Page 82 of The Robber Knight's Love
“Dilli?”
“M-Milady?”
“Remember the first rule of the craft ofhealing. No puking on the patient.”
“Y-yes Milady.”
Ayla's eyes were drawn back to the barricade.A fresh wave of attackers had just climbed the woodenfortifications. Four of the mercenaries made a dash at a figureamong the defenders which she recognized with horror as SirIsenbard. The knight raised his sword, fending off blows from twoof the men. Then the third raised his blade—and struck Isenbard onthe head.
“No!” Ayla screamed as the old knight wentdown and disappeared into the violent mass of bodies.
Fallen
Reuben lay inhis room staring at the stone ceiling, fury raging through hisveins. While his mind had been slow before, dulled by fever, now itwas almost painfully alert. He saw what must have happened withabsolute clarity: after beating him into the dirt, the mercenariesmust have taken the horses, his sword, and his armor and broughtthem to their master. And now that colverd[46]piece of pig shit was riding his horse, wearing his armor, andswinging his sword in battle.
Reuben's blood boiled at the insult!
A tiny voice in the back of his mind remindedhim that maybe he should be glad that this Sir Luca had stolen hisarmor. Now Ayla was unlikely to uncover his true identity. But thelarger part of him shrank from such thoughts. It should be a goodthing the enemy was carrying his sword, when at this very moment,that sword was probably being used to cut down one of Ayla'sdefenders after another?
Reuben could hear the rising sounds of battlefrom afar. They sounded strange. He had often heard the music ofdeath played with instruments of iron, but never from far away.Always he had been in the midst of the action.
He yearned to be there now, to be up againstthe fiend who dared raise his own sword against Ayla's defenders;maybe, he realized, even againsther.
Reuben tried to stop it, but couldn't. Heimagined Ayla, slender as a lily, her sapphire eyes shining withunshod tears, shrinking back from the violent blade. The image wastoo much.
“Someone!” the red robber knight yelled.“Someone bring me a sword! And ready a horse for me!”
Then he realized that nobody would belistening. Everybody who wasn't fighting would be watching thefight from the castle walls, hoping against hope for a victory andpraying for the safe return of their loved ones. And even if theyheard him, why would they do as he asked? They would think he wasraving from the fever. They would continue to pray.
Reuben didn't set much store in prayers.There were few things a good, sharp blade couldn't achieve moreeffectively.
“Satan's hairy ass!” he growled. “So I'llhave do everything myself, as usual.”
Taking a deep breath, he braced himselfagainst the bedstead and pushed with his arms to get into a sittingposition.
Nothing happened.
His arms were too weak to raise him even aninch from the bed.
“Hellfire and damnation!” Reuben roared, furyat himself raging in every one of his veins. “Up! Up with you!You've eviscerated entire armies! You can get off this bed! Youwill!”
Outside, the noises of battle were gettinglouder. War cries and the rush of flying arrows accompaniedReuben's groan as he attempted to lift himself, or at least roll,off this accursed bed that was holding him prisoner. Sweat spilleddown his forehead in a waterfall. His heart hammered at twice itsnormal pace. Again and again he attempted to rise—to no avail.
It was not the bed that was at fault. It washe himself. His own weakness was holding him prisoner.
No! He would not give up yet. He had to godown there and help!
One last time he pressed his big handsagainst the bed. His muscles bunched in an attempt to lift historso. Reuben felt the fever burning through him in waves of heat,felt it burning the strength out of him. He had just managed toraise himself about an inch, when his fingers gave way and heslumped back onto the bed.
He lay there, panting, too weak to even utterthe string of violent curses that flitted through his mind. There,in his mind, he painted a picture in tones of red. A picture thatshowed what he wanted to be doing at this very moment out on thebattlefield.
Just mind games.
In the end, there was nothing for him to dobut one thing: lie there on the bed and face the fact of his ownimpotence.
Metaphorically speaking, of course.
Lying there, listening to the sounds ofbattle and not knowing whether Ayla was out there, whether or notshe was still alive, was the worst kind of torture. The only kind,for him.
