Conquering the Dark Axe Read online

  He would not give it ‘til the gap was nigh closed. He wanted the poor soul’s deaths to be quick and merciful. These were turbulent times and he could only hope that the bloodletting would soon end.

  He was tired of war.

  Jeers came from the idiots on foot.

  Rourke remained where he was, then a moment later; he straightened and rolled his massive shoulders back when more infantry rebels poured out from the forest.

  This ambush indeed had been well thought out.

  Anger swept over him like a prickly blanket and any mercy he had vanished.

  Black stirred, restless as the jeers of the enemy increased, Rourke’s thighs tightening quieted the large warhorse.

  In measured steps Rourke urged Black in front of his men and gave his directives.

  "Let them come to us. Out in the open and fight here. Although there are many, they are ill armed with more on foot than horse. Arms!” His orders fell from his lips clear and rapid. He made a motion to the young soldier to lower the war horn. They would not need it.

  The clink of mail and horse breath filled the space as the men did as bid soon followed by an eerie quiet.

  Rourke’s eyes narrowed, never leaving the enemy as more rebels continued to pour from between the oak trees.

  Fools.

  Completely exposed the rebels let out a war cry splitting the quiet and charged.

  “Stand! Bring this fight to us!" Rourke hissed loud enough for his own men to hear.

  His plan worked well and the sounds of battle filled the dusk falling sky with the poor souls cut down in quick succession at Rourke’s feet and those of his men. The rebels had fought without direction and many died within minutes.

  When Rourke felt it was safe enough to pause, he dismounted and continued to use his sword, although his axe was strapped to his back. One of his men called out to him against it as most of his men were on the other side away from him and fallen trees and the piling dead separated them.

  Slain and for what purpose?

  The death around him sickened him and wiping his dripping blade on the cape of a slain man at his feet, Rourke wondered who was behind the attack.

  He’d made many an enemy on and off the battlefield over the years. But he had thought most of his enemies lay long dead now.

  He surveyed the remnants of the blood bath. Fury raged through him at the senseless lives lost for this ill planned ambush. He heard a rebel behind him make the mistake to laugh alerting Rourke to his presence.

  "Ye bastard heathen spawn. Say your prayers for yer days of infamy end this hour."

  Rourke turned to see a snaggletooth man with a bloody stump as he used his good arm to raise a heavy broadsword from a slain body nearby.

  One blow of his axe and the man would join his fallen comrades, Rourke thought. Blood already bubbled from the man’s mouth. Weary and ready for this to end, Rourke exhaled a tight breath.

  "If you tell me what I want to hear and who is behind this attack, you are free to go without your limb. Know this, I grant you passage only once."

  The man gnashed his rotted teeth and choked on blood as he dragged the sword up. "Mercy from ye, sir knight? I'd rather die under yer blade than his." As ever, ignorance won out and the crazed man rushed him.

  Rourke turned, easily deflecting the weak blow with an arc of his own sword. The man fell and let out a whoosh. Rourke bent near to see he'd fallen on the up end of the same broadsword he'd planned to use on him.

  Just then a shrill blood-curdling roar rent the air, the likes of which Rourke had never heard before and sent a ripple of unease through him.

  He turned at the sound and hesitated but a moment.

  A giant of a man- ungodly in size- was almost upon him. Rourke blinked a trickle of blood out of his eye to clear his vision.

  The giant stomping his way was ugly, shaggy blond hair hung around his broad shoulders and he was round like a barrel from leg to chest and carried a large club mace in one hand and a battle axe in the other.

  Rourke, seeing the man blast with rapid speed through five of his men who jumped in the space between them to slow the man down, braced himself and motioned for the next group of his soldiers to back away.

  He’d not lose more of his men to this large beast of a man.

  The giant crashed forward swinging with agility and skill. A shaft loosed from a longbow whizzed through the air, catching the giant in one shoulder, still the man charged forth.

