Old Man Singer's place wasn't all that far from the homesteads but it might as well have been halfway across the world. The ramshackle old house was two story, build of wood and plaster walls that were in disrepair, light glinting off the remaining glass in the big open windows. The wall around the compound was shored up in places with rocks, in other spots with wooden palisades and still others with sheets of rusty metal layered over each other and winched tight at the edges. Hodgepodge, that was the word Clint would use to describe the place, old structures cobbled together for protection and warmth in this cold climate on the edge of civilized space. Inside the wall was the strangest collection of items sitting among the trees and cluttering up the clearing. Iron contraptions, only half of any given device, filled with rusty holes, piled haphazardly on top of broken carts, building materials, and other junk. Among the mess Clint saw a table ladened with pulley systems and a rack of old swords and other weapons. Jessica spotted the wagon tucked around the side of the house under cover of a sheet metal roof next to an anvil and a forge.
He was waiting for them on the porch, not an old man at all, but a man in his fifties with a weathered face and tufts of grey in his hair and beard. His stance was loose, easy, and despite his moderate size and oversized coat, he carried himself with the confidence of a fighter. Glowering at them as they approached, he waited, not at all cowed to be meeting a Lord. Clint could have stayed on his horse, used the difference in height to establish his dominance, but his gut told him this wariness was born of experience and difference rather than some deep seated hatred. So he slid off after they came to a stop, Jessica following his lead, stepped up to the Singer, and waited for him to make the first move.
"You come to interrogate the bandit?" Gravelly voiced, Singer crossed his arms as his eyes narrowed, assessing. Clint kept his face impassive; Ferguson had told him there was one living captive.
"Aye, and I'd like to ask Farland some questions if he's up to it." No reprimand for the lack of title, no posturing; Clint let the conversation ride.
"Bandit's no use to you." Singer shook his head. "But you can talk all you like. Farly's under some heavy medication, but he'll help. He's trying to roll out of bed and go after the bastards himself."
A little girl, no more than five-years-old, peaked around the corner of the door; her cheeks were stained with the trail of tears, her eyes red, nose snotty and unwiped. Her feet were bare and her dress stained with dark brown spots of dried blood. Farly's girl, Clint surmised.
"I plan to take care of that," Clint replied. Singer stood for a few more seconds, the silence stretched then he dropped his shoulders and stepped out of the way.
"Well, come on then. Your men can stable the horses around back; well water's cold but plentiful."
The inside was as odd as the outside. The entryway held a flight of stairs up and opened into a parlor that was crammed full of books of all shapes and sizes. Every surface had piles of tomes, some old, some new, some buckled closed, some falling apart. Only the desk in front of the fireplace was cleared off, stacks of parchment, a set of bowls, various candles, and apothecary jars neatly lined up along the sides to leave the middle open. Through another doorway, Clint could see a table and chairs, an ancient icebox, and cabinets with long countertops stacked full of bottles and pots and boxes.
"A very old house," Jessica said, running a hand along the mantle place. The painting above was of a green landscape, dappled sunlight on a lazy river. "Pre-age handicraft. Nice workmanship – there are people in the Capital who'd spend a lot of money for this."
"Yeah, well, they can kiss my ass," Singer snorted. "House has been in the family for generations. Ain't no fancy going to strip it so they can brag to their hoity-toity friends then replace it all in five years."
Jessica smiled in returned. "I see you've been down that way."
"I've been everywhere, ma'am." Wasn't that interesting, Clint thought. Jessica was good at connecting with people, young and old alike, and Singer's politeness to her was much different from his reaction to Clint. "Seen a lot in my time. Things people 'round here don't want to believe."
"Like rugars down from the mountains? Or men with glowing blue eyes?" Clint tossed out. Singer didn't miss a beat.
"Aye. And stranger things. Question today is, do you want to know about them or are you gonna stick your head in the sand and pretend magic doesn't exist? 'Cause if that's the case, the door is right there and you may as well head on out of here. Go back to town and take that idjit Gregor up on his offer of a drink." The belligerent Singer was back, daring Clint to contradict him.
"Since we killed a few rugars the other day, guess I'll have to admit they're real." He leaned against a bookcase and remained casual. "Took down a vodun zombie once, so I'm open to the possibility of magical possession."
Dead silence. Singer stayed perfectly still, didn't twitch or bat an eyelid for a count of five. Then a grin spread across his face, and he slapped Clint on the shoulder, hard, walked to a cabinet and pulled out a bottle of whiskey and some glasses. "Damn glad to hear it," he said as he sat them down on the desk and began to pour the brown liquid. "I was thinking it might be time to go wandering again, get out of here until this is over one way or the other. A nice island down South maybe with dark skinned girls and really good rum, if you know what I mean. But if you're willing to listen, maybe we have a chance."
"I'll listen, but the decision is my own." The whiskey was smooth and burned as it went down Clint's throat; Singer tossed his back and poured another before Jessica had finished her first sip.
