Chapter Nineteen
But I have dreamt a dreamy dream...
I saw a dead man win a fight, and I think that man was I...
— The Battle of Otterbourne
Inside the door, Damian kissed her on the forehead, then leaned his head against hers. He stayed like that so long that stupid tears began to stream down her cheeks. He tilted his head faintly, so he could catch the ones on her right cheek.
Then, once more, he put her away from him. “Sleep well, lass.” He turned and started for the door.
“Sleep well?” she echoed sourly. That was it? She moved around him to plant herself betwixt him and the door.
He was just going to walk away from her. Damn his blind eyes! This was not going a’tall as she hoped. Well, she had not really planned out what she was going to do to keep him from fighting come the morrow. She counted on him being his usual randy self to aid her scheming. Never before had there been a problem with him wanting to lie with her.
“I seek the solitude of my room this night. Prepare for the coming morn.”
Over my dead body! She bit back the words before they escaped. “You do not wish to be with me?”
“If I stay with you, Aithinne, we will do little sleeping. I need all my strength and undivided mind to face Pendegast. He is too good to gift with any sort of advantage.” His hand reached out and cupped her face, his pale eyes looking at her full of emotion, almost awe.
If only it were with love. Then, he would stay for her.
Aithinne tried to smile, but her lips trembled. “What if I said—take off your clothes, Damian St. Giles?”
“Ah, lass, you do not play fair.” He kissed her cheek. “Rest well, Firebrand. Feel better.”
He tried to push past her, but she caught his arm. Think, silly woman, her mind screamed. “Ah…eh…’tis a chill in here. Could you please rebuild the fire before you go?”
Damian hesitated. She was never a convincing liar, too lacking in genuine guile. Laying the back of her hand against his cheek, she let him feel how cold she was. That much was not a lie. She was cold, cold to the marrow, afraid she was not woman enough to stop him by fair means or foul. Before, she had held him with potions and spells, now she had only her power as a woman to keep him.
He finally nodded and went to the fireplace, methodically laying several peat bricks in an alternating stack and then striking flint until the spark caught. The heady scent filled the air and the tendrils of warmth soon snaked through the damp room. She took off her mantle and laid it over the end of the bed, as he stood and dusted his hands on his thighs.
“There, Aithinne. That should hold you through the night. Just add a brick now and again and you should stay comfortable. ’Tis a cool start to summer. I can see getting used to these Highlands will take a bit of doing.”
Spinning, so her back was to him, she lifted her long hair over one shoulder. “Could you? I canno’ reach the lacings on my kirtle. I did no’ bring a lady’s maidservant and I would hate to awaken Tamlyn’s to aid me.” When he did not move, she glanced over her shoulder. “Please, Damian. I do no’ wish to sleep laced into my gown.”
After a long hesitation, he stepped forward and rather roughly tugged the leather lacings through the grommets. He separated the back of the gown, then his movements slowed, his large shaking hands sliding inside the gown about her waist. His touch caused her heart to jump. The callused hands, toughened from years of using a sword, squeezed her soft flesh.
She closed her eyes and leaned her head backward against his chest, rubbing against him. All the passion, all the love for this man rose within her, the words she craved to say, words to tell him of her love. Words he had not given her the right to speak. Instead, she expressed what stormed through her by reaching behind, and her hands grabbing the back of his thighs. She flexed her fingernails, digging into his strong muscles. As if she could take and hold him forever.
“Aithinne…” He breathed against her head, both a warning and a near plea for her to let him go.
She smiled when his groin bucked against her derrière, and felt confidence rise in her power to enthrall him. Greedily, he pulled her against him, increasing the contact. Savoring it. Then, he went and ruined it by firmly pushing her away from him. “No, Aithinne.”
She swung around, backing up in rapid steps so she stayed between him and the door. “I curse your no, Aithinne! You plan to fight for another woman on the morrow. Die for her. Damn your eyes. And you dare say no to me? Think again, bloody Lord Arrogant. You fight for Tamlyn come morn. Fine! Go ahead and throw your life away for another woman. This night you be mine.”
The muscles in his jaw flexed in fury, though it was nearly her undoing to see the glimmer of a tear in his eye.
She was so scared, terrified of losing him that she did not care if he saved his love for Tamlyn. Foolish now, what had seemed so important to her before mattered little. She would do anything to stop him from leaving. She tossed all her pride to the wind, cared nothing for her pain. “Love me…if only for this night.”
