The Thirteenth Knight Page 3

  “Prepare the troops,” Thaddeus commanded. “Arm the white wizard. We are dealing with black magic, boys. Let the battle begin!”

  Four months passed while Thaddeus' army was at war. The battle had been long and extremely difficult. The enemy appeared from nowhere, and it seemed they could not be killed. There were, however, periods of time when they vanished.

  The knights had learned quickly not to rest on their achievements. It had taken one lesson really. Thatcher shook his head sorrowfully at the memory. They had lost at least a hundred men that day. The black troops had reappeared, and the blood bath had begun.

  The white wizard had been immensely helpful. His power neutralized the black magic of the opposition, only allowing a few troops to materialize instead of a legion. And when the black-clad soldiers fought without falter into the night, he gave Thaddeus's men a potion to ward off sleep. The enchanted blue liquid kept them awake and alive, but fighting non-stop for days at a time left them exhausted.

  And if the black-clad army wasn't trying to kill them, the vicious bite of a frigid winter was. They lost nearly as many men to the frozen land.

  Thatcher took a bite of a bitter, hard crust of bread as he ducked the low-hanging branches still covered with snow, despite the new warm weather. He swallowed hard then tossed the rest to the ground. Let the birds feast on it.

  He clenched a bound piece of cloth in his fist as he berated himself. He had promised Miranda he would write every day. However, he never anticipated the brutality of this war. He was constantly in battle. And when those blessed moments of temporary peace came to him, his body collapsed in dreamless sleep where he stood.

  But when he had seen the stone he now held in his hand lying at the bottom of a clear stream, he knew he had to get it to her somehow. He had scooped it out of the freezing water and chiseled a hole into it. Then, he had strung a leather string through it, wrapped it and a note to her in a piece of burlap, and secured it with a piece of rope. Granted, it wasn't the jewels a lady of the kingdom would wear, but he hoped she would like it.

  He stopped at the sound of a birdcall, peering among the trees for the one who had sent it. A squire from the palace peeked from behind the thickest trunk. "My lord," the boy greeted.

  Thatcher strode to him and pressed the gift into his hand. "Go. Take this to Lady Miranda. It's not safe for you here."

  With a nod, the boy scampered off with the cloth-covered package. Thatcher sighed as he watched him. Then, he turned to find the wispy shadow that preceded the arrival of one of the black-clad soldiers. He drew his sword as he prepared to fight.

  * * * *

  Miranda silently paced the ghostly white marble floor, her crimson silk gown brushing against the silver-veined stone. Her small, satin-clad feet ached as she wore the same path she had for the last several hours. She had sent all the servants away, wishing to be alone for the day. Her heart was heavy with worry. No amount of company could ease the pain she felt.

  She stopped to stare out the window. Thatcher should have sent word by now. He had been gone for the entire winter. The king’s army should have reached the border of the kingdom a long time ago. There had already been several battles. By the reports, many had been very bloody. The lives of numerous troops had been lost. Miranda shuttered. Thatcher cannot be dead.

  Miranda bit her lower lip as she remembered the last kiss she and Thatcher had shared. She could still feel his strong arms holding her close, his lips warm and wet pressed against hers. His promise to come home to her still echoed in her mind. She trembled at the memory.

  “My lady?”

  Miranda turned at the soft, tiny voice. Behind her a young man knelt, his dirty blond head bowed in reverence. By the caked dust on his clothes, she could tell he had traveled a long distance. Her heart leapt in her throat. Does he have news of the war? Is it about Thatcher? He is alive and well. Isn’t he? “Yes?” she inquired aloud.

  The man did not speak. Instead, he rose to his feet then pulled something from inside his shirt. He held it out to her. Miranda gently took the burlap-wrapped package tied closed with a piece of twine. With another quick bow, the man scampered from the chamber.

  Miranda quickly tugged the strings free and let them fall to the marble floor. Then, she unfolded the burlap. Inside was nestled a stone just like the ones she and Thatcher used to fish from the streams near their village. The sunlight through the window shimmered against the waves of coral embedded in the rock. A hole had been chiseled in the pebble and a leather cord had been threaded through it.