"Course it is. That's the way it should be." He was grabbing books now, seemingly at random, but Clint realized the piles were some sort of organizing system as Singer counted down and over to find what he wanted. "Damn shame about your momma, boy. She'd have taught you right." He kept searching and ignored the way Clint startled. Singer knew his mother? Jessica caught his eyes and they exchanged a glance. Family was one of the things Clint never talked about, but the women around him knew. Natasha, he imagined, had found out all the details she didn't already know once they arrived at the manor and shared them with Carol and Jessica.
"Ah, here it is." Singer tugged a black leather bound book out and placed it on the desk; he carefully brushed off the area around it then dusted the book itself before he opened it, the vellum making crinkles and cracks as he gingerly found the page he wanted. As big as a platter, the tome's pages were yellowed and filled with tiny black letters and intricate illuminations in the margin, colors faded with age.
Clint stepped over and tried to read the words on the page, but he'd never seen the language before. What he did recognize was picture of a man's head, eyes colored blue, in the middle of a patterned design. "Is that a summoning circle?" he asked.
"You ain't dumb, are you?" Singer ran his finger along a line of text. "Not a summoning circle, but a sorcerer's trap. Keeps the magic inside of the lines so's not to affect anyone else in the room. Mostly just a decoration in this book to show the type of spell, do don't read much into it."
"Spell." It wasn't a question, more of a statement of a fact Clint didn't want to hear.
"A spell of compulsion looks like. Takes over the person's will and makes him a puppet to the commands of the spell caster. Poor sap would be trapped inside, watching what he was doing. Nasty piece of work." He read aloud from the book: "for the strong of heart, a circle is recommended to entrap their soul. Only the strongest of sorcerer can ensnarl a bonded."
"So the bandits were under a spell cast by a sorcerer? That one might be a little too far for me to go." Clint had seen the effects of magic but never met more than a hedge wizard or charms witch. He wasn't one to discount legends – too many scars left by creatures that weren't supposed to exist to do that – but this strayed into the realm of fairy tales.
"Don't bale on me yet," Singer said. "Doesn't have to be a living person, although that's a possibility. Could be magical residue. These hills were a popular place to hide things and booby traps could be lingering. Or maybe they robbed the wrong person and ended up with a cursed item. Those are floating around out there too."
"And it made them all go crazy and attack innocent people?" Jessica said, putting things together. "That's a big coincidence. Why these people and this place?"
"Could be the closest to their hideout," Clint offered, playing devil's advocate.
"And maybe there was a reason to come here," Jessica came back. "If they'd turned on each other or gone off in different directions, I could buy it. But this was a planned attack. They came at night, hit less defended targets, moved from one house to the next, fought as a unit according to the witnesses … that shows thinking on their part."
"Might be a good question to ask our one remaining bandit." Clint looked over at Singer. "You talked to him yet?"
"Boy's tightlipped, scared if you ask me. Whatever happened, he's not saying. Have a go at him. He's downstairs."
He led the way into the cellar and opened a big iron door; behind was a small circular room with tiny windows and a magical symbol drawn on the floor. Sitting on a small cot was a young man, maybe 18-years-old or so, his right arm in a sling and a bandage across his chest. He looked up as they stepped in, angry jaw jutting out as he lifted his head. Then he saw Clint, and he sucked in a breath, eyes going wide with fear.
"You know me?" Clint asked, stopping in front of the captive, standing above him. "Know who I am?"
"You're him," he whispered, hands trembling. "Know of you, know what to do. Take the leap, only answer."
"Leap? What are you supposed to do?"
"He said to find it, to bring it back, to kill you and the others now before …" His whole body began shaking, tremors that grew more violent. "The Hawk knows."
"Find what? Who's the hawk?"
"Can't. Won't let me …" A thin line of blood ran from his nose. "All dead. We're all dead." He fell over onto his back, limbs thrashing. Clint held his hands down to keep him from clawing at his face while Jessica turned his head to the side so he wouldn't choke on his tongue.
"What were you looking for?" Clint asked again.
The bandit opened his mouth, tried to speak, but his eyes rolled back into his head, and he simply stopped, falling limp as he died.
"Well, balls" Singer cursed. "Never seen a booby trapped spell before. Seeing you set it off. Might be some marks on the body; magic that black usually leaves a stain."
"Do you know what he was talking about?" Jessica asked.
"That's why I keep the books, so I don't have to remember. Just have to look it up." Singer huffed as if that should be obvious.
"I don't think we have to worry about another foray anytime soon," Clint mused. "If they all were like this … then they're all dead like he said."
He was bothered by the fact he'd been the catalyst for the man's death. What had he meant 'kill you and the others?' Before what? And who was this mysterious 'he?' Clint had only been back a few months; the attack on the manor was two years ago. How could he have anything to do with this?
"What the hell did all that mean?" Jessica as she balanced on the edge of the desk when they came back upstairs, taking the second glass Singer poured for her. "Someone told them to kill you." She shook her head at the strange words.
