A low, desolate sound suddenly pierced her thoughts, howling eerily through the musty air. It echoed off the walls, lifting the rafters with its mournful sound. Startled, Derica bolted from the room and into her husband’s line of sight. Though Garren’s expression was unreadable, he had heard the sound, too, and unsheathed his weapon in a deliberate motion.
“Derica,” he said calmly. “Come to me, sweetheart.”
Another wail filled the air and Derica didn’t need to be told twice; she darted back over to Garren, panting with fright.
“Garren, what is it?” she gasped. “Ghosts?”
He shook his head, his eyes riveted to the structures around him. “I am sure nothing so unearthly,” he said evenly. “Stay close.”
He handed her the charger’s reins and paced into the center of the ward. Emyl also had his weapon wielded, the old man as calm as Garren was. Once a knight, always a knight, no matter how long it had been since he’d last whiffed the scent of battle. Both men were acutely vigilant as they visually inspected their surroundings for the origins of the noise.
The wail came again. Garren turned, hearing it come from the north tower, or so he thought. He motioned to Emyl to flank him as he made his way to the entrance of the tower. Derica huddled against the charger out of fear and warmth, watching her husband with anxious eyes. It took her a moment to realize that Garren had not put his armor back on after removing it to cross the first trench. Not wanting to call out to him and distract him, she could only watch and pray that whatever situation he was about to face did not injure him.
Her first indication that all was not well was when the charger suddenly started. Derica would have fallen to the ground had hands not grabbed her. Trouble was, they were not her husband’s hands. A scream erupted from her throat.
Garren swung around in time to see someone grabbing his wife. He took a step in her direction when a body suddenly came flying at him, a man dressed in dirty rags that blended in with the gray sheets of rain. The man had a weapon and Garren brought his sword up instinctively, deflecting a heavy blow. He was involved in his own fight, terrified for his wife, furious at the inconvenience of having to battle for his life. He was about to shout for Emyl when he saw that the old man, too, had been set upon.
Derica was howling, swinging fists and kicking feet. A fine lady though she might be, having grown up with three older brothers had taught her something about self-defense. She was desperately trying to find eyes to gouge her fingers into. When that failed, she took to kicking furiously at the knees of her attacker. One foot made contact with a kneecap and the man released a growling yelp. It was enough of a break for Derica to swing around and kick him, as hard as she could, in the lower abdomen.
The man fell into the mud and Derica scattered like a frightened chicken. She was terrified her attacker was going to rise up and come after her again, so she grabbed the first heavy rock she could find and raced back over to the man wallowing in the muck. She smacked him on the head and stopped his squirming.
With her assailant subdued, she took a look around her; a glance to Garren saw him in serious combat with a man nearly as tall as he was, yet infinitely more slender. Emyl seemed to have the more immediate problem, grunting and groaning as he battled for his life. Derica couldn’t stand by idly; she lifted the rock and made her way over towards Emyl. Careful not to get in the way or take the chance that the enemy would turn on her, she hung back, clutching the rock, until Emyl’s opponent turned his back on her. With a cry, she hurled the rock and hit the man on the nape of the neck. It was enough of a blow to cause him to fall down, whereupon Emyl finished him.
The sight of the blood made Derica nauseous. In spite of her warring family, she’d never seen a man killed before. Emyl went to her, trying to take her someplace safe, away from the fighting, but she would not leave Garren. She and Emyl watched with trepidation as Garren launched a powerful enough blow to dislodge his opponent’s sword completely. When the man tried to retrieve his weapon, Garren shoved the tip of his razor-sharp blade at the man’s neck.
“The game is ended,” he growled. “Leave the sword and I shall be merciful. Attempt to reclaim it and my mercy is at an end.”
The man slowly lifted his hands to show his submission. Garren gazed into deep brown eyes and a handsome face. The man was young, but he had handled the sword well. He took his eyes off of Garren long enough to look at his dead companion in the mud.
“Did you have to kill him?” he whispered.
Garren responded. “What did you expect? You were trying to kill us. It was necessary to defend ourselves.”