Click here to read: A Stout Heart Is Half The Battle: Part I

A Stout Heart is Half the Battle: Part II
by Robert & Stacy Anderson

[Novel Excerpt]

“You see what power is – holding someone else’s fear in your hand and showing it to them!”

–Amy Tan

The Keep was a bustle of activity, but from the route that Falsto led them on, Tamira had no way of knowing what these workers were busy at. Nearly all of the men she passed were hurrying somewhere, but they all spared a second to stare; never daring more than a second, though. With every man it was the same; he would make room for the entourage, spy the rag-clad Tamira in the middle, and then ogle or drool or something similarly abhorrent; then their eyes would dart to the perfectly composed, austere face of the Warden, causing them to immediately avert their gaze and hurry on about their business. But the young lady knight was uncomfortably aware of the eyes of the bold ones—the dangerous ones—ravenously coveting every inch of her bared back once the warden’s keen, black eyes had passed them by. Their trespass threatened to breach the protective shield of rage surrounding her, the only weapon at her disposal, making it increasingly difficult to maintain her composure.

The route was circuitous, but not overly so; as if Falsto was trying to confuse her or keep her away from seeing certain things, yet he lacked the patience to do an effective job of it. The escorts Tamira had been straddled with had a firm grasp around each one of her arms, practically sweeping her tiny frame down the dank and gloomy corridors in order to keep tempo with the warden’s decisive footsteps. It was a quicker pace than she would have liked, considering that each stride took her that much closer to dancing wits with the devil. Her sapphire eyes, darting frantically to and fro searching for hope in every shadowy corner or lamp lit doorway, no longer held the familiar sparkle of an effervescent, carefree spirit. All trace of vivacity lost in a sudden wave of despair as reality struck her in the gut, a battering ram against all hope. She was alone. There was no aid forthcoming. Her friend, Dante; the Captain; and his Viking crew had all been captured. All their carefully planned strategies thwarted, but how, and by whom? Somehow, Falsto had to have been warned of their arrival and she had yet to figure out how. But soon she would, she vowed silently, her Highland fire resurfacing once more. With renewed determination, Tamira lifted her gaze to glare at Faltso’s ramrod-straight posture, the hands that were clasped at the small of his back, and his mechanically precision, purposeful stride. Was thes man e’er a wee bairn, she mused, while observing her foe, taking his measure for battle. Mind yer step, quinie, she silently warned, Thes one be forged in th’ blackest fires o’ creation, nae doobt th’ kind tae make Lucifer’s demons tremble. Indeed, what kind of a monster would be able to keep this beast on a leash?

Suddenly, Falsto flung open a door in front of him, and Tamira reflexively cringed from the golden flood of daylight that poured in on her startled eyes. Her guards didn’t let her break her stride, though. A few more blind steps brought her out onto a broad stone balcony overlooking a small courtyard. Blinking in an effort to adjust her eyes to the light, Tamira didn’t see Falsto’s unspoken instructions to the guards. Once she was able to see again, she sorely wished that she hadn’t yet been able to. One of her guards was placing the chains at the base of the wall at the back of the balcony, while the other guard had closed the only door and taken a post in front of it. He was obviously blocking the best, and possibly the only route for escape, because they had left her standing unattended in the center of all this. Her eyes were drawn to Falsto, as he meandered to the front of the balcony, and gazed down at the courtyard.

She blinked again; slowly the stupor drifted from her head, allowing her to grasp the few moments afforded her to take stock of her surroundings. It was nearly 4:00 in the afternoon from where the sun sat in the sky. A chill wind crept across her back, hinting that winter was on its way. It eased the sting in her welts, but made the rest of her back crawl uncomfortably. From here, she could see the rim of the valley, hazy in the damp autumn air. Somewhere beyond that horizon, Spencer was out there. Would he come? Did he even know they were all in danger? It was a tiny glimmer of hope to cling to, but the time had come for action now, wishes weren’t going to save the day.