"Well, now we know they were being controlled, given orders. Could be a geas laid on them; that's easier to do, but never heard of blue eyes associated with that." Singer was searching again for information in his books. "Ain't no mistakin' though. He knew you and was told to kill you. That's not an old spell; he recognized you."
"A geas? Like a blood bond?" Clint had heard of ways to make a pact that both sides had to uphold. A good hedge wizard could whip up one of those; mix blood, make a vow, and you had to do what you said.
"More like a curse. Do or die, and a strong one can make you do it whether you want to or not." He'd stopped at a smaller book with blue binding, scanning the pages as he spoke. "But to do a whole group? Serious power there and since you don't believe in that, we're back to square one. Looking for a source that had enough juice to zap them all."
As open-minded as he was about this, Clint didn't want to start down that road. "Maybe a creature of some kind? Saw a wyvern once whose stare could freeze men in place. Heard a rumor about a giant snake that could make people walk right into its mouth."
"Possible. Yeah. Have some grimoires over there to check." Singer nodded in agreement. "That would explain the smaller fish running from the new big boy in the neighborhood."
"A bird maybe?" Jessica suggested; she got up and took a book off the top of the stack Singer had motioned to. "He said something about a hawk and a leap."
"Fuck me." Clint pushed away from the wall. "Hawk's Leap. It's no more than a day's ride up in the hills. Plenty of caves to hide a group of bandits near the falls."
"Or a big mean monster." Singer dropped the book he was holding in his excitement. "Take the leap like the Hawk."
"Excuse me, someone want to explain to the non-local here?" Jessica asked.
"It's a cliff face, looks like half the tor was sheared away. There's a stream that falls from the top down to the pool at the bottom. Legend goes that way back in the First Age, there was a great battle there, part of the last push; the Red Sorcerer rent the ground and ripped it away so Roger's fighters fell to their deaths including his bonded Barnes." Clint supplied. He was moving restlessly now, sure he was on the right track. "It's secluded, difficult to get to, and a perfect hiding place."
"Also supposed to be cursed," Singer added. "A few hundred years ago a Fraiser Lord - man had the eyesight of a hawk, they said – was being chased by some very nasty customers who had killed his wife. They trapped him at the top of the tor and he jumped. Story goes, he turned into a bird and flew away."
"Hawk's Leap. You think the others are there?"
"I'm willing to bet on it. Round up the men. Can't hurt to ride up there and see."
They stayed long enough to talk to Farland; he added a few details they didn't already know, but he latched onto the idea the bandits were searching for something. He got out of bed with help and started pouring over Singer's books; having a goal seemed to give him a reason to go on even if his reading skills were rudimentary. His daughter curled up next to him and he absently hugged her to him as he read. Singer insisted on coming with them in case there was anything dangerous there, but Clint suspected he was more curious than worried. The thought of running into a creature from legends or a cursed item was too much temptation for him. All in all, he wasn't a bad traveling companion; he knew details and facts about all the flora and fauna, told stories along the way about wayward lovers and ill-tempered fairies. Avoiding town, they stopped at Ferguson's who offered them some basic provisions for the two day journey, then set out, up into the hills. The first part of the ride was easy; a road led north for a bit before it swung east towards Stark land. From there, they took to the woods, directions from a map Singer had brought with him, slowing to avoid horses stepping into holes or tripping over exposed roots. Green canopy shaded the afternoon sun, the smell of pine rising as they broke fallen needles under them. They passed by two stone circles, one cleaned and in good repair, still in use, the other smaller, older, further along. Vines grew over the grey cracked surfaces, but a shaft of light cut through an opening and lit the center with an eerie glow.
Night fell quickly under the trees, going from dusky twilight to pitch as they halted in a small clearing near a stream. Under the draping boughs of a pine, tucked into his warm bedroll on the soft carpet of needles, was far from the worst place Clint had ever laid his head. The stream was soothing music, the sparkle of the stars a night light, and the snores around him familiar. Sleep came easily knowing people he trusted were on watch and soon he was dreaming.
Underground caverns, room after room, glowing with dim light. Books, stacks upon stacks until the walls were obscured and nothing of the floor remained but the tiniest of paths to weave through. Men with glowing blue eyes coming over the rubble of the wall, creeping past the manor, murder in their eyes. Philip in chainmail and leather, pressing him against a table, sparks flying between them as he held him there. Something half-buried, silver glinting on a curved edge. With a cry, a hawk launched itself off a branch and soared over the grounds, a new roof, colorful garden, and new buildings sprawling across the hilltop. Clint pulled back the string, the tone vibrating through him, harmony growing as the chord fleshed out. He focused in on that spot between the ice blue eyes as they turned and fell upon him.
He was used to getting by with only a few hours of rest, but the images kept replaying in his head as they rode on in the morning. Bad dreams were part and parcel of the life he'd made for himself; faces of the dead visited him often in the dark of the night. This was new, these flashes that rang with truth. What they foretold, he had no idea. Give him a battle to fight and he'd know how to begin. Dreams … and marriage … those were different.