  For one so big himself and lauded for his moves on the battlefield, Rourke wheeled about and threw his body at the giant's head before the ogre could even react to the surprise move.

  After a struggle, Rourke brought his axe down in one mighty hack, tearing through flesh and bone of the giant's right arm. The giant let out another eerie roar when his arm that carried his own axe fell to the ground.

  Rourke felt the violent shudder ripple under him just before the giant, with a snap of his neck, sent him flying from his shoulders.

  Rourke felt himself sailing through the air. Dead bodies cushioned his fall when he landed, but, he'd still fallen hard enough to be winded and long enough for the giant’s swift approach.

  The giant leaned over him with the great club mace arced in a swing, level with his chest.

  There was naught Rourke could do to deflect the blow.

  Were he to raise his right arm that held his axe, he would lose to a crushed and useless arm. A blow to the chest- he could die.

  Either way he had a split second.

  Turning his body to take the force of the blow, he relaxed at the last minute, taking the blow square in the middle of his chest just as the mongrel spat.

  “I'm going to bleed ye like a stuck pig.”

  Rourke's body went airborne like a rag doll and landed on a pile of more bodies. He managed to turn his head. The strain of drawing in a breath tore a ragged wheeze from him. He caught sight of the tall familiar silhouette of a man walking toward him just before darkness snatched him in its crushing and painful tentacles pulling him down.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Commotion outside the hall drew Alexa from her worried state and turning from the hearth she cried out with relief when she watched Goran enter the hall.

  Finally! He had returned.

  Then she halted when she spotted the fierce looking man enter behind him.

  Although he walked beside her husband’s man, Alexa still found herself taking a step back to place one hand on the table behind her to still the quaking inside.

  His very presence commanded attention and was intimidating.

  A formidable force to reckon with - Rourke was indeed but this one- ‘twas easy to see how the Normans had won. With a countenance as the one he bore and with such size, the deep scar that ran the length of the left side of his face made it even worse.

  Goran noting her reaction, waved the man closer with a friendly gesture and announced, “Baron Darc Renald, my lady. Your husband and I fought under his regimen. There we called him lieutenant. He is a friend I assure you, my lady.”

  Piercing blue eyes met hers and Alexa feared she'd not be able to return the slash across his mouth that she guessed was a smile. His accent was richer than Rourke’s when he addressed her in her Saxon tongue.

  "No reason to be so formal among friends. Call me Darc, my lady.”

  Alexa swallowed with a nod. Fierce and dangerous was what she thought.

  Still she returned his greeting. More important things were at hand.

  Days had passed and she’d gone out of her mind waiting for Rourke and Goran’s return. She wished it were her husband whom had returned alongside Goran instead of this blue-eyed dark-haired looking devil.

  “Any news from your husband?” Darc asked.

  “Did you not cross paths with him on your way here?” Alexa questioned looking only at Goran.

  Goran's shoulders straightened and he spoke in a tone she'd never heard come from him before.

  "What do you mean, my lady? Th
e guard your husband sent told me my lord wanted me to come here straight away."

  The bad feeling that had plagued her since Rourke had left crept up her spine. "I thought he went to retrieve you before he carried out the king’s order."

  Proper etiquette cast to the wind, both men closed the distance and were in front of her in seconds.

  "On his way where?” Goran pressed with urgency.

  Alexa's eyes shifted between both men as alarm filled her gut. "The king's missive-"

  "What missive?" this exploded from Darc and it rattled her nerves even more.

  His blue eyes darkened and Alexa stepped back from the fire shooting from them as he reached inside his cloak. When she saw the parchment, she nigh fainted.

  "What-What is that? Nay!" she said in a hoarse cry before her eyes fell on the king’s seal.

  Both men shouted simultaneously, "My lady!"

  Alexa had sprinted from them and they followed swiftly behind her across the hall to a room there. When she held out the rolled parchment, her hands shook.

