Sharon Schulze - Bride Of The Tower

He wrenched his sword belt around and rammed the weapon home, plucking thorns and leaves from his surcoat. He could only be glad he’d been wearing his mail, for other than a few scratches on his cheek, he’d emerged unscathed. But Bran had disappeared into the night, carrying with him all of Will’s baggage save the small pack he carried slung over one shoulder.

He’d best go after the beast at once, before it got too dark to follow him. It would do neither of them any good for the horse to injure himself further, nor for them to blunder deeper into the wood.

Will stood for a moment and let his eyes adjust to the deepening gloom, all his attention focused on the silence surrounding him. No sound or glimpse of light pierced the trees to give him a hint of civilization nearby, or a clue to which direction Bran had headed. Giving a weary sigh, Will shifted his pack higher on his shoulder and set off along the faint trail through the heavy brush.

How far could the beast have gone, after all, injured as he was? Besides, there was no place to settle for the night here. Perhaps he could find his way back to Birkland—no doubt Bran’s destination, he thought wryly.

Though he doubted whether Sir Richard would allow him—or his horse—to spend another night within the confines of Birkland. He’d certainly been in a hurry to see them gone.

By the time Will stumbled from the heavy forest onto a rutted road, the moon had risen high in the sky and he felt ready to sleep on the first clear bit of ground he could find. Of his errant mount, he’d found no sign save a few broken branches far back on the path near where the horse had taken off. He could only hope he’d find the horse’s trail more easily come morning. For now, however, since the road before him looked well-traveled, he might as well follow it. It had to lead somewhere.

A rustle of sound made him pause. Leaves fell down from the branches overhead, heralding the two men who leapt into the path in front of Will before his sword had cleared the scabbard. Faces masked, weapons raised, they set upon him at once.

Will drew a long-bladed dagger from his boot with his free hand and laid about him with a vengeance. ’Twas hard to follow his opponents in the shifting moon shadows, but he’d been alert before the attack, his senses focused wide about him. He used that intensity now to gauge what they would do.

They could not see him well, either, thankfully, for ’twas soon apparent they were skilled fighters. Will parried blows and thrust at the pair with some success, judging from their grunts and cries of pain, though not without sustaining a few injuries of his own.

Warm blood trickled down his brow and arm as he began to flag. He cried out a few breathless taunts, hoping to draw them into foolishness, but ’twas a waste of time. They seemed tireless, and with two of them against him alone, he began to wonder if perhaps he could not outlast them after all.

A blade slid over the mail covering his shoulder and slipped down his throat. The sharp pain spurred him on, even as his foes redoubled their efforts, as well. A hard blow to the head sent Will reeling, and they were upon him like flies to a midden, pummeling him, knocking loose his weapons and moving in for the kill. A stream of blood gushed from his forehead and ran into his eyes, further blurring his vision.

A hard pounding sounded in the distance, drowning out the heavy pulse of his heartbeat. He could scarce care about its cause when he couldn’t find the strength to hold himself upright. He clung to his knife—a meager defense, but better than nothing—as his legs crumpled beneath him and he muttered a silent prayer that his death be swift and clean.

But before his attackers could strike a killing blow, the distant sound became the thunder of hoofbeats drawing near. Muttering curses, the two men turned and fled into the forest, leaving Will sprawled in the road.

He tried to stand, but could not make his legs support him. His searching fingers closed about the hilt of his sword and he dragged it close as the horses came to a plunging halt nigh at his feet.

Had he survived the attack to be run down in the road instead? He pulled himself up on one elbow and stared at the blurred, shifting scene before him, but he could make no sense of it. Horses shuffled their feet nearby, appearing, to his bleary gaze, to have too many legs and heads; moonlight shimmered eerily on the armed and mail-clad riders, lending them an otherworldly appearance. One of them called another “milady.”

Were they the warrior women of legend, come to escort him to Valhalla? Or the devil’s hand-maidens, mayhap, ready to carry him away to Hell? Did it matter? Will tried to laugh, but ’twas a feeble attempt. Whoever they were, if he must spend eternity with them, he hoped they were beautiful.

Perhaps he hadn’t survived after all, Will thought as he watched the smallest of the riders slip from the saddle and remove his helmet. For unless the blow to his head had scrambled his brain completely, ’twas a flesh-and-blood woman who dropped to her knees at Will’s side and leaned down to touch his face. “Rest easy, sir, and let us help you,” she murmured as she shifted and reached down beside him. Before Will could reply or give in to the urge to resist, she slid his sword from his grasp and handed it to a man behind her.

Disarmed by a woman again! Will’s confusion mounted as his vision began to fade. Her long, disheveled braid brushed over his face, teasing his senses with the scent of flowers. Unfamiliar, but clearly a woman—not Gillian, however.

But who was she? He squinted up at her, but her features blurred in the uneven light. His strength gone, his arm collapsed beneath him. His head hit the ground, and he knew no more.

“Hellfire, he’s swooned.” Lady Julianna d’Arcy grabbed hold of the fallen man’s mail-clad arm—caught beneath him when he collapsed—and shifted it to rest at his side. Her touch gentle, she brushed his hair away from his brow with a frown. Blood welled under her fingers and ran down his face; more dark streaks of it oozed sluggishly from his neck and arm.

He clearly needed more help than she could give him here. She grabbed the hem of her surcoat and sliced away two strips of fabric with the long dagger lying beside him on the road. “Rolf, come help me bind his wounds, then you and Bart may move him.”

Bart knelt on the far side of the victim and carefully raised the man so she could wind the material round his brow while Rolf tended to his throat. “Move him where, milady?” Bart asked.

She knotted the linen and used the end of it to blot away the worst of the blood besmirching the man’s face. “Back to Tuck’s Tower, of course.” Clambering to her feet, she took up the dagger and thrust it into her boot top, next to her own.

“Bring a stranger within our walls, milady?” Bart protested as he rose.

“He’s no danger to anyone in his present condition,” Julianna pointed out tartly. By the saints, would he ever cease to look upon her as a child? Her father had been gone for nigh on a year now, her mother slightly more, yet unlike most of her people, Bart continued to quietly challenge her authority to rule her lands, treating her instead as the cherished young lady of Tuck’s Tower.

Something she’d never sought to be—and had certainly never been.

Rolf, waiting patiently near the injured man’s head, motioned for Bart to help lift him, but her father’s old retainer ignored him and moved closer to Julianna. “What of later, Lady Julianna?” he asked low-voiced. “Once he’s healed? What will you do then, if he turns out to be dangerous?”

“You dare to question me, Bart—to question me here, now?” Though she kept her tone as restrained as Bart’s, she made certain he could not mistake her displeasure. “Make no mistake, we shall discuss this later.” Biting back a snarl of frustration, Julianna spun away and bent to grasp the victim’s feet. She nodded to Rolf and they lifted the man. “Now is hardly the time,” she added. “At this point, the poor fool’s more like to die here in the road.”