The last hour was steep terrain with no path; they had to lead the horses, picking their way along the stream until they could hear the crash of falls growing louder.
"It's gorgeous," Jessica breathed as took a bend and came into sight of the pool. The rocks formed a bowl that caught the water as it cascaded over the lip high above them; the edge tipped out like a pitcher and ran into the stream bed, tumbling down another small drop before it meandered back the way they'd come. Maybe half a mile wide at the back, the smooth curve of the pool took them around to the limestone face of the cliff. "And would be quite a leap from up there."
"Barton!" Singer shouted, pointing further along their path. A body lay face down, one foot in the water, back and chest bare, angry red splotches along his skin. Dismounting, Clint walked towards it.
"Keep an eye out for movement," he told the others. "Watch the rocks. There are caves up there, hiding holes."
He knelt down and examined the body. Male, older than Clint, a myriad of scars adorning the skin. A sword belt, but no sword and no sign of his shirt or vest. Eyes open, dried blood at the corners and under his nose. A few places gnawed on by wildlife, but still recognizable – he hadn't been laying here too long.
"The burns are courtesy of my magic," Singer said, standing and looking over Clint's shoulder. "Still fresh."
"Courtesy of your flash powder, you mean." Clint smirked, catching the reflection of Singer's face in the water. "I wasn't born yesterday and that's very popular in the isles for fusillade canons."
"Ain't stupid at all," Singer muttered under his breath.
"Looks like the other one." Jessica was moving forward, searching the ground. "And I've got footprints here, leading towards that odd little set of indentations."
Tracking backwards, Clint followed the trail to the cliff face, narrowed his eyes and saw it, the way the rocks changed colors slightly, the smallest of shadows.
"Rodriguez and Pratt, stay here with the horse and watches our backs. Everyone else with me."
Only when he was flush with the cliff and turned sideways, looking away from the fall of water, did the path become obvious, picking its way up the side, twisting back upon itself and rising higher. Just wide enough for a horse, the trail would be virtually unnoticeable looking straight on, and most would think behind the falls would be where to look, missing it all together. It wasn't that difficult to navigate unless a person didn't care for heights. Clint loved them; from the crow's nest to the top of a tower, he'd always loved a bird's eye view, his eyesight allowing him to see great distances. Just being here, he wanted to climb all the way up and take in the view, stand on the edge and feel the rush of wind.
The first overhang they came to held another body, this one clothed and seated with his back to the wall. A sentry post it seemed, barely big enough for one guard. Beyond they found a series of caves, one with six horses who whinnied as they passed, pawing the ground with their hooves, probably hungry and thirsty. Another two that were also stalls, but empty. Smaller spaces were storage: food in barrels, rainwater, a cask of ale. Then they found the deeper ones, two and three rooms, some sleeping areas, others rooms with benches and tables. As they went, the body count rose to four, each in different positions, one stretched out on a cot, more burns on his body, and the other slumped over a table.
They'd wound their way further and found the largest of the caverns; the entrance was narrow, one skinny person wide unless turned sideways, and opened into a series of four rooms. Lanterns sat just inside, out of sight, and they lit some to carry with them. Desks, chairs, maps, and books cluttered two of them, the third what looked like a meeting room, and the fourth a big cave at the back, down a small passageway, large enough to hold a small troop with a firepit in the middle of the floor. A small outlet for smoke was directly above; Clint guessed there would be a cap on the outside to defuse the tell-tale trickle. They found the other three bodies here, seated together, a map spread out on a table, mugs half full. All had hemorrhages and blood stains on their faces.
"Looks like somebody doesn't like failure." Singer sat his lantern down on the table and crinkled his nose. "Smell's ripe back here."
"Spread out," Clint told the others. "See what you can find but be careful about touching things, especially if it seems old or valuable." It was a testament to their shared experiences that no one gave his order a second thought. Just in case a cursed object was lying around, it couldn't hurt to be cautious.
"This place is big." Jessica was moving around the room; she'd been taking mental notes as they'd explored. "Between the space for the horses, the sleeping quarters, and chairs, these seven, plus our dead one back in town …."
"It doesn't look good." Clint felt a shiver run down his spine at the thought. "Where are the rest?"
"Here's an idea." Singer pointed at the map. Clint could see four areas with circles around them. The town at Caine's Crossing was the closest one. Another was east, into Stark territory, about a two day ride away. Then one due west in Howling Valley and the last one … were Barton Manor and Frasierton.
"Fuck." Clint stared at the parchment for a moment as the implications sank in. "They're going to attack the manor." He knew in a flash how he'd do it. Eight men to Caine's Crossing because there'd be resistance there. A smaller group along the East road; the barrows were there, a graveyard no longer in use. The rest he'd send to the Valley first to search, and then on to Frasierton. Use one of the broken sections of the wall to gain entrance, take the inhabitants unawares, and split up at different locations while everyone was busy with rebuilding.
