Dark Warrior Read online

A wooden stairway climbed to the sky and stopped suddenly; a few inner walls had remained strong while the outer walls had fallen. Vines, wildflowers, and nesting birds had claimed the decaying crumble as their home and given the sad edifice a small bit of dignity and hope.

  It sat in a small valley surrounded by hills and woods with a stream running behind it. It was a difficult location to protect against attack, and Mary imagined that was why the small castle was now neglected and abandoned.

  “We will be safe here for a while,” Michael said. “This place has long been forgotten, proving too difficult to defend.”

  She nodded and walked over to the door, her fingers examining the deep scars the door had suffered.

  “She stood against many blows and did not fall,” Michael said and was about to step over the crumbled castle wall.

  Mary shook her head and waved her hands frantically. She went to him, took his hand, and led him back to the front door. She knocked on the door, waited a moment, then opened the door and walked in with Michael in tow.

  She released his hand, turned to face him and smiled, spreading out her arms.

  He understood. “You feel that by using the front door, though the walls have crumbled and we could have easily entered, the castle appreciates our respect and welcomes us.”

  A sharp nod let him know he was right, then she turned and proceeded to investigate the rubble and decay.

  A large fireplace remained solid in a partial wall with a good-sized cauldron hanging on the cooking hook. She looked forward to a hot meal but knew that would have to wait. They were both exhausted from the many days of endless walking and they needed a restful sleep.

  Michael fashioned a sleeping pallet out of old brush and a worn tapestry he discovered beneath a few stones. He placed it beneath the stairway hidden from view just in case someone should happen by.

  “Tomorrow we will see what we can do to make this place habitable for the time we are here.”

  Her soft blue eyes questioned and he answered.

  “We may be here a week or several weeks; I am not certain just yet.”

  She hoped their stay would be for several weeks for she wished to regain her voice and have time to talk with him. She had not attempted to speak since last she tried a few days ago. Her throat had protested, her voice being weak, and her words much too strained. She feared if she forced herself that her voice might never return and the thought of being mute for the rest of her life filled her with dread.

  Her sigh brought Michael to her side.

  “All will go well for you, Mary. You will be moved to a safe haven where no one will ever find you.”

  She had thought that was where she had been these many years, tucked away in a safe haven. But not so, Decimus had discovered her whereabouts. What made Michael think she could be safe anywhere?

  He sensed her doubt. “This time it will be different.”

  She attempted a smile to reassure him, or was the reassurance for her? The weak smile faded quickly and she pointed to the makeshift bed. Sleep would still her troubled thoughts. Michael seemed to agree. He moved like a shifting shadow in the night toward her, wrapped his dark embrace around her.

  “It will take time, Mary, but I will make certain Decimus causes you no harm.”

  Decimus will cause you great sorrow.

  The seer’s words were clearly spoken in her head. Fear rippled through her—her distress palpable.

  Michael’s shroud enveloped her in a black cocoon. She was safe, secure in this darkness in his arms. Nothing could penetrate, neither light nor . . .

  The sudden thought startled her. The shroud protected his identity, but it was also his shield, his armor, through which no love could pass.

  Chapter 8

  Mary woke to the sun kissing her face. Fatigue nipped at her mind and body, but it had been too many days that she had gone without the sun’s company or had seen the beautiful blue sky. She shifted her body on the sleeping pallet so the sun’s rays warmed all of her. It felt glorious, and she was suddenly excited about starting the day. There would be no more endless walking in the black of night. She would once again know the beauty of the blue sky, the gentle wisps of clouds, the sweet smell of flowers, and plants fresh with morning dew.

  With a lazy stretch to ease her sore muscles she sat up, relishing the thought that, for now, she did not have to rush away, hide, or run from Decimus. Today and tomorrow were hers, and hopefully a week or more.

  Mary stood. She would not think on her present situation; she would remain focused on enjoying this day.

  Glenda had generously tucked a bone comb in with Mary’s clean garments. When she discovered this, Mary felt she could have hugged the woman. The knots and tangles came undone and she braided her long hair, then secured it to the back of her head with the comb.

  Michael was nowhere in sight but his absence did not alarm her. She knew she was safe and that he was not far. He would not leave her for any length of time without speaking with her first. She was certain he was nearby and would appear soon.

  She foraged in the debris by the fireplace in hopes of finding a crock, pitcher, or bucket—anything that would hold water. No luck, though she found a few items that would be useful to them and she left them on the table.

  Eager to give her face a wash, she headed for the stream. Michael was there, filling a bucket with water. Mary wished she could sing out what a glorious morning it was, but her throat was still healing, though now it did allow her to make sounds just above a bare whisper. She decided to wave her hands to express her excitement with the day.

  “I thought you would sleep more. Our journey has been tedious and harsh.”

  He returned to filling the bucket as she kneeled down beside him.

  She scooped up a handful of cool water and let it trickle through her fingers. Then she scooped another handful and splashed it over her face. She repeated the process over and over, enjoying the sensation of the cool water against her warm skin.

