The Gauntlet (5 page)

Kit held on, fingers clenched white against
the wood, as they swooped around the edge of the ramparts, causing
several of the guards who had remained at their posts to have to
hit the ground face-first. But others retained their dignity—and
their ability to fire. The barrel rolled and plunged, weaving in
and out of the cover of smoke, as a rain of arrows shot by. One of
them grazed Kit’s arm, leaving a stinging track across his skin,
while another buried itself in the wood between his spread
legs.

He stared at it wildly—there were certain
things he was not willing to sacrifice for queen and country—only
to have the witch start kicking at him. It looked like she wasn’t
dead, after all, he thought, as a dirty heel smashed into his nose.
He grabbed it, trying to see past the blood flying in his face, and
caught sight of wild red hair and glaring gray eyes.

“Let go!”

“Do you promise not to kick me again?” he
demanded thickly.

“Yes!”

He released her and she jerked her foot back,
only to bury it in his throat a moment later. Kit would have
cursed, but he thought there was an outside chance he might never
talk again. And then a mage jumped him.

Their demented ride immediately took them
into the open air once more, the mage holding onto one of Kit’s
boots as the vampire tried to kick him off. He finally succeeded,
losing a fine piece of footwear in the process, only to have
another mage jump at them from the ramparts. Kit tensed, ready for
a fight, but the barrel suddenly stopped dead and the man sailed on
by, more than four feet off course.

Kit turned his head to grin at the mage and
received another kick upside the jaw.

“I’m trying to help you!” he told the witch
indistinctly.

“It’s a weak charm! You’re going to wear it
out!”

Kit personally thought that would be a vast
improvement, particularly when the crazed cask suddenly went into
convulsions. He held on, feeling rather like he was trying to break
a particularly cantankerous horse, as it bucked and shuddered and
shook. And then it suddenly flipped and dove straight for the
ground--with him underneath.

He cursed as he was dragged across the
battle, through the sides of burning sheds and over piles of
debris. The fire worried him most—he’d lost his cloak and his
doublet was quickly being shredded, leaving little barrier between
the deadly embers and his skin. Thankfully, the barrel didn’t seem
to be the patient sort, and a moment later they were back in the
air.

Kit decided that enough was enough and
snapped the rope holding the witch, preparing to leap off with her,
only to be smashed in the face by something huge and heavy. It took
him a moment to realize that it was the side of the tower. They had
circled back to where this whole crazy ride had started.

And then the equally crazy witch lunged for
the spelled window ledge again. “Are you mad?” he asked, grabbing
her.

“Let me go!” Her elbow caught him in the
stomach, but he grimly held on.

“You’ll get yourself killed! The ward--”

“Is down,” she gasped, struggling. “It
expended its energy last time—I can get through now!”

“You can get trapped now,” he shot back. He
didn’t understand enough about magic to fully follow what was going
on, but the guards running for the base of the tower were all too
familiar. As was the spell that hit him in the back a moment
later.

For an instant, he thought the witch had
thrown it, but she wasn’t even facing his way. As soon as the stun
loosened his hold, she grabbed the window ledge and, with a wriggle
and a twist, squeezed through. Kit slumped over the barrel, staring
blearily down at a red-headed dwarf at the bottom of the tower, who
was pointing the witch’s staff and glaring menacingly up at
him.

There was little he could do if she chose to
hit him again, but instead she glanced behind her at the
approaching guards, grabbed the little girl’s hand and towed her
away. Kit concentrated on not falling off the barrel, which he
might survive, into the forest of guards, which he probably
wouldn’t. His head was numb and his fingers clumsy, but he managed
to grab the window ledge on the third try and somehow slithered
through the opening.

“You complete
ass
!” The woman looked
at him as he collapsed to the floor. “Did you push it away?”

“Push what away?” he asked thickly, trying to
figure out which way was up. The stunner had been a strong one, and
while he could throw it off, it would be a few minutes. And he
wasn’t sure they had that long.

“The barrel!”