"Carol's there. Natasha should be back by now. And the rest of the guard," Jessica assured him. "Plus Philip seems damn competent. If the bandits get close, they'll take care of them."
"Assuming they hit the manor and not somewhere around town. Innocent people could die." Clint was moving as he spoke, a crackling energy pushing him to take action. "That's what they're going to do."
"Clint?" Jessica made his name a question.
"Trust me." The exact same words he'd said that first time, when they'd found themselves back-to-back in a bar fight turned ugly. Something had made her believe it then and she accepted it now.
"Okay. What's the plan?"
"You and the others stay here, gather up all the information you can, anything that can help us figure out what's happening." He walked back through the caves to the entrance, the need to get out of here a solid presence in his chest. "I'll take Rodriguez and we'll ride for the manor. We can make it back in two days if we cut across country."
It wouldn't be an easy ride – rough terrain, no paths – but every hair on the back of his neck was standing up, worry and fear tied to the image from his dreams. He'd do it. He had to.
…
Philip wasn't sure if the constant stream of workers underfoot was worth the progress they were making on the manor. It was getting out of control; Annamarie had women on ladders scrubbing soot off the walls, boys hauling away rubble down to the stone masons to be used for the wall, and men tearing off the old roof to make way for the new. Dax had retreated to his kitchen to train what seemed to be a phalanx of new helpers and Carol kept the Lord's Guard … as the remaining company fighters had decided to call themselves … busy training new recruits for the main guard ranks. The pages were darting in and out; Nathan had scampered up a ladder yesterday and almost brought it down when he jumped to the rafter beam to get to the roof. This morning, Philip had awoken to a maid bringing him fresh water and the banging of hammers just outside of his window. He'd tried not to think about being alone in the bed – he'd only had a handful of nights with Clint beside him so he shouldn't miss the warmth of the other body – and he certainly didn't allow himself to miss the touch of Clint's hand or lips, the feel of Clint's skin against his. But he did have to find a more permanent solution to bleed off excess energy other than his dagger or sword. The spark built quickly between discharges, more so than ever; yesterday, he'd singed his fingers after catching Rachel and a lusty young mason in the pantry, the anger flashing into power too fast for him to do more than reach for his belt. He took to carrying a small stoppered jar with cooling gel in his pouch to soothe the burns it happened so often.
And yet, the work they'd accomplished in the days since Clint had left was astonishing. He allowed himself to feel a little satisfaction as life teemed inside and out. Worth the trouble, truly, all of it. He'd seen the first tentative sketches from the architects who'd offered their services, four of them total, and they were all more than serviceable replacements for the destroyed parts of the building. Some were downright beautiful; he was particularly fond of one design that incorporated light and gardens into the very essence of the house. Add the fact the architect was a young local man just making a name for himself, and Philip hoped Clint would appreciate the value in doing something new and different. Maybe he could sell Clint with the open, two-story library; the section Philip had seen a draft of, with its large stone fireplace and spiral staircase. He just might have dreamed about that room last night, a happy reprieve from the increasingly bizarre dreams of being lost, colors bleeding into his body, and a dark-haired, green-eyed man appearing at will.
The anxiety from his dreams was seeping into the daylight hours; for the last few days, he'd had a growing sense of dread in the pit of his stomach that something was wrong. Today, the power was close to a boil; he'd taken to touching the wall around the fireplace, singe of the discharge unnoticed in the permanent smoke stain. He passed there often enough to drag his fingers without arousing suspicion. The weight pressed down at the base of his skull, demanding he take action … but he didn't know why. Yesterday, he'd scrambled the schedule, moving training to the evening; when Maria Hill had arrived with the wagons ladened with his possessions from Tarian Castle, she'd found Philip on the grounds, watching Carol patiently testing recruits in various weapons. Her unexpected appearance had distracted him for the evening, but the knot was back in full this morning. After a cup of coffee, his first stop was to talk Carol into mixing the Tarian guards in with their people for the afternoon session while he took Maria on a tour of the holding. Three times, he'd changed his mind about the itinerary of their day trip, something pulling him to the Northeast, an area he'd never personally been to himself.
"Lord Philip," Theodore tugged on his vest to get his attention. "The outer bailey storerooms are cleaned out whenever you're ready to move your things in."
"Thank you, Theodore." There was still some work to be done on the boys' demeanor, but they were consistently calling him Lord Philip now, so that was progress. "Tell them they can start unloading while we're gone. Are the horses ready?"
"Andrew's got 'em out and saddled. Out front. Lord Philip. Sir." The boy was trying, Philip had to give him credit. As soon as he finished speaking, Theodore dashed away, running at a breakneck pace weaving through the workers in his way.
"He's got energy." Maria said; Philip knew that she was amused by the boy's antics. "Makes up for the old folks, eh?"
