The Lethal Flame (Flame Series) (2 page)

Keri did not understand the turmoil of emotions that was ricocheting through her body at his nearness.  It pulled her to him, made her warm and vulnerable which made her stiffen in alarm. 
This was her enemy, he had threatened her children, killed her friends all in the name of some king she could give less of a shit about.  King Richard was after all the man who told her she had to marry Bryson, which put her in this place.  If she had her choice she would still be at home, safe with Alec and all the others.  “I will not surrender,” she spat at him, turning her head to the side to glare at him.

She found herself pinned against the wall, his sword at her throat.  “I am to secure all his majesty’s property and slay those who resist his rule.”  Cold, cold eyes bore into her.
  Were they more gray or green?  She shivered, she resisted, so this devil was going to kill her.  He shoved away from her and left her standing against the stone wall.  Halfway from the chamber he paused and looked back at her, his face now hidden in the darkness and she knew his intent.

She rose to her full height and lifted her chin in defiance.  She would not beg him for that would mean she was surrendering which she would not do.  He turned and the dungeon
was plunged into utter darkness as he left with the torch.

~   ~   ~   ~

Damien stared at the carnage that never seemed to end.   On Crusade with Richard had been different than this.  There he did not have to destroy the homes and lives of his fellow countrymen.    But these were hard times and he looked around himself at the hard men who called themselves soldiers.  King Richard had sent them here, to take back his property from rebel control.  From the control of those who might support Prince John.  They were to wipe the rebels’ bloodlines from the face of the earth and
for the past two years Damien commanded it all. 

Damien had served the crown und
er Henry II loyally until the crown was passed to his son Richard.  Who in turn took Damien’s land until he proved his worth, upon which time the title of Lord and his property might be returned to him.  Damien was not stupid.  He knew Richard needed fighting men and that was one thing Damien had learned to do well.  He fought battle after battle and never was he promised his title or his land back, only a vague reward dangled just out of his reach so he would continue to do the bloody work of the king.  The man did not understand it was the crown itself, not the man.  He would lay his life down for King Richard and if he failed to hold the crown for him he would lay it down for Prince John or whoever would wear the crown next.  He was a soldier, a knight to the crown, it did not matter the man who wore it for he had taken an oath to himself long ago.  Politics had no place in his position and its involvement would only destroy all he had built, and all he had protected.

Once Damien had been young and idealistic, vowing he would always do the right thing no matter what power was thrust upon him. 
Always it was the hardest battle he fought, for times were hard.  Yet, for the most part, he had remained true to himself and there was nothing that could have made Damien accept this task.  It seemed as if King Richard knew this.  So he had taken Damien’s sister, as well as the sisters of some of the other men, some wives and children and they all lived under the threat of death if the men were not successful in wiping out the rebels. 

Yet, when this was all done Damien would owe a debt to the devil himself, the Fenton Bastard.  Damien thought the man had already paid his debt to the king and was free to go about his life, yet he volunteered to take half the properties the King sent Damien to destroy.
  Afterward they could meet at Featherstone and compare war stories and toast their hollow victories.  Until then Damien had to wonder what debt a man such as Garrick Fenton would demand of him.  His soul was already taken and Damien wondered as he looked around him what else he could possibly have to give.

That these rebels were the enemy was his only solace, a threat to the crown.  But the problem was t
hese rebels were mostly villagers and local nobility who had held on through wars and famine, buried their loved ones in the soil they fought on, only to have him come along and push them out.  It was what he did after he conquered that left his nights sleepless, he killed them so they could not amass and threaten rebellion another day.  Those that fought against the king died under the king and Damien was the one to sentence them. 

He moved toward the overhang of a roof where supplies had been moved from beneath to allow room for some of the rebels.  They stood on the barrels found there, six of them, it was good the roof was well supported he thought.  Long ago he turned his thoughts away from the knowledge the rebels were but men.  Damien looked up at the first man.  His face was round, his skin pale from the amount of blood he lost.  His blue eyes looked back at him, already lifeless, it was doubtful the man would survive even without the rope around his neck cutting off his air supply when Damien kicked the barrel from beneath him.  It made no difference.

His body thrashed and jerked, the arm that had been nearly severed at the shoulder flopped grotesquely.  He had granted the man mercy and not tied his hands behind his back as he had the others.  The man’s body gave up its fight for survival.  It was hard to preserve the dignity of the conquered.

The next man was tall and lanky.

“Rot in hell along with your damned king,” the man said.  His lips worked and a stream of spit was let lose.  It fell short but Damien’s foot did not as he kicked the barrel away.  Brown eyes rolled back into the young man’s head.  A life extinguished before it really had a chance to begin.  There was a daily struggle against the guilt and nightmares that tried to consume Damien.  He had a job to do so he ignored the pleas from the rebels but in his own head he locked them away.  Anyone who raised a weapon were hung, run through or taken to their dungeons to have their keeps burned down around them.  He didn’t like committing them to hell’s fire but after a while it was easier not to see their faces. 

He picked up his pace, the bodies thrashed, the sound was an eerie one as the roof strained against the weight and struggles of the dying.  To kill a fellow soldier that was the purpose of a soldier. 
These people were angered by a king who would take a man’s land for his own, if it became his whim, as well as any and all possessions which included wives and daughters.  Wasn’t that why he was here doing this wicked deed in the name of the king?

The commander of the castle
’s guard sat on the ground nearby.  He was doubled over against the pain of the wound in his stomach.  His head was turned and he had watched each of his surviving men die.  When the bodies stilled Damien walked to him, the sound of his dagger clearing its sheath could be heard across the still courtyard.   The commander turned his head to the front, groaning as he tried to straighten himself.  The pain was too much and he remained doubled over, waiting for what he knew was to come.

