“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