"Considering I'm the old man around here? Yes." Philip hadn't bothered to hide the dark circles under his eyes this morning at breakfast. Maria had grilled him last night about his life here, missing nothing in her quest to satisfy her worries.
"You're running circles around all of them, I bet." Concern shadowed her eyes. "That young pup you married has to keep up with you."
"Shall we?" He only smiled in return and led her outside. Andrew was waiting by Philip's roan courser, holding the reins like a good groom.
"She's being skittish about her left flank today, milord," Andrew offered, patting a hand down Lola's neck. "I moved the destrier next to her to another stall; he was all teeth."
"Thank you, Andrew." Philip still didn't have a read on the man; he'd been a perfect servant since their conversation, offering to help in all sorts of ways. Always half-expecting a touch from him, Philip had been wrong; Andrew backed off, seeming to accepting his refusal.
"May I join you?" Natasha asked, coming down the stairs; Philip didn't give away his surprise at seeing her. She was here and there, keeping her own schedule. Gone for a day or two, she'd returned only to make herself scarce when Maria had arrived.
"Please. You know more of the history than I do." He nodded to Andrew to saddle Natasha's horse; his sense of unease lightened a little to know that these two women would be riding with him. Between them, two of Maria's men, two of Clint's, and the squire behind, they could more than handle any creature they might encounter.
"Natasha, isn't it?" Maria drawled with her best intimidating glare. "I believe we've met."
"Ah, yes, Lord Stane's, if I have it correctly. Nice to see you again, Maria." She swung gracefully up into the saddle, not needing any help. "I hear you're headed north. Shall we go by the orchards? Madge will have a new batch of honey cider"
"I'd thought we'd go to the ruins. I've yet to see the Abbey. We could stop on the way back for a mug." He spurred his horse and headed out, time ever at his back, urging him forward
"I'd have thought you'd be busy with the King's visit," Natasha spoke sweetly, but there was an undercurrent of tension between the two women.
"Oh, I'll not be missed. Seems most of the court came with him with the impression there'd be a wedding feast. The King himself brought his chefs for the dinner. Fury called a series of games to placate them all." Maria shrugged as if she didn't care.
"When can we expect them here?" Philip asked. The threat of Loki had almost been forgotten in the busyness of his new life, and yet the shadow remained. "And how many?"
"That might be quite a while. Lord Stark sent word he was hosting a party to celebrate something or other – I forget exactly what and with it doesn't matter – and the King loves a good party. By then, winter will be upon you, the roads treacherous, the Capital looking much more cozy and warm." Maria's smile to Philip was more open and friendly than any glance towards Natasha. "What Prince Loki plans is anyone's guess. He plays his hand very close to his vest. Barton Manor isn't too far out of his way on his journey home."
The king could be distracted but not the Asgardian prince. Philip had hoped the marriage would put an end to whatever Loki's scheme was, but it appeared he was wrong. He lost the thread of the conversation as the women continued to spar with their words. A stab of cold, like a dagger thrust, and he couldn't breathe as the autumn colors of the leaves faded and men seemed to creep across the countryside. One glanced up and his eyes glowed blue like the cavern walls of Philip's dreams.
"Philip?" Maria's voice shattered the vision. "Have you fallen asleep on your horse?"
"Merely thinking." He couldn't shake the dark surety that gripped him. His mind flew to Clint, wondered where he was, if he was in some sort of danger. For a man Philip had only met a week ago, Clint Barton seemed to occupy a lot of his thoughts.
"Making more lists; I knew this would be a good place for you," Maria joked.
They topped a rise and saw them, men slipping into the orchard spread out below. Six that Philip could count, others moving between the trunks, already hidden among the grove. In a split second, one of them turned and saw them silhouetted on top of the hill. He called to the others.
"Ride back to the manor. Tell Carol we have bandits northeast. Send men to protect the town; we'll hold as many of them as we can here," Philip said to the squire; the young man whipped his horse around and broke into a gallop. He turned to the others.
Bandits were already coming, short bows drawn, closing the distance; they rode along the ridge to the east, staying ahead and out of arrow range. The ruins weren't far, but the pursuit was hard on their heels; Philip's heart was pounding as Lola jumped over the first tumbled wall. No matter how many times he had his hand on the pommel of his sword, ready to kill, his palms still got sweaty and his first thought was surviving. Bravery, courage … it was really sheer cursedness and the refusal to give into fear that made men fight. He led them to the warren of half-walls, jumping off his horse and smacking her rump to make her run on. The first arrows slammed into the stone as he took cover; two of the guards had crossbows and returned fire until the bandits were upon them, swords ready, eyes glowing an eerie blue.
He counted six … no, eight … and then all he could do was fight the red-haired Northman in front of him. A big two handed sword arced towards him; he blocked it with his left sword and slashed with his right. Weight and strength against Philip's speed and agility – he had to find a way past the armor, watching for the opening, and then he had it. His opponent lifted his sword and Philip plunged his in the unprotected space under his arm, pushing him back so he fell. Before he was down on the ground, another took his place, a woman with a long dark braid and a curving scimitar.
