The Legend (58 page)

Nigel eyed him warily. "What
is it that you want, black beast? I have told you all I can."

Ali cocked a slow eyebrow.
"So you have said. I wonder, however, if you did not have a hand in
this."

"Does the color of your skin
inhibit your intelligence? I told you I did not."

Ali stared at the man for a long,
heady moment. Their gaze locked, absorbed, intertwined. Then, Ali slowly
unsheathed the broadsword at his side. Nigel recognized his very own sword,
confiscated not five hours earlier.

Nigel almost looked amused as the
weapon came forth. "Do you think to threaten me?"

"Nay," Ali said softly.
"I think to kill you."

Nigel's eyes rounded, slowly, as
he realized that Ali meant what he said. "I have told you all I know. Alec
promised me my freedom!"

It was Ali's turn to smile.
"And I shall provide it. The freedom of your soul from its earthly
confines."

Nigel scrambled away from the
stalking soldier. "You cannot! The king will...."

"The king will commend my
actions. 'Tis something that should have been done long ago," he took two
swift strides and was upon the sweating man, gripping his tunic with an iron
fist. "For what you have done to Brian, to Alec, to my wife's family, you
are about to pay with your life."

Nigel could feel the cold steel
against his gut and began to twist like a fish out of water. "You have no
right!"

"No right?" Ali's
eyebrows rose. "I beg to differ, my lord. 'Tis my right to repay the
Summerlins and the de Fluornoys for their kindness and loyalty by destroying
their most grievous nemesis. I will not think of the insults you have dealt me
as I drive your sword into your soft innards. What I do, I do for them."

There was no time for Nigel to
reply as steel met with flesh, blood, guts. Ali drove the sword deeper than he
ever imagined it could go, feeling the rush of pleasure, of vengeance, of
relief. Even when the broadsword exited Nigel's back, still he thrust as his
buried sense of retaliation found its release. For all of the years of torment
and cruelty, he was finally dealing a measure in return and not the least bit
remorseful.

Nigel represented the very worst
England had offered to her adopted son and Ali was content to seek revenge for
himself. For the Summerlins, for the de Fluornoys.          He thrust until he
could thrust no more.

When a Warrington soldier came to
retrieve his lord some time later, he was not surprised to find the Nigel's
body impaled against the wall by his massive, gore-covered broadsword. With his
reputation ruined, his life a disaster, certainly there was only one honorable
way out of his predicament.

It was a most peculiar, painful
suicide.

***

Alec met up with his father in
the dining hall. Brian and the remainder of the search party, including Ivy and
Jubil, had congregated in the hall and were unenthusiastically sampling the
early morning meal.

"Where are my sword and
armor, Father?" he demanded quietly.

Brian rose from his chair, his
eyes wide. "Did Nigel tell you where Colin has taken Peyton?"

"He thinks mayhap Wicken
Fen. I need my equipment."

Ali entered the hall behind Alec,
wide-eyed and breathless. Ivy immediately leapt to her feet, rushing into her
shaking husband's arms. Perplexed at his state, she turned her questioning gaze
to him but he merely smiled, putting his fingers against her lips to silence
her inquiry.

Alec glanced over his shoulder at
his friend to make sure he was present, but that was the extent of his
attention. He did not seem to notice the blood stain on Ali's mail. His focus
immediately returned to his father.

"Well?"

Brian did not hesitate. He
marched purposely from the room with Alec, Ali, Toby and Edward in pursuit. A
few other retainers followed at a distance, knowing that The Legend was about
to become whole once again. There wasn't a man or woman in the room that did
not want to miss the rebirth.

Brian took his son into a seldom
used wing, the same wing where Thia and Peyton had nearly killed one another.
The faint light from the rising sun was beginning to seep through the lancet
windows, bathing the black stone a warm pink as Brian stopped in front of an old
door and shoved it open. The sense of urgency was growing more profound by the
moment.

The room was vacant for the most
part, with the exception of a massive wardrobe against one wall and an unused
bed. Brian went immediately for the wardrobe.

"I have kept it here since
the day you discarded it," he threw open the doors to the cabinet.
"Do you remember that day, Alec? 'Twas the day we returned prematurely
from the Crusade. You rode into the bailey, dismounted, and shed every piece of
armor on the spot. You never touched it after that."

Alec nodded faintly, his eyes
glued to the contents of the wardrobe; as if suddenly revealed from the realm
of the gods, his armor gleamed weakly in the faint light. Magnificent, perfect,
and untouched for nearly twelve years. He felt the familiar power flooding him
as he stared at the protection, remembering both the glory and the pain.

The entire room was still as Alec
stared at his armor. Brian, smiling faintly at his son's expression, moved
toward the small bed.

"I did not want to put your
sword in the wardrobe," he said quietly, fumbling with the linen covers on
the mattress. "I wanted to make certain your blade was well protected
should you ever decide to use it again."

Alec moved forward as if in a
trance, touching the breast plate of his armor. The Summerlin crest glimmered
brilliantly against his touch, silently greeting the man called The Legend.
Alec could feel the strength of the armor against his fingertips, the promise
of might feeding his sagging spirits. The armor that had been a physical part
of him for four solid years.

From the corner of his eye he
could see that his father's eager movements had come to a halt. He turned his
attention from his armor in time to see Brian moving toward him, a massive
shaft of metal in his hand, over five feet in length. An instrument of death,
of freedom, and of life - his sword.

Alec stared at the broadsword he
hadn't seen since he had killed his brother with it. Brian had commissioned the
sword made for his son when the lad was just sixteen, a sword so heavy and
massive that seasoned knights used to laugh at the tall young squire for daring
to master such an outrageous piece of equipment.

