“Ahh. ’Tis a pity.”
“That it is, m’lord. That it is.” Without another word, Holt snatched a fur coverlet, and using every ounce of his strength, held the once-comforting blanket tight over Ewan of Dwyrain’s face.
Twelve
ome,” the calm voice ordered.
Bjorn, seething with injustice, spit on the floor of his cell. His muscles were on fire, his face throbbing, his jaw swollen, perhaps broken.
“Come.” Again, the s
oft-spoken command.
“Go to hell,” Bjorn growled.
“Am I not already there?”
Bjorn’s jaw tightened and made a horrid cracking noise, but he didn’t budge. The prisoner in the next cell was certainly half crazed. Though everyone here thought him some kind of magician, what lord of darkness would allow himself to be caged like a pathetic animal? Nay, he was just a half-wit who spoke in a kind turn of phrase.
“Do not let your friend die for naught.”
“My friend will be avenged,” Bjorn vowed, his lips pulling tight against his teeth. Fury and injustice beat fiercely through him and he blamed himself for Cormick’s death. Had he been more cautious, been ready for the men they approached to turn on them, they would not have been captured and beaten and Cormick would not have been killed. He should have known there was no honor in Holt of Dwyrain and both he and Wolf had been foolish to think that Ewan’s good word would still be law.
“Aye, but Cormick will not be avenged by a beaten, savage man who wants only fast justice. Nay, the way to win this battle is to destroy Holt by more than fists and swords.”
“Ah, ye speak as if ye’ve got only half a brain.”
“Shuddup in there,” the jailer shouted. A rotund man who sat half the time at his post and walked the halls and stairs the rest of his shift, he glowered at the prisoners as he polished the blade of his sword. “There’ll be no talkin’.”
I can soothe your wounds. The words came to him, though he wasn’t certain the sorcerer had spoken. Bjorn glanced to the jailer, who hadn’t looked up and was busying himself with cleaning his weapon.
Through the flickering, smoky light, Bjorn stared into the next cage and was certain that he could see the sorcerer’s kind face. There was not a trace of malice, no evil, but his eyes glowed a deep summer blue. Come!
Bjorn jumped. This time he was certain the man had not spoken. His lips hadn’t moved and the noise that rattled through his brain sounded as if it had traveled a long distance, even through a long tunnel.
Do not be afraid.
“I fear nothing!” Bjorn stated fiercely.
“Yeah, and bully fer you,” the jailer said. “Now, hush! Jesus God, do ye want another beatin’? That’s what ye’re askin’ fer.”
The lady Cayley comes and will save you, but you must be strong to help her; a weak man will only slow her on her quest to find her sister.
“By the gods!” Bjorn thundered, standing and stepping to the other side of the cell, tripping on his shackles and falling against the screaming muscles of his back.
“Enough from ye!” The jailer jumped from his stool, forced his sword into its sheath, and strode to the door. “Sir ’Olt, ’e’s got no love fer ye. If ye were to ’ave a mite of an accident, ’e wouldn’t be cryin’ a river of tears over yer body, let me tell ye.”
“Untrue.” This time the strange one spoke. “Holt needs this man to take him to the outlaw who stole his wife, and if he is harmed, Holt will surely punish whoever it was who let the ‘mite of an accident’—I think you called it—happen. Think you twice afore you hurt the one man who can help Holt find his wife.”
“I’ll never—” Bjorn started, but that faraway voice stopped him.
Hush. The guard will leave us be.
“Bloody Christ,” the jailer muttered, but returned to his seat and removed his sword from his sheath again. With one eye on the cells, he snagged his rag and began to rub the blade with renewed fervor. Soon, with only the drip of water and sound of mice scurrying through the crevices in the walls for noise, the guard was caught up in his work.
Bjorn turned to the cripple.
Come to the cell wall. I will help you. Do not be afraid.