Колин Глисон - Sanctuary of Roses

“What ails you?” Gavin shouted, infuriated by their immobility. “Why do you stand and stare? We must find Madelyne. Tricky—where is she kept?”

His roar prodded them into movement. It was only as Gavin started to follow the little maid and had to step over arms and legs and heads and feet—none of which remained attached to their respective bodies, but were scattered all over the ground—did he realize he had been afflicted with his own madness.

Fantin rose to his feet in front of Madelyne, still mouthing words of supplication. The sounds from above had made it known that some battle raged beyond the rafters of the ceiling.

His pleading, groveling, praising sent squirrelly shivers down Madelyne’s spine and they coiled like snakes in the pit of her stomach. It was eerie and nauseating the way he continued to pray and implore God to help him, to show him the way, to give him the Stone.

He faced her, and what she saw there made her knees buckle as all strength drained from her body. His countenance glowed…shone with joy and light and fervor, even as the light in his eyes gleamed and his mouth continued to dribble the tiny trickle of wetness from one corner. His mind had truly gone, and madness—religious madness—blossomed within him.

What strength had he now? All the strength that comes with righteousness, and belief and faith. Madelyne knew the strength that came with belief. And when she saw it lining his face, she feared it.

Fantin flitted about the room, his lips still moving, moving bowls and jugs and jars, gripping his sword. He found a large jug and removed the cork, trickling its contents along the edge of the floor, along in front of Madelyne, around Seton’s prone body and to the feet of Clem, who remained bound against another wall.

She smelled the rancid scent of pig fat, and felt its greasiness splash against her skirts, and watched in horror as a gleeful Fantin seized one of the many sconces along the wall.

“You and your father shall burn on earth as you will burn in hell,” he told her, pivoting about as he swiped the torch through the air, leaving an arc of smoke in its wake. Fantin dropped the torch and the grease eagerly sucked the flames into its trail, instantly billowing rancid smoke into the air, and seeping along toward her.

“May God be with you,” Fantin shouted gleefully, dashing on light feet toward the stairs after saluting her with his sword.

Madelyne watched in horror as he disappeared up the steps, and the flames began to eat the wooden trestle tables and the tapestries that covered the walls. The smoke grew thicker, the flames closer and hotter.

She pulled in vain at the irons that still imprisoned her arms. Her fingers had long turned to ice from loss of blood and the dampness of the dungeon-laboratory. Seton remained unconscious at her feet, and Clem, across the room, struggled with his own bonds.

The flames burned higher, and closer, and Madelyne felt the heat as it struggled toward her skirts. She kicked out and to the side, frantic, whipping her gown around her legs, trying to move away from the pools of grease that would soon be consumed by fire. There was naught she could do.

Gavin.

He would come soon. He must come soon.

She, too, had the strength of faith and belief.

A door—the door to which Tricky had been leading him—flew open, and Gavin suddenly was face to face with his nemesis.

“De Belgrume!” he cried, leaping at the man who’d emerged from a stairwell.

The man was prepared for him, and swung his blade as Gavin moved. Heat sliced down his arm, and Gavin shouted with rage and victory. Fantin had drawn first blood, but Gavin would take the last.

With a swift movement, Fantin slammed the door behind him and whirled, swinging his sword again. This time, Gavin easily dodged the thrust, and returned with his own blade, slamming against the man’s side.

“Your whore burns below,” Fantin gasped, feinting and then thrusting in one fluid movement. “You must go through me to reach her, but you cannot get there in time.”

He laughed, then, easily, as though he’d had the greatest jest, and his blade met Gavin’s. Chill raced up Gavin’s back. He’d never felt such burning rage and taste for blood, but the man before him had a calmness…an easy humor, a glow, that bespoke of some inner strength—much like that which had attracted Gavin to the man’s daughter.

Sweat ran in his eyes, and Gavin dashed it away as he rammed toward Fantin. The other man raised his sword and their blades clashed, pressing against each other as if frozen in mid-air, each man pushing with every bit of need and will he possessed. At last, the metals slid, and the swords moved, freeing them from the stalemate. Gavin didn’t waste the moment by drawing back. Instead, he whirled, kicked, and thrust all at once, and suddenly, Fantin was away from the door, shrieking in unexpected pain.

Gavin propelled himself toward it, just as his opponent lunged forward. With barely enough time to block the move, Gavin whipped his sword and caught the downward stroke. He still had the door, and with a massive cry, he yanked it full open.

Fantin leaped toward him, and Gavin dodged, but misstepped, falling through the doorway and feeling naught but air beneath his foot. Off-balance, he began to tumble, and with one miraculous movement, snagged Fantin’s tunic, dragging him with him.

The edges of the stone stairs slammed into his shoulders and legs as he tumbled down, letting his sword go to fall before him. Gavin thumped to the floor just after the clang of his sword, and had the moment to grab it then peer around the chamber choked with smoke before turning to face Fantin.

When he rose to his feet, the man had lost that aura of holiness. His face, streaked with grime, and his eyes burning in a face of pure fury reflected a loss of control, along with the self-same determination to win that Gavin felt.

Fantin’s movements came, then, faster, harder, but more erratic than before. Gavin spared a look toward the wall where he’d seen a white-garbed form through the spirals of smoke, his heart sagging when he saw that it did not move. Fantin took that advantage and slammed his sword with such two-handed force that Gavin lost his grip and the weapon spun from his hand.

Now weaponless, he felt the surge of desperation and need, and launched himself to the side as Fantin drove what he’d intended to be the death stroke. Gavin flipped a stool toward his opponent, catching him in the gut, and with one sharp, swift lurch, snagged Fantin’s sword wrist and gave a vicious twist. The bones snapped horribly.

Fantin screamed and dropped his weapon, whirling toward a sconce that flamed behind him on the one wall untouched by smoke, but Gavin moved too quickly. The sword was in his hand, and slicing into his opponent’s chest before the man could snatch the torch.

Fantin screamed and sagged to the ground in a hopeless pool of blood and tattered clothing. Gavin yanked the blade from the bone where it had lodged, feeling the scrape against cartilage, and plunged it back in with two powerful arms. He took no chances that the man’s deep strength should come back to haunt him.

As he turned to chamber, the sound of footfalls down the stairs alerted him. ’Twas his name being called, and Gavin shouted back between inhaling the thick, choking smoke. He had no moment to wonder what had taken them so long as Jube and the others stumbled down the stairs. They didn’t need to be directed to the slumped man against the far wall.

Gavin launched himself over a table to Madelyne’s side, where she sagged against the wall, her face turned into the sleeve of her garment in an effort to keep the smoke at bay. He registered the chains that bound her and the fallen man at her feet, shouting for help.