Maria covered his left side, her fighting style one of pressing every advantage, using her size to get under the taller man's reach then taking him neatly and efficiently with one stroke of her long sword. Natasha … Philip realized he hadn't seen her fight before, catching a glimpse of her flipping off of a portion of the wall, slicing with her small roundel in each hand as she landed. Like an acrobat, she tumbled out of the reach of the swing of another sword; the slim points of her daggers bit right through the leather and into the man's chest before he even knew what was happening.
The scimitar woman was good, quick on her feet and nimble. Philip had to concentrate to defend against her blows. His foot hit a loose stone and he went down on one knee; twisting out of range, he avoided the sharp iron edge. It just missed his neck and glanced off his shoulder instead, leaving a long thin slice down his bicep. The position gave him the chance to brace himself and drive his sword into her gut, in the space between breast plate and belt; her eyes widened, blinked and changed to a dark brown as she stumbled back, dropping her sword.
"Incoming!" Maria shouted. Coming from the east, more bandits swarmed over the ruins, closing in on them from behind. His focus became the clang of metal and the grunts of exertion as he parried and thrust, falling back beneath the onslaught of four men. The strange silence, not a single word spoken by their attackers, was unnerving; no hesitation, pressing forward, determined, seemingly not human at all. One of Clint's company was down, bleeding from a nasty wound. Maria was favoring her right leg, a bloody trail across her calf muscle, and still they kept coming. A buckler slammed into Philip's right wrist, numbing his hand and he dropped a sword; three of them took the advantage and attacked at once.
He thought, just then, about the sense of dread he'd had, his worries about Clint, the irony of it all. Anger flared, power bubbling up, and he released it down his sword as he slammed the blade against the chainmail of one of his opponents. The smell of burning leather and the man screamed; blue faded from his eyes and he stepped back, confused.
Clear eyed, he looked at Philip. "It's you," the bandit said, voice laced with agony. "You have to stop him, don't let him get it."
Boxed in by the others, Philip tried to get to the man, to hear what he had to say, but his back hit the wall and fighting for his own life took precedent. Pushing off of the stone, he launched himself between the two remaining bandits, pivoting on his heel and slashing as he went, using their own momentum to turn their swords against each other. A long gash across one's exposed neck, and a hard slam of pommel against the other's bare head took them out of the fight. By the time Philip could spare a glance, the other bandit was dead, blood running from the corner of his mouth.
A whoosh and thrum buzzed by his ear accompanied by a bit of a melody in his head … did he just hear music? … and a rush of energy filled his chest. Spinning, he saw the arrow sunk to the fletching in the chest of the man behind him, two more hitting the remaining bandits with frightening accuracy, each a perfect kill shot. Content that all of them were down, Philip turned to see two riders cantering up to the ruins. Clint was in the lead, Rodriguez behind.
"What can I say? Clint has excellent timing," Philip said in answer to Maria's look.
…
The outer bailey rooms weren't ideal for triage but they were clean, had enough space, and a warm fire burned in the small fireplace. Philip moved among the cots, checking on the mix of townsfolk and guard. The worst, thank the gods, was Brickman; his wound was painful and would require a long recuperation period, but Natasha and Maria had gotten the bleeding stopped in time. The rest were less serious, slashes and scratches and even one broken bone where a man had thrown his arm out to protect himself as he fell. The tally could have been much worse had they not had warning; Madge and her family were certain to have been in the line of fire as well as more townsfolk. By the time Clint and Philip had gotten to town, the skirmish had already started; Carol had mobilized a line of defense and was holding the bandits back. Clint had been nothing short of magnificent – Philip didn't bother to lie to himself about that – firing from a moving horse with startling accuracy. The sight had encouraged Philip as he waded into the fight himself, feeling renewed; there was a sense of Clint watching that made Philip stronger, more sure of himself. In the end, it had been a rout; the bandits stood no chance against Carol's plan and Clint's aim. Unfortunately, none of them survived to be questioned. In the aftermath, Philip had yet to have a chance to ask Clint how he knew that would be the outcome.
"Get away from him." Richardson, the baker, ordered. Philip stepped over to where the man's son was being tended for a forearm wound. The young man had just joined the guard and had been helping to pull the wounded out of the fray when he'd been caught by the tip of a sword. All in all, it was a minor wound, nothing more than a scar to brag about later. The problem, it seemed, was the fact that Andrew was the one slathering on the herbal poultice and getting ready to bandage the wound. To his credit, he'd been one of the first people on the scene, his bedside manner easy and calming. This was the first Philip had seen of this side of the groom.
"Excuse me." He came up behind Richardson. "Is there a problem?"
"Annamarie promised." Richardson's face was pale with worry as he gazed at his son. "I don't want my son corrupted by him."
Philip could understand the man's fear for his son, but he would nip this problem in the bud right now. As Andrew started to pull away, his eyes downcast, Philip spoke. "Is it the fact that Andrew has sex or that he has sex with men you find so abhorrent?"
