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Defend himself?
“What say you this problem?” Dominique barked. “Is it me?”
“Indeed.” D’Ange stalked the ground before him, carefully measuring his strides as each step closed him in to Dominique. “You seek the black knight?”
With a simple reply clinging to his tongue, Dominique bent to dodge the sweep of d’Ange’s broadsword. A quick riposte brought the blade of finely tempered steel back his way. Had Dominique not stepped back his head would be rolling toward Tor’s hooves.
“I,” Antoine d’Ange rasped, “am the black knight.”
“You?”
Seeing his challenger’s overhead hammer-drop slash toward him, Dominique swung his blade to the left, caught the tip in his gloved hand, and thrust it above his head to block the blow. The jar of contact rippled through his bones and shuddered to his feet.
Morgana’s blood, but the man had a powerful thrust!
But what the man had just announced. It could not be. Him, the black knight? Not this man, this—gangly excuse for a man. Especially a man he suspected to be something entirely different, at least regarding his sexual nature. Certainly not the type to become a knight, let alone, the legendary black knight.
Though he did have strength…
Drawing his sword arm down, Dominique’s blade slashed over the chain mail tunic that clung loosely to d’Ange’s lithe torso. The hindrance of the tightly meshed rings stymied his intentions and his sword merely slipped, steel over steel.
“Careful!” Baldwin yelled from where he stood by the trio of horses.
Dominique figured ’twas not he for whom the squire was concerned. But should the man not have more faith in his master?
There was something very odd about his opponent. Dominique could feel it through to his bones. And it was not that he suspected the knight and squire shared the same bed. Indeed, the man’s effeminate mannerisms in the tavern returned to thought now. So delicately he’d held his meat…with slender hands…
By all that is sacred—could he be?
“Why do you seek to stop the man who wishes to aid you in your efforts?” Dominique yelled. He ducked. Another slash of steel whooshed over his head.
“Aid me? Is that what you call murder then?”
“Murder? I no more wish to murder you than I wish my own heart to cease beating. Which it yet may if you are successful in this twisted attack. Cease, man! I surrender.”
“There is no surrender but death!”
The heavy blade of his opponent’s steel skimmed Dominique’s thigh. Pain-heat pinged and shivered in his serrated flesh. The blade had sliced through his leather braies.
Still the attack did not cease. “Did you hear me? I don’t wish you harm. I’ve been sent by a higher power to ensure the black knight succeeds in exterminating the de Morte clan.”
This time the angry d’Ange heard. He tried to stop a forceful swing, but the sword pulled him forward, and he had to jab the tip into the snow to break his attack. “A higher power? You speak insanity.”
“You think I am Lucifer de Morte’s mercenary?”
“Can you prove otherwise?”
“Nay.” What did the man require? A letter de cachet? The sacrifice of his head? “I do not work for the devil. How dare you? I was called to serve the black knight by one who wishes him success. It is your puny hide I’ve been sent to protect. And I see now why I was needed.”
“A higher power—” Antoine d’Ange spat out. He paused, huffing in exertion “—has sent you to see the de Mortes are murdered?”
“I have been instructed not to interfere in your quest, only to navigate and to provide protection on your journey from one de Morte to the next.”
“What is this nonsense? A higher power? Do you speak of God?” Forgetting his sword, the man splayed his arms before him and declared to all, “Murder cannot be sanctioned by the church. What sort of god do you serve?”
“A god that tires of watching the de Mortes reign over the innocent men, women, and children of France. A god that confuses me as well, for he has chosen a gangly misfit of a man to bring down his greatest enemies. Are you sure you are the black knight?” He looked to Baldwin. “He is not, is he?”
The squire stepped to his mount and lifted a wool blanket slung over the leather saddlebags. Beneath was revealed a collection of shimmering black armor.
It took an unnatural amount of control to keep his jaw from dropping at such a sight. Dominique swung back on his aggressor, who stood lean and lithe, yet heaving from a simple tryst of matched steel. Much as he could not believe it—did not want to believe it—this man truly was the legend whispered of in villages stretching from southern Corbeil to Paris and beyond. He’d expected a great and hulking man, virile and strong. A warrior. Not…this.
“I need no protection.” D’Ange turned, retrieved his sword that had been stuck into the packed snow, and gestured to his squire that he mount. “Take your sacrilegious beliefs and be gone with you. Creil is but a day’s ride. Abaddon de Morte awaits the end of his cruel reign.”
Had he known the black knight would be so obstinate, Dominique might have refused the delectable offer the Oracle had used to coax him to such a task. But the fact remained, he had accepted. And he never surrendered to opposition. “Tell me, black knight, how much do you know about Abaddon de Morte?”
“I know he is a bloodthirsty bastard, and the devil’s brother; there is nothing more necessary.”
How had this fool man succeeded in murdering two de Mortes thus far? Dominique felt sure Abaddon would not be the third. Not when this knight planned to blindly ride into de Morte’s fortress of clever ambushes and ensorceled traps.
