Dark Triumph - LaFevers Robin (бесплатная регистрация книга .TXT) 📗
Well, perhaps not so innocent now, after their encounter with the French.
I feel as if the huntsman’s snare is closing in around us, and it has me fair twitching in my saddle. Since I do not wish to spook my horse, I force myself to stillness, an art I have mastered during my long years with d’Albret.
I glance over at Beast. He is still pale, and it seems as if he does not sit as tall in the saddle as he once did. No matter how strong a man he is, he is only human. Or at least, mostly human. It is a wonder he has made it this long, and I can only hope his strength holds until we reach Rennes. Guion told us of a small abbey run by the brothers of Saint Cissonius where we can take shelter for the night.
Unless d’Albret has thought to post guards at all such places.
Hopefully they will have medical supplies as well, for my own stores of healing herbs are running dangerously low. And while Beast’s fever has gotten no worse, neither has it gotten any better. For once, he is being smart and not wasting his dwindling energy. Or at least, not at the moment. Who knows what he will do if we come across some lost goat or wandering child?
I came back for her. The memory of his words still echoes in my head. It makes no sense that five simple words should shift everything so sharply, but they do. It is as if I have woken up in a world as different from yesterday as spring is from winter. It is the difference between a world with hope and one without. I wish to crawl back into my younger self and hand her this knowledge, this small spark of light, and see how it would shift her perceptions of the darkness all around her. Or would it have been more cruel, that glimmer of hope causing her to look for a rescue that never came?
The farther we get from Nantes, the more I am plagued by doubts. While this taste of freedom is as sweet as I dreamed it would be, I cannot help but wonder about the cost. For so long, I was convinced it was my destiny to kill d’Albret. As relieved as I am to be gone from him, I fear I have shirked my fated duty.
But there was no other choice, I remind myself. To have ridden boldly back into his arms after drugging the entire garrison and freeing Beast would only have ensured my slow and painful death.
I also cannot help but worry about the convent and my role there. It was the one place I felt safe from d’Albret, hundreds of leagues away on an island inhabited by assassins. But I have gone against their teachings, their rules, defied Mortain’s will and replaced it with my own. If they cast me out, what then?
Just before noon, the goat track we have been following opens up onto a small meadow. On the far side of the meadow lies the main road, and on the other side of that is the forest. It will be slower going, but d’Albret’s soldiers cannot scour every inch of forest between here and Rennes. With luck, we can avoid being seen.
As we draw closer to the road, I hear the sound of an approaching party. I pause to listen for the distant hoofbeats. More than a few. And they are riding hard. No merchant party, then, nor casual travelers.
The timing could not be worse. I glance behind us, but we have crossed over half the meadow and the shelter of the trees is too far away.
“We must get across the road. Quickly!” I order the others.
The whiff of danger has stirred Beast from his dozing and he spurs his horse forward to the road and the thick screen of trees and low branches on the other side of it. Yannic bounces along behind him like a sack of the miller’s grain, and I bring up the rear, nipping at their heels, urging them to move faster.
We are in luck, for there is a sharp bend in the road, and while the jingle of harnesses and the rattle of weapons grows louder, the party is still out of sight. Which means they cannot see us either. We hit the road at a full gallop and cross it in a few swift strides. Beast reaches the cover of the trees first, then Yannic. Just as my horse leaves the road, a shout goes up from behind. We’ve been spotted.
“Faster!” I shout to the others, but the forest is a tangle of fallen limbs and gnarled roots, forcing us to slow down. Beast falls back to ride beside me. “Return to the road and keep riding. Yannic and I will lead them away.”
“You’re daft!” I shout, ducking a low-hanging branch. “I’ll not leave a wounded man and a cripple to stand alone against so many.”
“Now you’re being daft. Did you see how many there were?”
“Twenty. Maybe more. Here!” We have reached a small clearing with a ring of tall, jagged ancient stones, some of them high and wide enough to hide us from sight. At least until we are ready to make our stand.
Beast’s mouth is set in grim lines as he nods Yannic toward one of the stones. His jaw is clenched—at first I think he is in pain, and then I realize he is furious. “Go!” He puts the full force of command in his low, urgent voice. “I’ll hold them off.”
I look at him in disbelief. “Your fever has eaten your brain if you think I’ll leave now.”
He leans out of his saddle as if to grab me, then stops as his ribs bite him. “This is no fight.”
“I know.” I steer my horse toward one of the stones. The sword is not my favorite weapon, but its longer reach will be of greater value here. Once I take out a few with my throwing knives—
“No!” Beast makes a grab for my reins, but he misses and nearly falls off his horse. “I will not stand by and watch you struck down before me.” His eyes burn—with anger, I think, until I see that he is also afraid. Afraid for me.
His concern inflames my own temper, for I do not deserve such consideration, and certainly not from him. I will not abandon Alyse’s brother like I abandoned her. “And I will not stand idly by and watch you die a second time,” I tell him.
Then d’Albret’s men are hard upon us. Resigned, Beast draws the sword from his back with his right hand while his left closes around the handle of the ax. “I will not let them take you alive.”
Of all the things he could have said, that is the one thing that comforts me the most. “Nor I you,” I say around a strange lump that has formed in my throat.
Then he smiles his great big maniacal grin just as our pursuers burst out of the trees, their horses’ hooves churning up the forest floor.
Yannic makes the first move, launching one of his rocks with his customary skill and striking one of the foremost men on the temple. I raise the crossbow and take the leader between the eyes. While he is still reeling from the force of the bolt, I drop the bow and reach for my throwing knives. Beast keeps the rock wall at his back and stands in his stirrups to swing at the four horsemen who engulf him.
Even as my first three knives hit their targets, I know there are too many. I reach for the sword strapped to my saddle, but before I can free it, one of the men charges me. I throw myself to the left as he swings, and misses. Before he can swing again, there is a loud thwap, and he slumps forward on his horse. I send a silent Thank you to Yannic, until I see the arrow in the man’s back. Yannic does not have a bow.
I have no time to look for the archer as I struggle to free my sword from its scabbard. A half a dozen men have Beast pinned against one of the stones. His sword arm flashes quick and bright, but his left arm is barely able to move the ax. I spur my horse toward him, lunging forward with the sword. It is an awkward, clumsy thrust but it does its job.
Except that the soldier’s horse jerks away, taking the dying man and my sword with it. Merde. I pull my last two daggers from my wrists. I glance at Beast. Should I save them for us or use them to attack? Before I can decide, arrows rain down from the trees, shocking me into stillness. Even as I ready myself for their sharp bite, five of d’Albret’s men wheel around to meet this new attack, and a second volley is let loose. Suddenly, the small clearing is alive with movement as the trees and the forest floor itself comes to life, spitting out creatures of the old legends. Or demons spawned in hell. They are dark of skin and misshapen. One has a leather nose, another’s arm seems to be made of wood, and a third appears to have had half his face melted away. Whatever their infirmities, they finish off the rest of d’Albret’s men with ruthless efficiency, pulling the men from their horses and dispatching them with wicked little blades or quick twists of their necks. Within the span of a dozen heartbeats, all of d’Albret’s soldiers are dead, and we are surrounded.