Damien stepped behind him.  He wanted to ask the man about the warrior woman who had fought beside him.  Had they been lovers?  Was she as passionate a lover as she was a fighter?  But he did not wish to know anything about this man, it was better to not think of him loving, of living a life beyond the battlefield.  Bending forward his l
eft hand hovering over the red head, his right at the commander’s shoulder bile rose in his throat.  “You fought well and led bravely,” Damien whispered to the commander.  He gave the man no time to respond but grabbed a hand full of his hair jerking him upright.  The pain convulsed the man who reared back against his legs, his agony coming out in a gasp of indrawn breath.  His lungs never filled with the air for Damien cut his throat while the commander was in the throes of agony. 

The job done he shoved the man away and turned to Lord Bryson Adlam of Langley and wondered how he could possibly hang a man that big.  He was blubber from his three chins to the thighs that rubbed together when he walked. 

“Do you have a wife and children?” Damien asked the man. 

“Yes,” he said the spittle of fear flying from his lips.
  His beady brown eyes darted about, his fat tongue nervously coming out to lick at his greasy looking lips.  “I have.  Spare me so I can care for them,” he begged, clasping his meaty hands in front of him.  He felt immediate revulsion for the man and his cowardice.

“Richard shows no mercy to those who pick up a weapon against him,” Damien said unable to conceal the contempt in his voice.

“Please, you can have my wife,” he offered nearly falling on his knees in front of him. 

“Where is your wife?” Damien asked yet to see a lady about.

“I do not know.  She was on the wall the last time I saw her.”

“Why would you allow your wife on the wall during battle?”  An unsettling feeling began in Damien’s gut.

The Lord’s beady eyes shifted, “She is the one who fought against you.  I was in the hall with my children,” he said holding his arm out to the servant woman who brought two children closer.  “She is the rebel here.  She led Alec and his men,” he said motioning toward the body of the commander.  “As a matter of fact my men stopped fighting and left before the siege could begin.  Find her, hang her, she is the enemy here.”

“You would give your wife up to spare yourself?” Damien asked.  It was clear this man received no loyalty from his own soldiers if they had abandoned him.  It was strange that his wife would have men of her own, but chose not to comment. 

“You can have her to hang or keep her for yourself.  I will not contend your possession of her.”  When the sniveling man saw he was getting nowhere with Damien he tried a different tactic.  “You can have my daughter,” he said trying to grab the child that couldn’t be more than six.  The servant scowled and pulled the children back.  “She is still a virgin fit for a king.”  The man looked so proud of himself it turned Damien’s stomach and his anger flared out of control.  He drew his sword and without a thought he drove it deep into the man’s chest.  A look of horror crossed his face before he died. 

Damien looked up to see the man’s children staring at him in shocked horror.  He took the time to wipe the lord’s blood from his sword using the cloth on the man’s own back.  He slowly sheathed it moving toward the children who shrank against the older servant.

“Where is the mother?” he demanded.  The little girl gasped and would have disappeared under the folds of the servant’s dress if only she could.

“My mother will kill
you,” the little boy about eight years old, declared bravely taking half a step from the servant.

The servant was clearly frightened.  She had every right.  “I don’t know,” she replied putting a hand on the little boy’s shoulder and pulling him back against her.

“Would she flee?” he asked, impatience edging his voice.

“My momma’s not a coward,” the little boy managed before the servant quieted him.

“She would stand for us until she died,” the servant declared.  He saw pride flash in her eyes at her statement.  This missing woman certainly had the loyalty of her people.

“What is your name?”

“Lottie, sir,” she replied tentatively.

“Take the children into the hall,” Damien said.  “Gather the bodies of the women.   We’re looking for the lady,” he said to Cyrille turning to the man who stood behind him.  His brother was nearly his replica, although two years younger the only difference was the battle scars Cyrille carried.  So extensive he wore a hood amongst most people. 

His brother turned to carry the orders to the men and see they were carried out.   Damien

paused
and looked down at the Commander. 

“The next town I will take,” Roland said coming up to Damien’s side.  The man
had been Damien’s first squire and was as close a friend as any brother could be.  He still held his sword in his hand, whirling it about at his side.  His blue eyes looked almost gleeful, his reddish-brown hair was short, his face clean shaven.  It was a morning ritual to see every hair gone from his face before beginning his day.  Not that the young man had much facial hair to begin with, it had taken forever for him to grow a spotty beard for which all the men had teased him, Damien being the ring leader in it.  Roland had come a long way from the quiet young man who had wept over his first kill.  Now he still felt as all of them did, anxious and trepidatious all at the same time.  They knew more fights lay ahead but soon they would have a rest when they reached Featherstone. 

“No, I am commander
, it is my job.” 

Roland stood five feet eleven inches but could give Damien a good fight even at his much larger six feet four frame
because he always fought strategically, quickly picking out his opponents weaknesses.  Despite their years together he did not recognize the eyes that now looked back at him.  He was just another victim of King Richard’s.  While Damien and Cyrille’s sister still lived, Roland’s wife had been made an example of and had been run through by a sword while her children and devoted husband watched.  Now Roland’s sanity was questionable as well as the darkness that seemed to be overtaking him.  Once Damien’s voice of reason, Roland now looked for a fight everywhere, a chance to release the limitless anger that was now a part of his life.

“Will you kill her as a rebel if she still lives?” Roland asked looking to where the bodies of the dead wo
men were being laid out.  Damien pushed away the knowledge those women and children who had died as bystanders would still live if he had not come here.  He had yet to have a strong enough reason to kill a woman as a rebel.  If what the old lord and her children said was true, she was the rebel here and his luck had changed.