Angie Arms - Flames series 04 (11 page)

The moonlight sent eerily dancing shadows against the crumbled walls.  Ghosts of the past?  Fear raced up her spine, skittered through her nerve endings
, and seized her heart within her chest, to make her feel faint.  She wanted to run.  There were too many ghosts here.  She felt foolish now for scoffing at Ray’s mother and Maureen, because the spirits were here with her.  Was Karen here?  Emma wanted to flee back to the safety of her home, her sturdy walls, and the strong oak board that barred the door against the evil that lurked here tonight. 

She moved closer, stepped carefully across the debris of the shattered gate.  Few would dare
trespass here, all heard the stories, the horrors that transpired.  Emma prided herself in being a strong woman, and brave.  Her father and uncle commented on it often, with the hint of pride in their voices.  She could scamper up the tallest of trees, jump into the darkest pools, brave the blackest nights, but tonight she knew fear.  She could feel her hands shake and she clasped her hands together in front of her.  The moon was not a blessing, its brightness made the shadows deeper, more menacing.  It seemed a lifetime ago Emma first saw the carnage here, the broken walls, and the bodies.  It was only the beginning. 

The sound
to her right made her heart lurch. 
What is it
, her mind whispered in a near frantic rhythm.  She turned and stared into the black shadow for what seemed an eternity.  Nothing moved, not even the ghosts surrounding her.  She turned and moved deeper into the place, where her nightmares resided.  Was it her imagination, or did the wind increase.  It pushed her hair across her shoulders, into her face.  It crept through the cracks of the walls, and howled through the windows and doorways.  The place was alive.  As surely as Emma knew her name, she knew this place lived and breathed.  She did not know how she knew, but Karen was here, Emma’s blue-green eyes flew to the tower.  It loomed out of the blackness, its gray walls reaching for the moonlight, and Emma wanted to vomit. 
Karen is there.  Karen is there.
  Her mind told her, and her feet obeyed.  She moved all the way to the doorway, the wood long ago splintered and never replaced.  She paused, just inside.  The rain reached to the first steps she could see, and there were no remnants of the blood that once flowed to the bottom of the steps, from the top of the tower.  She heard something.  It sounded almost like a popping sound, perhaps a grating.  She shook her head, once, twice but still her feet refused to obey what her soul told her, which was to run.  Up the steps, into the darkness.  She was in the shadows, and she could feel hands reaching for her, women and children.  She heard their cries, not with her ears, but from somewhere within her, she heard their pleas, their screams for mercy.  “Dear Lord, see me from this place.  Dear Lord, see me from this place,” she whispered over and over, as she hurried her steps upward.

At the top she stepped quickly from
the shadows, her heart hammered, as if she ran far, her mind panicked and threatened to rebel at any moment, and send her over into madness.  She looked around the tower room.  No one came here to steal the furniture.  No one dared.  The bodies mercifully were buried, but no one ventured here since.  Emma did not know if it was her imagination, or if she could still smell the iron scent of blood, but now there was rankness to it.  Her mind told her the smell would not still be in this room, after all that time, but in her mind it was.

There it was, the sound.  She had ignored the sound for a moment as her senses came back to her
, after her terrifying trip up the steps.  Her eyes raked through the shadows, some deep dark crevices, others lighter, as the moon filtered through the small windows high on the walls.  The sound seemed to echo at first, driving into her brain, and panic felt close at hand.  A movement, slight, from deep shadow to light.  She focused on the object that moved back into the light, then out.  The rhythmic sound mimicked as the object moved.

A foot, a bare foot.  Emma stepped backward
, gripping the corner of the stairway, to keep from tumbling backward into the dark abyss.  She turned and took a step down, shaking her head.  Tears came to her eyes, and a sound escaped her throat like a frightened animal.  She turned and stepped back out of the darkness and moved forward, gripping her hands in front of her.  She stepped into the shadow and stared at the swaying foot.  It was such a rhythmic gentle movement, just like a lullaby, keeping time with the wind.  She looked upward, seeing the familiar white gown of Karen’s, further up to the narrow waist and chest, up to the frail neck, the rope wrapped tightly around it.  Karen’s head tilted to the side, and even in the dark shadows, she could see her eyes were open, staring, but unseeing.