Her sable brows knitted together in thought, as she scrambled to gather a plausible tale, one that would instill a sense of doubt, or give the warden cause to question the motives of whoever it was that pulled his strings. If she played her cards well enough, perhaps she could completely banjax Falsto’s loyalties; stir some confusion into the pot. Obviously he resented the task of detaining her, yet here she was, which proved that he was powerless, bound to comply with the wishes of another. What evil threatened this beast and kept such a strong hold over him? She shuddered at that thought, pushing it aside to save focus. Falsto had called her a calamity, tossing blame on her shoulders for some reason. What did he think she had done to him? If she could shake up the warden’s resolve, perhaps the answers would fall into place, and then, perhaps, she would have leverage which could be used to free her friends. But the warden was no fool, and she would be best served to remember this fact.

Certain that Falsto would have no trouble detecting a fable; she discerned that her words would have to be placed with careful purpose. She would have to adopt a demeanor of deference, meeting him with an air of emotional detachment equal to his own. Would she be able to do it? God help me, she silently prayed, let not Thy wisdom leave me, Laird. Sighing inwardly, she collected her courage, and then smoothly rolled his language off her tongue.

“Señor Batidore, if I may imply?” she ventured, referring now to his dispute earlier with the Lady Sabine, “It appears to me that it would be unwise and quite possibly treacherous, should you follow through on offering the Lady Sabine’s favors to this special friend of yours. She works closely with you, no?” Tamira paused, waiting for the warden to give her some sort of sign that her words were being heard, but his back remained to her; silent and unwavering. “She is a woman scorned by the lash of your quick temper. Are you so confident that she will not divulge your secrets, or that your arriving guest will not betray your confidence? It is often the ones closest to us that deceive, able to inflict the most damage.” Again, she paused, allowing her words a moment to sink in, and drawing upon the courage to continue. His silence was unnerving. It was time to step up the game.

“Have you not been given cause to wonder why Lord Monticello failed to perform the task you set him to in Valencia? I could help you with information in that regard, Señor, if you will allow me to continue.”

Oh, her nerves were nearing the edge of disaster! Was nothing she had to say hitting the mark? Was he not the least bit curious of her connection to Monticello? And was she wrong in assuming that Monticello was the soon-to-be arriving guest? Tamira pressed her bound hands tighter to her chest, her breath wavering with each moment that passed. It was a good thing, she supposed, the fear creeping back up to the fore. It gave credence to her performance, the docile and eager to please captive. Truth be told, she was feeling a bit like the rabbit in a den of wolves.

The warden never turned her way, though it was obvious to her that he had, at least, heard. She desperately wanted to see what Falsto was looking at, what drew his attention so, but she was afraid to move for fear of inciting his rage again. So, she waited, hovering on the edge of shivering, though whether from the chill air or… something else, she couldn’t be sure. So it came as no surprise to her when she trembled at his sudden movement. Falsto had turned to the guard at the wall. Pointing above his head, he commanded in a matter-of-fact tone, “Have the ring set there, and the cleat over there.” Without ever looking at Tamira, he beckoned her to him.

Hesitantly, she stepped over to where he stood at the balustrade. When he didn’t speak to her, she slowly turned her head to follow his gaze. Down by the wall, some men were working to build a wooden frame of some sort, like a bandstand or a covered stage. She didn’t understand why this was so important to him, so she glanced his way again to make certain they were both looking at the same thing. When Tamira returned her eyes to the structure, she saw one of the workers throw a noose over the rafter. Her brow furrowed at the thought of such a large edifice being used for a gallows. Then another rope joined the first, and then two more. Eyes wide, she looked again at Falsto. Indicating the wall behind him with a nod, he stated, “Tonight, you will hang there by your wrists. Where you can watch your Viking mercenaries…” he pointed his chin toward the huge gallows, “hang there by their necks.”

A lump suddenly lodged in her throat, the irony of what Falsto intended to do strangling her breath, and churning yesterday’s meal inside her gut. Oh God! She was going to be sick! Could Falsto possibly know that he intended to force her to relive the past? That she would be made to watch, helplessly, as once again a loved would be taken from her, slain in an act of brutality. As she felt her world spin out of control, one thought snuck in to pull her back. First Sabine and now Falsto… both had named Captain Marco’s sailors as, her mercenaries. Why?

