Rumpelstiltskin (Timeless Fairy Tales Book 4) Page 19

  “Gemma, run back Verglas,” Stil whispered as he stepped between Gemma and the black creatures. “Get to the tent. Stay there until daylight. Then send word for Angelique.”

  “Contact her yourself,” Gemma hissed, picking up a large rock.

  “Gemma, I can’t protect you. I’m not the right kind of mage!” he said before bringing his spear up to take a blow from the hellhound. He twisted, using momentum and his weight to send the beast flying.

  “Then we run together,” Gemma said.

  Stil mirthlessly laughed. “Fine. Stay close,” he said, twirling his spear.

  There was no exchange of insults with the rider. There was no attempt to reason or speak because there was no need. As Gemma stared at the cloaked figure, she could feel nothing but evil and an endless thirst for bloodshed. The rider could not be reasoned with. He and his beasts were made entirely of darkness. Stil fought the hellhound, alternating between blinding the beast with his weapon and driving it away with his spear. The dog snarled, foam dripping from its mouth as it blindly lunged at Stil. Stil rammed the pole of his spear into the beast’s mouth. The dog snapped its jaws around the pole, but Stil threw his weight into the weapon and flipped the beast backwards.

  The rider loaded a black bolt into its crossbow and aimed the weapon.

  Gemma threw her rock. It missed the rider but hit its horse, making the animal shriek and dance sideways. The rider released the bolt from his crossbow, but Stil dodged it, running forward to spear the hellhound.

  The dog slipped under Stil’s spear and lunged for him, but it missed and locked its jaws on Stil’s new cape.

  “Blaze!” Stil said, slamming his weapon on the beast’s skull while lighting the clearing up like a fire.

  Gemma threw her second rock at the rider—this time pelting him in the chest. The rider turned its horse in a circle and hissed.

  The hellhound disengaged from Stil and ran at Gemma.

  “Climb a tree!” Stil shouted, chasing the hound. He managed to land a blow on the beast’s shoulder, opening a deep wound, but the mongrel ignored it and scrabbled for Gemma. Gemma had just enough time to throw herself on the trunk of a tree and clear the first branch. The hellhound caught the hem of her cape and pulled, yanking her back by the clasp at her neck.

  She choked and almost lost hold of the tree, but the hellhound let go and leapt backwards to avoid the spear Stil tossed at it like a javelin. The spear missed.

  “Cudere,” Stil called, holding his arm out in front of him. The spear shook before flying out of the ground in which it was impaled and hurtling back to the craftmage. Stil spun around and thrust the spear out in front just in time to intercept another bolt from the rider.

  The hellhound growled and snapped at Gemma’s feet; she kept her cloak wrapped tightly around herself so none of it draped. She pulled a fairly sizable dead branch off the tree and dropped it on the hellhound. It cracked in half after hitting the animal’s skull.

  The hound snarled, but it held its ground between Stil and Gemma.

  Stil faked a jab to the beast’s left before carrying through, turning the jab into a slash that landed squarely on its already-wounded shoulder. The beast yelped and scrambled backwards. Stil was about to finish the animal off with a well-placed jab when he froze. He turned to face the rider before he fell to his knees, letting Gemma see the black arrow that poked out of his left shoulder.

  Stil fell face forward into the ground, his breath rattling in his chest.

  No, no, NO!

  “NO!” Gemma shouted, leaping from the tree. She landed on the injured hellhound that was dragging itself towards Stil. Her entire body jarred when she hit the animal, making a faint clinking noise.

  Panic poured through her, unleashed by the sight of Stil’s bleeding shoulder. Her usual calm abandoned her like warmth in a snowstorm.

  Not Stil! Anything—except that!

  Gemma grabbed the idea and used it to push her mind into motion. She needed to understand what was happening! There was a distinct pattern to the battle, and more than the obvious tactic that the hellhound attacked while the rider shot arrows. There was something missing—like hems and seams, hidden from sight but stitching cloth together. Wait, could it be…?

  “Gemma, run,” Stil grimaced as Gemma scrambled the few feet to him.

  “Its weakness is light, right?” Gemma asked, her breath coming in heavy pants as her heart pounded in her throat.