A sob escaped Emma.  She wanted to run and never come back to this place
, but she couldn’t leave Karen.  She reached out and touched the foot, it was warm and she shrieked when it twitched. 
She’s alive.  She’s alive.
  Franticly she looked about her. 
She’s alive.
  Emma had to get her down.  She rushed one way, then another, trying to see the rope, where it was tied.  Karen must have tied it somewhere she could reach. 
She’s alive.
  Panic threatened to take hold.  It was too dark, and she couldn’t see where the rope was stretching from. 

She turned and ran in another direction
, and suddenly she found the rope as she ran into it with such force it struck her across the forehead, and her feet flew forward and up, and she crashed down onto the floor.  She quickly rolled to her hands and knees and looked to the side, she saw the rope tied tightly to the table leg.  She crawled quickly to it. 
She’s alive.
Her fingers fumbled with the knot. 
She’s alive
.  The thought seemed to slow her, but she recognized the frantic state her mind churned in.  She worked one knot loose and nearly cried, seeing it wrapped into two more knots.  She worked another knot loose, but the rope still did not release, and her fingers fumbled with it again.  As the last knot loosened, the rope jerked between her fingers, and the rope made a hissing sound as Karen’s weight pulled it through the rafters, and the woman hit the floor before Emma could get back to her.

Reaching her side
, a sob escaped her.  The older woman’s frail body lay on its side, her brown hair lying across her shoulders, trailing in the floor, across her chin, and in her unseeing eyes as they stared at nothing. 

“Karen,” Emma whispered to her
, as she reached a hand toward her.  Quickly she rolled her onto her back, her hand, which lay across her hip, fell limply against her thigh, and her brown eyes stared upward, but there was no life behind them.  No breath filled the woman’s chest.

“Karen,” she said
, shaking her.  Fear, desperation, and self loathing for allowing it to happen, overwhelmed her, and she grabbed the woman by her shoulders and shook her.  Emma was strong for her size and gender, and Karen’s head whipped back and forth.  Emma thought she heard a noise and allowed the woman to fall gently back to the floor, yet still she did not move, her chest did not rise, and her fingers did not twitch. 

She’s alive
, her mind screamed at her. 
She’s alive
.  Emma’s hand whipped out, and the crack of it against Karen’s cheek, echoed in the silent chamber.  Still Karen did not move, an eye did not flutter, her chest did not move.  “No, no, no,” she whispered, as she sank back on her heels, covering her face with her hands, she sobbed.  Dawn streaked the sky before Emma left the tower.  She long since came back to her senses, but the moon lit the tower chamber, and madness awaited her in the darkness of the stair well. 

Out in the light of day it was as dreary as her mood
, with the low hanging clouds and the mist of rain that was no more than a soft caress against her cheeks, but slowly wet her clothes.  She wondered about aimlessly, unable to return to her cabin, unwilling to see anyone, and tell them the news of the new horror that would haunt the tower.  By noon she found herself sitting on the rock ledge she frequented often in her childhood.  It looked out over the forest, high above the trees. When she was small she would imagine herself a bird, and would stand upon it, with her arms spread, as if she soared free above the life that kept her rooted to the ground.

Now she sat watching the sun fight to break through the clouds
, but it seemed as futile as the wind that buffeted the rocks surrounding her.  There were no thoughts of flying, only thoughts of freedom, of leaving the horrors of the towers, of the life she grew up in.  Always hiding, never knowing if her father and uncle would befall the same horrors of the tower women and children, because they did not support the King.  She stood on the ledge for a long time, feeling the mist, while thoughts of her own mortality ran freely inside her head.

By the time the sun se
t, she sat on the stoop of her home, rocking back and forth, the chill from her wetted clothes was only a small reason why she shivered uncontrollably.  She stood on the ledge for what seemed like hours, and the only thing she could think of was jumping.  Leaving it all behind, and sailing like a bird over the trees, if only for a moment, before she crashed to the earth, and she knew no more pain and sorrow.  When the reality of her thoughts finally broke through, and her brain was able to comprehend them, she left the ledge quickly. 

