The Red King (39 page)

“Open to me! I have come for you, Maarten Jan
de Worrt!”

Rory smiled, now fighting chills as the wind
off of the sea blew harder even as he huddled close to Malik’s
back. He slipped around the man and flattened against the stones
beside the doors. Malik pounded again, raising his voice to an even
more powerful volume.

“I seek only he that offends the Old Ones!
All others will come to no harm unless you stand between my wrath
and whom it seeks!”

Malik raised his head a little higher to look
to his captain. He was grinning, enjoying his performance.

There was a commotion, voices and clattering
and the sounds of locks turning. Rory felt his smile change, more
to a wolf’s snarl, and his heart thudded in his chest.
Yes
,
he thought.
Now.

The heavy doors did not open easily. He could
hear the grunts of men as they pulled and the laughter of others.
“Come in, Old One! We have a surprise for you!” a man cried, his
voice filled with the promise of blood.

“You would dare?” Malik boomed.

Rory whirled into the entry ahead of Malik,
sword raised and teeth bared. He brought down two men before the
others recovered from their shock, two more as they clumsily
defended his attack. There were more; Malik’s sham was the perfect
distraction on a long, Northern night and many had looked forward
to sticking him with knives and swords and bleeding him of his
impertinence. Now the fight was real, a danger, and it was not only
the mammoth warrior who roared as he twisted heads and broke arms.
It was a man in all white, head wrapped in a cloth reminiscent of a
gypsy’s scarf, with a wolf’s grin and a demon’s eyes. Those that
did not fall, ran, and Rory gave chase.

He brought them low in the hall, ending their
retreat with sublime satisfaction. The sounds of battle brought
all; men poured from the kitchen, the long hallway leading to the
north end of the keep, even some from basement and battlement, to
do battle with
Chernobog
and his minion. Rory sent his sword
into one man’s throat and plucked the weapon from the dying hand to
finish the next. Blood flowed onto his arms, sprayed onto his face
and chest, and still he swung and stabbed, eager for their end as
much as Maarten’s.

Malik called to him. “The rest are unarmed,
Captain! Go!”

Rory scanned the few that remained standing.
“We work in the kitchens!” One man was saying, his hands splayed
before him. “If we did not, he would take our families!”

“Then return home. Leave now, else this keep
will be your tomb,” Malik told them all, his voice echoing off of
the bare stone walls.

Turning to the hallway, Rory hesitated. So
long…it had been so long since he had trod this path.

“Rory! Go!” Malik cried.

And so he ran. He saw stationed guards, too
afraid of Maarten to leave their posts and quaking with fear at the
sight Rory, bloodied and enraged. “If you value your lives you will
flee this place,” he snarled as he approached.

Two fled; two more came at him with weapons
raised. These guards were better fighters, trained and well-paid
mercenaries unwilling to give up their purses and their pleasures.
One man caught Rory across the shoulder and Rory kicked him in the
chest. When the other swung for Rory’s head, he ducked and cut
across the man’s stomach. The stench of blood and shit filled the
hall as the man’s entrails spilled forth. Rory laughed, a high
braying sound, not unlike the call of
Fenrir
.

Rory bore down on the other guard, still
laughing as he sliced through the man’s s throat. He continued down
the hall, eyes trained on the end. Two more doors, barred, guarded
by four men that Rory….knew.

“You’re alive,” one of them said, stepping
forward with sword and lance. He was tall and powerfully built, and
cruel. Rory remembered.

“No, I am dead. My spirit was called to exact
justice. To avenge those who have fallen into this pit of vipers,”
Rory said, neither slowing nor stopping.

“Then come,
myling
,” the man laughed,
steeling himself for Rory’s attack. “Let us taste your vengeance.
We’ve already tasted the rest of you.”

Filled with rage and hatred, Rory flung
himself at the man. His companions came forward, circling the two
as they laughed with their sword mate. When Rory ran the first
through he screamed. When the second fell at his feet, clutching
his guts, the others ceased their laughing and set upon Rory,
together. He allowed their thrusts, their parries, but when one
caught his thigh and the blood flowed down his leg, Rory’s vision
swam with crimson of its own.