Falsto allowed her several heartbeats to let his words sink in, then faster than a snake, he grabbed a handful of her hair and thrust her head well out beyond the railing. She wanted to grab at the wall—at anything to keep from falling, but the thumb cuffs made that impossible, and her instinctive reaction nearly caused her to lose what was left of her chemise. Falsto’s grip on her scalp was painful, but she feared him letting go for she was certain she would topple over the rail to the stone steps below. “Do you see it?” Falsto demanded, his calm demeanor slipping away again like rain on oiled leather. “Do you see all the work, the resources, the pageantry? Do you see?” His raspy whisper nearly screamed in her ear. He jerked her back so that their faces were closer than lovers. “Tell me why”, he growled. “Tell me why you and your special friends are worth this!”

Stricken dumb with fear, she trembled uncontrollably at first. The warden’s anger had rose so swiftly, it caught her off guard, sent her insides tumbling again, and sent any semblance of thought beyond her grasp. But then she became angry, her Highland temper bubbling to the surface and spewing over, heating her blood with liquid fury. How dare this beast play the injured party! How dare he threaten the lives of her friends! …and bloody hell, how dare he yank her blasted hair! The cur!

Tamira’s sapphire eyes blazed with intense loathing, as she hissed back, spewing venom. “You …are the worthy one… bastardo! I will see your wretched neck swinging from a gallows before a single one of these good Vikings.”

Falsto held Tamira’s glare unflinchingly. They were so close that their eyelashes would’ve batted each other if either of them were willing to blink. They remained locked like that for what seemed an eternity; until Tamira became aware of the pain in her pulled scalp and her twisted neck; and Falsto became aware of the cramping of his fingers and the ache in his arm.

“Unlikely.”, he whispered. Using the handful of hair, he threw her to the ground. She landed hard on her abused back and skinned her elbow in the process. As her eyes poured into him all the venom she could muster, he pointedly pulled out his watch, looked at it, then looked at the gallows, before returning his gaze to her and shaking his head ruefully. Coming from anyone else—that is to say, anyone with a modicum of genuine human emotion—this would have been a chilling message; from him, it came across as a bad pantomime.

Dropping his adopted mannerisms, Falsto returned to his cold nature and addressed his guards. “Return her to the whipping posts. You are to lock the door and stand guard inside the Discipline Room until I come for you. Do you understand that? … until I come. You are not to unlock the door, or leave your post for a messenger, agent, nor anyone else claiming to come in my authority.” Addressing the other guard, he said, “After the prisoner is secure, you are to see to installing the restraints here. Now go.”

Falsto turned back to the courtyard as if Tamira didn’t exist—had never existed.

A soft, short burst of mocking laughter escaped Tamira’s lips, taunting the warden. She could blame it on stress, or claim that the devil made her do it, but suddenly it all seemed so absurd, as to be nearly comical. “I don’t know which is more pathetic!” she interposed sarcastically, baiting for confirmation. Her precariously discovered clues were starting to form coherent patterns of thought in her mind. “That I willingly stepped into the pit carrying the viper with me. Or, that the deceptive, little snake chose you … a pompous, miniscule puppet … to be his pawn.” She chuckled softly again, and mocked him further by shaking her head in feigned pity, “Or would you prefer the title of Mindless Brawn?” She pulled her legs under her and started to rise. “Hmmm, tell me …” she challenged more boldly, “Does it make you angry to keep me alive? Is the bother worth what he has promised you? The run of Albufeira? Basqual? …Or perhaps all of Biotas? How often did the two of you conspire while burning the midnight oil? And when is the putrid little rat going to claim his deeds? Oh, wait!” She widened her eyes and flashed him a cheeky grin, “Is it possible that he has pulled your strings unaware? No, no …” her amusement burst forth in a deep, hearty chuckle, “Don’t tell me. It’ll spoil the show.”

Tamira’s taunting was rewarded when Falsto slowly turned his head to look at her. His eyes narrowed as he tried to see through her; past her fair skin, through her muscle and bone, into her brain—deep into that confusing mass of feminine cunning. What was she leaving unsaid? What did she know? Viper? Did she truly know or was she guessing? All these questions were there in his penetrating stare.

