Beneath a Midnight Moon (11 page)
Read Beneath a Midnight Moon Online
Authors: Amanda Ashley
“Six, I think. They’re well armed, but lazy.”
Hardane grunted softly. “Look for me tomorrow night at this same time.”
“Take care,” Lord Kray urged. He reached through the narrow barred opening and placed his hand on Hardane’s shoulder. “Your mother will never forgive me if anything happens to you.”
“Nothing will happen.” Hardane placed his hand over his father’s and gave it a squeeze. “Until tomorrow.”
“Until tomorrow,” Kray repeated softly, hopefully.
Kray stared at the bleak walls of his prison, the heavy chain that hampered his movements. Locked in the dreary cell, his leg shackled to the wall, he had wished, endlessly and uselessly, that he could somehow escape.
But now Hardane was here and he knew that freedom was at hand. True, all his sons were brave, fierce, loyal. He knew each of them would willingly risk their life to save his, but, of them all, Hardane had the best chance of success. It was only his youngest son, his seventh son, who possessed the special Wolffan gift.
“Until tomorrow . . .” Lord Kray smiled as he repeated Hardane’s parting words.
For the first time in months, he had hope again.
“Tomorrow.” He breathed the word aloud as he sank down on his straw pallet once more.
Like a magic talisman, the word hovered in the air, keeping all his nightmares at bay, repeating itself in his mind until he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Tomorrow . . .
Chapter 18
Under cover of darkness, Hardane and his men went over the side of the
Sea Dragon,
swam to the Isle of Klannaad, and made their way ashore.
Sea Dragon,
swam to the Isle of Klannaad, and made their way ashore.
Leaving his men well hidden behind a jumbled mass of boulders, Hardane did as he had done the night before. He overpowered a prisoner who had wandered away from the others and rendered him unconscious. After assuming the man’s shape, Hardane moved up the ridge toward the abandoned castle that housed the dungeon.
Lurking in the shadows, he waited for one of the guards to step outside; then he quickly disarmed the man, bound his hands and feet, and changed shape once again.
There were two guards playing dice in the dungeon’s antechamber. They looked up only briefly as Hardane entered the room.
He acknowledged them with a nod, then took one of the torches and started for the stairs.
“Crill, where are you going?”
Hardane glanced over his shoulder, his fist tightening around the torch. “To check on the prisoners.”
The guard shook his head. “It isn’t necessary. Hanse went down a few minutes ago.”
Hardane grunted. “I’ve got nothing else to do,” he remarked. “I’ll just see if he needs help.”
The guard looked at him suspiciously for a moment, wondering at Crill’s sudden ambition, and then he shrugged.
Hardane waited, but when there were no objections, he descended the stairs. His men would be storming the island in a quarter of an hour. He had to get his father out of the dungeon before then.
He saw the light from the guard’s torch at the far end of the corridor. Frowning, he watched the man for several moments, and then he grinned as he saw the man tip a bottle to his mouth. Apparently the guard kept a flask hidden in the dungeon.
The guard looked up, a guilty flush staining his cheeks, as Hardane walked up to him.
“Oh, Crill,” the man muttered in relief. “I thought—”
Hardane never discovered what the man thought. Drawing back his fist, he flattened the guard with a single blow to his jaw. He caught the torch before it hit the ground.
There was a stirring from within the nearby cells as the prisoners saw one guard strike another.
Hardane paid them no mind as he hurried toward his father’s cell. “My lord?”
Lord Kray approached the door cautiously. “What is it?”
“Better to die as a wolf than live as a dog.”
“Hardane!”
There was a world of relief, of hope, in the older man’s voice as Hardane slipped the key into the lock and opened the door.
For a brief moment, the two men embraced; then Hardane thrust the torch into his father’s left hand and the fallen guard’s sword into his right.
“We’ve got to go,” he said tersely.
“I’m right behind you,” Kray said, and quickly followed Hardane down the corridor toward the narrow winding staircase.
Hardane heard shouts of alarm, the hoarse cries of men in pain, and the harsh clash of metal striking metal as he reached the top of the staircase.
“We’re under attack!” One of the guards shouted the warning as he slammed the door that led outside. “Crill, arm yourself. . . .”