The first he cut across the chest, then at
the elbow, neatly severing the arm. The second howled and lunged
and Rory, nearly taking him down with his spear. Rory beheaded him,
swinging both swords towards each other to slice in two directions
upon his neck. He heard moaning and sought those that still lived.
With his bare hands he tore out their throats, relishing the heat
of their blood as it soaked into his clothes.

He stood over them, huffing with fury and
exertion, triumphant. He spat on the face of one, kicked another,
and moved to the door. Listening close with his ear to the wood,
Rory heard muffled movement, as if someone was listening on the
other side. He slid the bolt and waited. Taking a step back, he
ordered sharply, “Open the door.”

“So you can kill me?”

Rory gasped. He knew that voice.
“Laurent?”

The doors opened slowly and the man stood in
the portal.

“You’re alive,” Rory breathed, staring.

Laurent stood calmly, unaffected by the
gruesome sight of the slaughtered guards. He was leaner than Rory
recalled, yet softer, more yielding. His voice had never truly
deepened, only become less child-like. “Yes. Fate, it would seem,
has a cruel sense of humor.”

Rory still stared. That last night, the night
he had been sent to the dungeon, Laurent had been a heap of blood
and mangled flesh; a broken child that Rory had thought dead. “But
Maarten…he…”

“He emasculated me. Yet, I lived.”

“Oh, God, Laurent! I…I tried,” Rory told him,
feeling his own helplessness, his own rage at not being able to
save him.

Laurent put up a hand. “I know, Rorik. I know
you did. I heard your screams as you heard mine. I don’t blame
you.”

“But how…” Rory paused, swallowed his pain.
“How are you still here?”

“Where else could I go? What use would I be,
only half a man?” Laurent said. He lowered his hand. “Maarten
tended my wounds, brought me back to health. He gave me duties,
purpose, and after a while, I couldn’t even be angry anymore.”

Rory lifted his weapons. “I’m going to kill
him, Laurent. For what he did to us, all of us.”

“I will not stop you.”

They stood, barely an arm’s length apart,
looking at each other for a long silent moment. Rory felt his eyes
burning, his heart twisting as if strong fingers clenched it tight.
“I wish I had…”

Laurent shook his head. “If you intend to
kill Maarten, he is in his inner chamber. He will likely
be…distracted.”

Trembling, staring into what had been his
home, his prison, for half of his life, Rory hesitated.

“Don’t dwell on it, Rorik,” Laurent said
softly. He moved closer on silent feet. “He has your Andrew. He is
meeting out punishment as we speak. Dwell on that. End it now.”

Rory closed his eyes. He took a deep breath.
Andrew
. “Announce me.”

“What?”

“Play his game, it will please him, make
him,” Rory glanced at Laurent, “happy. Foolish.”

Laurent nodded and turned to lead him into
the room.

Rory paid no heed to the treasures
throughout. Perhaps there were higher piles, perhaps they were more
opulent than he remembered, but they were of little consequence. He
followed Laurent to another door and waited as the man knocked.

“My lord,” Laurent called.

There was a grunt, a slap, and Maarten’s
strained voice came to them. “I told you to
wait
until I
called
.”

Rory shuddered, felt dizzy. “
God
,” he
whispered, closing his eyes. “God, please. Let him open the door.
Let Andrew still be…” He could not finish.

“My lord,” Laurent said, in his most formal
tone. “Rorik is here.”

There was silence. Then another slap and
words that Rory could not hear. Then the sound of the bar scraping
as it was lifted, and the door opened.

This is what Rory had dreaded, the reason
he’d dared not confront Maarten in his keep. The walls were too
close, the memories still lurid and vibrant despite the passing of
years. The time between his last sight of Maarten and now could
have been a mere space of days, so visceral was Rory’s reaction. A
tempest of emotions threatened to overwhelm him; hate, fear,
anger….and longing. Maarten had been his tormentor, his jailor, but
also his provider. At other times he had been father, comfort,
pleasure…his only constant companion. His trembling increased and
his thoughts rolled like flotsam upon wave after wave of
conflict.

The man was smiling at him, joyous though
Rory was covered with blood and bearing weapons. That Maarten was
completely naked fazed none present, for it was far too common an
occurrence in these private chambers. What did garner Rory’s
attention were the streaks of blood on the man’s hands and groin.
That was when everything snapped into place. His hands
tightened.