Grabbing her by the waist he tried to lift her away from the door. She wrapped her arms around his neck and brushed her mouth against his hard lips. She savored his taste, making her dizzy. He fought it, his lips remaining firm, but not for long. Instead of trying to put her aside, he yanked her to him, his mouth devouring hers. His kiss was savage, taking all and giving no quarter, but then her surrender was his, always his.
He broke the kiss, gasping for air. “You bedevil my mind. I cannot think when I am around you. You are like mead hitting my blood. What am I to do with you, Aithinne?”
The woman in her rose to the pure male power surging through him. She reached up and stroked his cheek with her thumb. “Love me, Damian. Just love me.”
He turned to kiss the inside of her right hand. Closing his eyes, he brushed his face against her palm. The Kenning let her feel his inner conflict, but she would be damned if she’d make it easy for him to leave her this night.
Then, he was kissing her again. Not a gentle kiss, but one speaking of his violent need for her. Damian kept his face clear of whiskers, in the Norman way, but it had been awhile since he last removed them so they were rough. That did not stop her from responding in full measure. She held nothing back, pouring her love into their passion, letting her kisses speak so eloquently the words he would not grant her the right to say.
His hands gathered the kirtle up her thighs, then were on her flesh, as he walked her backward to the bed. Bending her down to the feathered mattress, he unlaced his chausses and then entered her in one hard plunge, as though seeking to bring this to a brutal physical level rather than one spun from the magic of her love. She little cared. She would take Damian St. Giles anyway she could get him, and teach him the power of her love for him.
He stretched her arms over her head, then tightly laced his fingers with hers. He drove into her again and again, slamming against her. Deep inside, she thought he was trying to shock her, punish her from deterring him from his set path. Determined not to let him have control, she arched, meeting each fierce thrust.
Her release came, splintering her into a thousand red-hot shards. Instead of relaxing and enjoying the ecstasy, he increased his pace, driving her even harder, not giving any retreat. She did not want one.
“Again, Aithinne. I want to watch your eyes as you come apart for me, around me,” he growled, raising up on his elbows.
She purred, “Oh, aye, Damian…again…and again…and again.” Wrapping her legs about his waist, she increased the angle for his invasion of her body, letting the storm of emotions to sweep through them.
His mouth closed on her neck, scoring it with his sharp teeth, then sucking hard. He would mark her skin. She would wear the bruise proudly. Then, his mouth closed over hers and he kissed her until the last shards of reason fled and only the consuming flames of passion remained. Damian took her, devoured her with the hunger of a man seeking dominance or salvation.
Or one saying goodbye.
Fighting that horror, she loosened her fingers from his, then fisted them in the thick black curls at the back of his head. She tightened the grip, holding onto the locks as though she would never let him go. This was not a gentle coming together. They waged a war. She dreaded that she fought a losing battle. Time was running out. Damian was so wrapped up in his love for Tamlyn, his belief she had saved him when he was dying, that he could not see past those visions he held dear in his heart.
This was their last battlefield. She had to reach him, cradle his defiant soul with her love and pray it was enough. If not, he would destroy them both. Destroy both Glens. She poured every ounce of her heart into the physical expression of her love, trying to show him there was something right before his eyes. Someone who loved him more than life. She held back nothing, giving everything he demanded, more than he asked. Pushing him as hard as he pushed her.
Aithinne was betting everything. Their future.
♦◊♦
The sound of the door closing broke Aithinne’s deep slumber. She fought the need to give in to the sleep, sucking her back into the blackness. Panic pushed her heart to slam repeatedly against her ribs. Instead of slowing, the pace only increased as she realized Damian was not in the room.
He was gone. Gone to his death. She shuddered.
“Och, fool. I might just take a knife to him. Wouldst solve all our problems.” Her bare feet touched the cold stone floor as she slipped from the bed. Tossing open the wardrobe, she snatched up a plain sark and plaid kirtle and quickly slid them on. There was no one about as she made her way down the hall to the room where Damian was staying. The door was open partway so she entered without knocking.
In black leathern hose, gray shirt and studded black arming jack, he stood patiently while his squire, Dyel, fastened the buckle points on his long mail hauberk. Damian grew aware of her presence. She saw his jaw flex, but he continued speaking instructions lowly to Dyel. Kneeling, the lad strapped on the greaves and then pulled Damian’s hooded gray surcoat over his head.
