The Red Cross of Gold I:. The Knight of Death (46 page)

Beaujold tore loose of von Hetz’ grasp and
bolted for the door. He drew his sword back over his left shoulder
and prepared to finish the command he had given. Ramsay was leaning
over the hilt of his sword, trying to recover enough equilibrium to
decide which way to run in the confusion. Christopher flung himself
on the Knight of the Sword when he emerged from the office and they
fell away in a tangle of boots and blades, sliding along the waxed
tiles together, cursing and shouting.

Mark straightened up again as the Apocalyptic
Knight emerged from the office into the bright light of the
corridor. The dark Knight moved in on the two men struggling on the
floor and batted the enraged Knight of the Sword off the apprentice
with one gloved fist. Ramsay turned and fled as best he could down
the hallway toward the stairs, following the flow of fresh air from
the open basement doors. Beaujold regained his footing and rushed
von Hetz again, swinging his sword with deadly precision, almost
removing the Ritter’s right arm and then his left, but the German
Knight was much too nimble to be caught off guard. He leaped from
side to side, narrowly avoiding the blade as Beaujold took sizable
chunks from the masonry walls. Christopher scrabbled about the
floor in search of the dagger and knife he had dropped in the
tumble with the Knight.

Mark made it to the stairs with little
trouble and found them with only one tumble onto the bottom riser.
He clambered up the steps holding his sword in one hand and his
stomach with the other, leaning his right shoulder against the
railing for a guide. His vision had cleared, but the pain in his
stomach had not relinquished its cruel hold on him. The bulk of the
mercury had gone down the toilet in Cecile’s laboratory, but enough
of it had permeated his body to kill a battalion or two. If he had
thought his stomach empty before von Hetz had poisoned him, he now
knew the true meaning of being completely without a morsel of
nourishment in his entire digestive tract. His stomach would never
forgive him and he would never forgive the Ritter, even if his
actions had been well-intentioned. Glancing back once more from the
foot of the stairs, he saw Dambretti easing the unconscious woman
to the floor. The Italian bent over her, checking her pulse. Mark
called her name once before pushing on, up the steps, into the dark
night air and freedom. Lucio would take care of her. Lucio was his
friend and his Brother. He was a good man. The sound of his name
being bellowed behind him spurred him on.

The mercury burned him from within. It was as
if he could feel every vein, every artery and every capillary in
his entire body. His blood seemed as heavy as the quicksilver in
his lab and his stomach convulsed again and again, drawing him over
painfully. He made a mental note in spite of everything to make
notes of his symptoms in his journal when and if he ever got home.
He shook off the ridiculous idea as he painfully climbed the
stairs. Journal? What journal? Was he a damned doctor or research
scientist on top of everything else? When he reached the basement
doors, the cool night air washed over him and he stopped briefly,
leaning against the double doors to catch his breath. He could hear
the sounds of Valentino’s party above him and to the left, though
he could only see shadowy figures beyond the colorful lights strung
around the verandah. Using the sword as a makeshift cane and
guiding himself along the brick wall with his other hand, he
tromped through the flower beds to the corner of the building and
then headed across the open lawn toward one of the outbuildings.
Surely he would find his car there.

The building he had mistaken for a garage was
a barn, a stable to be more precise. Three horses were parked where
he had expected automobiles. He looked about in confusion as one of
the horses, a nervous black stallion of beautiful proportions,
pranced and snorted in his stall. Inside the stall he caught the
animal’s halter in his hand and stroked its nose, leaning his head
against the horse’s jaw, willing the animal to remain calm long
enough for him to get a saddle on him. Looking around as best he
could, he located a sleek English saddle thrown over the rails of
the next stall. It had been a long, long time since he’d had the
unpleasant misfortune of riding a beast under such desperate
circumstances. The black horse would no doubt be hard to handle,
but he would be the best choice. The other two animals were stocky
and shorter, but the stallion reminded him of some of his own
horses. Strong and fast. What horses?