  “What?” Stil groaned as the nightmare mount sauntered in their direction.

  “The rider and hellhound! They cannot abide light, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Good,” Gemma said, digging in her pockets as the hellhound dragged itself in their direction.

  “What are you doing? Run, you mule,” Stil coughed.

  “It’s easier to take apart a piece of clothing if you rip out the seams. We were just stabbing at the cloth,” Gemma said.

  “What?” Stil said, confused by Gemma’s babble

  The rider was almost on them when Gemma’s fingers closed on what she was looking for. Gemma plucked at least four starfires out and shouted “SHINE! Shine your brightest!”

  The prisms glowed with the intensity of the sun, bathing the clearing in light so brilliant, even Gemma couldn’t see. The hellhound, nightmare, and the rider shrieked with pain as the light poured over their bodies, invading every crevice.

  Gemma dropped the prisms on the ground and turned her back to the light to pick two more starfires out of her pocket. “SHINE!” she shouted when she realized she faced the blinded, injured hellhound. The animal scrunched its eyes shut and leapt at her, mouth gaping. It latched down on Gemma’s arm, making her scream when its fangs sank into the flesh of her arm.

  Gemma gritted her teeth and kneed the creature in the chest, trying to make it release her. It flopped but didn’t let go. Gemma punched its head with her fist that held the starfires. The animal released her and choked, writhing on the ground when one of the prisms fell down its throat.

  Light erupted from its mouth, and the hellhound howled.

  “Dim!” Gemma shouted.

  The star fires dimmed enough that Gemma could see without stars in her eyes.

  It was still too much for the nightmare mount; it reared, unseating the rider, and took off, galloping through the dark woods with angry screams.

  Gemma glanced over her shoulder at the writhing hellhound, her shoulders heaving as she observed the creature’s pain while light invaded it from the inside out.

  Gemma’s fist tightened around an unlit starfire. She ran towards the rider, kicking up snow. “SHINE!” she shouted, grabbing the thrown rider by its cloak.

  The rider was even more terrifying to behold than Gemma had steeled herself for. Instead of a flesh-covered face it had a bare skull. The rider’s jaw was square and blocky to support its bloated incisors that were coated with a red so dark and rusty, it was almost black. There were gaping holes instead of eyes, and its breath reeked of sulfur and brimstone.

  The rider wasn’t a mindless creature—like the hellhound or the horse—nor was it crazed and mad with greed—like King Torgen. Instead it was a hole of darkness, seeking to devour everything good and righteous in its path.

  As the rider struggled to bring up its loaded crossbow, Gemma said to her starfire, “Shine even brighter.”

  She shoved the blazing prism into the rider’s chest wound as the rider scrabbled with the crossbow trigger. Its tarry blood burned her hand, but she gritted her teeth and let go of the starfire before she ripped her hand from the creature’s chest cavity—which now shown like a comet.

  The rider dropped its crossbow and tried to tear the prism out of its chest, but it was in vain. Light coursed from its head to its toes, and it raised its hands in a silent scream before turning to ash and blowing away in the wind, leaving behind the starfire—which still shone brilliantly.

  “Dim,” Gemma called. To her relief, the painful brightness of the starfires decreased
. Gemma pushed herself to her feet and staggered to Stil, who had pushed himself up on his elbows.

  “What was THAT?” Stil said, struggling to lift his head.

  “We were concentrating too much on fighting. All we needed was to make it bright, and they wouldn’t be able to stand it.”

  “And you realized that how?”

  “You said they couldn’t travel in daylight.” Gemma said, swallowing to make her voice strong as she looked at Stil’s wound. “What are we going to do?”

  “It’s not as bad as it looks,” he said when he managed to raise his head. “Leave it in for now—to staunch the blood flow. It’s not in very deep. If we get back to the tent, I’ll be fine,” he grimaced. “I have a kit and some potions there. By stars and fire dust, does this hurt.”

  “Can you stand? I could get Pricker Patch, but I don’t want to leave you,” Gemma said.

  “No, I can walk. If you would just help me stand—,” Stil broke off when a dog whined behind them.