Damian’s pale eyes met hers as he hung the baldric around his hips and buckled the strap across his chest. With a faint gesture of dismissal of his hand toward the door, he signaled the squire to leave them alone. “Wait just outside, Dyel.”
“Aye, my lord.” The young man gave a small nodding bow to Aithinne as he passed.
She waited until he stepped out into the passage. “You canno’ fight this day, Damian. If you fight, you will die.
He tucked his dagger in his belt, determination showing in the set of the curves surrounding his mouth. “All women entreat their men not to fight, fearing they are going to die. I regret you are upset, Aithinne. But this is how it must be. Please accept that. I need the focus of my mind. I cannot spare you a thought now.”
“Nay, ’tis not my fear. You will destroy us all. All of Glen Shane and Glen Eallach. ’Tis not my dread of losing you speaking. Last night Evelynour came to me beside the midden, carrying a dark augury. She warned me that if you fight you shall die. Before you die you will kill Pendegast. When you do, both glens will be made to suffer Edward’s wrath. He will accept Dirk’s death in Trial by Combat as Challon’s right. The same dispensation will no’ extend to you or our lands.”
“Aithinne, there was no one but you by the midden. When you passed out mayhap you dreamt this―”
“Oh, aye, I did dream it. After. I walked the path between Annwn―the Otherworld―so I saw you die. ’Tis what will be. Damn you, Lord Arrogant, your way you die. We all die. Are you willing to take that risk, just to fight for Tamlyn? You of all people should believe in the power of The Kenning. You feel these things in you, do you no’? ’Tis blood of your màthair speaking to you. You understand these foretellings. ’Tis why you be so fixed that—” Aithinne could not speak the words that he believed Tamlyn was the woman of his dreams.
“Aye, I know the ways of The Kenning. ’Tis not so simple.”
Her eyes were accusing. She vibrated with the pain, the anger. “You fight for her. You will die for her.”
“I fight for Julian, as well. He is my brother―”
“Julian fights for himself this day.” Challon’s voice caused them both to turn. All in black, and barded for battle, the man struck an imposing figure as he strode into the room. The Black Dragon. “Yea, we are brothers in the truest sense. Howbeit, this is my challenge. The combat will be fought before my people. I fight for my wife’s honor. The people of Glen Shane judge me this day, as much as God, and ultimately the king shall. I rule here by right, but also by respect. Respect comes from my unassailable power. My people wouldst lose respect if I let you fight in my stead. I’d lose respect for myself.” Challon turned his back to Aithinne as he lowered his voice. “Tamlyn is my wife, Damian. I fight for her. I have warned you about interfering in my marriage.”
Aithinne closed her eyes against the wave of hurt lancing through her. Even Challon was aware of Damian’s feelings for Tamlyn.
“Dirk Pendegast comes from a wealthy and powerful family, much favored by Edward,” Challon continued. “I cannot hang him. And I refuse to turn him over to Edward. He must die and punishment must come from me. And in a fashion that leaves Edward no recourse. The First Knight of Christendom will understand and abide by God’s law. You fighting in my stead will not have the blessing of the Church nor king. Only I can face Dirk in Trial by Combat.”
Damian pursed his mouth as he heard Challon’s truths. His eyes moved toward the narrow window, casting his sight far, deep in thought. Aithinne tasted regret as the stubborn man listened to neither of their arguments, blocking out their words.
Challon saw it as well, for he turned to face her. “He is not hearing me, is he?”
She shook her head sadly. “I know you do not place much faith in The Kenning, Lord Challon, and sometimes it fails me when it should serve me best. Know that Evelynour be a true seer. She kenned that you would come to this land, to claim Tamlyn, several seasons past. Last night she warned me Damian must no’ fight. He would die. Then, Edward will come with fire and sword.”
Challon smiled, lightly resting his hand on the pommel of his sword. “Then, there is only one thing to do. Damian?”
“Aye, Julian?”
When Damian swung back around, Julian moved so fast. He did not have time to block as Challon yanked the sword’s hilt straight out of the sheath and used it to ram, hard against Damian’s jaw.
Damian stood for an instant, surprise flooding his handsome face. Then, his knees buckled and he collapsed to the floor.
Challon gave a small nod. “Sometimes, in dealing with Damian the fewer words used the quicker the resolution.”
♦◊♦
Aithinne sat with Damian’s head in her lap. She lovingly ran her fingers through the black curls at his forehead, then traced his thick black brows. Placing a hand over his heart, she felt it thudding strongly, though in a normal rhythm. He was all right. “If only you would open that heart, my brave warrior.”