The guards had approached and were paused at her sides, but whether they were enthralled by her audacity, or simply waiting, apprehensively for Falsto to reissue his orders, she didn’t know. She turned to smile broadly at one of them, then spoke to him, but her taunt was meant for Falsto’s ears. “Si, gracias, do take me away from here. I could use a bit of a nap, besides; it wouldn’t do for the warden to let me catch my death in this chill.”

She glanced back at Falsto to see how this barb had been received, but he was already looking at the gallows again. His reply sounded like a door closing on a tomb. “No. You will probably catch your death in the tower with the other whores.”

The guards roughly hauled her to her feet before she had a chance to retort and escorted her back the way they had come. If she had harbored any hopes of seeing more of the Keep, they remained unfulfilled. In due course, she was lashed to the posts as before. After her guard locked the door, this burly, coarse monolith who was so dense with muscle and scar tissue that he could probably lift a brick with his eyelid, spoke. In a surprisingly high and soft voice, he said, “You really shouldn’t make him angry. He can do much worse than kill you.”

[End of Excerpt]

© 2006 Robert & Stacy Anderson

Use your enemy’s hand to catch a snake.
- Persian Proverb

If you actually made it all the way through this novel excerpt, I thank you for taking the time to read our work. Comments are, (of course), most welcome. If you’d rather just link and run, I’m happy with that too. Please feel free to leave your name and link below, and I’ll be sure to peruse your blog in return.

Technorati Tags: Falsto, Tamira, lady knight, Viking, captured, Falsto, Batidore

Wan day, (whilst oi wus mindin’ me own business), along came a Nubbit who linked in me Mr. Linky box. “A Nubbit?” says oi. “Waat be a nubbit?” An’ so oi clicked on de link ter see.

An’ wait’ll oi tell ye… ’tis de flippin Cookie Monster, so’tiz!
.

Oi LOVE cookies! Consequently, oi sort av ‘av a sweet spot for de ol Nubbit nigh, too.

[big, cookie monster-ish grin]

Confused? Aw, go on now… Click on the link and have a look-see. Dorannes is featured in the scrolling blogs to the left of the screen. How cool-bean-a-roonies is that?!?

(Psst! If you’re here for the Wordless Wednesday, just scroll on down, it’s right below this bit o’ shameless advertisement.)

We now return you to your regularly scheduled blog surfing…

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Wordless Wednesday

A Stout Heart is Half the Battle: Part I
by Robert & Stacy Anderson

{Novel Excerpt}

“One man scorned and covered with scars still strove with his last ounce of courage to reach the unreachable stars; and the world was better for this.”

–Don Quixote, de la Mancha 1605-1615

The warden’s face was dark and dangerous as he turned away from the women to examine the rack of lashes and the tray filled with various instruments of torture.

Seizing the opportunity of Falsto’s diverted gaze, Tamira shot a silent plea to the exiting Lady Sabine, but it was of no use. Her chance of escape had passed. To help Tamira now, Sabine would risk jeopardizing her assignment, her cover, and possibly her life; and obviously, she wasn’t about to let that happen. Silently, Tamira groaned, realizing that she was about to pay dearly for wasting precious time earlier in doubting Sabine’s allegiance.

The look in Sabine’s eyes seemed to voice sincere regret, as she walked slowly, yet gracefully toward the door. At the door, she paused, and from behind Tamira’s back Sabine’s voice rang out.

“By the way, Pretty, what is your name?”

“Tamira,” she relented, sighing dejectedly. She spoke in her native Highland tongue, “Tamira Kane.”

There was nothing to hide in her name, she had decided; and besides, if she didn’t make it out of this prison alive, perhaps Sabine would be kind enough to deliver the news of her death to The Order, as well as to her family. It was the least the English woman could do for her.

There was a slight pause, in which Tamira could almost feel Sabine’s eyebrows knit curiously behind her, as she repeated the last name aloud, “Kane.”

“What did she say?” Falsto had turned around at the way Sabine savored the foreign words on her tongue. Needing a translation, he queried further, speaking in Spanish, “Kane? Does that mean something?”

“No sir.” Sabine took an instant too long to answer. “It’s just a name. Her name is Kane.”

Falsto’s cold, dark eyes shifted to look directly at Tamira, causing her to shudder. “Her name” he stated callously, “I don’t care. Now get out.”