She leaned dangerously far out the window,
and cursed. A moment later, he managed to sit up, only to have the
blunt end of a pike hit him upside the temple. It was a glancing
blow, but it slammed his head back into the wall. He sat there,
watching the room spin, as several witches fished out the window
with the sharp end of the pike.

They resolved themselves into one madwoman a
moment later, about the time he heard the approach of far too many
mages on the stairs. Of course, in his condition, one might be
enough to finish him. Kit staggered to his feet and started toward
the door, only to have the witch flap a hand at him. “I warded the
room!”

“It won’t hold them for long.”

“It won’t have to.” She’d hooked the
barrel—Kit could see it bobbing outside the window--and was in the
process of loading it with the contents of a large trunk. “Well,
don’t just stand there!” she said frantically. “Help me!”

“Help you do what?”

For an answer she shoved a double handful of
wands, charms and bottles of odd,

sludgy substances into his hands. He didn’t
know what half the things were, but although some of them buzzed,
chimed and rang like a struck tuning fork against his skin, nothing
appeared to be attacking him. For a change.

“Put them in,” she said impatiently.

“Put them in the barrel?” he asked slowly,
wondering if he was following this at all.

“Yes! By the Goddess, are you always this
slow?”

Kit thought that was a trifle unfair, all
things considered. But then the door shuddered and he decided to
worry about it later. He threw the weapons into the cask, turned
and almost bumped into the witch, who was right behind him with
another load.

He sidestepped and dragged the heavy trunk
over to the window, earning him a brief glance of approval. “I
don’t see what good this is going to do,” he pointed out, as they
finished cramming the barrel full of the trunk’s contents. “The
fight is halfway across the courtyard—”

“As this is about to be.” The witch started
to climb out the window, onto the overstuffed cask, when a spell
came sizzling through the air. Kit jerked her back and it exploded
against the stone, leaving a blackened scar on the tower’s
side.

“God’s Bones, woman!” he cursed, fighting an
urge to shake her.

“It wasn’t meant to happen this way,” she
said, staring blankly at the window. “I planned to have the weapons
out before anyone noticed.”

“They appear to have noticed,” Kit said
grimly, looking for other options. Unfortunately, there didn’t seem
to be any. The room was small and wedge-shaped, with but one door
and window, both of which the Circle was now guarding.

She rounded on him. “You should have stayed
out of it! If you hadn’t jumped on board they might not have
spotted me!”

“If I had stayed out of it, madam, you would
be dead,” he snapped. “And I was not the one sending us careening
about like a drunken hummingbird.”

“Neither was I!” Gray eyes flashed like
lightning. “Winnie thought you were attacking me. She was trying to
shake you off.”

“Winnie would be the demented dwarf?”

“She isn’t either,” the witch said heatedly.
“And say that sometime in her hearing!”

“I will, should I live so long,” he replied,
as the door shuddered again.

The witch stared at it, and then back at the
barrel. And then she snatched a wand from

the chest and aimed it at the fully-loaded
cask.

“What are you doing?” he demanded, grabbing
for her arm. But the stun had made him clumsy and before he could
knock it aside, their only way out of this death trap went flying
off like a bullet.

“Giving us a fighting chance.”

“That was our chance!”

The witch shook her head violently. “None of
us have a prayer if they don’t get that gate open!”

“And now what?”

“Now this.” She rotated her wrist and the
barrel followed the motion, spewing its contents across the
smoke-blackened scene.

“That wasn’t what I meant!” Kit said, giving
into temptation and shaking her. “How do you plan to get out of
here?”

She licked her lips. “We fight.”

“With what? You’ve just sent our only weapons
to the other side of the castle!”

“Not all of them,” she protested, glancing at
the pieces that lay scattered across a nearby table. “As long as
it’s only guards, we should be—”

The sound of a heavy fist, pounding on the
door, cut her off. “Open in the name of the queen!”

“She isn’t my queen!” the witch yelled.

There was a pause, and then another voice
spoke. “Then open in the name of the Circle.”

Chapter Six

Gillian stared at the vampire, who looked
blankly back. She didn’t have to ask if he had any ideas. His face
was as pale and tight as hers felt.

