Elisha Barber: Book One Of The Dark Apostle (41 page)

In front of him, the lead guards suddenly halted, calling out.

The party of the duke’s men had met them, exchanging salutes. As they separated, Elisha saw the figure of Prince Alaric, grubby and still clad in his messenger’s garb. One of the men leaned down and worked the lock on his manacles. Rubbing his wrists, the young man started forward, entering the company of the king’s guards.

From behind, someone screamed.

Piercing Elisha to the heart, the shriek rang on the wind, then was silenced by a crunch that sickened him even at this distance. Elisha whirled in time to see a second figure brought out atop the tower. He reeled. “No!” he shouted to the treacherous king. “No! You promised me time!”

Elisha started to run, but his guards had already drawn their swords, as if they’d been waiting for the signal of that scream. A breath of steel wind slashed at his back, and Elisha threw himself to the ground.

Someone grunted and rolled.

The startled guards hesitated, giving Elisha enough time to scramble back to his feet.

The lead man lay gaping, a dagger stuck in his side.

Standing over him, the prince flashed a familiar smile. “That’s one I owe you, Barber.”

“What the devil is going on here?” Elisha cried.

Knocked down in the scuffle, Mordecai stayed on the ground, one hand holding his hood in place.

Feet approached behind, and Elisha stiffened, but Prince Alaric called out, “You men, stop there!” He leaned to the guard he had killed and took the dead man’s sword. “My father made a bargain. Surely you’re meant to carry it out.”

Arrayed behind him, the duke’s men likewise froze, exchanging worried looks, hands gripping their sword hilts.

“We got orders, Highness,” one of the king’s men said, advancing.

Elisha darted a glance back, then returned his eyes to the prince.

“What orders?”

“To fetch ’im back to justice, alive or dead, once we had you. ’e’s a witch, Yer Highness! Take care.”

Throwing up his hands, the prince replied, “He’s a barber, you fools. He saved my life not long past.”

“We’ve got orders: Get ye back, and get rid of ’im!”

The prince eyed Elisha sidelong, his hesitation just enough for his father’s men. The king’s guards sprang forward, several of them rushing to encircle Duke Randall’s soldiers as well. Even if the prince did choose Elisha’s side, the duke’s men were sorely outnumbered.

Rolling out of range for the nearest man, Elisha crawled toward Mordecai, reaching for attunement at the same time, despite his thundering heart. Neither of them was armed, but they might at least watch each other’s backs using every sense at their disposal. As he approached, the hooded figure rose in a swift movement, throwing off the hood.

“Behold! I rise again!” Mordecai cried in a voice like thunder. Elisha froze in astonishment.

“It’s the Jew!” called a panicky guard.

“Kill the witch!” the leader roared in turn.

A few men backed away, but a booted foot struck the small of Elisha’s back, shoving him down to the dirt, knocking the breath out of him. The brand flared into terrible life on his chest, igniting the series of burns down his arm, and Elisha cried out.

He grabbed at the ankle, struggling to dislodge it as a sword flashed in the corner of his eye. He had not even a seed of grass to defend himself and a sudden cold shivered through him like Death’s own laughter.

T
hen, through the disturbed earth,
Elisha heard hoofbeats. Many horses, riding hard from the direction of the duke’s castle. The king’s treachery had not gone unnoticed.

“Lord preserve us!” cried Elisha’s attacker.

“To the prince!” shouted another.

As they regrouped, the leader ordered, “Bring him!”

A mailed hand grabbed hold of Elisha’s shirt hauling him up and dragging him in the opposite direction.

As he fought to get himself loose, Elisha caught sight of Mordecai, sprinting for one of the fallen siege towers. As if feeling the glance, the surgeon flashed him a look and dove for cover. Beyond, Duke Randall’s cavalry came on, fifty horses, followed by men on foot. Elisha lost his tenuous footing, and was pulled headlong back toward the king’s encampment.

He finally got one leg under him and launched himself ahead, tangling into the legs of his captor.