  “…What happened to the hellhound?” Stil asked.

  Gemma scrambled for her starfires and turned around, scooping up the prisms and snow, but she needn’t bother.

  The snarling, emaciated hellhound was gone. In its place was a good-sized canine/wolf-ish looking creature. It had thick white fur, but the tip of its tail was black, as were its paws and legs, almost as if it wore boots. The tips of its ears were flecked with black too, and it had a number of odd but beautiful black marks around its eyes, like they had been inked by an artist.

  It sniffed its wet, inquisitive nose at Stil and Gemma and wagged its tail.

  “I have never seen a creature like that,” Stil said, clamping his jaws together in pain as Gemma helped him stand.

  “If we ignore it, will it go away?” Gemma asked, hefting Stil’s arm over his shoulder so she could bear some of his weight.

  “I don’t know, but I find I just don’t care enough to deal with it right now. Let’s go,” Stil said, nodding in the direction of their camp.

  The walk back was long and excruciating. Gemma’s heart beat painfully in her throat, and she could only imagine the pain Stil felt.

  The craftmage bore it all without a noise, although he did gasp occasionally.

  When they pushed through the last layer of trees and could see the brown spot on a field of white snow that was Pricker Patch—even this far away he looked displeased—both Gemma and Stil sighed in relief.

  “Just a little ways,” Stil said, teetering dangerously for a moment.

  “Yes. Just a little,” Gemma said, supporting the mage. She blinked when snow started to fall and settled on her eyelashes. “Just put one foot in front of the other,” she coached before they started walking again.

  They were halfway across the field when the first beam of light broke over the hill. Just as the light broke, soldiers in the Verglas uniform poured over the crest.

  “Oh no,” Gemma breathed.

  “Leave me,” Stil said. “Run to the tent. Once you get in, it will lock itself if anyone tries to follow you.”

  “No,” Gemma said.

  “Gemma, don’t be a fool!”

  “It’s me they’re looking for,” Gemma said, a clear-headed calmness falling over her.

  The options were obvious. If she ran, they would take Stil. Who knew if he would survive the arrow, much less King Torgen. If they tried to run together, they would never reach the tent, and they both would be captured.

  The least dangerous option was to turn herself in. Gemma had made up her mind to even before she made her evaluations.

  Stil had to be saved. Not because he would be more useful to the countries in the fight against darkness, or even because Gemma owed him a great debt. In fact, her decision had nothing to do with practicality, and everything to do with her heart.

  I will have to ponder this later, Gemma thought.

  Stil gripped her shoulder with the hand thrown over her. “Gemma, I won’t let you sacrifice yourself for me! You deserve the happy ending.”

  “Gemma Kielland?” a soldier shouted.

  “And I won’t get it if King Torgen has you thrown into a prison.”

  Stil didn’t even hear what she was admitting to. “He can’t keep me forever. The Conclave would come for me. You’re running out of time. Run!” Stil said, trying to push Gemma away from him.

  Gemma slipped away and folded Stil on to his knees before she placed her handful of starfires in his hand. “Thank you, for everything.”

  “Gemma Kielland, we are armed and have you in our sights. Turn yourself in, and you will come to no harm,” the soldier shouted. In the moonlight, Gemma could see rows of soldiers carrying bows glittering on the snow.

  “Don’t even think of it!” Stil hissed. “Blast your sacrifices and practicality! RUN!”

  Gemma shook her head, her eyes filling with tears. “You don’t understand, Stil,” she said, her heart breaking.

  “Don’t do this, Gemma,” Stil pleaded. He scattered the starfires as he dropped them to reach for her hands.

  Gemma smiled and leaned forward, kissing Stil on the forehead. “Take care, Stil,” she said.

  “Gemma!”

  Gemma turned to the soldiers and walked to them, her heart twisting with each step she took away from Stil. She didn’t turn around. She couldn’t. If she did, she would lose all the strength she had.

  “GEMMA!” Stil shouted.

  Four soldiers met Gemma halfway to the army. They searched her for weapons—tossing the few remaining starfires she had on her—and restrained her hands in iron shackles.