She was not happy when he stirred just a short time later. She had hoped he would remain unawake until after the combat was done. His right arm moved to his chest and then back out as he struggled to pull from the darkness claiming him. Hoping to slow him, she pushed against his shoulder, but he only struggled harder.
He sat up, blinking. “How…long?”
“Too long, my lord. ’Tis done. You should rest a bit more.” Aithinne lied without hesitation, hoping to prevent him from going after Challon.
Rubbing his bruised jaw, he glared at her. “For a woman who continually lies, I wouldst think you might hone the skill. Someday, I shall beat you for it.” He pushed up to stand without her help. As she tried to block him from leaving the room, he grabbed her waist, lifted her up and set her aside. “Do not interfere, Aithinne.”
“You canno’ leave. Damian, wait! Please, by all that be sacred to you—hold!”
Not heeding her call, he hurried down the hall and took the stairs two at a time. The steps were too wide; Aithinne could not follow at that pace. She picked up her skirts, going down as fast as she could. By the time she reached the courtyard, the irritating man had already mounted his destrier left waiting by Dyel, and spurred him from the ballium. Not even looking back.
“Curse your black head, Damian St. Giles.” Not bothering to saddle a horse, Aithinne ran toward the gate, only to have Challon’s Norman gatekeeper call after her as she ran through the open portcullis.
She did not even slow.
♦◊♦
Ravens fussed in the distance over the passes of Glen Shane as she approached the field. Aithinne saw this as an ill-omen. They waited to claim the souls of the dead and spirit them to Annwn. Her lungs burned, but she pushed on, fearful she would be too late. Aithinne raced through the foggy morn, bright rays of the rising sun punching through the haar, piercing it with blinding shafts of white light. It burned her eyes, nearly blinded her with the peculiar brilliance.
She panicked as she realized her dream had been made reality!
Desperately, she searched. She had to find him. She had to stop him even if she had to lie down before the hooves of his charger.
Mighty destriers barded for combat were being led to the field. Throngs of people were already there waiting, walking by her, around her, bumping into her, spinning her about, faceless to her in the panic, though their dread seemed to hang almost tangible in the air. She pushed, shoved against them, trying to reach Damian. She had to locate Damian. Stop him from throwing his life away. Somehow, she had to prevent this vision from unfolding.
Then, she spotted him at the far end of the open field.
Several people moved between them, paying little attention to how urgently she battled to reach him. Hindered by their shifting positions, Aithinne could only see glimpses of the tall knight. She struggled against the careless bodies, furious at the serfs for blocking her path to him. Finally, they parted and stepped to the sides, and she stared the beautiful warrior in the face.
All she could see was Damian St. Giles.
There was a vital, elemental power that emanated from this special warrior―fire of a Dragon of Challon. Hairs on the back of her neck prickled as she stared at him. The armour, covering his upper arms and thighs, and the mail habergeon were dark steel, the shirt and surcoat gray. Another who comes with the color of fog. The breeze stirred the black, wavy locks touched with a hint of dark fire, a mark of one bearing ancient Celtic blood. Long, curling softly about his ears, it brushed the metal gorget that covered the back of his neck.
Aithinne’s breath caught and held as she stared into the gray-green eyes, shade of the foggy passes of Glen Shane in early morn. He was handsome—nay, beautiful. And she loved him so!
Then, he turned to Challon, who was being made ready for battle by his squires, Gervase, Michael and Vincent.
Aithinne finally breathed, nearly swooning, as she comprehended Damian was not going to fight. Tears she had been holding broke free on a sob, torn from her. He caught her in his arms and pulled her to his chest.
“Shhh…my lady. You do not want me to fight. So I do not fight. And yet you cry anyway. Is there no pleasing you?”
Suddenly, the people lining the edge of the field stirred again, as Tamlyn came running toward them, Moffet on her heels. She pulled up when she saw the wooden rack holding five lances. The color drained from her face. Shoving to break free of the people blocking her path, Tamlyn headed straight for Julian, clearly determined to stop this combat at all costs.
Aithinne felt dreadful. She knew what the woman, who was like a sister to her, was facing.
Ignoring his furious wife bearing down on him, Julian examined one of the lances, running his hand over it. “Gervase, change this one out.”
“Aye, my lord.” Gervase immediately set to do Challon’s bidding.