The guard’s voice trailed off, his expression changing from concern to confusion when he saw Kray standing behind Hardane, a sword in his hand.
The second guard stood up, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. “What’s going on?”
“You’re under attack in here, too,” Hardane replied calmly. “Drop your weapons, both of you.”
The two guards exchanged glances and then they both lunged forward.
Hardane engaged the man on the left, and soon the air rang with the harsh clang of blade meeting blade. For a moment, his attention was divided between the guard and concern for his father, but soon he had no time to think of anything but his opponent, who wielded his sword with great skill. The guard managed to draw first blood, but it was Hardane who landed the fatal blow, his sword driving into the man’s chest, piercing his heart.
Withdrawing his blade, Hardane whirled around in time to see his father deliver the fatal blow to the second guard.
“Let’s get out of here,” Hardane said, assuming his own form so his men would not mistake him for the enemy.
“Wait!” Lord Kray took hold of his son’s arm. “You’re hurt.”
Hardane glanced at the blood dripping from his left shoulder. “It’s nothing.”
Lord Kray started to protest that the wound needed to be bound up, at least, but it was too late. Hardane was already out the door.
Whatever fighting had taken place outside the dungeon was over. Jared and the others stood in a ragged half circle, their swords drawn. The surviving prisoners were huddled together, their expressions malevolent as they waited to see what would happen next.
Jared smiled as he saw Hardane and Lord Kray emerge from the castle. Lord Kray paused to speak to some of the crewmen, while Hardane continued on toward the shore. Jared started forward, intending to pay homage to his liege, when a ferocious cry rent the stillness of the night.
All eyes swung toward the sound.
Too late, Hardane saw the Executioner bearing down on him.
Too late, Jared saw the huge, scar-faced man hurl himself at Hardane. The impact knocked Hardane off his feet and sent the sword flying from his grasp.
Muttering an oath, Jared sprinted across the uneven ground, knowing, even as he did so, that he wouldn’t get there in time.
Lord Kray watched in horror as the scar-faced man plunged a crudely fashioned knife into Hardane’s chest.
And then Jared was there, his finely honed saber cutting through the air like a scythe, cleanly severing the Executioner’s head from his body.
Heedless of the shocked gasp that hissed from the prisoners, Jared hurried to Hardane’s side. Lord Kray was already there, his face pale as he cradled his son’s head in his lap.
“Is he . . . ?” Jared looked into Lord Kray’s eyes, unable to say the word.
“No, only unconscious. We must set sail for home at once.”
Jared nodded. Rising to his feet, he ordered the prisoners into the antechamber and locked them inside so that they could not swarm the ship in a bid for freedom. It wouldn’t take them long to break down the door, but the
Sea Dragon
would have set sail for home by then.
Sea Dragon
would have set sail for home by then.
Lord Kray packed the wounds in Hardane’s chest and shoulder with damp sea moss, then ripped his shirt into strips and bound the wounds. When that was done, several of the crewmen carried Hardane toward the shore.
A short time later the
Sea Dragon
was running before the wind, her course set for Argone.
Sea Dragon
was running before the wind, her course set for Argone.
Lord Kray paced the captain’s quarters, his gaze never leaving his son’s face. He was free at last, he thought, but at what a price!
Kylene sat up in bed, her face and body drenched in perspiration, the sound of her own anguished cry still ringing in her ears.
She had been dreaming of Hardane, dreaming that they were walking hand in hand through a shady glen, when suddenly she had heard a wolf’s agonized cry.
Instantly, the images of her dream had vanished and she had seen Hardane lying on the ground, his shirt covered with blood, his eyes closed, his lashes like dark fans upon his pale cheeks.
She glanced around the small, barren cell that was hers, her heart pounding. She’d had the same dream for the past four nights.
Rising from her narrow cot, she went to the window and gazed out into the darkness. Low clouds shrouded the moon and the stars. The only light visible came from the garden below where a single candle burned before a life-size statue of Saint Hadreas, the patron saint of the Bourne Sisterhouse.