She
wondered through the woods for some time.  Thinking of her father and uncle, and all they were willing to give up for what they believed.  She thought of her love for her home, for the forest she lived in, for the people of the nearby village, and those who hid in the safety of the trees, so they could continue to live, and not be rotting in their graves.  She refused to think of Karen when she left the ledge, and by the time she reached home, she knew what she had to do.  She had to fight.  She had to take up her father’s cause.  He had no son to do it.  No one to carry on the fight, unless it was her.  Both her father and uncle were getting older, they couldn’t fight this war forever, not alone. 

Chapter 6

Roland rolled onto his back.  He thrust a leg from beneath the covers and scratched his itching balls.  He turned his head, and his blue gaze fell on the girl who came back to the room with him last night.  She lay naked, the covers bunched beneath her.  She lay on her stomach, her alabaster skin glowed in the morning light, fighting its way through the one small window.  Her leg was bent, pulled upward toward her stomach, leaving her thighs open, and herself exposed.  Her hands were made into a pillow cradling her face, and her head turned away from him in her slumber.  He could only see her head full of dirty blonde hair, and wished he could recall the girl’s face.

With a groan
, he rolled himself to a sitting position, planting his feet on the floor.  At his feet was a wineskin.  He picked it up, and in three quick drinks, emptied the contents.  He used the back of his hand to wipe off his mouth.  With the accommodating woman in his bed, all he wanted to do was put her luscious body to use again, but he would have Marcus waiting on him. 

Roland stood
, and began a search about the room for his clothes he slipped on. 
Marcus got in over his head on this one
, Roland thought, before leaving the room.  Marcus, in his deep dedication of loyalty to Garrick, followed the King, and finally got an audience with him.  Marcus thought it went well, but Roland thought it couldn’t have gone worse.  Now the King was expecting Marcus to take over the hunt for rebels.  Marcus really thought it would get the King to leave Garrick alone.  Roland knew differently.  He wasn’t sure why he chose to go with Marcus.  Roland’s loyalty always had, and always would, lie with Damien.  But Marcus could take him farther away.  At Damien’s everyone could catch up to him.  With Marcus, he could remain alone. It was different when he was with the army and fighting, even with Marcus they were never in one place for long.  There was a certain level of peace in the nomad life.  With all the men settling down with wives, he found himself growing afraid for his future. 

Marcus sat on Ebony
, the horse calmly waiting for his rider to give him a command, while Roland could detect the man’s agitation.  He became an ass since leaving Alena behind.  Roland wished he could feel for the man, but he could not relate at all.  Roland married his childhood sweetheart and was with her until she died, so he didn’t know what it was like to have to leave the woman he loved behind.  For Marcus, there was still hope they could one day be together. Roland was not living under such fantasies.

Roland’s horse Luke, was already saddled, and he
stepped to the horse and took the reins.  As soon as he touched the bridle the horse’s head came up, and his ears pricked forward.  Each line of the gray horse turned into that of a graceful dancer,     nostrils flared.  Roland moved with the horse as he danced sideways, his foot in the stirrup for only a second before he anticipated his horse’s move, and put his trust into that intuition, and propelled himself into the open air, aiming for the position the saddle would be in, by the time he made it there.  Like every time before, he was on the horse’s back and the animal half reared, dancing sideways, letting out a snort of anticipation.  Roland could not help the prideful smile that creased his face as he turned to canter after Marcus.

~   ~   ~

Helthpool

Marcus watched the man grovel beneath Roland’s foot.  He was one of the rebels, Marcus had no doubt.  He saw the doubt in Roland’s
eyes, the man was balking at every decision Marcus made since leaving Kinsey.  He was not used to the insolence the man was showing him, and it was wearing on his nerves. 

“Please.  I don’t know what you want,” the man pleaded. 

“You know what we want,” Marcus yelled at him, from his position still on the horse.  “Tell us where the others are, and we will make your death a quick one.”

