Dark Triumph (His Fair Assassin #2)(113)

“Wait, Julian.” I start to go to him, but de Lur yanks me back.

Julian steps away from d’Albret and comes to stand before me until we are but a handbreadth apart. “Do you remember when we were children and you were afraid of the dark? Do you remember what I promised you?”

“Yes.” My throat is so constricted with grief that the word comes out in a whisper. He promised that when he grew up, he would slay all the monsters.

“I meant it. I am only sorry I did not do it sooner.”

“If you do this, you will die.”

His mouth wrenches into a wistful smile that nearly breaks my heart in two. “I fear a part of me—the best part—has been dead for years.” He presses a quick kiss upon my brow—that of an older brother—then steps back and turns toward d’Albret.

“Are you truly willing to die for her, boy?”

In answer, Julian draws his sword. He is an excellent swordsman, but he does not have the ruthless skill nor the cruelty that d’Albret possesses. I cannot believe that I must stand here helplessly and watch the one person who loved me the longest, now die for that love. That could even have been d’Albret’s intention all along, for surely he knows that watching Julian die trying to defend me is the most crushing punishment he could devise.

There is a ring of steel as d’Albret draws his sword, and Captain de Lur pulls me out of the circle the other men have formed. The entire room grows silent. Then Julian advances with a rapid succession of blows, but d’Albret counters with a brutal thrust that causes Julian to leap back to avoid being impaled.

As they eye each other warily, I strain my wrists trying to bring my fingers within reach of the knot, but I am unable to reach it. I turn my gaze to the room, at all the hard and unsympathetic faces.

Beast will come.

But he will be too late.

The crowd murmurs in approval, and I look back to the fighting men in time to see d’Albret deliver two quick blows, one on either side of Julian’s head. That is when I suspect d’Albret is only toying with Julian and does not wish to kill him. Or at least, does not wish to kill him yet.

Julian is disoriented just long enough for d’Albret to step inside his guard and deliver a vicious hack to his ribs. I bite down on my swollen lip to keep from crying out, fearing it will only distract Julian more. He doubles over, grimacing with the pain, breathing hard, as blood begins to seep through the cut and onto his doublet.

Pleased by this drawing of first blood, the men break into grim smiles. As they shift on their feet, I feel a hand on my bound wrists. I pull away, fearing one of the soldiers has decided to act on his own, then realize these are a woman’s hands that have touched me. A moment later, something hard and sharp is slipped into my fingers.

A knife.

I glance over my shoulder and see Jamette silently slipping back among the crowd. While she does not love me, she does love Julian. But what can I do with one puny knife? Does she wish that I put him out of his misery? Or hope that I will use it on myself and stop the fight?

Keeping my eyes on the men in front of me, I slip the knife up so that it is hidden between my hands, then maneuver it until I feel its tip meet the resistance of the rope. Then I begin sawing at the bindings.

D’Albret is openly toying with Julian now; a quick blow here, a nick there, a sudden cut to the arm. Frustrated, Julian sidesteps and swings his blade upward, coming inside d’Albret’s guard and almost—almost—plunging his sword into the other man’s gut, but d’Albret sidesteps at the last possible moment. The mood of the watching men shifts again, their displeasure palpable, for they bear Julian no love. He has never been one of them like Pierre has.

Julian is growing tired now and is no longer quick on his feet. I saw frantically at the ropes, my fingers cramping and slick with blood where I have nicked myself.

Pressing his advantage, D’Albret takes a mighty swing. Julian ducks so that the blade whistles through empty air, then uses d’Albret’s brief moment of surprise to deliver a stroke that crunches so loudly I am sure he has broken at least one of d’Albret’s ribs. Although I feel like cheering, I keep silent, for it would only draw attention my way.

Then Julian gives up all pretense of fighting fairly or with honor and rushes, lifting his sword so that it will catch d’Albret square in the face, but the older man steps back and stumbles as the crowd gives way, and the blow misses. Even if by some miracle Julian survives the fight, I am not sure the men will let him walk away.

And still I cannot cut through the be-damned rope.

Julian is bleeding from a dozen different cuts, and if he ever owed a debt for having loved me, he has surely paid it.

At the next flurry of blows, I must look away, for Julian’s fatigue is so great that I fear each blow will be his last. I pull against the rope once more, hoping I have frayed it enough that I can free my hands, but still it holds.

When the sound of clashing blades stops, I look up. Julian is breathing hard, and I can feel the labored beating of his heart as it tries to keep up with the strain of attacks and fuel his flagging body, and my own heart aches for him. Then d’Albret comes on hard and fast, but incredibly Julian is able to block each blow, until a savage swing that nearly decapitates him. He jerks back just in time, but the tip of the blade opens his right cheek to the bone. I long to run to them, to put myself in front of Julian and stop this game of d’Albret’s. I do not even realize I have taken a step forward until de Lur yanks me back. I glance at him and pray I live long enough to kill him after I kill d’Albret.