  Beneath the handmade necklace lay a piece of parchment. Miranda smoothed it to read the message.

  My dearest Miranda, please forgive the delay of this gift. We encountered battle early. The constant fighting is exhausting. Black magic is certainly working against us. I have thought of you every second of every day. I pray this war ends soon so I can return to you. You possess my heart, my breath, my soul. You are the piece that completes me. I love you with everything that I am. My love for you is eternal. Until I am with you again.

  Thatcher.

  Miranda clenched the note in her hand and pressed it to her lips, kissing it tenderly. Then, she looped the cord around her fingers and slipped the necklace over her head. The small, cool stone rested in the cleft of her breasts. With a sigh, she gazed out the window again.

  Suddenly, she dashed out of her bedchamber after the courtier, shouting for him to stop as she panted for breath. The young man spun and bowed once again. “Yes, my lady?” he inquired.

  “Are you willing to return to the army?” she pried.

  “Of course, my lady. Once I have eaten, I will go.”

  “Excellent. Follow me.”

  Miranda led the young man to the library. She slowly studied the vast collection of books. Pressing her finger against her chin, she thought deeply. She took a step toward the shelves, pulled a tome free, and skimmed the first few pages. Then, she replaced it and chose another. After a few moments, she smiled brightly.

  Taking the chosen volume, she crossed the room to the desk. With the quill pen waiting there, she jotted down a brief but passionate note of love. Then, she handed the book to the courtier before ushering him to the dining hall for a feast. She waited patiently for the boy to fill his belly then saw him off on his mission.

  Miranda sighed as she watched him go. The buds on the trees had started to break through as the cold grip of winter slowly warmed to spring. Spring meant a new beginning. A new beginning with Thatcher, perhaps? Smiling to herself, she caressed the stone with her fingers. She knew deep in her heart that Thatcher would soon be home in her arms. Her thoughts would only be of him until then.

  Chapter Three

  Thatcher sat on the large boulder jutting out from the hill as he took his turn as sentry. He searched the landscape before him scrutinizing, every detail. Everything was still. He exhaled. Something doesn’t seem right.

  It had been four weeks since the black-clad men had last attacked. Since then there had been no trace of them. For the first few days, the royal army had been on guard, anticipating an ambush. None came. Slowly, Thaddeus had sent scouts to the far reaches of the kingdom to see if the enemy had chosen a new target.

  While they were gone, the soldiers had remained at the ready. But time took its toll, and they slowly let their guard down, becoming more and more relaxed. Thatcher was silently thankful. Had they been attacked, it would have been a massacre.

  He smiled as he opened the book in his hands. Miranda had been overjoyed with his gift. She had returned the squire to him with a token of her own. Knowing how much he loved to read, she had snuck into her uncle's library and found a book he would enjoy. And she was right. It meant the world to him. However, he cherished the sweet message she had scrawled inside the front cover even more.

  Finding the place where he had left off, he began to read. He had barely finished the page when he heard the sound of boot steps behind him. He gripped the handle of his sword and brandishe
d it as he spun around.

  One of the soldiers under his command approached him with his hands raised in submission. "At ease, sir," the man addressed. "I am here to report that the final scout has returned. King Thaddeus requests your presence."

  Thatcher rose to his feet. He nodded his thanks as he slipped his blade back in its scabbard. Clenching the book in his hand, he accompanied the soldier to camp.

  Thaddeus smiled as Thatcher approached. He addressed his troops. "There is no sign of the black-clad soldiers in our kingdom. It seems that we have defeated them."

  "How?" questioned Thatcher. "Does anyone recall dealing a death blow to their source? They certainly weren't human."

  "I agree the circumstances are strange. We have two options. Either we wait here for an attack that may never occur, or we return to the palace and defend the heart of our kingdom. I am ready to return home. What do you wish to do?"

  Thatcher did not answer. He did not need to give one. The twinkle in Thaddeus's eyes confirmed that the king knew exactly how he felt. Thatcher wanted to go home. Miranda was home. And he desperately needed Miranda.

  "Very well, then," Thaddeus concluded. "At daybreak, we will break camp and head for home."

