Chapter Ten: Maskin
All he had to do was give Bjorn enough time to get Cheryl to safety.
Maskin poured all his strength into the fight, driving back the attackers inch by inch, giving him the space to dodge from one end of the group to the other. His strength was failing him. Already, blood poured from various wounds, deep slices in his abdomen and shoulders. He knew he wasn't going to be able to hold them back much longer.
But if Bjorn and Cheryl got away safely, his death would be worth it.
He was slow to parry a blow on his right. His enemy's blade bit deep into his shoulder at the joint. His arm fell useless by his side. He grabbed his sword with his other hand, but it was too late. A second enemy had taken advantage of his distraction and drove his own sword through Maskin's gut.
Pain blinded him. Sweat was beading his brow. His mouth opened and closed like a man gasping for breath in the vacuum of space. A blade was brought to his throat.
"Leave him!" a voice commanded. It sounded vaguely familiar. "He's as good as dead now, but if you end his life, you'll be cursed for killing on hallowed ground."
Maskin struggled to get to his feet. A fist to his face had him sprawling. His vision danced in splotches of white and red. When it finally cleared, he could hear that same voice ordering the warriors to find Cheryl. Struggling with his own approaching death, Maskin managed to look up and see the man who was giving the orders.
It was the priest who sent them here. Quincy. Maskin's brow furrowed. What was he doing here, leading an attack against the queen and the two potential kings? A priest couldn't be king. They were sworn to be celibate on pain of death.
"I don't want to see any of you back until you have brought the queen to me," the priest ordered. He grabbed one of the warriors. "You. Stay here to watch him. I won't have him coming to stab me in the back."
Maskin tried to push himself up, but the warrior stepped on his shoulder, forcing him back down. The priest looked down at him with a blank expression for a moment before he turned and walked away. Maskin glared after him. Either he was determined to be king despite his priestly vows, or he had somebody else lined up for the throne.
Would he or his champion treat Cheryl as the beauty deserved?
No. She had told him and Bjorn both how often the priest discouraged her. If he forced Cheryl to be his queen, she would not have another choice for as long as she lived.
Maskin was not going to let that happen.
He roared, trying to gather the strength to fight off the remaining warrior, but the man's heel dug harder into his wound, grinding him into the dirt. Pain danced in bright lights before his eyes.
"I would end your suffering, Hero, but I was given orders." His enemy's tone was emotionless. "I take no pleasure in this."
Maskin didn't waste his strength trying to reply. He lay still for a long time, trying to regroup. But blood was still pouring from his body, and each passing second, his strength waned a little more. His thoughts became fuzzy. Time seemed to stop. He drifted in and out of thoughts and images. Knowing he had to get up and stop Quincy. Remembering Cheryl's sparkling eyes as she took him by the hand and led him to bed. Watching Born's grin as he watched the two of them. Tasting happiness for the first time in his life.
There was a grunt from somewhere above him. He didn't care about it, losing himself in the blissful memories he had created here with his queen. The grunting continued. There were sounds of crashing blades.
"Don't you dare die now, Warrior!"
Wait… was that Bjorn's voice?
Maskin lifted his head in time to see Bjorn drive his sword through the enemy's neck. The prince let the body fall, running to the warrior's side. He turned him over, grimacing at the amount of blood. Maskin stared at him, slack-jawed. What was he doing here?
"Why did you leave Cheryl?"
"She's safe." Bjorn peeled his shirt over his head and pressed it to Maskin's abdomen.
Maskin's back arched as he screamed in pain. The sharp jolt brought him back to his senses. He blindly grabbed for Bjorn's arm. "It's that priest, Quincy. He wants Cheryl. You have to stop him. Leave me, protect her!"
"I'm not letting you win her love by taking all the glory, man," Bjorn grunted. He belted his shirt into Maskin's wound. "Come on, up you get."
Maskin tried to stand, but he couldn't make his body work. Bjorn lifted him bodily, grunting with the effort.
"You have to leave me here."
"Shut up. I'm not one of your warriors you can order around." Bjorn slung the huge warrior-slave over his shoulders.
Maskin felt the prince stagger and had to repress a grin. If their roles were reversed, he would have no problem lifting the prince. In the back of his mind he knew that this strange euphoria was dangerous, deadly even, but at the moment he didn't care. The white and red dancing lights were back, as well as a feeling of his body getting lighter and lighter. He heard singing somewhere.
And then Cheryl's voice, calling him back to his body. "Maskin!"
It came from all around him. She sounded worried, but he couldn't see her. He tried to reach for her, to tell her that he was fine, that it didn't hurt anymore.
"Maskin, don't leave me."
Something warm on his lips.
Bjorn's voice. "He's lost a lot of blood. I picked up a regenerator, but I'm not sure it'll be enough."
Cheryl's hands cupped his face. "Maskin, don't leave me. Don't leave me."
He felt himself slipping away. He wanted to tell Cheryl that it was okay, that he wasn't going to be gone long… but she sounded so scared. A fire built in his chest. This wasn't how it was going to end. Cheryl needed him. He wasn't going to leave her. He had to stay and protect her. With a roar, he fought against the darkness clawing at him.
He couldn't leave her.