  Both men frowned and Alexa stood next to them watching as they carefully compared the documents.

  After a while, Darc lifted his head, his striking blue eyes shifted to Goran and the men shared a knowing look.

  "Treachery’s afoot." Darc’s angry tone started Alexa’s heart pumping again.

  His long fingers flitted over the seal Rourke had broken on the parchment he'd opened. Curiosity caused her to stare longer than she should have and drew those blue eyes back to her.

  “Is that one not from the king?” Alexa heard the quaver in her tone as she asked what she already knew the answer to. She had told Rourke something had been off about that herald. Aye. He’d known but had gone nonetheless. Alexa’s brows knitted as an angry chill enveloped her.

  "William has returned to Normandy. I crossed the channel with his message and reached your husband’s estate to retrieve twenty five trained men. I met Goran en route to gather the remainder ten here. Seems these maggots think to play a game they will surely lose. Do not fear, my lady. Those responsible William will see dead as shall I. ‘Tis a foe your husband knows, I am sure of it- to go through such lengths to get him and risk William's wrath. We will find him, on that you have my promise, my lady.”

  Alexa could barely nod with the terror that ripped through her heart.

  The memory of the ravens swooping down came back to her. It had indeed been a bad omen.

  She knew 'twas what Darc had not said that made her want to run. Aye. They would find Rourke and bring him back to her dead or alive.

  Goran added, “They brought me his message and were gone by the time I rode out. I thought they had set out before me. Now we know different.”

  Alexa recalled the scrawny soldiers her husband had sent out.

  "Aye. Traitors under this roof. Round up the rest of the men out front and we shall see who knows what. If any disloyal ones remain...” Darc stopped short and looked away from her, his hand on the hilt of the thick sword at his waist.

  Goran spoke, "My lady…”

  "Sir Goran, I’m going.” Alexa told them.

  Both men looked at her as if she were crazy.

  Darc was the one to respond. "Considering we do not know who this faceless enemy is we've yet to confront. I’m sorry, my lady I cannot allow it. Besides, your husband would have both Goran and my head on a platter were I to even think it. You will remain within these walls. When we are done with your husband’s men, my men will keep watch.”

  Alexa would have protested, but the look in those gleaming blue eyes told her it was unwise.

  He was as bad as her husband and at the thought, Alexa’s heart wrenched painfully in her chest. He was right. She could hear Rourke’s booming voice reprimanding all three of them if she were to go. If it meant they could get to him all the sooner, she’d do nothing to slow it down. Taking a deep breath, she nodded and said firmly. “Then bring him back to me.”

  Both men nodded and left her.

  A groan of agony slipped from between his dry and cracked lips and Rourke cursed. Something cold splashed his face again. The few times the cold water had hit his face drawing him from deep darkness, followed by a thud, he now knew was a bucket. The sound of it hitting the floor beside him usually had the splitting headache rob him of alertness.

  But not this day.

  He blinked and tried to focus with the one eye that was not swollen shut. Distorted moans to his left filled his water logged ears. A low whisper to his right drew his attention when it said his name.

  Rourke bit back another groan of pain the movement caused and prayed this time he remained awake long enough to see where he was.

  The pressure and wheeze in his chest told him he’d more than bruised his muscles.

  The mace had broken bones.

  Within seconds he tested his sore extremities and knew both his legs and hands were bound and he hung just an inch or so off the ground. The way he had been strung up was often used to not only render the victim helpless but to cause nonstop pain. A torture tactic. Burning pain radiated the length of his body and he threw his chained arms and shoulder forward.

  Vision limited by cloudiness, he was able to make out the small dungeon.

  It held two long tables, a rack and about six of his men. One on either side of him chained too and sat on their rumps unlike his torturous pose. The other four were chained near the rack.

  Blood spatter dotted the dirt floor and Rourke’s gaze followed the trail to a table covered with weapons and other odd instruments. A shudder shot through him when he saw the larger pool of blood under it.