Both went down hard. As Elisha clambered up again, he heard another shriek on the wind, another resounding crack. Had it been Ruari, or one of Madoc’s men? Christ!

With a glance to be sure Mordecai was safe, Elisha started to run. One way and another, the king would have him back: best return of his own free will and see what he could make of it. Unarmored and urgent, he quickly outstripped most of the king’s guards.

He caught sight of the prince in the midst of a ring of soldiers, all moving
toward the king’s encampment. “Go, Barber!” the prince shouted, his mouth dropping into a mask of surprise as Elisha ran up, dodging a guard’s hasty swing.

“You’re going the wrong way!” Prince Alaric pushed through for a moment, and Elisha hesitated, meeting those familiar blue eyes.

“He’s got Brigit,” Elisha snarled.

The eyes flared wide as the prince caught his lip between his teeth and let it free. “But why?”

Even as Elisha turned away, panting, he saw the darkening of recognition in the other man’s face.

His heart in his cramped throat, Elisha ran toward the royal encampment. What would he do—what could he possibly do?

Suddenly, the hoofbeats caught up to him. “Holy Cross, man, what are you thinking?” someone snapped down over the battle-ready snorting of his steed.

At that moment, Elisha didn’t know. But he must try to reach the hostages, try to figure out a way. His head swam with the urgency of his need, and the futility of his action. The king would shatter them all by the time he could get back.

“Get to the castle, you fool! Don’t put me through this for nothing!”

His hands balled into fists, he risked a sidelong look at the horseman who kept pace with him.

Duke Randall’s round face watched him from the frame of his helmet, his visor thrown back. “I dunno what’s going on, but Hugh’s got no more patience for you, that’s for sure.”

“He’s taken my friends!” Elisha shouted, turning back to his path to leap over a fallen soldier.

“My God, man, what for?”

Gritting his teeth, Elisha said, “If I don’t kill you, he’ll kill them, but he’s already started.”

“He’s got no honor,” the duke fumed. The horse lunged ahead, then made a tight circle to come up beside him, slowing.

A hand snatched at Elisha’s arm.

“Come on!”

Stunned, Elisha tripped, then righted himself.

“Hurry.”

He locked his hand around the duke’s upper arm. Swinging himself up to the horse’s rump, he clung to the saddle.

“Let’s meet the snake in his lair,” the duke muttered into the wind.

Tightening his grip on the saddle, Elisha struggled to maintain his balance, the natural impulse to embrace the rider thwarted by breast and back plates. Sword and twin daggers hung at the duke’s sides, and he ducked low against the horse’s neck, letting him run. In a moment, it could be over, Elisha saw with instant clarity. A slash from a stolen dagger, even a well-placed shove could send the duke tumbling back to be trampled by his own horsemen. The king on his tower had planned all of this, the hostages merely a way to keep hold of Elisha. He would be watching now, his two enemies coming on one horse. If Elisha carried out the deed, the king might be surprised into lenience. He would fulfill the bargain just to learn why Elisha had done it.

“Will you?” the duke called over his shoulder.

“What?” Wind whipped tears from Elisha’s eyes.

“Will you kill me! It’s your best chance right now!”

Elisha wet his lips and swallowed. The life of this one nobleman could hardly outweigh those of Madoc’s regiment, or his friend Ruari—assuming they had not already died. Or Brigit. Her face flashed before him, green eyes glittering.

His wrists throbbed with the effort of hanging on, and Elisha shut his eyes against the wind, his head lowered into the shield of the duke’s broad shoulders. He had conquered Death today, would he now become its ally?

“God damn me for a fool,” he muttered, his face twisted into a bitter smile.

“I thought not,” the duke replied. “You love life too much.” He spurred the horse a little harder. “Then let’s take the bastard down.”

As he listened to the snorting of the horse, he remembered the stillness as they’d left camp, the lowered flaps on the lords’ tents, the strange rustle by the river. The king’s camp seemed deserted, his men vanished. Or hidden. Why start killing Elisha’s friends? Because Elisha had no choice but to respond. Why order his men to disrupt the prisoner exchange? For the very same reason: the duke’s honor would never stand for it. “Your Grace! It’s a trap!”