“Challon, I want this stopped. Now!”
“Tamlyn. I see you found a way out.” His lashes made a small sweep as he swung around to stare at Moffet. “I cannot imagine how.”
Damian’s son blushed and lowered his green eyes, knowing he had failed his lord.
Patting the lad on the arm to reassure him, Damian handed Challon the Glenrogha claymore. “I honed the edge myself last night”
“Julian—” Tamlyn started, only to have him cut her off.
“Damian, take Tamlyn away―” Julian requested.
Nodding, Damian reached out to take Tamlyn’s arm. “He is right, Tamlyn, let me take you back to Glenrogha.”
She backed up, staying out of reach of his grasp. “Why? So my idiot husband can get himself killed and I do not have to watch? You think that, then you are as big an amadán as he is.” She jumped to evade, but so did he, catching her upper arm to lead her from the field. “Take your hand off me, Damian St. Giles, or I shall claw your eyes out. I shall curse you until your ballocks shrivel and you shall never father children!”
“Suddenly, I am pleased Challon got you as a lady wife.” Damian chuckled, shaking his head.
“Tamlyn, calm yourself―” Julian began, only to have her cut him off.
Tamlyn kicked at Damian, missed because she kept her eyes on her husband. “I shall be delighted to calm myself―when you come back to Glenrogha with me and forget this cork-brained nonsense.”
Julian exhaled and glanced skyward as if seeking patience. “I already explained why these steps are necessary. That swine dared to touch you. No one touches my lady and lives. This is the only way.”
Tamlyn shivered as she saw there was no changing his mind. “Amadán! Stupid, arrogant fool!” She choked on the words. “You risk all, Challon. What is honor without your life?”
His arms encircled her, pulling her to his chest, and letting her cry. “You have so little faith in me, Tamlyn? I was the king’s champion, the best in all the Isles. I wish you would return to Glenrogha. If you are here you might divert me and I need no distractions.”
“If you insist on getting yourself killed, then I am going to be here to go to you and kick you for it.” Tamlyn seemed so fragile as she tried to laugh, but a sob of pain escaped her.
“If you will not return to Glenrogha, stay to the sidelines. Permit me to prepare myself. I wouldst prefer not to give you a reason to kick me.” He lifted her chin and lightly brushed a kiss to her lips. “Please, go with Damian. Stay with him.”
Tamlyn hugged him tightly, crushing him to her as if to hold him and protect him. She stepped back and then glanced around her. Looking at Gervase, she barked, “Give me your knife.”
He blinked, startled by her command. “My lady?”
“Och, do no’ be a total lackwit.” She held out her hand and snapped her fingers. “Your knife. Give it.”
“But, my lady…” He glanced to Challon, in search of guidance.
“I swear, Challon, you must deliberately seek dullards for squires.” Tamlyn turned and shared the thought with Aithinne. Then, reached over and snatched the knife from Damian’s belt. She noticed all the men except Challon backed up a step. She chuckled derisively. “Dolts. Amadáns the lot of you!”
Tamlyn ignored them, leaned down and sliced away at the hem of her woolen kirtle. When she had cut a thin band, she straightened up, and handed the knife back to Damian. Stepping to Julian, she tied the tartan sash of black and green around the middle of his left upper arm. “If you be determined to go through with this, then you needs must have a lady’s colors.” She ran her fingers down his arm, a yearning upon her face, wishing she could feel the warmth of his skin and not the cold of the mail. Clearly, she loved him so much it was an ache that consumed her.
Julian hesitated, then once more pulled her into an embrace. “I know I can never gain your acceptance on this issue, but hope you will stand aside and let me do what I must. I have to kill Dirk of Pendegast. He touched you. I will kill any man who dares.”
“Julian, please. . .”
He placed a finger to her lips to silence her. “Women seldom understand the code of men. If I do not defend your honor, I wouldst lose the respect of my men. Of myself. But that is not the real reason. I failed to protect you. If I could not protect you, then by damn I shall avenge you.”
She shook her head. “Nay—”
Aithinne sobbed as Julian caressed the back of her cousin’s head with such emotion.
Challon loved Tamlyn so, and no one doubted how the lady of Glenrogha felt about the dark warrior who was now her husband. Their bond was so beautiful. She felt envy and knew they were the luckiest people on this green earth. Oh, why could they not live in peace without the ugliness of the world intruding on their lives?
“Moffet.” Julian called for the squire.