  Instruments of torture.

  Looking back over his men he saw they were bloodied and bruised, but none from what little he could see with his one eye had sustained an injury so deep to produce that great amount of blood. Something stirred in his gut and Rourke tried to pull himself up to bring some sort of relief to his arms. But there was no room.

  By Thor, finally a blessing came to him and clearness came to his one good eye and thoughts. Turning to the soldier who'd whispered his name next to him, Rourke had to swallow a few times to get his throat to work. Thick stubble lined the young man’s upper lip and chin.

  "How long?" soreness throbbed in his neck.

  "A full moon or so has passed from what little I've seen through yon hole in the ceiling, my lord”

  Rourke's hands fisted or so he thought he curled them into fists. He could feel nothing in his hands from the crushing numbness and tingling. Nigh a fortnight in this hellhole! It couldn't be.

  "Our fine host?"

  "I did not recognize him, my lord. He has told us naught. But he is a nobleman, a Saxon. We have lost three of our men to him in this room. Their blood soaks the ground in which we stand. They met their deaths, my lord with honor and bravery."

  Rourke growled and although the muscles in his neck protested mightily, he angled his head so his good eye could fall upon the soldier.

  ‘Twas the young knight who’d ridden out at the start of the battle at his side. The young man's cheek was gashed open, crusted with blood, but his young eyes gleamed brightly with revenge.

  He read the question in Rourke’s eyes and continued, "You had a nasty wound on your skull and it took some time before the bleeding stopped. The nobleman was so furious over what that ogre had done he had him butchered.” Rourke’s head spun at the young soldier’s words. The soldier’s voice dropped to a whisper when he added, “My lord, the nobleman was not kind to your person when the fever kept you under.”

  Rourke’s eye met his and he had a feeling he did not wish to know anymore. His body ached and burned in too many places just to be the result from the mace and hanging from the wall. But he needed to know. “Go on,” he ordered.

  The young man licked his lips; a look of shame crossed his face as he looked away for a brief moment. “They beat and kicked you, my lord.” Rourke gritted his teeth and waited. “The three of our men had been chai
ned loosely together and fought hard and valiantly to free you, my lord."

  Rourke closed his eye. They had lost their lives trying to save him.

  The sound of keys and muffled voices drew his attention to the wide double doors. He closed his eye and heard the door creak open. By the sound of the footfalls, he counted that five people had entered.

  "I thought you said he was awake?"

  Rourke stiffened at the familiar voice and his breath tightened in his chest. The voice belonged to a man he'd thought long dead. Rage grew in him anew.

  A memory came back to him. The familiar dark silhouette he’d believed he’d dreamt before he had succumbed to the darkness on the field. He opened his eye.

  The jailer crouched, cowering in fear at the man's feet from the heavy blow he'd just received as he babbled on about truth. The tall man beside him moved to cuff him again when another voice called out.

  "The bastard is awake."

  Rourke stopped breathing. It couldn’t be!

  The jailer's wide eyes lifted and his short and gnarled arm that he could barely lift, pointed in Rourke’s direction. "I told you, sire, I speak truth. His eyes are open."

  The tall man stepped forward and to the side to let the other man that had spoken come pass.

  "You mean eye, fool." The large nobleman dressed in too fancy an outfit to be wearing down in the filthy dungeon stepped to Rourke.

  Fisting a hand in Rourke’s long hair, the nobleman yanked hard and pulled Rourke’s neck back and to the side. Hate dripped from his venomous hiss, “Hello, Dark Axe."

  Rourke stared murder at both men.

  Two enemies.

  One that he’d seen cut down and left for dead, but obviously not dead enough. The scar was missing from the left side of his face, but the face was one he was familiar with all the same.

  Raven Renald.

  The other, holding his hair and who's fetid breath washed over his face...

  Jacqueline's father.

  THIRTY-FOUR