“I don’t know.  I am not a rebel.  I am loyal to King Richard
, and only his majesty.”  The man was elderly, old enough to be their father.  His gray hair was long, his clothes torn, and it looked like he had not had a square meal in years.

“So you are only out for a stroll this time of evening?” Marcus sneered at him.

“Hunting.  My wife is ill and she needs food.”

Tears squeezed from the corner of the man’s pale blue eyes, their color made the old man look sickly. 

“Do you know who we are?” Marcus asked.  The old man tried to shake his head, but the effort only served to make him gag, as it increased the pressure of Roland’s foot on his throat. 

“I am Sir Marcus Kinsey, I serve the Fenton Bastard
, and the man who is going to kill you is Sir Roland Deveroux, who serves Lord Damien Leforte.  Have you heard of these men?”

Marcus’s irritation shot higher when he watched Roland ease his foot up a little to allow the man some comfort
, so he could respond.

“The Fenton Bastard killed many here years ago.  The ghosts still haunt Helthpool.”

“And your ghost will haunt these woods, because you will die a most slow and agonizing death if you do not tell me where the rest of the traitors hide.”

“I am not a traitor and all I know are loyal to his majesty.  I swear it.”  The last words ended with a croak
, when Roland applied more pressure.

“Do it,” Marcus snapped.  Roland looked up at him with the question in his eyes.

“Cut out his heart.”

“Please,” the man begged.  Roland’s foot cut the plea off
, but the man only stood there, staring down at him. 

Quickly Marcus swung from the back of his horse and stepping toward the two
, drew his dagger.  “Have you never cut a man’s heart out?” Marcus snapped.  Reaching Roland, he shoved him roughly away and bending, did not hesitate to open a deep wound on the old man’s chest.  Marcus placed his knees above and below the man’s chest to hold him still, as he cut through the bones of his chest, and lifted the man’s heart from the gaping wound.  It did not beat. Garrick was much more adept at such a tactic, causing less damage so the man would have suffered longer, but Marcus could do only what he could.  Rising, he ignored the blood soaked into the knees of his pants legs, and sheathed the knife. 

“Are we going to have problems with this?” Marcus demanded
, turning his attention to Roland.  The man stood staring wide eyed at the carcass of the dead man, his blue eyes round and filled with horror.  “I don’t need you to do what needs to be done.”

“I think you do,” Roland said, gathering his wits
, and letting the horror wash off his features.

Marcus half grunted
, half snickered, as he moved back to his horse.  He easily swung into the saddle. 

“You’re going to need me because if you keep doing this,” he said
, sweeping a hand at the carnage lying on the forest floor.  “You will be killed in your sleep.  I do not think he was a rebel.”

“And I know he was,” Marcus screamed with anger
.  He had the urge to cut Roland’s heart out for still questioning him.  “I will make Helthpool my home while here.  I suggest you go running back to Damien and the soft life.  You are clearly not cut out for the King’s work.”

He turned and rode away, disappointed when he heard the hoof beats behind him
, and he knew by the rhythm of the hoofs it was Roland.  He felt the urge to turn and drive a sword into him, to make him go away.  He didn’t understand what Roland had to gain from following him, hunting out the traitors.  For Marcus it was an effort to protect Garrick, give him some respite.  It was as if he switched personalities with the man.  Garrick now had a life, and something to live for, and Marcus was left with nothing, so it only seemed right Marcus was here, and Garrick was at Kinsey, with his beautiful wife. 

They found the body of the woman in the tower.  The rope around her neck was tied to nothing, the k
not loosened as if someone tried to help her, save her from her own folly, but it apparently was too late.  It hadn’t been so long ago, the body just began to smell.  Roland became quiet when they entered the tower room and found her.  He commented on her thinness, the wild hair, and mumbled about how the woman must have been mad when she came to this place to kill herself.  He lifted her gently and spent well past dusk digging a grave for her, and burying her.  Marcus suggested they burn the body and save themselves a great deal of trouble.  Roland snapped at him he didn’t have to help, so Marcus left him alone to do the task himself, while he went inside and readied a room to sleep in.