  What felt like an eternity later, Thatcher followed close behind Thaddeus as the king and his knights stormed into the palace. They had marched through town after town to the cheers and fanfare of the people. However, none of it had mattered to Thatcher. He glanced around wildly, looking for Miranda. Home is not home until she is in my arms.

  He turned as he heard the soft whisper of fabric. He smiled, overjoyed, as Miranda scampered across the throne room, the train of her silk gown brushing against the cold marble floor. She wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders as he caught her in his arms.

  “You are home,” she gushed. “You are safe.”

  “Aye, I am, my love. I missed you.”

  “I missed you, also.” The joy of their reunion was cut short as they found Thaddeus studying them silently. Miranda pulled free from his embrace. She stood straight as she returned her uncle’s glare. “My sweet knight, I have some business I need to discuss with my uncle concerning my impending marriage. Please excuse me.”

  Thatcher watched with pride as Miranda strode to Thaddeus. She tugged him away from the celebrating knights and lords for a private audience. As she whispered urgently to the king, Thaddeus’s gaze locked tight on Thatcher. There was no emotion in the monarch’s eyes. Will she be able to convince Thaddeus to let us marry? He doesn’t seem convinced by her pleas.

  Suddenly, a cold breeze whirled through the warm, sun-filled space. Thatcher’s heart slammed in his chest as an all too familiar, dark, shadowy haze shimmered in the center of the room. Several more of the same dark shadows slowly appeared. Thatcher dodged them and the screaming occupants of the chamber as he ran to Miranda.

  Grasping the hilt of his sword, he drew it as a black-clad soldier solidified before him. The man swept his arm, violently knocking the blade from Thatcher’s hand. Thatcher snarled at the tip of a dagger pressed beneath his chin. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see at least two dozen of the ebony-garbed men holding everyone captive.

  He swallowed as his gaze stopped on Thaddeus, the king shielding Miranda from the ambush with his body. Thatcher snorted. I hate being this powerless and unable to protect her.

  A cold, evil chuckle filled the room from the doorway. An all too familiar noise. A growl erupted from Thatcher’s throat at the sight of Brunon. Another dozen of the black-clad soldiers flanked the count. He laughed, clearly amused by the terrified faces that stared at him.

  “What is the meaning of this, Brunon?” Thaddeus demanded.

  Brunon slowly strutted to the king. A malevolent smile spread across his lips. “I think my meaning is clear, Thaddeus. I want the crown. I have wanted it for years. I put my plan into action when I sent my troops to attack your brother’s castle. I would have had possession of the kingdom by now, if this beautiful girl had not been rushed away.” He reached out and brushed his weathered fingers against Miranda’s cheek. She recoiled at his touch.

  Thatcher launched himself at Brunon, rage coursing through his veins. But the black-clad soldier restrained him, bringing him back to his place with a dull thud.

  Brunon turned toward the scuffle. He smirked at Thatcher. “However, Thaddeus, you do not seem to be the obstacle in my way. Obviously, I can take the palace. But can I claim the only key to the crown? I doubt I will completely possess Miranda.” He brushed across the floor until he was nose-to-nose with Thatcher. “That is, until I dispose of the valiant knight, Sir Thatcher.”

  Thatcher could hear Miranda whimper at Brunon’s words. He glared defiantly at the count. Brunon waved his bony hand in the air. “Take his majesty and his thirteen knights to the dungeon. Secure them. They will be executed the morning of our wedding.”

  Thatcher fought against the grip of the black-clad soldier as he was dragged toward the throne room door. Miranda’s sobs echoed in his ears as he was led away.

  The dungeon was dark, damp, and smelled of rot. Thatcher clenched his eyes closed as he fought the inferno of agony blazing through his muscles. His arms were tightly shackled over his head. The stone wall pressing against his broad back soaked his linen shirt with rancid mold. He had no idea how long he had hung there—it could have been minutes, hours, or days.

  Hearing the clack of boot steps outside, he forced his head up. Then, the shoes stopped, accompanied by the rattle of keys. Thatcher forced his spine as straight as the chains would allow. The wood door squeaked as it was shoved open.