Outside, someone’s spell smashed the barrel
into a thousand pieces, but too late. There was a huge shout from
the crowd as the witches realized what had just rained down on them
like manna from Heaven. And then the fighting resumed, far more
viciously than before.

It was what she’d wanted, what she’d worked
for. There was no way of getting Elinor out of here if the gate
stayed closed, and no chance to break through without weapons. But
the plan had been to ride the barrel back down before sending it
off into the fray. Not to get trapped five stories off the ground
with the Circle on either exit.

“Master Marlowe,” the mage’s voice came
again. “We know you are in there with the witch. Send her out and
you may leave peacefully.”

“Peacefully?” The vampire snorted. “Your men
attacked me!”

“Because you were protecting the woman. Cease
to do so and we will have no quarrel with you. We promised your
lady safe passage and we will honor that agreement.”

Gillian braced herself, sure he would take
them up on the offer. She had friends who would have abandoned her
in such a situation, and she wouldn’t have blamed them. And this
man owed her nothing.

But he surprised her. “I have need of the
witch,” he said, gripping her arm possessively.

“Then you can petition the council.”

“Would that be the same council that
sentenced her to death?” he asked cynically.

“Send her out, or we shall come in and take
her.”

The menace in the man’s voice made Gillian
shiver, but the vampire just looked puzzled. “Why?” he demanded.
“Why risk anything for a common cutpurse? She is of no value to
you, while my lady would reward you handsomely—”

The mage laughed. “I am sure she would! Do
not think to deceive us. A common cutpurse she may have been, but
the guards saw what the old woman did. We know what she is!”

The vampire looked at her, a frown creasing
his forehead. “What are you?” he asked softly.

Gillian shook her head, equally bewildered.
“Nobody. I…nobody.”

“They appear to feel otherwise,” he said
dryly. Sharp dark eyes moved to the table. “I don’t suppose any of
those weapons—”

“Magical weapons are like any other kind,”
Gillian told him, swallowing. “Someone has to use them.”

“And I’m not a mage.”

“It wouldn’t matter. Two of us against how
many of them? No weapon would be enough to even the odds, much
less—”

A heavy fist hit the door. Gillian jumped and
the vampire’s hand tightened reflexively on her arm. It shouldn’t
have been painful, but his fingers closed right over the burn the
eldest had given her. She cried out and he abruptly let go, as the
mage spoke once more.

“Master Marlowe! I will not ask again!”

“Promises, promises,” the vampire
muttered.

Gillian didn’t say anything. She’d pushed up
her sleeve to get the fabric off the burn, but no raw, red flesh
met her gaze. Instead, she found herself staring in confusion at an
ancient, graceful design etched onto her inner wrist.

Her fingers traced the pattern slowly,
reverently. It wasn’t finished, with only two of the three spirals
showing dark blue against her skin. But there was no doubt what it
was. “The triskelion,” she whispered.

“The what?” the vampire asked.

She looked down, in the direction of his
voice, and found him sprawled on the floor for some reason. Her
head was spinning too much to even wonder why. “It’s the sigil used
by the leaders of our covens.”

His eyes narrowed. “A moment ago, you claimed
to be of no importance, and now you tell me you’re a coven
leader?”

“But that’s just it, I’m not! At least…”
Gillian had a sudden flash of memory, of the Great Mother’s hand
gripping her arm, of how she had refused to let go even in
death--and of the ease with which the elements had come to her aid
thereafter. She had put it down to the staff magnifying her magic.
But no amount of power should have allowed her to call an element
that was not hers.

“At least what?” he asked, getting up with a
frustrated look on his face.

“I think there’s a chance that the Great
Mother…that she may have—” she stopped, because it sounded absurd
to say it out loud—to even think it. But what other explanation was
there? “I think she may have passed her position on to me.”

She expected shock, awe, disbelief, all the
things she was feeling. But the vampire’s expression didn’t change,
except to look slightly confused. And then his head tilted at the
sound of some muttering outside. It was too low for her ears to
make out, but he didn’t appear to have that problem.