movement, she could easily become caught in it should she try to move.