“Please let it be a dream,” Kylene murmured, yet even as the words left her lips, images of Hardane lying helplessly in bed surrounded by candles flooded her mind. A bloody cloth was bound around his chest; his face was as white as the coarse linen nightgown that covered her from neck to heels. He tossed restlessly on the big four-poster bed, his hands clenching and unclenching. He was in terrible pain, feverish. She saw his lips move, heard the harsh rasp of his voice as he whispered her name over and over again.
It wasn’t a nightmare at all. She knew it with a sudden heart-wrenching fear. Hardane was hurt, perhaps dying, and he needed her.
“Hardane, hear me.”
She didn’t realize she had spoken aloud until she heard the sound of her own voice. She frowned, confused by the inexplicable inner prompting that had forced the words past her lips.
“Hardane, I’m coming. Wait for me.”
Kylene spoke the words with fervor, willing them across the miles to Castle Argone, repeating them again and again without knowing why.
And then, in her mind, she saw her words encircle Hardane like a soft blue flame. A deep sigh escaped his lips; his body stopped its restless churning.
She was surprised to find herself dressed and standing before the Holy Mother a few minutes later.
“What is it, sister?” the good Mother asked. “Are you ill?”
“I have to leave.”
“Leave? Leave the Sisterhouse?”
“Yes. Right away.”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible.”
“I have no time to explain, Mother, but I have to go. Immediately.”
The Holy Mother frowned in consternation. “You realize that, once you leave the order, you cannot return?”
Kylene nodded. There was no time to ponder the wisdom of her decision, no time to fret over the future. Hardane needed her, and an inner force she didn’t understand was urging her to go to him as quickly as possible.
“Let us pray about your decision, child,” the Holy Mother suggested, rising to her feet. “Surely a few days of meditation will help you see things more clearly.”
“I don’t have a few days,” Kylene replied sharply. “I have to leave now, tonight, with or without your blessing.”
“I see.”
“Is there someone who can take me to Castle Argone?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Can I at least borrow a horse? I’ll see that it’s returned as soon as possible.”
“I’m sorry, child, Lutres took the horse to go into town for supplies. He won’t be back for several days.”
With a nod, Kylene turned toward the door. She couldn’t wait several days. She couldn’t wait another moment. She had to go, now, even if it meant walking every step of the way.
“My child, won’t you at least wait until morning?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t wait.”
“Very well. Godspeed, and may the Father of Us All protect you in your travels.”
Sharilyn stood beside her son’s bed, her head bowed, her hands clasped in prayer. Her husband’s homecoming, which should have been a joyous occasion, had been overshadowed by Hardane’s infirmity. The gash in his arm, dealt by one of the guards, was already healing, but the knife wound inflicted by the Executioner had festered on the voyage home, and nothing seemed to help. Physicians had been called, prayers had been said, to no avail.
Because she didn’t know what else to do, she had turned to the old ways. She burned a dozen blue candles to invite healing and peace into the sickroom, red candles for vitality, black ones to banish illness.
She filled a jar with angelica and mistletoe, flax and trefoil, mugwort and mullein, and placed it beside Hardane’s bed in hopes their protective qualities would ward off any evil that lingered in the room.
In desperation, Sharilyn had sent for Druidia, the dark witch of Argone, hoping that the old crone’s powerful magic might be able to heal Hardane’s wounds. Many of the people viewed witches as evil, but the Wolffan shared an affinity with witches and warlocks, sorcerers and wizards, perhaps because they, themselves, were thought to be evil.
The witch had arrived in a swirl of heavy black wool skirts and the lingering scents of vervain and yarrow. She had nodded in approval at the numerous candles burning around the bed, and then produced one of her own—a long, slender, purple candle specially made to boost her magical powers. She had examined Hardane, withdrawn several packets of herbs from her bag, ground them with mortar and pestle.
The scents of rosemary, sage, rue, and wood sorrel had soon filled the air, mingling with Druidia’s voice as she stood at the foot of the bed, chanting softly.
Hardane’s breathing had eased almost immediately, the swelling and the redness had faded from his wounds, but he had remained unconscious, tossing restlessly as though he were suffering from some deep inner pain that even Druidia’s magic could not reach.
“An illness of the heart, it is,” Druidia had decreed.
“An emptiness in his soul. Heal the heart, and the flesh will mend.”
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