Before he could lift his swords, Maarten had
reached down to grab at something beside the door.

“Andrew,” Rory whispered, his heart lurching,
splitting inside his chest.

Unresisting, barely conscious, and also free
of cloth, Andrew looked like a child against Maarten’s chest.

“Andrew,” the man called, hand cradling to
lift Andrew’s chin. “
Lille due
, open your eyes. Look who has
come to play.”

Rory shook with fury. Blood ran from Andrew’s
nose, his mouth, and streaks of shining seed mingled on his chin.
There were bruises of all sizes scattered across his throat and
shoulders, and deep scratches down his chest. With obvious effort,
Andrew opened his eyes. There was a moment of dazed confusion in
which he glanced around the room without focusing. His gaze
sharpened, at last. He saw Rory…and started to cry. Only there were
no sobs, merely gasps and huffs of air.

“Oh, dove, why do you weep? Do you not wish
to greet him?” Maarten was saying, running a hand down Andrew’s
stomach. He cupped Andrew’s cock. “Perhaps we should take him to
the dungeon, hmm? Would you like that, my love?”

Andrew did not answer, except to struggle
weakly against Maarten’s hold.

“Come in, Rorik. Come in,” Maarten said, the
most gracious of hosts. He maintained his shield, though, holding
Andrew close to him. Before Rory could cross the threshold, said,
“Drop the swords.”

Hesitating, feeling the pain of wounds old
and new and the weakness of partial recovery, Rory knew he faced
his death. Yet he could not attack and risk hurting Andrew. He
looked to Laurent, still standing beside the door. His face was
smooth, expressionless, but he gave a small nod with something like
faith
burning in his eyes.

Maarten took a firm grip on Andrew’s jaw. “Do
it now or I snap his neck.”

The swords clattered to the floor. Rory
stepped forward.

“Laurent, bar the door behind him.”

The sound of the bar sliding into place was
soft and final as death.

“Do not think that I was fooled by this
charade.”

“What charade?” Rory asked, following Maarten
as he backed farther into the room.

“That you were dead. That he hated you. He is
quite good, though, with his distractions,” Maarten chuckled. He
turned Andrew in his arms and licked a clean swath through the
blood and come on Andrew’s cheek.

Rory felt ill, his eyes tracing lash marks,
easily two dozen striping from Andrew’s shoulders down to his
thighs. They were still fresh and bleeding and Maarten’s fingers
dug into the angry, torn flesh. Andrew went limp, head falling back
in a faint.

“He believed I was dead. What he says he saw
was truth.”

Maarten grinned. “Seeing you must have been
quite a shock. Poor boy, no wonder he wept.” He dipped his head,
eyes still on Rory, and bit into Andrew’s shoulder. The pain was
enough to rouse Andrew from unconsciousness; his mouth opened in a
scream that was disturbingly silent.

“Let him go,” Rory snarled.

Straightening, still smiling, Maarten pulled
Andrew closer, until Andrew’s toes barely touched the floor. One
hand slipped between Andrew’s buttocks and the smaller man lurched
forward in an attempt to escape. “I do not begrudge your taking
him. He is beautiful,” Maarten breathed, pushing all the fingers of
his hand into Andrew’s body. “So responsive.”

Andrew cried out, a dry, crackling sound that
raised the hairs on the back of Rory’s neck. He felt his hands
clench, bones creaking in helpless frustration. He could not attack
Maarten while the man still held Andrew, could not risk that
Maarten would act upon his threat. Neither could he stand and watch
Andrew suffer.

Maarten forced his hand up higher, lifting
Andrew off of his feet completely. Arching, hands pressing at
Maarten’s shoulders, Andrew threw his head back with another
soundless scream.

“Stop it!” Rory cried, stepping forward.

The laugh Rory heard was threaded with
madness. “Come, Rorik. We could have him together. We could tear
open this sweet fruit and fill it with our seed.”

Rory squeezed his eyes shut. He cast his mind
out to catch any thought, any idea, that would aid him. It could
not end like this! Not with Andrew in Maarten’s hands, himself
trapped by his own fear and helplessness. When he opened his eyes
again, ready to hurl himself upon the man, he found Maarten’s gaze
on his, unwavering. Always watching him, always taunting him,
goading him to fear, anger…