“So you are aware of the man’s penchant for booby traps?”
Already mounted, the knight regarded Dominique with a cold-air huff, and a nod to the squire to get on with it and mount as well.
“You think you can just march into the man’s castle and slay him in his own bed?”
Dominique felt laughter most appropriate, and answered the call of humor. It felt good to draw in the cold air and fill his lungs. But this moment of mirth was oddly bittersweet.
“What need I know about Abaddon de Morte that you cherish so to your breast?”
Dominique crossed his arms over his chest. “I will tell you, if you will allow me to protect you.”
“Never.”
“My lord.” Baldwin’s voice sliced a sharp edge through the chill air. “Perhaps it would do to hear the man out. If he knows things about Abaddon—”
“Damnation! Already you’ve turned my squire against me, San Juste. And you wish me to put trust in you after such?”
Dominique tilted his head back to meet the traveler’s eyes, shadowed by the dullness of cloud cover. “Abaddon de Morte has many strengths—both physical and occult—that will keep your blade far from his neck. He has a weakness as well.”
The knight’s brow lifted. Considering. He smirked, pressed his thick lips together. Not a shadow of beard on the man’s face. Could he be much more than a child? Insanity! That the people’s legend was a mere, why a mere—Dare he think it?
“How do you know so much?” rasped out of the black knight’s throat. “Explain exactly why I should trust you and your misguided God.”
Certainly the Oracle had not provided a means to ingratiate himself into the black knight’s trust. But trust was not necessary to provide protection. Though tolerance would be a fine trade-off.
“I cannot say why, or even if trust is necessary. Only that you must take benefit of the knowledge I possess. We have a common goal, to see the de Morte clan terminated. You have taken down two-fifths thus far, I shall join you in the final rounds.”
“And how do you know what lies ahead? Have you spies? Inside the de Morte lairs?”
“Of a sort. Difficult to believe,” Dominique offered, at surprised looks from both his traveling companions, “but necessary.”
“Then why has nothing been done to stop the de Mortes until now?” The knight’s steed pawed the ground, impatient as his master. Power and cold air pressed out from the horse’s nostrils with each puff of breath. Counterbalance to its master’s fiery demeanor. With d’Ange’s smoothing glove to its neck, the horse settled and turned its master back to face Dominique. “Why? When so many have suffered and died at the hands of such demons?”
Dominique felt the pain in the black knight’s voice as he rasped out his tirade. ’Twas akin to the pain that clutched his own heart, a pain that had forced him to accept this one final mercenary mission. He just wanted to know why.
“You hold your tongue to keep me from success. I do not believe you, Sir San Juste. Ride on!” D’Ange hiked a spur to his horse’s flanks. “I’ve a mission, and I’ll not have you underfoot to hinder it.”
“Abaddon de Morte’s castle is a veritable cache of booby traps,” Dominique called, as d’Ange pressed his horse toward the trail where he and Tor stood. “Boiling water cast down from the battlements, spikes screaming out from hidden murder holes. Live spiders and locusts. There is a spell of enchantment over parts of the castle that can forever spin a man into a confusion of the senses. But if you can pass through the rumored seven hells your reward shall come with cleverness and planning.”
“Seven hells?” Baldwin’s voice cracked.
“Abaddon de Morte, Demon of the North, Master of the Seven Hells,” Dominique said. “You have not heard the moniker?”
“I’ve heard of the Demon of the North,” Baldwin said shakily. “Everyone knows of the four villains set to each corner of the compass, and their ruler, Lucifer, planted in the very center, somewhere deep within Paris.”
“The Dragon of the Dawn,” Dominique confirmed.
“You say Abaddon has a weakness?” D’Ange stopped his mount alongside Tor. The two horses mustered little regard for one another.
“Yes, but unfortunately it will do none of the three of us any good to know such.”
“Why is that?”
No harm in revealing the little he knew of Abaddon. Dominique had no intention of allowing the black knight to press on without him anyway. “He favors women something fierce. The man missed the siege at Poissy because he instead chose to stay home and indulge in a ménage. The man goes through women like a worm boring through a rotting corpse. He’s quite vain, as well.”
“Baldwin.”
Dominique followed d’Ange’s eyes to the squire’s face, a visage that had grown paler than the snow at ground with mention of the seven hells. The twosome had a way of communicating with a single look—
“Oh, no. If you even think to attempt such,” Baldwin said, “I shall tell San Juste all.”
“All?” Now this was beginning to sound interesting.
Dominique marched over to the squire’s mount and jerked the reins from his hands. “I knew you were a liar.” He released his dagger from his waist-belt in a swift move that defied any mortal man’s eyesight, and pressed it to the squire’s neck. “Tell all,” he barked at the black knight. “Now.”
“You call this protection?” d’Ange protested.
