Dark Triumph (His Fair Assassin #2)(31)
An emphatic shake of the head, then the man places his hands against his own cheek as if sleeping. Ah, I think. “Can he walk?” I ask sharply.
The old man hesitates, then puts his hand out and wiggles it back and forth. A little. Maybe. My heart sinks. There is no way I can drag him. Merde. How will I ever get word to the duchess?
I kneel down next to the knight so I can see just how injured he is. A large cut bisects the left side of his face. I think, but cannot be certain, that it is an old scar rather than a fresh one. The rest of his face is battered, and old crusted blood still clings to it in places. It is also a strange yellow and green color. At first, I fear it is putrid flesh, then realize his entire face is one giant bruise. A great wound festers in his left leg, and another two in his left arm. I take a deep breath, then put my hand on his shoulder. “Hsst! Wake up. We must get moving.”
He stirs, then groans, but that is all. Muttering a string of curses, I reach out and try again, this time grabbing his arm in a pincer-like grip and tugging on it. “Come on, you great ox. I cannot carry you out of here.”
His massive head rolls to the side, then lifts a few inches from the floor. The eyes open and squint in my direction. I cannot tell if his vision is blurry from his head wound or if he cannot see me at all. I look over my shoulder at the jailor who is no jailor. “Get over here and help me.”
He scuttles forward, hops onto the other side of the knight, and grabs his arm. With much grunting and urging and swearing, we manage to get the prisoner to a sitting position, but that is all. Despair begins to fill me, more chilling than the touch of the spirits hovering nearby. The man’s injuries are inflamed and he himself is feverish. If I am able to get him out of here, I am not certain—not certain at all—that he will not die of blood fever on the way to Rennes. Even so, I must try. I nod to the gargoyle and we both stand, trying to pull the prisoner up with us, but it is no use. We might as well be attempting to move the dungeon itself.
I nearly weep with frustration. If I were more certain of my ability to kill d’Albret tonight, I could just put the prisoner out of his misery, but I am not. D’Albret is uncanny in his instinct for survival, and if I fail, someone must warn the duchess of his plans.
Besides, what sort of cruel god robs a man of a glorious death on the battlefield and leaves him to rot—or worse—in a dungeon? If I close my eyes, I can still see him on his magnificent horse before they brought him down; how valiantly he fought, never stopping, not even when the odds were overwhelming.
That’s it! I must find a way to tap into his battle lust. The very thing that drives him to such unholy feats on the battlefield is the only thing that will get him out of here.
I glance over at the jailor, give him a nod of reassurance, then turn back to the injured man. “Get up,” I hiss. “The duchess is in danger.” His head snaps up. “If you do not get up right now, they will be upon her within minutes. Get up.” I pull on his arm and he growls. “Will you cower here on the floor like a whimpering babe while your duchess is in peril?”
The jailor looks at me, horrified, shaking his head, for the beast is rising in our knight. Blood rushes into his face, and fire kindles in his eyes. “You would never have been chosen to protect the duchess if they’d known how weak you truly are,” I whisper in his ear.
And then it happens: like a great wave rolling up from the ocean floor, the knight propels himself to his feet. He sways for an instant, regains his balance, then lets loose with a mighty roar and lunges in my direction.
I dance nimbly out of his reach. As soon as I leave his side, he nearly topples over onto his face, but the small gnome of a jailor wedges himself under the knight’s arm and keeps him from falling.
Furious and befuddled, like a bull in a field, the prisoner swings his head from one of us to the other, not sure whom to attack first. “Come,” I say before he can collect his wits. “The duchess is this way. If we hurry, we can get to her in time.” And in truth, it is no lie I offer him.
The words act like a lance to his backside. He takes a step forward, then grunts as his face turns white with pain. As his leg gives way beneath him, I realize I have no choice but to help him again and hope he will not kill me on the spot. I return to his side and insert myself under his arm to prop him up. But he is huge and weighs twenty stone at least and nearly drags me to the ground with him. I brace my knees and my back, and between the jailor and me, we keep him upright. As he sags against us, I know we cannot carry him the entire way, but it is as if all the fight has seeped out of him. Already my own shoulders and arms grow numb from his weight. We will all die here like rats in a trap if we cannot get him moving.
Fear and anger lend urgency to my voice. “Would you let your duchess be taken while you rest your lazy bones and thick head? Move!”
With a deep-throated growl, the man lurches forward, a great shuffling step that brings us nearly to the door. I snag the lone torch from the wall with my free hand and pray that I will not set myself—or the prisoner—on fire. But we need it, as the stairs are in pitch-darkness and there is no way we can maneuver him up by feel alone. Indeed, as we stop at the first step, it is not clear than we can maneuver him up at all.
The gargoyle mutters and grunts and motions me to get in front. As I move around them and hold the torch so they may see where to place their feet, I see that the jailor has inserted himself under Beast’s arm, a human crutch for the prisoner to lean on. His right leg is strong and he is able to climb the stair with it, even though his left arm hangs limp and useless at his side. He braces his right arm against the wall and hops up onto the next step, and the weight his arm does not take is supported by the jailor. The prisoner’s face contorts with pain and I pray he will not faint before we reach the cart.