Sabine quickly did as she was told, the click of the door sounded like the loss of hope to Tamira’s ears. Now she was alone with this cold-eyed man. This was a ruthless man, known to have taken part in the Massacre of San Carlos. This was the man who could turn a prison full of dangerous convicts into a private army, and still maintain control of them. This was the man who now faced Tamira with an arsenal of instruments designed to cause great amounts of pain, and there was nothing she could do to stop him.

Her wrists and ankles were secured to a set of heavy posts, bound by iron bands; her small frame suspended in a spread eagle fashion, which was stretching her shoulders painfully. Briefly, she entertained the notion of using the magic ring Lars had given her. It would free her from the shackles, but without a weapon, Falsto and his guards would surely overpower her. No, it would not be wise to risk such action now. She would have to wait.

Tamira felt her throat constrict in fear, while her mind desperately tried to block the horrific visions of what was yet to come. She remained silent, having no other option than to wait for Falsto’s first move. What did he want from her? Was there anything she could say to her advantage… anything she could use to save herself from whatever cruelty this monster intended to inflict? In retrospect, she sorely wished that she hadn’t assumed the blame for the bullet that had pierced Falsto in the ass. It was Dante that fired the shot; but it was her foolish mouth that punctured Falsto’s pride. God help her if this was meant to be an act of retribution, or worse yet, if she was to be nothing more than the warden’s entertainment for the evening.

Falsto leaned back against one of the devices as he regarded her, his dark eyes inscrutable, showing no hint of compassion. She was unused to being so callously regarded by a man. There was no passion, no lust, no need to protect, dominate, or own her in any way. He regarded her the way a curious child regards an interesting bug. Eventually, he rose from his perch and strolled over to where Tamira hung. Without warning or preamble, he slammed a fist into her midsection so hard that it pulled at her shoulders and hips. Falsto’s lack of imagination in no way offset his brutality.

While Tamira struggled to breathe, Falsto grabbed her hair and yanked her close to his face. “Kane”, he snarled in low tones, “What are you doing to me? What calamity have you brought down on me?” He violently released her hair. Tamira’s whole world was a ball of ache that had taken up residence in her belly. She was barely conscious of him swiftly grabbing an instrument from the table and sweeping around behind her. There was a whisper, and then a bone chilling draft on her back as she felt the fabric that once was her chemise, fall to either side of her body like a discarded rag. Falsto came back into view long enough to angrily throw his knife onto the tray and grab a cat-o-nine from the rack. He disappeared from view just as quickly and suddenly her back exploded in a dozen points of searing pain, causing her to bite down on her lower lip to keep from crying out. He lashed at her savagely, relentlessly for several seconds before finally regaining control. The cat-o-nine was thrown to the side as Falsto visually composed himself with great effort.

Tamira stifled a moan, her fair-skinned back stung and bile threatened to rise up in her throat. She knew that Falsto’s tantrum had, at the worst, only given her a few red welts and a tenderized gut. Was he done with her, or would the torment continue until she could bear it no more? Fear once again began to strangle her, choking all reason; and then suddenly a thought occurred which brought new hope, reviving her senses.

This detached, cold, unfeeling shell of a man had just shown his Achilles heel. Anger, by golly! Albeit his raging temper was quick and quite nearly uncontrollable, still, it was something tangible to work with, for mercy was certainly out of the question. No amount of begging, no matter how pitiful, would affect this heartless man.

Tamira grimaced as she drew in a calming breath, one that was also meant to summon up the courage needed to provoke the warden further. She may have to endure more pain, but it seemed to be the only way to shake Falsto’s composure, get into his head, and hopefully, find the answers she desperately sought. Why had he imprisoned her and for whom? She thought she had known who the mastermind was, but then evidence to the contrary seemed to disabuse her of that notion. Fie! It was all so blasted confusing. What did he intend to do with her and her friends in the cells below? How were they going to escape? They had all been lured into a clever trap, and obviously, Falsto was not working alone.

But he didn’t even know my name… ?

