Blades of Men (on hold - sorry!)

Chapter Eight: Athalia

Chapter Eight: Athalia

   I could feel butterflies circling in my stomach, the whisper of each individual wing-beat growing into a deafening crescendo pressing against my ears. I was leaving Ireland, leaving the soldiers and the sadness and the growing mumbles of discontent. The thought made me smile with a brightness I hadn’t realised was possible. I could leave, and eventually I would be able to leave Conrad as well. He had made it clear he didn’t intend to harm me.

   Yet I would be a fool if I thought that I could trust his sentiments more than facts and rational thinking. I was a means to end, every inch of me sparkling with gold dust if he could continue to win his game. My mother would have been proud of my logic. I just felt...cold, with a horrible foreboding that I couldn’t shake off my being.

   I walked through the wavering trees, glad of the fresh air and cool morning breeze. Leaves danced and cackled, while branches swished past in a foray of green and hazel. Something felt wrong, though, out of place in nature’s dance. Menace lurked in the shadows, ugly and sly beneath the clear, morning sky. Then I felt it, a hand on my mouth and a body pressed close to my hips, a vague shape behind me that I could sense rather than see.

   Within a moment I was thrown into a confusing cacophony of motion and noise, each jab to his stomach, groin and foot meeting its mark. Every small exhale and shoot of pain I claimed as reward for my efforts seemed like a test as to my endurance. Every bruise I earned and every scratch I inflicted blossomed into a shower of spreading sapphires and droplets of rubies. I could feel tears glistening on my cheeks and hear the short, keening cries that somehow escaped from my parted lips, as well as the occasional answering grunts of pain from his mouth.

   I was losing. I was barely more than a child in stance; I was light and weak compared to the defined muscles and hulking weight of years and hardship. Gold would never stop me from being killed. It would only uselessly decorate my coffin.

    Finally I toppled back, away from the ferocity that seemed to be whirling all around me only to be met with sharp stone and sharper agony. My body felt broken, as if the life had been drained from its innermost reserves. How could a lone attacker cause so much harm? I couldn’t see his face, even as he loomed over me, every definable feature closeted by a closely drawn hood on his cloak. Yet the form was most definitely masculine, despite the current material ambiguity.

   In an instant, the black shape in front of me disappeared. The sound of knuckles pummelling flesh ensued, and I could feel my lips crack as I smiled slightly. How did a rogue manage to save me from death, injury and ensnarement in so many different ways? For who else would take the trouble to help and save a mere woman in the murky countryside of Ireland?

   With a final groan, Conrad’s grey eyes were suddenly burning into my own, reminding me of liquid rays of silver moonlight.

   “God!” he said as he peered into my face. He didn’t bother to ask how I was, rather favouring the medium of curses to communicate his concern. “If he wasn’t already half-dead, I’d kill the bastard!”

   The ice king had thawed slightly, allowing me to see the murderous passion that raged beneath his frozen surface. I felt arms pick me up, gentle but insistent, as my body swayed seemingly with the wind in a cradle of warmth.   

   “Where –” I started, my voice breaking halfway through my attempt. I cleared my throat and tried again. “Where is he?”

   “Unconscious, in the bushes – and hopefully in the same vicinity as an angry beehive.” Another small smile touched my lips at his thunderous expression.

   “Who was he?” I whispered. Conrad’s eyes softened for a minute, the metal of his eyes becoming bright and shining. I didn’t understand why the faceless man had picked me, whether I was the victim of a common robbery or of a planned and calculated attack.

   “You tell me,” he replied. My brow furrowed in confusion. Surely he didn’t think me so dim-witted as to ask him something I claimed as common knowledge. He continued, “I know you have some secrets. If you’re waiting for an opportune moment in which to divulge the sins of your soul, now is the time. I need to know how to protect you. I can’t do that if I don’t know what I’m fighting. Broken goods are worth little.” For a second, I had thought he actually cared about my well being further than that of the condition of a banknote.

   “Nevertheless, it can wait until after I’ve cleaned your wounds. You haven’t got any broken bones as far as I can tell, just...” His voice hardened, as did his features. “You have some scratches, and no doubt, some painful bruises at the very least. Maybe some cuts that will require stitches.” I shrugged, wincing as the movement sent jolts of pain running down my arm.

  “I’ve had worse,” I said, earning a sharp look of speculation. There was no pity or sympathy in his eyes, just concern and shock. My head started to spin wildly.

   “Ladies shouldn’t know such things,” he uttered softly. His eyes seemed older than time itself in that moment. He was more than a cad, or even a marquis. He was as ancient as the moon and as wise as a soldier after a thousand massacres. He was more than a name or a crock of gold.   

   Then his words stopped whispering through the air, shattering the moment. I was left with little more than a sense of timelessness as my body raced towards unconsciousness.

   Black.