With great pain and much work, he saddled the
stallion expertly without thinking and found a bridle for him. The
stirrups were adjusted for someone much shorter than himself, but
he could not afford to waste any more time. He gripped the hilt of
the sword in his left hand and the horse’s mane in the other, stuck
his right foot in the high stirrup and used the remainder of his
strength to mount the prancing stallion as it shied away from him,
slamming against the boards of his stall. The short stirrups made
his knees feel as if they were in his face and made it impossible
to ride correctly, but the cramped posture actually helped him
maintain his balance as the pain in his stomach caused him to bend
forward over the horse’s neck much like a jockey on a racehorse. He
slapped the stallion’s flank with the reins and the horse bolted
from his stall, through the stable, galloping out into the night
air, ready for a good romp.

Ramsay had no idea where he was going or how
far he would have to ride to get there, he was just going away from
the madness, away from those who would see him dead again… and
again. When he sensed he was far enough from the house to slow
down, he dragged the sword across his thighs, wrapped the reins
around his hands and let horse have his way. The stallion slowed to
a fast walk, jarring him unmercifully, adding to his misery. A
palfrey would have been nice just then. A waxing gibbous moon shone
above the rocky landscape and he knew he was either heading west or
east. Tomorrow night would be the full Buck moon. He wondered at
the trivial knowledge that he had stored in his brain, but searched
the sky for the constellations long enough to determine that he was
heading west before closing his eyes and hanging his head,
breathing hard against the ache in his stomach and the new anguish
growing in his back and shoulders. He brushed all thoughts away
except two: stay on the horse, block the pain. Stay on the horse,
block the pain.

These were his last thoughts before his mind
closed in on itself in peaceful bliss for several minutes. When he
opened his eyes at last to survey his surroundings, he drifted to
another place and another time. The horse appeared to be following
a well worn path down a dry wash similar to the nameless,
numberless desert wadis snaking through the deserts of Egypt,
Arabia, Persia, Assyria, Phoenicia, Sumer… He nodded off once more
and then jerked his head up one last time. Assyria? Phoenicia?
Sumer?! He had to stay awake. Either his memories and his book
learning were becoming entirely jumbled or he was suffering
delirium from the effects of the mercury in his system. He leaned
over the horse’s mane, dropped the reins without knowing it and let
the horse go where he would. Mark Andrew needed to rest and recover
from the poison before he could manage the unruly stallion with any
degree of success. His only thought was to keep the beast moving
away from the mansion and keep his eyes open for signs of
danger.

((((((((((((()))))))))))))

Beaujold was the first to realize that Ramsay
was no longer in the basement with them. He renewed his attack on
the German, forcing him slowly back down the hall toward the
stairs. He took one last swing at von Hetz and the tall Knight
tripped backwards, falling on the risers. Beaujold seized the
opportunity and bolted up the stairs. Von Hetz leapt after him and
brought him back down the stairs by one ankle, bouncing him
painfully on the steps all the way to the bottom. His sword
skittered away on the tiles as he rolled over and kicked at the man
with his free foot. The Frenchman got off one good kick under the
German’s chin, sending him reeling against the far wall,
temporarily dazed, and gained enough time to get away and up the
stairs. Beaujold emerged on the dark side of the patio and looked
around for signs of the Knight’s passage. The moss roses, petunias
and marigolds were broken and crushed along the north side of the
foundation. Beaujold glanced up at the milling figures on the
patio. A man leaned over the railing and waved to him. He smiled
and waved to the idiot before dashing off in the same direction
Ramsay had taken, away from the crowd of unsuspecting guests toward
several shadowy outbuildings in the distance. As he cleared the end
of the building, he heard hoof beats fading away into the night. He
redoubled his efforts and ran toward the stable.

Once inside, he chose a skittish palomino
mare, taking time only to grab a double handful of the long, blond
mane before throwing himself on to her bare back. With the ease of
a seasoned rider, he guided the mare out of the stable and turned
her with the help of his knees in the direction followed by
Ramsay’s horse. He gigged the mare brutally with his booted heels
and she bolted, terrified, into the night.

