Crispin steadied himself. “I’m taking him home.”
The man sighed. “That would foil my plans considerably. Tonight is an extraordinary night.”
“Afraid the Devil won’t come? I have an inkling he’ll make a special journey just for you.”
“Oh, so Radulfus told you.” He seemed disappointed. He snatched a glance behind. “I wonder where my cousin has gone off to.”
Crispin put a hand to the side of his aching jaw. It did not help his throbbing head. “I imagine he’s explaining a few things about now.”
“Explaining? To whom?”
“Saint Peter.” Stall! “I may not look it, but I did not lose our fight.”
Giles frowned and looked behind again. Crispin took that moment to reach toward Jack but Giles stuck out his foot and easily tripped him. He barked his chin on the table and tumbled to the floor. Head spinning with stars and the edges of his sight fraying with blackness, he could not rise any higher than his knees.
Giles was beside him and grabbed his hair, yanking his face up. “I’m glad you are here, Crispin. You can witness my triumph. Always you were snatching victory out of my hands. Not this time.”
Crispin’s bleary eyes slid to the helpless form of his servant, half-naked, prepared for an unspeakable act of violence.
Giles laughed again, seeming to read the patter of Crispin’s mind. He left him and moved to Jack, lifting him. The boy whimpered and writhed, trying to fight off the potions. Giles carried him to a table before the brazier and laid him upon it. He took up a stack of parchments, showing them to Crispin. “You see these? Magic and secret incantations worked on over many years. Do you see the ink? It is blood, Crispin. The blood of my boys. I dipped my quill in their still warm and running blood and I wrote out the words so I could read them aloud at this triumphal moment.” He turned away from Crispin and spoke his words to the strange markings on the wall. The braziers on either side of him seemed to flush and spurt with an unnatural glow. Crispin tried to shake out the dizziness in his head and climbed to his feet, bracing a hand on a table. He saw a flash of silver, the knife in Giles’s hand as he waved it over Jack.
Through his hazy vision, Crispin saw the flames rise and cast wavering shadows on the wall. The flames took shape. One looked like a dragon while the other was the image of a figure rising slowly from the flames.
“It’s working!” cried Giles over the roar of fire. He whirled back toward Crispin, a smile of victory on his face. “Ha! You can never stop me. I will be wealthy and powerful! And you, my poor, poor Crispin. Look at you. Bloody. Bruised. Helpless. You can’t do a thing!”
Helpless? He cut his glance to Jack but his vision was darkening. Blacking out. He had to hold on. He had to do something.
Giles laughed and it was that maniacal sound that gave Crispin a sudden bout of strength. He shook out his glazed head, gritted his teeth. Leaning against a pillar, he slowly pushed his way upward. His legs shuddered, no longer willing to uphold him, but from his will alone and the desperate blood surging through him, he thrust himself away from the pillar and stood upright. He took a long breath, braced himself, and leapt on Giles, spinning him around.
Giles’s face opened in surprise, but before he could react, Crispin growled, “Think again, you bastard!” and shoved his dagger deep into the man’s gut.
Giles grunted with the impact, but it wasn’t nearly enough for Crispin’s vengeance. He yanked the dagger upward, ripping open the cloth and flesh. Gore oozed over his hand and he remembered Giles’s taunt about how he enjoyed the feel of viscera in his hands. With a cry of bloodlust, Crispin yanked the blade all the way up to the man’s sternum. Giles’s wide, astonished eyes finally turned to fear. He choked a red cough, spattering his chin.
Crispin thought he heard the sound of something screaming, and the flames wavered wildly behind him. The smell of sulfur and puffs of angry black smoke choked the air before settling down to a gentle flickering of light.
Crispin yanked back his blade and watched the man sink to his knees. Gurgling, Giles reached his bloody hand toward Crispin, beseeching though he could no longer speak.
Awash in wet crimson, Crispin watched dispassionately through the smoky haze as Giles struggled, life slowly ebbing, his guts now steaming in the light. Hot blood dripped from Crispin’s knife hand, down his fingers, over the hilt, and slithered along the blade to the floor. “Here’s your sacrifice,” he growled. “Let the Devil take you.”
The flames twisted around the logs in the brazier and a candle sputtered. Giles breathed his last in a terrible rattle of groaning and the twisting of his body. A sudden whoosh of stale air whirled about him, riffling his hair. In his last throes, his leg jerked and toppled a brazier. The burning log rolled along the straw floor, leaving a blazing track. The fire jumped and wrestled with the furs and pillows. The stench of burning hair filled Crispin’s nose as the flames climbed, reaching the low rafters and burst into life.
Jack was suddenly surrounded by flames. The throbbing in Crispin’s skull finally overwhelmed him and he fell to his knees. No! Not now! He pulled himself forward, tried to crawl toward Jack when something large loomed over him. He could no longer see from the smoke and ash, but someone was lifting him by his waist, swinging him around, and suddenly he was moving, held like a sack against a hip. He felt the heavy footfalls as they left the smoke behind.
“Save the boy!” he croaked and then coughed uncontrollably.
Carried further until he felt the cold on his face, they climbed.
He was suddenly released into the snow where he groaned and slowly rolled to his back. He breathed the fresh, cold air, filling his lungs with relief, but even that was small comfort to the anguish that stabbed his heart. “Jack,” he whispered.
“M-master!” came the weak cry beside him.
Crispin turned. Jack lay in the snow beside him. He gathered the shirtless boy in an embrace, unable to speak for his gratitude. Below him, he was vaguely aware of fire licking into the starry sky. His ancestral home was engulfed in flames and smoke, and its sturdy walls were beginning to crumble.
His still hazy mind was filled with jumbled thoughts. Jack, alive and safe. Giles dead. How were they saved?
The sound of timbers falling stole his attention at last and though he knew he was far from safety, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sight below. As each wall fell, as each arch toppled, a bit of his heart was ripped away. So final. The home of his ancestors, the manor house given to them by a king so many centuries ago, nothing but blackened rubble. This was the end, then. No going back. No returning to better days. While the house still stood, there always seemed to be that one slim chance, that possibility that the world could be righted again and everything could be put back in its place.
But not now. Not ever again. A frost colder than the snow chilling his face and hands clutched at his vitals. His time had slipped away. He would never be master of Sheen again. Never.
A shadow swooped above them and a feeling of panic gripped him. A figure blocked the starry field. He swung his cloak over Jack’s bare shoulder before he slowly faced his savior.
20
“Holy God!” Jack screamed. “The Golem!”
Crispin curled his arm protectively about Jack.
The creature moved forward and the moonlight washed his face and chest in silver light. His head was small on wide shoulders, but perhaps it was only a trick of the eye, for his shoulders were unnaturally wide, piled as they were with pelts and hood. Crispin looked up at the face of the creature. . and saw clearly that he was only a man.
“My God. Who are you?”