Christ, he remembered the sword
with every cell in his body.  His palms began to sweat and his entire body
tingled strangely as his father extended the pommel of the sword as if offering
his son the Holy Grail.

Alec gazed at the hilt before
him; intricately detailed, inlaid with four sapphires the size of small eggs.
The leather on the pommel was undamaged by age, still supple and strong. The
blade itself was possibly the most terrifying every designed; one side was as
sharp as a razor, meant for a quick kill. The opposite side was grooved like
the teeth of a portcullis, cerated fangs of death. The sole purpose was to bring
a lingering, painful demise.

It wasn't just any broadsword; it
was The Legend's blade by which he had earned his reputation.         It was
the Gateway to Death.

"Take it, Alec," he
heard Ali whisper.

He wanted to. Christ, it was as
if the sword had Eyes, pleading with him to grip it once again and become
whole. He could look deep into the Eyes of the sword and see his greatest
battle yet to come       .... sapphire blue gems, like the sapphire blue eyes
of his wife. He knew at that moment that the sapphires set deep into the hilt
had been chose sixteen years ago with a purpose.       They were Peyton's eyes,
and he was hesitant no longer.

His massive hand shot out,
snatching the blade from Brian. Immediately, he could feel the recognizable
power of the sword filling him, the wordless welcome as weapon melded with
master. Alec ran a finger along the razor-smooth edge of the blade, drawing
blood and unaware of the injury. He saw blood, but it wasn't his. It was
Colin's.

Warm beams of light from the
rising sun filtered into the room, reflecting off the massive broadsword. Alec
turned the blade back and forth in the light, watching it gleam, feeling the
oneness between Legend and Sword. Knowing that between the two of them, Peyton
was half-way home.

Naught else mattered at the
moment; Edward, the Welsh, Blackstone, or St. Cloven.  Alec realized that all
of the battles he had ever fought in were a practice for the main event - the
redemption of his soul, the reclamation of his wife. All else paled by association.
There was nothing more important than the woman he loved.

Brian, driven to blinding tears
by the sight of his son holding his sword once more, sniffled loudly and waved
wearily to the populace of the room.

"Allow Alec to dress, if you
would," he began to herd them from the chamber. "The man has no time
to waste."

When the room was clear, only Ali
and Toby remained to help Alec with his protection. Ali tried to take the sword
from him so they could commence with the acquisition of armor, but Alec refused
to let it go. He hadn't held the weapon in so long that he was content to
relish the feel of it in his hand.

Grinning, Ali began to help Toby
with the leg plates and chain mail.

***

Colin knew that Peyton was
gravely injured. The blow to her head had split her scalp, and probably her
skull. Leaving Thia for dead, he had pitched Peyton onto the back of a sturdy
warmblood and squeezed out of the servant’s entrance built into the outerwall
of Blackstone, an exit he had become acquainted with during the weeks he had
been a guest of Baron Rothwell. In the dark, his ride to freedom had been an
easy one.

His initial destination had been
Wisseyham. Although he knew it would be the first place Alec would come in
search of his wife, he paused long enough at his ancestral home to gather some
necessary items, including a secondary sword and pieces of armor to replace the
newer items that had been left at Blackstone. He had no idea where he would be
going and wanted to make sure he was prepared for any eventuality.

When he remounted his steed and
set off again, Peyton had not yet regained consciousness. Riding north towards
the coast and The Wash, he began to ponder in earnest where he should go to
deposit her body. If the blow to the head did not kill her, he would surely
slit her throat and be done with her in that manner. His sole purpose was to
kill her; no ransom, no demands, no torture. As he had told Thia, his one and
only desire was to see the heiress to St. Cloven dead. Generations of
Warringtons demanded it.

He would kill her and throw her
into The Wash. To the north of The Fens, it was a vast expanse of ocean that....
suddenly, he recalled a story he had heard when he was a small lad. Thinking of
The Fens had brought the tale to mind. 'Twas an old story of Wicken Fen, a
place where Druids used to deposit their dead. It was a place where bodies were
never recovered.

Suddenly, he wasn't so sure that
disposing of Peyton in The Wash was an intelligent idea. After all, sooner or
later her body would wash up on shore. And with her obvious red hair,
eventually, Alec would catch wind and identify her.    He did not want the
evidence of his murder turning up on the white sand shores of The Wash.

But in Wicken Fen, she would
never be found. No evidence, no proof for her desperate husband to cling to.
Without proof, Alec Summerlin would have no definitive reason to seek out Colin
and dispense justice.

After all, with Thia dead, there
was no one to confirm that Colin abducted Peyton. For all they would know,
Colin had merely escaped his confinement and had ridden off into oblivion.

There was no definitive link
between him and the fate of Thia and Peyton. After he disposed of Lady
Summerlin, he would ride south to London and catch a barge to Calais. He could
assume another identity in France, mayhap pose as a wealthy earl, and marry
well. Summerlin would never find him.

With a sense of purpose, Colin
turned his mount south for Wicken Fen.

***

Over three hundred pounds of
flesh and metal entered the grand hall of Blackstone. Brian looked up from his
porridge and his jaw dropped. The chalice in his hand clattered to the floor.
He couldn't ever remember seeing a more terrifying, omnipotent sight.

It was The Legend as if he had
never left them. His armor and mail, polished to a high sheen, caught the weak
torchlight and reflected the illumination like bolts from Heaven. All in the
massive gallery were touched by the daggers of power, blinding by them,
striking them speechless with awe. The Legend was in their midst.

Alec, ignorant of the reverence,
raised the visor of his helm and focused on his father.

"I ride south to Wicken
Fen," he said in a commanding tone.       Edward ran an approving eye over
his warrior. "God's Blood, Alec. I do not think I have ever seen anything
quite so intimidating. Hell, man, I am frightened simply looking at you."