~   ~   ~

Roland stretched out on the mattress, the fresh straw was far better than the moldy smelling mattress he slept on the first night they stayed at Helthpool.  He put a great deal of effort into making the small castle habitable, comfortable even.  But he did not think anyone would ever be comfortable in this place.  They had been living there for nearly a week, enough time that Roland learned of the story behind the place he now dwelt in.  Marcus wasn’t a part of the slaying, but Garrick was, and the horrors the people found the next morning made Roland uneasy, for surely there were many souls inside the walls.

He heard many sounds in this old place
, when he knew he was alone.  Sounds that would be easy to blame on other things, but other things would not make the hair on the back of his neck stand up.  The fact he slept not far from the man who was loyal to the Fenton Bastard, made him even more uneasy.

The sound shot Roland off the mattress and onto his feet.  He schooled hi
s breathing as he clutched his sword tightly, his heart hammering, drumming in his ears.  How did one fight a spirit?  Not all ghosts he reasoned, close to the thousandth time, would be evil.  Some would just be troubled, confused, afraid even, and could not make sense of where they were, what was happening to them. 

Roland swallowed
, and moved to the door of his chamber.  He looked upward, the stairs rising toward the very top chamber of the tower.  He heard footsteps, a quiet whisper, but something just passed by his door, going up into the top chamber.  He gripped his sword tighter.  Perhaps it was the man, Wade, who was a part of the killing.  Marcus said the man had not returned with Garrick.  Perhaps he too was dead, and was climbing the stairs again, to carry out the evil the two men had long ago. 

He realized he was being silly.  Yet
, he could not stop the imaginings, and his strong belief they were not alone here.  Slowly he moved up the steps, try as he might not to make a sound, his steps were far louder than those that passed.  He felt as if his heart was about to beat from his chest.  That brought on the thought of the old man, and fear hit him anew.  It could be him, and in the morning Marcus would find him in the top chamber, with his heart lying on his mangled chest.  He swallowed the bile, and swore at himself for building such fear in his own mind.  He was not some untried youth.  He was bred and born to be a knight, fought alongside the legendary Lord Damien.  But that was under King Henry, a man who appreciated and could recognize true loyalty.  Roland knew Damien stood on shaky ground with Richard from the beginning, that’s why he knew there would be nothing to save Garrick, or Damien, from the King.  They would be dead as surely as Henry himself.

Now anger filled him, instead of his fear.  Marcus would not listen to reason.  He seemed
to not understand, or care, the King now had not only one Fenton Bastard, but two.  Marcus learned well the ways of Garrick, for a colder hearted individual Roland did not know, until now.  Rebel or not, the old man was too old to fight, something Marcus did not seem to care about.  What a horrific way to die, and Marcus did not bat an eye.

He stepped up into the floor of the chamber, easing around the last corner of the stairs.  It was lighter here, the difference between the black steps and the moon coming into the windows of the chamber
, seemed to light it up like daylight.  He did not mistake the crouching figure in the center of the room.  The woman turned toward him quickly and he heard a gasp.

It was not the old man.  He felt himself release the breath
he was holding. 

“Where is she?”

The voice was a whisper, and eerie in the silent chamber. 

“Where is who?”  Was this a mother’s spirit
come back looking for her child?  His heart felt like it exploded from his chest, and he bit hard on his lip, the pain and the presence before him helped chase the sorrow away.

“Karen.”

The figure stood as she spoke, and he heard the crack of her voice, still but a whisper.  Perhaps she returned looking for a mother, or a friend.

“I do not know Karen.”

“Of course you don’t know Karen,” the woman said, impatiently.  She stepped forward and he saw hair a red he never saw before.  It was intense under the moonlight, glowing as it flowed around her shoulders.  Then she stepped out of the light and close enough he grew nervous.  “But where is her body?”

“I don’t know what happened to the bodies,” he said
, feeling the urge to take a step back, but knowing the stairs were behind him and a certain death.  Instead he eased to the right, away from the stairs, and into open space so he might be able to keep his distance.  He felt sure he should just close his eyes, as he did every night he heard the sounds.