  “Gemma Kielland has been found. We return to Ostfold immediately. Ready the horses!” a soldier shouted.

  Within moments, a chestnut horse was brought forward. A soldier mounted it, and Gemma was passed up to him.

  “GEMMA!” Stil shouted again.

  The soldiers ignored him and trekked back up the hill, aiming north…for Ostfold.

  Gemma squirmed in the soldier’s grip to get one last look of Stil.

  He was a dab of black among the snow that was falling in large, beautiful flakes. Gemma’s starfires were littered around him like tiny flames. He had managed to partially stand, but as the soldier spurred his horse into a trot, Stil fell to his knees, calling out for Gemma.

  Far back, in the shadows of the field, Gemma saw the white lupine.

  They started down the hill, and the snowy field veered from sight. “Goodbye, Stil,” Gemma whispered before she lost sight of him.

  “Press on to Ostfold. The King wants her,” the soldier leading the hunt told Gemma’s captor, joining them on a bay-colored horse.

  “Yessir,” Gemma’s captor said.

  “I apologize, Miss Kielland. I wish we could release you, but we haven’t a choice,” the leading soldier said.

  “I understand,” Gemma said.

  “Send a messenger ahead. I’m sure the King will want to know his future queen is on the way home. Let’s move out!” the soldier said, heeling his horse into a canter.

  Above the thunder of pounding hooves, Gemma heard the howl of a wolf.

  Chapter 16

  Considering how long it took Gemma and Stil to walk to the Loire border with Pricker Patch, traveling back to Ostfold took a painfully short time. The soldiers stopped every few hours for fresh horses, which allowed them to keep their grueling pace, and they stopped to rest only whenever Gemma was in danger of falling off due to exhaustion.

  In far too short a time, Gemma stood before King Torgen, saddle sore, bruised, with her arm injured from the hellhound and her hand burnt from the rider’s black blood.

  King Torgen received her in a palace courtyard, where the wind blew and snow stung all who were stationed outside.

  “Gemma Kielland, you have returned to me,” King Torgen said. He approached her with his arms spread wide, as if to hug her. When he drew close, he back-handed her and encircled her neck with his hands. “Although you will be punished for fleeing.”

 
; Gemma gagged but kicked out, kneeing King Torgen in the stomach.

  The King staggered backwards with an “oomph.”

  “Restrain her,” King Torgen snarled, clutching his gut.

  Two soldiers placed their hands on Gemma’s shoulders, their faces wiped of emotion.

  When King Torgen came at Gemma again, Gemma didn’t wait. She swung her shackled arms through the air, snapping the chains in the king’s face.

  “I said restrain her!” King Torgen howled, his hands covering his face.

  The soldiers lowered their grasp to her elbows, holding Gemma still.

  King Torgen cursed and roared in pain as Gemma lifted her chin and raised an eyebrow up in the most arrogant expression she could muster.

  Gemma was done behaving. She would rather be dead than let Torgen touch her. It was over.

  “You think you are safe because you are to become my queen?” King Torgen said, finally lowering his hands.

  “No. I think I did not keep my part of the bargain and failed to spin all the flax into gold,” Gemma said, recalling the vast spread of flax. “Thus, I am subject to death.”

  King Torgen’s ugly glower faded from his face, and instead his features were pinched as hysterical laughter poured from his mouth. “You think I will let you go? You think I will let you escape into death?”

  King Torgen abruptly stopped laughing and grabbed Gemma by the throat of her cape, yanking her—and the soldiers—forward. “I will never set you free.”

  “And I will never spin for you again,” Gemma said, the strength of her heart helping her to meet King Torgen’s feverish eyes with all the ice she could muster in her own gaze. “You may clutch my broken body for all eternity, but I will never give you even a glimmer of gold.”

  King Torgen released one bark of laughter. “We shall see, Gemma Kielland. I have ways of making people obey my orders,” he snarled. “Toril!”

  The prince, who was standing in the doorway, hesitantly joined King Torgen. “Yes, Father?”

  “Take Gemma—your soon to be step-mother—to her new chambers. See to it that she has everything she needs to present herself as a bride. Tomorrow.”