8. Gauntlet, Loosened
8
GAUNTLET, LOOSENED
A haze of dry, definite warmth spread from the metal around her right wrist. A faint crackling filled the cobbled space, a heavy scent—musk-spicy and not unpleasant—lingering for a bare moment before the freshening breeze dispelled it. Ari shook her head, dark hair sliding against her shoulders, and flinched again as long ribbons of dirt rose from her skin and clothes, shredding into nothingness.
The now-familiar discomfort of muddy, drip-dried denim or clinging cotton T-shirt and flannel vanished; the relief made her aware of how awful it had felt.
Helluva way to take a shower . Ari gasped, and staggered when the gauntlet loosened.
The chained shape swelled, drawing itself up. The sword made a soft sweet sound, cleaving air and iron both; a spray of colorless sparks stung her dark-adapted eyes. Sudden, heavy metallic clatter filled the stone-clad space—she winced at the racket—and the helmet fell with a clang, in two neatly cloven pieces.
Chains rattled as he moved. His head was now visible, a ragged shock of inky hair, a haggard pale face rising from shadow. He didn’t look as waxy and unhealthy as she’d suspected, so maybe he hadn’t been locked in the helmet for long. Yet his cheekbones stood out startlingly, and heavy, slanting brows shaded coal-dark eyes, a fierce glitter in his gaze holding all the warning in the world.
Most of the chains fell free, hitting the cobbles and spreading with strange liquid twitches. A single layer remained, wrapping around his armor; iron links moved uneasily, as if something underneath bulged and flexed, attempting to break free.
He had a proud nose, an almost-lantern jaw, and he looked seriously pissed. She had doodled those eyes in the margins of her textbooks and lecture notes, drawn the face over and over while her mind was elsewhere, as if attempting to exorcise the image.
Which never worked.
It’s the dream. Oh, God, it’s him . The only mercy was that it wasn’t her husband’s face. Still, the familiarity was a fist to the gut, or a quick shot to her kidneys as if Mike was only moderately displeased; he didn’t believe in face-hitting.
At least, not often.
Ariadne kept backing up. It seemed the wisest course. The armored man wearing a face from her old nightmares froze, a final layer of blackened iron ropes dripping from his arms and crisscrossing his torso, clothing both legs. Segmented armor boots clasped his feet, spurs clung to his heels, and if an artist had charcoal they would be able to capture the shades but perhaps not the sharp angles. Maybe they would have to work in ink, with quick hard strokes.
The chained man’s long exhale ended, those terrible burning eyes half-lidding as the sigh turned into words. “Many thanks, my lady.”
Oh, don’t mention it. I’ll just be going now . “That’s all r-right,” she stammered, as he took an experimental step. Metal chimed, the sound now soft and almost sweet, music in movement.
“Merciful as ever.” The sword made another of those whisper-slicing sounds as its blade swung into place and halted, held point-down and slanted away. He handled the chunk of sharp metal like it weighed less than paper. “Do you recognize me now?”
Oh, God, please. I know I am a murderer but please, I didn’t mean it, it wasn’t my fault. “N-no.” Would he hear the lie in her tone, as Mike always claimed he could?
If this kept up her heart would burst from sheer terror. Maybe it wasn’t Purgatory after all, but her own personalized hell.
“Very well.” One chain-draped shoulder lifted, dropped. Strengthening light played over every individual link. “Stay here, I would not have you see this.”
What? Ari’s throat closed to a pinhole. She nodded, trying to look accommodating, obedient, and harmless all at once.
The leftover mass of segmented metal snakes finished twitching, freezing into a shape very much like a burst cocoon. He stepped from the pile gracefully, and as soon as his booted foot touched down, the clanging and chiming from the cables still draped upon him stopped.
As if he wanted it to. As if he could have moved silently at any moment, and had just chosen now.
He paused, staring at her. What would that big, sharp, heavy sword do to flesh? How much did stabbing hurt? She knew she could take a punch, but this was an entirely different ball of wax.
So to speak.
The castle’s hum intensified. Now footsteps were clearly audible, plus distorted, mechanical noises babbling with excitement. The sky was a grey lens, a ruddy tinge creeping in and shadows developing edges nearly keen as the sword’s.
“Stay here,” he repeated, in that weird rolling language. “This will not take long.”
Please don’t hurt me. Please don’t recognize me, either . Ari nodded again, hoping her face was a mask.
He turned, and strode across the cobbles. His spurs struck more bright, colorless sparks, but made no noise. Silent as a hunting shark he glided toward the doors, and when he reached the largest one in the center the sword lifted, flashing once. Its gleam, oddly reddish, lingered as the blade swept down. Wood shattered, cringing aside.
He continued, unhurried, into the dark archway revealed by violence.
Ariadne spun, and pelted for the drawbridge.