  She felt refreshed, renewed, and giving her face another splash a thought struck her. How hot and miserable it must be for Michael in his dark garb, and on impulse she scooped up another handful of water and tossed it at his shroud-covered face.

  He stared at her speechless and motionless, water dripping from his facial hood.

  There was a hint of mischief in Mary’s smile as she waited for him to respond and when he did not, she reached out to scoop up another handful of water.

  “Do not dare,” he warned in a strong, harsh tone.

  Her blue eyes widened, her smile turned devilish, and when she threw the water at him he ducked and charged at her. She scrambled to get to her feet, laughter in soft ripples coming from her throat.

  He had her about the waist, then up in his arms in seconds. He walked to the water’s edge and when she realized his intentions, threw her arms around his neck to let him know that if she went in then so did he. She pressed her head to his chest and thought she heard the rumble of laughter deep inside him.

  “Attacking when defenseless is unwise.”

  His breath was warm and scented with berries. She looked up at him, though she could see nothing but the black hood that concealed him. She ached to reach up under it to touch his face, if just for a moment. To know he was real and of flesh and blood.

  She did not surrender to her foolish impulse, instead she smiled.

  “I wish . . .”

  His words were whispered but she heard them. What did he wish? She wanted to know, wanted to hear, wanted him to share his wish with her.

  His hood brushed against her cheek and her eyes closed while her senses trembled. It was the closest she would come to feeling his cheek to hers.

  He lowered her to her feet and stepped away from her as though he required distance between them.

  This upset her. She did not wish him to move away, she wished him closer.

  Foolish thoughts, she warned herself, but ones she could not ignore.

  “I inte
nd to hunt for food today. You will be all right?”

  The brief moment of play had passed, leaving her to continue questioning her odd feelings for him. Was it simply gratitude or loneliness she felt, or had this shadow of a man touched her heart somehow?

  She nodded letting him know she would be fine.

  “What will you do?”

  What should it matter to him? But then he probably wanted to make certain she would remain close to the castle grounds. She expressed herself by stretching out her arms to her sides, tilting her face up to the heavens, and turning in a circle.

  “You will enjoy the day.”

  As strange as it seemed, she could feel the smile behind his words.

  “I will not be long.”

  She patted her chest to let him know not to worry, that she would be fine. For some reason she felt safe here among the ruins of the castle. Perhaps she felt a kindred spirit with the place, or perhaps because it was her home for a brief time, she felt at peace.

  “I left berries in a broken crock near the door and I will carry this bucket of water to the castle for you.”

  She pointed to her chest to let him know that she could handle the bucket.

  “I will take care of it.” He picked up the bucket. “You should rest; you have been through much and unfortunately it is not over yet.”

  She attempted to motion that at the moment she was granted a reprieve and she intended to enjoy it.

  “You are a courageous woman.”

  She shook her head and motioned that she had no choice.

  He stopped by her side. “You chose to survive instead of surrendering and that is courageous.”

  She wished she could discuss his remark for she and her father had shared endless conversations on strength and survival, and she missed such stimulating conversation.

  “I will not be long.”

  He seemed reluctant to leave her so she tried to convince him that she would be fine and that he should not worry.

  “I will not be long,” he repeated gruffly and then marched off.

  He worried about her, she knew, but then he was her responsibility too. He put himself in danger because of her. Magnus had requested help of the Dark One, who granted him this favor.

  She wondered if Magnus knew Michael’s true identity. On second thought, she doubted if any knew the Dark One’s identity. Michael would not allow that. It would increase the terrible danger of the people he rescued.

  She returned to the castle, entering through the door and closing it behind her as though she could lock out the world. She busied herself with cleaning the large table in front of the fireplace and clearing away as much debris as she could. She then took the cauldron off the hook in the fireplace with plans for Michael to carry it to the stream for her to scrub.

  She was about to clean the area around their sleeping pallet when she suddenly dropped down to sit on the broken bench at the table. The bench was missing one leg but if she balanced herself carefully the bench remained sturdy.

  Was she attempting to find balance and a sense of sanity by treating this ruined castle as her home? This place was as battered as she, and perhaps in repairing a few things she was repairing herself.

  She stood and the broken bench toppled over.

  She could topple that easily if she did not remain balanced in strength, thought and conviction, as her father had often cautioned.

  Mary walked out the front door, looked around at the beauty of the lonely valley, and walked to the stream where she stood, hugging herself.

  She wanted to cry out of frustration, out of despair, out of fear for all that had happened to her, but she did not. She just held it all back.

  She was not aware of much, looking out over the water, until the first tear rolled down her face, followed by a flood of tears. Michael came up behind her, turned her around, and hugged her tightly in his strong arms. Then she was aware only of the comfort he gave.

  Her tears continued, wetting his black robe but he did not let go of her; he held her firmly. And when her soft tears turned to sobs, his hand stroked her back.

  “Cry, Mary,” he encouraged. “You have the right.”

  She pressed her face to his chest and wept in the safety of his arms.

