Dark Triumph - LaFevers Robin - Страница 23
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The jailor looks at me, horrified, shaking his head, for the beast is rising in our knight. Blood rushes into his face, and fire kindles in his eyes. “You would never have been chosen to protect the duchess if they’d known how weak you truly are,” I whisper in his ear.
And then it happens: like a great wave rolling up from the ocean floor, the knight propels himself to his feet. He sways for an instant, regains his balance, then lets loose with a mighty roar and lunges in my direction.
I dance nimbly out of his reach. As soon as I leave his side, he nearly topples over onto his face, but the small gnome of a jailor wedges himself under the knight’s arm and keeps him from falling.
Furious and befuddled, like a bull in a field, the prisoner swings his head from one of us to the other, not sure whom to attack first. “Come,” I say before he can collect his wits. “The duchess is this way. If we hurry, we can get to her in time.” And in truth, it is no lie I offer him.
The words act like a lance to his backside. He takes a step forward, then grunts as his face turns white with pain. As his leg gives way beneath him, I realize I have no choice but to help him again and hope he will not kill me on the spot. I return to his side and insert myself under his arm to prop him up. But he is huge and weighs twenty stone at least and nearly drags me to the ground with him. I brace my knees and my back, and between the jailor and me, we keep him upright. As he sags against us, I know we cannot carry him the entire way, but it is as if all the fight has seeped out of him. Already my own shoulders and arms grow numb from his weight. We will all die here like rats in a trap if we cannot get him moving.
Fear and anger lend urgency to my voice. “Would you let your duchess be taken while you rest your lazy bones and thick head? Move!”
With a deep-throated growl, the man lurches forward, a great shuffling step that brings us nearly to the door. I snag the lone torch from the wall with my free hand and pray that I will not set myself—or the prisoner—on fire. But we need it, as the stairs are in pitch-darkness and there is no way we can maneuver him up by feel alone. Indeed, as we stop at the first step, it is not clear than we can maneuver him up at all.
The gargoyle mutters and grunts and motions me to get in front. As I move around them and hold the torch so they may see where to place their feet, I see that the jailor has inserted himself under Beast’s arm, a human crutch for the prisoner to lean on. His right leg is strong and he is able to climb the stair with it, even though his left arm hangs limp and useless at his side. He braces his right arm against the wall and hops up onto the next step, and the weight his arm does not take is supported by the jailor. The prisoner’s face contorts with pain and I pray he will not faint before we reach the cart.
“Hurry,” I whisper urgently. “They are circling her even now.” The agony of not being able to reach his duchess is plain upon his face, and my heart aches for him, but I harden it. Softness will not serve either of us now.
He pauses, sweat beading upon his face, his lungs working like a blacksmith’s bellows.
Only four more steps. “How will you kill them,” I call out softly, “these men who have threatened your duchess?” He lunges forward another step. “With your bare hands, is my suggestion, so you may look into their bulging eyes as you drive the air from their lungs.” From beneath the giant’s arm, the little jailor squints up at me with faint horror, but I do not care, for we have gained another step and I can feel the cool night air upon my back. “Mayhap tear them limb from limb.”
With a faint growl, he lunges up the last step. I put my hand out to stop them both, afraid Beast will barrel out the door and straight into a passing sentry.
But he leans against the wall and closes his eyes while the jailor pets at his arm.
I peek out into the courtyard. There is nothing there but darkness. “We must make for the east gate. There are only two sentries posted there, and once I have dispatched them, we will be able to get across the bridge unseen. A cart with horses waits there to carry you to the duchess.” The gargoyle’s eyes widen in surprise, then he smiles. At least, I think it’s a smile. It looks far too much like a grimace for me to be certain.
“Can you do it?” I ask, hating that I must trust this mysterious jailor with such matters. “Can you get him to Rennes?”
He nods so hard I fear his neck will snap.
It is easier going outside. For one thing, there are no more stairs, and for another, there is a thick solid wall for the knight to lean against. We make slow, shuffling progress, the skin along my shoulders urging me to hurry, but we cannot. Indeed, it is a miracle we have come this far.
I glance once behind me. A light shines from one of the upper chambers. Good. D’Albret still lingers with Madame Dinan. I wonder whom he will have guarding the door tonight, for he always posts two sentries when he visits her chamber. I find myself hoping that one of them is Captain de Lur, as I would dearly love an excuse to kill him.
When we reach the end of the wall, I see the small gatehouse and the two guards there. They are not standing at attention but instead are speaking together in low voices. “Here.” I thrust a small square of yellow and black fabric at the gargoyle. “You will need this to get out of the city. There are some supplies in the cart, and also some jewels that you can use to purchase what you need. Put the plague flag on the wagon and no one will stop and search you. Understand?”
When he nods his understanding, I motion for him to stay put until my signal, then creep forward.
The guards are grumbling that the others have not come to change the watch and are trying to decide whether they should stay here or go fetch the captain.
Clinging to the wall like a shadow, I move into position behind the first guard. I must kill him—I cannot risk them raising the alarm and I have no idea how long the sleeping draft will last or how deeply the others sleep.
I remind myself that these deaths are necessary. There is no way we can get the knight past the sentries, and if they are d’Albret’s men, they are no doubt guilty of some terrible crime.
The weakest link in my plan is killing the first guard without alerting the second guard to my presence. Speed and stealth are my greatest weapons, for if the second guard sees me, there is a good chance he will call out a warning before I can silence him.
One thing at a time, I remind myself, then slip silently out of my hiding place. I take the cord from my waist and wrap it around my fists as I creep toward the first sentry, looping it once, twice, to be sure it will not slip. When I am directly behind him, I make my move. Sensing me, the guard starts to turn my way, but I step up, quickly slip the cord around his neck, and yank with all my might.
The man jerks in surprise, his weapon clattering to the ground as he scrabbles for the rope at his throat. I pull harder and drive my knee into his back for leverage, dodging his elbow as it tries to connect with my ribs.
But the clatter of his weapon has called the second guard’s attention. His eyes widen when he sees me and his hand goes for his sword as he takes a step forward. I swear, for the first man is still struggling and taking far too long to die. I cannot even let go to reach one of my throwing knives and defend myself. The alerted sentry draws his sword and rushes toward me. I put the dying guard between us to afford myself some protection. There is a small thud, and the attacking guard stiffens in his track, then keels over like a felled tree. I glance up to see the gargoyle, a sling dangling from his right hand and a look of satisfaction on his twisted little face. Just then, my victim finally slumps into death. I do my best to block my mind to his soul as it slithers from his body, and I release the cord from his neck.
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