“Calamity? Me?” she managed to innocently rasp out in broken clips, apprehension coloring her Spanish with bits of her native Highland dialect. “What… in blazes… are ye going on about? You know, if you’re willing to let bygones be bygones, Senor Batidore,” she continued more boldly, reaching for the mark that would sting, “I’ll gladly offer an apology, for I am truly sorry that ball o’ lead hit ye in the arse. Aye,” she muttered under her breath, switching her language so as not to be understood, yet knowing this, too, would raise his ire, “Dante should’ve aimed fur yer blasted head.”

Falsto turned just enough to glare at her, which she promptly returned with a feigned apologetic smile. He smoothed his hair into place and straightened his clothes, then bellowed, “GUARDS!!!!”

As quickly as they appeared, Tamira knew they had been standing outside the door the whole time. The warden pointed to the wall, commanding his guards. “Release her. Make sure she is secured.” He threw a device to one of the guards. Tamira’s ankles were released and then her wrists. Before she could flex her aching shoulders, her hands were pulled together in front of her and thumb cuffs were locked into place. Before the second cuff was closed around her thumb, one of the guards dropped his gaze to covetously take special note of the ring she wore there. But another glance, this one at Falsto, made him rethink any attempt of stealing Tamira’s ring. …for now, as the warden’s keen eyes were watching him. Instead, he looked up into Tamira’s eyes, smiled surreptitiously and blew her a private kiss as he locked the cuff into place. Tamira crinkled her nose in an obvious show of disgust, and then raised her hands to her chest to hold her torn shirt in place.

Pointing to the wall, Falsto ordered, “Take those chains and follow me. Bring her.”

Tamira did her best to remain a picture of calm as the guards obeyed Falsto’s orders, but inwardly, her mind was racing to find a way out; desperately grasping for ideas from all that had transpired in the past week or so. She was terrified, hated feeling so utterly helpless, while at the same time, she wasn’t about to give up hope; determined to do whatever necessary to rescue her friends from this madman, even if it meant sacrificing herself. Yet, she imagined, after viewing the instruments of torture and death in the Discipline room; wherever Falsto was taking her now could only be worse.

She continued to hold her bound hands close to her chest in an effort to keep what was left of her chemise from falling away. Physical pain was familiar in her line of work, but the shame in being so exposed unsettled her more than she cared to admit. Shuddering involuntarily, she blinked back the threat of tears, and fought to push the fear aside and focus on an easier emotion to bear; controlled anger. In her minds eye, the anger built on the injustice and cruelty thus far endured, as well as the unknown fate of her friends, the frustration of being bound, restrained, and not truly comprehending why. The anger fed on and consumed its fuel, burgeoning into an object of silent, self-preserving rage. Silently, Tamira cursed Falsto’s backside.

If nae by mah oan hands, Go scriosa an diabhal thú!
May the devil destroy ye! For ye are demon spawned.

[End Excerpt]

– © by Robert and Stacy Anderson

Read more: A Stout Heart Is Half The Battle: Part II

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Q: What does Britney Spears and pepsi have in common?

A: They both come with plastic jugs

A man walks into a bar with a newt on his shoulder. The barman looks at the creature and asks the man what he calls it.
“Tiny” replies the man.
“Why’s that?” asks the bartender.
“Because he’s my newt!”

Two fisherman are out sailing when suddenly a hand appears in the sea. “What’s this?” asked the first fisherman, “It looks as if someone is drowning!”
“No,” explained the second fisherman, “It’s just a little wave.”

Q: Did you hear about the love sick vampire?
A: He became a necromancer.

Instead, surf on over to Raggedy’s blog and read her post titled: “You’re Grounded“. I laughed so hard I nearly peed in my pants.

Equally funny (in a ‘It sucks to be you‘ sort of way) is Marti’s post (in which we linked telepathically, so I thought I’d link in Cyberspace as well), titled: “Highway To Hell“. Yeah, [chuckle] keep them fate loogie’s on your side of the blogosphere, will ya. I’m still cleaning up from the last hock-fest fate sent my way.

Oh yeah, and one more funny for the road…

Paul @ The Selfish Bastard has a set of nifty BBQ tools on his wish list.

(Shout out to BEN: The above link has an image which probably qualifies under your “Not To Be Viewed At Work“, request.)

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Greywulf’s Lair

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