At his move to unsheathe his sword, Dominique pressed his blade harder. A narrow spittle of blood dribbled from Baldwin’s neck.
“My lord!” Baldwin managed, his eyes closing to squeeze out tears from the corners.
D’Ange turned on his mount. So he was a coward to allow his squire death while he turned his back?
“The black knight is a woman,” Baldwin spat carefully from behind Dominique’s faltering blade. “Her name is Seraphim d’Ange.”
FOUR
“Betrayer!” Sera jammed her sword in the snow and stomped toward Baldwin.
Dominique lunged right in her way. “A woman?” He couldn’t believe he spoke the word. But a strange comprehension fell over him as the lithe, gaunt-faced black knight approached him, anger huffing out in cold breaths of air. “I should have known!”
“And how should you have known?” She slammed fists to her hips. A feminine action. Dominique had suspected something of the sort upon observing the duo in the tavern. Suspected a pair of unusual males. But a woman? A woman had slain Mastema and Satanas de Morte? In the midst of battle?
Seeing Seraphim d’Ange was more intent on reaching her bristling squire than him, Dominique dodged into her path to prevent her from taking her anger out on the youth. If she had beheaded two de Mortes, what would she do to her squire for exposing her identity?
Dominique had heard of these odd, masculine women that chose to live their lives the way of their betters. Why, Jeanne d’Arc’s ashes still smoldered in the square of Rouen. Did Seraphim not see what she might bring upon herself if she were discovered? The label “witch” would be slapped upon her forehead. For the misguided d’Arc wench had seen to that.
“Release me!” she argued, as Dominique wrangled her wrists into a tight clutch. She was much stronger than he had anticipated. And now he could see she matched him in arm strength, as well as height.
“Much as I am stunned at what you have achieved thus far, my lady,” he said, twisting and bending to keep the fiery angel in grasp. “Tell me how you expect to continue? The black knight has become a legend, quite literally with the swing of your bloody sword. But you’ll not gain entrance to Abaddon’s castle without also gaining an arrow to your brain.”
“I shall think of something.” Her sneer stretched pale, full lips to reveal tightly clenched teeth.
“Damn! I cannot believe this!” With a thrust, Dominique released the struggling woman. He stepped back, half expecting her to explode upon him.
Something fired a mighty rage inside that slender form. And if rage is what compelled her to exterminate the entire de Morte clan, he could only guess it had been put there by one of the five demons.
But the fact remained…she was a mere woman.
“How do you expect to survive? Hmm? Tell me!” Dominique would not allow her the distance she sought. With frantic steps back and to the side he matched her every move, finding agility with ease, even in the thick snow. “Riding into battle upon your great steed and swinging a sword is one thing. But what of hand-to-hand combat? There is no sign Abaddon has even considered siege or attack. He will be tucked away in his lair, surrounded by his minions, lying in wait for you. Make me believe you can survive that!”
“I can, and I will.” The dark circles under her eyes had receded since last eve. Rest had served her well. Now only the glow of rage lit her pale eyes. Eyes of an indeterminable color, save the anger that flared there. Indeed, this woman had been sorely wounded by the de Mortes.
And it was now Dominique’s responsibility to see she survived to achieve her goal.
A woman? Il diable! Had the Oracle known as much?
Of all the fine disasters. He should just mount Tor and ride off, abandoning this fool to her idiotic quest.
There is but one reason you agreed to this insane mission. A reason that had haunted Dominique for over two decades.
So be it.
Using a trick to draw her attention, Dominique skrit around behind her, his movement faster than a mortal man’s sight. “Show me your strength!”
She spun round, surprised to find him behind her, but not commenting on his change of location as her anger held her in check.
Fired by this woman’s verve, Dominique jutted up his chin in defiance. Certainly he would not allow a woman to best him.
“Here.” He tapped his chin and matched her steps, a swift side-to-side lunge, a stride back across the hoof-pounded snow. “Deliver me your best. Come on then,” he coaxed at her reluctant pout with beckoning fingers. “Are you afraid to prove your mettle—”
Pain shuddered through his jaw. The retreat of Sera’s fist flashed in Dominique’s blink of astonishment. He pressed a hand to his jaw and stretched his mouth wide. No loose teeth. Indeed, she did have strength. But where speed was concerned, she was no match to his fey footwork.
“A child’s tap!” he mocked. “You’ve not leveled me, black knight. Come. Right here. Double me over.”
Determined feminine courage eyed his gut as he tapped and taunted. Her right fist hovered near her chin, though it wasn’t building to a punch. He sensed she had never before encountered such opposition. The devil take her soul, if she would not encounter such a thousand times over if she were determined to see the black knight’s goal to the end.
This had to be done. He had to make her understand just how vulnerable she would be in Abaddon’s lair. That she needed him at her side. For he would not allow her to cut him out of this bargain. Whether or not he approved that she was a woman, he would see this quest to its end.