The young lad took hold of Tamlyn’s arm. “Come, my lady, you needs must follow me.”
Tears flooded Tamlyn’s eyes as she nodded, though she continued to stare at the Dragon. “Julian, I…”
“Go with Moffet, my lady,” Julian urged gently. His voice was soft, but resolute. His eyes looked to Aithinne, beseeching her to help Tamlyn face this. “Care for my lady?” His plea was almost whispered.
Aithinne nodded sadly, turned and followed Tamlyn.
♦◊♦
At the side of the field, Aithinne stood next to the trembling Tamlyn. Soon, Damian joined them to watch the two men ride to the center of the meadow. Challon, all in black and on the black horse, was a striking contrast to Pendegast’s brilliant scarlet and yellow surcoat over the silver mail and plate. He was seated on a snow-white charger.
“May it protect him,” Tamlyn whispered.
Aithinne was unsure what her cousin meant, but did not want to ask her.
Aithinne put her arm about Tamlyn, felt the quiver ripple through her cousin’s body when Malcolm spoke, asking if Challon and Pendegast accepted one man lives, one man dies in Trial by Combat, believing this as God’s will. After each affirming this, they turned the mighty horses and retired to their end of the field. The squires stepped up on the mounting blocks and placed the battle helms on the warriors’ heads.
Malcolm glanced at Pendegast, who raised the tip of his lance skyward. Then, her uncle’s eyes sought Challon, who repeated the action, signaling he was ready, as well. He gave both men a nod and then dropped a white cloth. It lightly fluttered to the ground.
Before it hit, Sir Dirk set spurs to his charger. His mount cried out and leapt forward. At the opposite end of the field, Pagan jumped in response. Challon controlled the fidgeting horse, still holding the lance tip upward.
“What’s he waiting for?” Tamlyn whispered in anxiety, her hand reaching out for Aithinne’s and squeezing it. So hard it hurt.
Slowly the tip came downward and Challon kneed Pagan to go. By the time the two beasts met in the middle of the field, they galloped full out, their hooves thundering on the ground.
Aithinne closed her eyes as the lances crashed into each knight, unable to watch. She heard the crowd groan, and several called, “He held! He held! Challon held!”
Both men reeled, regained their balance, and immediately set the destriers to fly to the end of the field, so they could snatch up another lance. Once again, Dirk was already charging down the meadow before Julian snatched the weapon, spun Pagan on his back hooves and set him to a gallop. Again, the lance crashed into Challon’s chest—at the same instant his slammed into Dirk. Shards of wood flew about both men, as the long lances seemed to crumble to a pile of twigs.
It was a living nightmare. The sounds of the horses, the lances breaking and splitting. Knowing they splintered against armor that protected flesh and bone.
“Two passes. Three more to go,” Damian said.
The horses screamed as they started the next run. Damian’s body jerked as the crowd exclaimed in horror. Unable to bear it, Aithinne opened her eyes, to see the last charge had flipped Challon over the back of his mighty destrier, and slammed him to the ground.
Tamlyn moaned, her grip on Aithinne’s arm so hard she would leave bruises. Aithinne, like everyone else, held their breaths to see if Challon rose.
“Please...let him rise,” Tamlyn whispered.
Dirk dropped the broken lance, then pulled his mace and chain from the side of the saddle. Slowly, Challon staggered to his feet, only to have Dirk’s chain and ball catch him across the back. There was no plate there. Only the heavy hauberk stopped the ugly weapon from mauling flesh and bone. Pivoting his horse on its hind legs, Dirk came at Challon again, and again, the heavy spiked ball slamming repeatedly into Challon’s back and helm.
Tamlyn screamed. Grabbing Damian’s arm, she begged, “Stop this! For God’s sake, stop this madness! He is killing Challon!” She started to push past Damian, but he caught and held her arm.
“Stay back. You shall get Challon killed, if not yourself.”
Pendegast came at Julian again. As he swung the mace, Pagan flew at the other steed. Head lowered, the midnight charger crashed into Dirk’s mount. Using teeth and hooves, the screaming animals reared, fighting with the same hatred as the men. Nearly berserk, Pagan tore into the other horse’s flesh, blood gushing down the animal’s white neck. The dueling stallions unseated Pendegast and he had to roll to escape being trampled under their hooves. The magnificent destrier likely saved Challon’s life.