But they had already entered the river’s bend, the monastery looming up before them. Too late! In the cottage and hospital, the doors flew wide and soldiers poured forth. Mounted knights dashed around the corner, singing out their warcries.

The duke pulled hard at the reins, wheeling about as he cursed.

Elisha lost his grip and tumbled from the horse’s rump to roll hard along the ground. Curling into a ball, Elisha hid his head as a horse sprang over him. Metal clashed, and someone stumbled on top of him, falling in an arc of blood. His body seared Elisha with the freezing cold of death.

He could feel it mounting all around him now. Horses whinnying their terror, men screaming and cursing and praying while that frigid wind passed through them. Yet they remained unaware.

Elisha moaned, pushing the corpse away. The cold stung his fingers and burned his injured wrists, as if seeking its revenge.

On the battlefield there was room to run. Here, the duke’s men were trapped, ambushed by a treacherous king who had baited his snare with Elisha himself. The duke had brought only fifty men—a show of strength to intimidate the king’s guards—and many of these were outside of the ring of battle, separated from the man they had sworn to serve.

Death cackled in the horse’s dying screams. It frosted the eyes and lips of the men falling all around him, the common soldiers cut down by weapons wielded from horseback. Agony struck through Elisha as if he felt every blow. He whimpered.

Not far off, Duke Randall’s voice rang out over the battle: “Come out and fight me, Hugh, you cowardly bastard!” But any answer was lost in the driving wail of death that beat at Elisha’s ears.

Another man tripped over Elisha’s huddled form, giving his opponent the advantage, giving Elisha another spatter of blood that turned cold too soon.

Elisha forced himself to move, shaking off the soldiers. He lurched toward the door by the vestry, and fell through into a silence that stunned him more than any sound.

Blinking, wiping blood from his face, he pushed himself up. He lay on the grassy slope behind the altar of the ruined church. Flowers trodden by the feet of waiting soldiers already sprang back into the sunshine of spring.
The grass trembled in a warm breeze, and a butterfly landed on a broken bench, its wings closing once, twice, resting before daring again to touch the sky. In here, the world lay at peace, becalmed beneath the glorious day. Life surrounded and enfolded him, taking over the fallen stone of this god’s house. A place of power indeed.

Breathing heavily, his muscles shaking, Elisha crept to the altar. Soft moss and new grass cushioned his aching palms as he went. Fragrant earth touched his knees with moisture. The sun warmed his bruised back, inviting him to lie down and rest. But he found he could hear the battle. He could hear the men and horses tramping one way and another in their one-sided fight. What was missing was the terrible sound of death that sapped his strength and cleaved from him all awareness of life. Yes, men were falling, wounded or dying, some already dead, but all was not lost, not yet. And he had come to what he needed.

Even before he began, the dissonance of what lay there chimed a false note in the quiet hum of life. Digging in his fingers, Elisha pulled back the roots he had packed in place. He scraped away the dirt, and drew forth the grubby metal pot, its lid firmly sealed with wax. As he set his fingers on it, they stuck, frozen, and he lifted the thing awkwardly into his lap, breathing moisture onto it to free himself.

Gleaming dully in the sun, the thing looked darker than ever, as if the dirt had covered it for centuries, concealing its malevolent power. Oh, yes, he could feel it now. Not just the brush of death’s cold hands, but the aching injustice of the child who had never known life, and the tearing anguish of its parents, bewildered in their grief and Elisha’s own pain, knowing it might have been prevented if he had not betrayed his brother’s trust. Layers and veils of emotion wrapped around him.

The death he held tried to break free, a wild lashing of panic sprang through his skin. He bit his tongue to stifle a scream as the ice took hold. But he must control it. He must overpower Death once more and bring it to heel. Only then could he send it hurtling forth against his enemies.