Dark Deceptions: A Regency and Medieval Collection of Dark Romances(209)

Unfortunately, some of the Welsh that were in the bailey also saw the beating and ran to help. Gryffyn was the man who had promised them riches from Nether and they assumed that saving the man’s life against his bitter enemy would garner them more reward. Keller soon found himself swamped with Welshmen and, without his broadsword, it was his bare strength against six or eight of them. The Welshmen pulled Keller off Gryffyn, but d’Einen was seriously dazed and bloodied. He lay there a moment, watching Colvyn’s men beat away at Keller.

Keller and the writhing mass of Welshmen rolled down the keep’s steps, ending up in a muddy pile at the bottom. William, having just fended off several Welsh, ran to Keller’s aid and began slashing away at the Welshmen who were still beating on him. Some of them had weapons and at least two of them had slashed Keller, wounding his right forearm fairly seriously as the man fought for his life. Because Gryffyn had stripped him of all his weapons, he had nothing to fight back with except his bare hands, and those were taking a serious lashing.

As Keller battled the Welsh, Gryffyn was struggling to sit up when the door to the keep suddenly lurched open. Startled, Gryffyn looked up to see Izlyn standing in the doorway. She just stood there, looking weak and vulnerable. When their eyes met, Gryffyn’s expression was a mixture of surprise, glee, and fury.

“Izlyn!” he gasped, struggling to his knees. “You little fool! How good of you to let me in. Where is your sister?”

Izlyn stood just inside the doorway, backing up as Gryffyn labored to his feet. “Inside,” she said. “Come in.”

Gryffyn froze, his eyes wide at her. “You speak?” he said, astonished. “You actually speak? By all that is holy, I knew you could! All this time, I knew you could but you were simply being difficult, weren’t you, you little chit? In fact, I am very angry at you for it and shall punish you severely for your insolence!”

Izlyn was still backing up as Gryffyn, now on his feet, began to move towards her. He was utterly focused on the young girl, furious to hear her speak after all this time. Izlyn continued to back up, luring him in through the doorway. The moment he set foot into the keep, the fates of retribution enveloped him in their discourteous fold. He was trapped and he didn’t even know it yet. He had no idea that a lifetime of brutality against the weaker sex would now cost him his life.

While Gryffyn was focused on Izlyn, the form of vengeance was Chrystobel. She emerged from the shadows off to his right, charging out of the darkness with the iron sconce wielded like a spear. Five dagger-sharp points meant to secure tapers rammed into Gryffyn’s back, puncturing deep, and sending the man crashing over onto his left side.

Chrystobel was mad with panic. She knew if she didn’t kill her brother, he would rise up and murder her, so she yanked the sconce out of his body and stabbed him again, listening to him wail with pain and anguish.

Kill him or he will kill you!

His cries of pain held no meaning for her. She pulled the sconce out of his body one more time, using it to beat him over the head. The sconce was blood-covered, and very heavy, and she pounded it over Gryffyn’s skull, repeatedly bashing his head, until the man stopped struggling and finally lay still. Even then, she continued bashing, beating the man’s head, caving his skull in. Every blow had her name on it, or Izlyn’s name, or her father’s name. Every blow for the dozens of times Gryffyn had abused them, breaking bones or drawing blood. Every blow was meant for her life, Izlyn’s life, and now her husband’s life.

She was mad with the feeling of freedom, free forever from the fear of Gryffyn, and now it had become a frenzy. She was slashing him and beating him right into the stone, and with every strike, her terror seemed to fade, further and further, until it was nearly gone. But Chrystobel didn’t stop beating Gryffyn’s head until someone came up behind her and grabbed the sconce, preventing her from leveling yet another blow on a clearly dead man. Finally, her vengeance had come to a halt. Finally, it was over.

Keller stood behind his wife, holding her wrists as she wielded the sconce. His hands and arms were bloody and torn, his face bloodied from the fist fight outside the door, but it didn’t matter. When Chrystobel turned to see who had prevented her from turning her brother’s head into pulp, a gasp of genuine joy escaped her lips. The sconce crashed to the floor, next to Gryffyn, as she threw herself into her husband’s arms, weeping tears of terror and relief.

Keller held his wife tightly, his face buried in the side of her head, his eyes stinging with tears. She was safe. He was safe. They were all safe. Words of alleviation defied him at the moment.

“Are you well?” he asked tightly, a lump in his throat. “He did not injure you in any way?”

Chrystobel shook her head adamantly. “He never had the chance, not this time,” she wept, pulling away from the man to run her hands over his face, inspecting the damage. “But you are bleeding.”

Keller shook his head to downplay the damage, leaning forward to kiss her as deeply and as passionately as he had ever kissed her. His joy, his relief, went beyond words.

“I will survive,” he muttered.

“Please,” Chrystobel begged softly, trembling as she touched his face. “Let me tend you.”

He kissed her fiercely. “Later.”

With that, he glanced over her shoulder to the bloody, brain-splattered mess that used to be Gryffyn. It was horrifically gory and he caught movement out of the corner of his eye, seeing Izlyn standing there, looking impassively down at her brother’s remains. She had been a party to this just as much as her sister had and Keller wondered at the depths of relief as well as confusion they must have been feeling. To finally have ended their brother’s reign of terror must have been an overwhelming realization.