Aithinne swallowed back bile, watching as Challon yanked off his badly dented helm and toss it to the ground. She reeled, faint. Not seeing Challon’s face, but Damian’s. The Kenning told Aithinne she now faced the point where Damian would have met his death. Only, would Challon die in his place?
At each end of the field, the great swords had been stuck in the ground, left for the warriors to claim if only they could reach them. Challon now headed for the Sword of Glenrogha. Pendegast watched for several breaths as Challon’s staggering steps carried him to the mighty weapon. With one more glance, he turned and ran toward his.
Again, the furious black horse came to take a role, blocking Dirk’s path, preventing him from reaching his sword. Giving Challon time.
Challon reached the sword. Instead of pulling it from the ground, he collapsed to his knees before it.
“What is he doing?” Tamlyn’s voice broke as she strained against Damian’s grip. “Julian, get up!”
Aithinne buried her face against the back of Damian’s shoulder, unable to watch. She feared while changing the path of their lives she saved Damian, but had condemned Challon to death. She could only sob her sorrow.
Challon looked up at the sword as though it were a cross and he offered prayer. His face of such angelic beauty stared transfixed at the golden stone in the hilt. Aithinne experienced a slippage. One instant it was Challon, then next she blinked and the face was Damian’s. The gray clouds broke and a shaft of brilliant morning sun shone down upon Julian and refracted through the amber in the hilt of the great sword, as if he received a blessing from On High.
Finally rising, Julian yanked the weapon from the ground and turned to face Pendegast. The blades clanged and rang out, over and over. Dirk backed Challon up with the force of his blows. Finally, Challon’s blade deflected the downward arc of Dirk’s. Using the momentum, Julian spun his whole body completely around, and then delivered a kick to the center of Dirk’s plated chest. Pendegast appeared exhausted, while amazingly, Challon gained his second wind.
Never had she seen a man so controlled, so powerful with his every movement. Small wonder the men called this warrior the Black Dragon of Challon. Who would doubt this man was once a king’s champion?
Julian spun once more. The force of the turn saw his sword carry Dirk’s right out of his hands, flying through the air. It landed, embedding in the earth and wobbling with the force.
Shoving her hand into her mouth, Tamlyn bit down on her knuckle as Dirk picked up one of the half-broken lances and wielded it. Longer than the sword, he was able to keep out of harm’s path, while swinging it as a club. Meeting each thrust, Challon used the sharp claymore to whack off chunks of wood from the lance. Dirk quickly backed up until he finally neared his broadsword. He tossed the now considerably shorter lance at Challon’s head, and lunged for the weapon embedded in the ground.
Throngs of people cheered, called warnings and moaned with each turn of events, clearly rooting for Challon.
Pendegast came up in a round swing, intending to slice Challon through the midst, but Julian jumped back, arching like a cat. Even so, the tip of Dirk’s sword ripped through the surcoat and hammered the plate underneath.
Aithinne felt as if she absorbed the blow to Challon as well, worried about Tamlyn and the child she carried, fearing how this all affected her.
Just then, Pagan charged across the field. He set Dirk’s stallion to running. The poor animal, weakened by the blood loss, collapsed at the side of the field. Now, Pagan came back, to again fight at his master’s side. Dirk panicked and gave an overhead blow to Challon, driving him down on one knee. Using the claymore as a shield, Challon swung the sword behind him to protect his shoulder and back. Dirk moved in and slammed his knee to Julian’s chin. It sent him sprawling backward, open to a final blow before he’d be able to recover.
Aithinne screamed, “No!” in the same breath as she heard it from Tamlyn.
The monstrous black destrier flew at Dirk. Rearing high, hooves slashing. He caught Pendegast hard on the head with a hoof and continued to pound at him even after the man was down.
Sickened, Aithinne turned, seeking Damian, wanting him to hold her, to warm her.
Only, he held Tamlyn.
Michael rushed to help Julian to his feet, while Gervase and Vincent took charge of Pagan. Finally standing on his own, Julian went to the still excited horse, patted his forehead and whispered to him.
He ordered, “Get that…carrion off the field.” Several men obeyed him, dragging Dirk’s body away.
Tears streaming down her face, Tamlyn jerked away from Damian and ran to Challon.
Finally looking to Aithinne, Damian’s face was haunted. He almost seemed to reel from her silent accusation. They stared at each other, the wind ruffling his black hair. He was so handsome, everything she could want in a man.
And he did not love her.
He said nothing. There was nothing he could say.
Turning, he rushed to Challon, leaving her alone.
So very alone.