  Brunon's face was barely lit by the torch in his hand as he strode across the cold prison. He studied the bound Thatcher, an icy chuckle coming from his throat. He slipped the torch into an empty sconce.

  "Where is Miranda?" Thatcher growled.

  Brunon laughed. "Brave knight, I would think you would be more concerned about your beloved king."

  Thatcher glared at him silently, his sapphire blue eyes enraged.

  Brunon continued, "They are both alive. For now. If I were to execute Thaddeus now, it could possibly incite rebellion among the citizens of the kingdom. No, I will keep him alive until I secure the throne."

  "And you plan to do that how?" Thatcher demanded.

  Brunon's grin was evil. "By making Miranda my bride, of course. The morning of my nuptials, I will end Thaddeus's life. You, however, I will keep alive for a little longer. I have use for you."

  "Miranda will never marry you."

  "I believe differently.”

  Suddenly, Brunon slid a small dagger from its sheath at his hip. Thatcher hissed as Brunon dragged the tip of the blade against his ribcage. A thin trail of blood began to flow. Then, Brunon dug in the pocket of his trousers until he pulled free a glass vial on a silver chain.

  Silver snaked around the container, from the cap to the base, holding it in a protective embrace. He unlatched the cap then held the bottle to the wound, collecting Thatcher's blood as it dripped free.

  Thatcher struggled against the assault, but it was no use. The shackles bound him too tightly. After several minutes, Brunon pulled the vial away and studied it in the dim light.

  "Hmm... That should do, I think," Brunon mused as he capped the bottle again. He slipped the silver chain around his neck and tucked the container within his linen shirt. With a nod, he paced across the floor to the door, locking Thatcher inside the dungeon with a loud slam.

  Thatcher watched helplessly as he hung from the wall.

  * * * *

  Miranda curled herself into a ball as she sat in the window seat of her bedchamber, clenching her silk handkerchief in her tiny hand. Brunon had taken control only two days previous. Yet, the terror of his brief reign echoed throughout the kingdom. His magical, black-clad thugs had already spilled too much innocent blood.

  And soon, that murderer will claim me as his bride. The thought made her stomach churn.

  Her heart ached
for Thatcher. She didn't know where he was. She didn't know if he was well or half dead. All she knew was what she had heard from Brunon himself, as he conversed with his second-in-command during supper. The brave knight was alive. For now.

  Her uncle, however, would soon be put to death. Brunon had demanded the gallows be constructed in the palace courtyard. She trembled as the local craftsmen toiled to build the terrifying structure. Their backs were torn apart if they did not obey. The men’s hands bled as they formed the platform that would end their monarch's life.

  Miranda curled herself tighter as the door opened. She shivered at who might be coming to find her. A courtier stepped in and bowed. "Lady Miranda, the seamstress is coming to measure you for your bridal gown," the young man announced.

  "Thank you," she muttered.

  Miranda glanced at the courtier as he bowed again then turned to leave. She sized him up before springing to her feet. "Wait."

  "Yes, my lady?"

  Miranda smiled at him. "I need your help."

  "How may I serve?"

  "First, I need to know where Brunon is holding Sir Thatcher." Miranda felt her face flush. "Second, I need to borrow a set of your clothes."

  He shot her an uneasy look. "All right, my lady."

  "Good." Miranda wrapped her hand around his bicep and led him to the door. "Hurry with your task. And be careful." She shot him a reassuring smile as he stumbled past Brunon's guards and hurried down the hall. When he was gone, she shut the door silently.

  Miranda hurried around her room to prepare. She tied her long, brown locks up in a ribbon. She would have to wear a hood over her head to keep her disguise. She would also have to speak softly to keep her voice hidden. But could she keep her secret from her new betrothed, her uncle, and ultimately, her lover?

  She was startled from her thoughts by the knock at the door. She cracked it cautiously then threw it open with a smile. The courtier held out a uniform. “My lady.” He bowed then laid the clothes in her arms. “Sir Thatcher, King Thaddeus, and the rest of the knights are being held in the dungeons beneath the palace. They are under heavy guard.”