  Chapter 9

  When Mary’s tears finally subsided the Dark One wiped her face dry with the sleeve of his black robe.

  “I had expected many tearful episodes before this. With all you have been through, shedding tears is natural.”

  She did not agree and expressed herself by shaking her head vehemently.

  “Sit,” he said, releasing her hands. “We will talk.”

  She shook her head again, reminding him that was not possible.

  “Have faith, Mary.”

  He sounded like her father who had repeatedly cautioned her to have faith. In what should she have faith? She had been robbed of her family, of her life not once but twice now. With no one finding her after ten years she had thought her nightmare had finally ended, but perhaps she had finally woken up. So what about faith? Where was it? She stared at Michael, draped in darkness, and then slowly reached her hand out to him.

  At this moment he was the only thing she had faith in.

  He grasped hold of her hand and gave a reassuring squeeze before helping her to sit near the water’s edge. He looked around and grabbed hold of a good-sized stick before sitting down beside her.

  He broke the stick in half and handed her a piece. “Your voice.”

  She smiled, taking the stick from him, and cleared the ground in front of her with the brush of her hand. And wrote, grateful gift.

  “Tell me what you would like to discuss.”

  Many things, she wrote quickly.

  “Something tells me that when you reclaim your voice you will never stop talking.”

  She heard the teasing in his voice and Mary suspected it was closer to his own true tongue than the harshness she often heard.

  Love to talk and sing.

  “I heard you have a lovely voice.”

  Who told you that?

  He hesitated then quickly said, “Magnus.” Then even more quickly added, “I hope to hear you sing.”

  Will there be time?

  “I do not know.”

  Decimus is relentless.

  “That he is. He lets nothing stop him from finding and persecuting those who believe differently, and the Church has given him the power to do whatever is necessary to bring heretics to justice.”

  Her hand touched his arm and he turned his head.

  Decimus hates.

  “In more ways than anyone understands,” he said.

  Even Decimus himself?

  He pondered her question.

  Decimus hates for he cannot love.

  “Why say you that?”

  Hate and love, a fine balance. She shook her head and wrote. A balance he has not found.

  Michael made no comment.

  I pity him.

  “You pity the man who hunts you?”

  She nodded. Prisoner of his own hate, she wrote. How very sad to torture yourself.

  Michael remained silent.

  I am free. He never will be.

  “You are free?” he asked, confused.

  She tapped her head and wrote. Free in thought, he will never imprison my mind.

  She tossed the stick aside, ending their discussion, tapped her chest, patted her stomach, then pointed to Michael.

  “Aye, I am hungry too, which is why I snared two rabbits.”

  Her smile was broad and she scrambled to stand. Once on her feet she motioned for him to clean the animals. She reached down and grabbed the stick she had tossed aside, then wrote on the ground in front of them hunt onions.

  “Do not go far into the woods,” he cautioned.

  She nodded and wrote in the dirt. Edge of woods.

  “Good, I can see you while I clean the rabbits.”

  She tossed the stick aside and hurried off, eager to find
wild onions and hopefully an herb or two to flavor the rabbit stew.

  Michael watched her go as he walked slowly to the castle. She was graceful in her haste, her body swaying as if in rhythm with a melody, a soft, subtle melody. He watched her dip down and swing up, a smile of delight on her face and a plucked onion in her hand. She repeated the movement several times and he could not take his eyes from her.

  She mystified him, this woman of strength and tears, of pity for the least deserving, of injured voice yet eloquent words.

  Mary waved to him with a handful of onions, he smiled and waved back.

  He had forgotten the simple pleasures of life.

  A woman’s smile. A woman’s wave. A woman’s love.

  “Damn,” he swore beneath his breath.

  He thought all feeling had died. Died along with those he loved.

  But damned, if she had not sparked life in his cold heart.

  He stomped off to clean the rabbits when suddenly he sensed something. He froze, barely breathing so that he could hear, sense, feel another’s presence.

  In a second he felt it, a presence, strong and powerful and knew it to be a wild boar.

  His glance shot to Mary. She was bent down, her interest caught by something on the ground. He tried to signal her but she did not take notice.

  Suddenly he caught sight of the boar, in a dead run straight toward Mary. He took a deep breath and began to run.

  Michael rushed at her, swept her up from around the waist and ran with her to hide behind a large tree.

  Within seconds the boar passed, near to where she had been gathering onions.

  He heard her sigh and she turned her face to his. His black mask brushed her cheek and she stilled.

  “I wish . . .” he whispered.

  Her eyes pleaded for him to tell her what he wished and he lowered his face, shifted his hood, and claimed her lips in a gentle kiss.

  She seemed uncertain how to respond, and he wondered if this was her first kiss. The thought excited him. He slowly nudged her lips apart and, though at first hesitant, she became eager in her attempts to taste him.

  They exchanged soft, tenuous nibbles as if sampling and savoring before tasting fully of each other. Michael did not hesitate to guide her and it was not long before their tongues were mating with the eagerness of newborn lovers.