Rendezvous With Yesterday (The Gifted Ones #2)(91)

Marcus lay at her feet, his hands cupped over his ears as he stared up at her with wide eyes and gaping mouth.

A quick look to either side told Robert his men had also guessed ’twas Beth who had felled the archer.

And ’twas Beth who had spawned the terrifying thunder.

Those they fought gradually turned their gazes in her direction as well. Mutters soon swelled, rising on the wind. Several crossed themselves.



Robert took swift advantage of their attackers’ distraction and disarmed as many as he could. Michael, Stephen, and Adam joined in. The fighting began anew and soon grew as fierce as it had been before the interruption, though the tide at last began to turn in their favor.

Four men met their end at the tip of Robert’s sword, then a fifth. The number of those still combating them thinned. As Robert swung his blade at a sixth opponent, he heard something that sent shards of ice slicing through his veins.

Above the grunts and groans and shouts and sounds of weapons clashing, Beth’s voice rang out. “Don’t! Stay back!”

Robert looked in her direction.

His opponent’s sword penetrated the chain mail covering his left biceps and pierced flesh. But the pain of his wound could not compare with the fear and fury that seized Robert when he saw two men racing toward Beth.

Only one other time had Robert been accused of going into a berserker’s rage, killing any and all in his path without pausing to determine whether they were friend or foe. Then, he had been struggling to reach his dying brother’s side. Now, as the red haze overtook him, he roared and began to cut a swath to Beth, dispatching any man foolish enough to get in his way.

“I mean it!” Beth yelled in a very un-Beth-like shriek. “Don’t make me kill you!”

Marcus struggled to his feet at her side, sword drawn, ready to give his life to protect her.

Robert never slowed his pace. As the last man before him fell, Robert realized he would never reach Beth in time.

The two villains were nigh upon her.

He glanced down, then transferred his sword to his left hand and grabbed the battle-axe his last opponent had dropped. Drawing his right arm back, he prepared to throw it.

Pow!



Flames flashed from the tip of Beth’s weapon.

One of the two men running toward her jerked to a halt as a hole appeared between his bushy eyebrows and flesh burst from the back of his head. The other man stopped short and gawked as his friend dropped limply to the ground, eyes staring sightlessly up at the sky.

Once again stillness fell over the clearing.

Robert stared, his heart slamming against his ribs.

Just what manner of weapon did Beth wield?

Though everything within him urged him to go to her, Robert instead watched long enough to ensure the second man would not attack her, then resumed the battle.

In short order, he and his men disarmed and restrained the remainder of the marauders. More than one tried to flee, but met with no success.

Marcus restrained the man closest to Beth. That one seemed too afraid to move while her witch’s weapon was pointed at him.

Once Marcus herded the man over to join the rest, the young squire returned to Beth and sank weakly to the ground at her feet.

Robert didn’t think Beth had noticed. She said nothing, just kept staring down at the man she had slain.

The danger now past, Robert strode toward her, his sword still in his left hand, the battle axe in his right.

Just as he was about to call her name, the greenery behind her parted.

A man limped forward, hunched over, the front of his filthy leather armor wet with blood, his blond hair befouled by dirt. His young face twisted with rage as his lips stretched into a sneer that revealed teeth stained crimson. He held one arm, bent at an odd angle, close to his side. The other awkwardly cradled a crossbow, which the man raised under Robert’s horrified gaze.

“Beth!”



Her eyes widened at his shout, her gaze snapping up to find him.

Robert drew the hand holding the axe back and let it fly. In a move that was stunningly graceful, Beth dropped to the ground and landed neatly on her toes and splayed hands as the axe whistled through the air above her head, spinning end over end until it embedded itself deep in the archer’s chest.

The fellow’s crossbow fell without releasing a bolt as he collapsed.

Robert ran forward. Beth rolled onto her back and sat up, raising her weapon as he passed her and aiming it at the fallen man.

But the man did not move.

Upon reaching him, Robert studied him closely.

He looked to be no older than Marcus, his features plain and unremarkable.

“Who leads these men?” Robert demanded, watching him struggle for breath.

“I do,” the boy said, glaring up at Robert with venom.

This boy led them? “Who are you? Why have you attacked my people?”

“Th-Thief,” the boy hissed.

“You are a thief?”

A sound of frustration burst forth as the boy struggled to speak. “Y-You.”

Robert stiffened. “I am no thief, boy. I am—”

“Fosterly… sh-should… been mine. H-Hurley… was… m-my father.”

Robert frowned. “Lord Hurley had no issue. Had there been someone to inherit, King John would not have given me the land and title. Fosterly would have gone to Lord Hurley’s heir.”