((((((((((((()))))))))))))

Christopher made a dash for the stairs only
to be stopped cold by the fist of the Apocalyptic Knight. His feet
continued, but his head stopped and he landed on his back, losing
both his knives and his breath at the same time. His previously
injured muscles cramped in protest and he doubled over in pain
while von Hetz focused his attention on the activities of his
Brothers in the corridor. He had seen Simon down with blood on his
head and he had seen Dambretti toppled under the weight of the
woman. The Italian eyed him warily as he stepped over the hapless
apprentice with the body of the young woman in his arms and started
up the stairs, taking two steps at a time. He laid her out on the
cool grass near the basement doors and went back down to fetch
d’Ornan. He met Von Hetz coming up with Christopher staggering
along beside him, pressing both hands to his injured back. Simon
was trying unsuccessfully to get up, but the injury he had suffered
to the back of his head would not allow it. Dambretti picked up the
smaller man and threw him easily over his shoulder. What a mess
they had made. Now the Chevalier d’Epee and the Chevalier du Morte
were out there somewhere in the dark together, and it would be just
a matter of time before they were all caught by Cecile Valentino’s
people, if not the local police. It was a miracle that none of the
people on the verandah had seen the commotion already. He stooped
to pick up Beaujold’s sword before making his way up the stairs.
When he stepped outside, an unfamiliar voice greeted him
immediately.

“I’ll take that.” Valentino’s security man
stood in front him, holding a double barrel shotgun trained on his
head. “And the other one.”

Dambretti laid Beaujold’s sword on the
ground, and then awkwardly removed his own sword from its scabbard,
laying it alongside the first while still holding the healer on his
shoulder. Two more men stood near the spot where he had left the
young woman also holding small caliber pistols trained on them,
looking ready to shoot anything that moved. Valentino knelt beside
the unconscious blond, checking her for injuries. Von Hetz and
Christopher sat on the grass with their hands behind their heads.
Dambretti held up his free hand in a sign of surrender and waited
for whatever was to come with a patience only possible from several
hundred years of experienced waiting and experienced surrender. It
was only a temporary setback.

((((((((((((()))))))))))))

Mark Andrew’s stomach was begging for relief
from the cramped position in the saddle, but the horse did not
care. He continued his proud prancing along the dry wash, showing
no signs of tiring. Ramsay was exhausted and he had also exhausted
his mental resources. He suffered a pain like nothing he had ever
thought possible and only momentary lapses of consciousness gave
him any respite from it. In his long life, he had suffered many
things, but this was certainly something new. His tortured brain
reasoned that he suffered what no normal man would be subjected to
simply because a normal man would have been long dead by now. His
head drooped against the long mane and his eyes closed time and
again. He felt frozen in place and eventually a sort of blessed
numbness spread through his body, replacing the pain with the
strange out of body feeling that he knew was death when he drifted
away from the hollow shell that his soul called home and he felt he
would stay forever in that one position, never moving. The night
would never end. The sun would never come up. He would never see
Merry again. His mind faded to nothing except one tiny point of
brilliant light. He heard nothing and mercifully felt nothing more
and his last thought was that he had only just now reached death’s
door and he was glad.

A priest with a shaven head dressed in a long
linen robe, walked out of the light and took his hand, leading him
from the darkness into the light. The priest’s words were soothing,
comforting and familiar as they made their way down into the
presence of the Great Lord of Death….

He did not wake again until something very
heavy hit his right side and sent him flying from the horse’s back.
The pain returned even before he hit the rocky ground. He rolled
twice and came to rest against a particularly hard boulder at the
edge of the old stream bed. The stallion nickered and snorted
somewhere in the darkness, and the sound of additional hooves
stomped the ground nearby as he curled into a ball, clutching both
arms across his stomach. His sword was gone along as was his hope
of going any further. He wondered what had hit him. He wondered
that he was still alive. He wondered that his brain could even
wonder at all. His wonderings were soon put to rest as a hand
grabbed his ankle and dragged him away from the boulder, banging
his aching head in the process.