The man sputtered a bit and visibly deflated. "He's my boy. I don't want him to do this, put himself in danger."
"Dad!" The young man protested. "I've made my choice. I don't want to be a baker, I want to be a fighter. I like women, okay? And I'm not a virgin, for the gods' sake. I'm seventeen."
Biting his lip to keep from smiling, Philip caught Andrew's little cough to cover his laugh. "I can see the two of you need to have a conversation. Andrew, I think Brickman's ready for his next dose. Can you see to that while Clerk Banner is busy?"
"Of course, Lord Philip." It was perhaps the first time Andrew had used his title without any trace of irony. "I'll take care of it."
Continuing into the next room, he found Carol in a quiet conversation with Natasha. "We were just discussing how fortuitous it was that we went on that ride this morning," Natasha said when Philip stopped beside her. "And Clint's very timely arrival. Carol tells me you two fought together well today."
He knew what she was asking, but he didn't have any satisfactory answers. Even now, the energy that had been shared between them was still thrumming through his veins. Forewarning had changed to strength as the day progressed, then morphed into a constant state of semi-arousal as they'd cleaned up. Just the thought of Clint, half-standing in his saddle, knees tight, bow drawn, eyes tracking a target was enough to stir Philip's cock. It was as if all that energy had to go somewhere, to build to a fever-pitch and be released. Preferably with his fingers along Clint's dirty, sweaty skin as Philip held him down and …
"Lord Philip?" William piped up. "Lord Barton's asking for you. He's in the study."
The two women shared a knowing glance that Philip resolutely ignored. With a nod to them, he headed towards the manor, avoiding Annamarie who was striding across the yard towards the bailey. Half of him worried that Clint was angry; he had, after all, left Philip in charge and they'd been attacked. Maybe he could have done something differently. But the other half was caught up in a vivid fantasy about folding Clint over the tiny desk just like in his dreams. Running his hands down Clint's back, kissing the curve of his neck, curling his fingers around … He brought himself up short as he stepped into the room, shutting the door behind him before he looked up.
Like a fist slamming into his solar plexus, seeing Clint knocked all the breath out of Philip's chest, leaving only a burning ache. He'd untied his vest, and tossed it over a chair. His linen shirt was half out of the waist band of his trousers and his chainmail still hung from his shoulders; his sword belt was laid aside, so the leather pants hung low on his hips. Messy and standing on end, his hair stuck in sweaty clumps to the side of his face and hung wet at the back of his neck. Dirt smudged along his cheek and brow, his shirt stained with darker spots, and Philip had never seen someone as attractive in his whole life. He should say something logical, rational, like "good to see you" or "glad you were there" or "what do you need." That was what he should do. But he looked directly into those stormy blue-green eyes and all conscious thought blew away.
Philip knew from experience that you did everything possible to keep the separate pockets of flame from coming close to each other in a wild fire. Alone, they'd burn and take out large swaths of land and trees. Get near to another, and they'd jump across the space, combine and combust, bursting violently into balls of fire that consumed massive amounts of fuel and expended even more energy. You build breaks, dug trenches, and do anything possible to stop that from happening. What he didn't know was that the same could happen between people.
Need flashed into being, so strong he couldn't fight it, could only go where it lead and that was crashing into Clint's body, trapping him against the desk and yanking his head back. He took Clint's mouth with a desperate and rough kiss, caught his hips tight and ground their cocks together. The friction only stoked the fire; energy pooled in his hands, pulsing in time to his racing heartbeat. Then Clint's hands circled, clasped his ass, and gathered him closer, and Philip knew he was lost in a storm like he'd never known. He wanted his tongue in the velvety wetness of Clint's mouth, and he stroked along the ridge of teeth until he swallowed the first moan he dragged from Clint's throat. He craved bare skin, so he tugged Clint's shirt up over his head, but when Clint tried to take off his mail, Philip stopped him with a curt, "No" so laced with power that Clint's eyes rolled back and his cock jumped against Philip's hip. The cool metal was a contrast as the temperature spiraled higher between then; he liked the feel of it pressed into his chest as he bit down on Clint's lip and earned a loud gasp of pleasure.
"Off," Clint said as he pushed back. Agile fingers shoved his hands aside; Philip's belt went onto the desk, his vest thrown backwards, and his shirt ended up hanging from the corner of a chair. Skin glided across skin like a wind across a fire, stirring desire to new heights. A palm splayed on Clint's lower back, another circled his neck, fingers burrowing into damp hair, and Philip pinned him again as he dived back into Clint's mouth and the heat of his body. Clint grabbed Philip, hands around his head, thumbs stroking along the line of his jaw. Prickles of stubble scraped down Philip's neck as Clint kissed his way along the curve, sucking bruises as he went.
The jolt of the desk hitting the wall of shelves made books tumble off, loud thumps as they hit the stone floor. They paused, looked at each other through the haze of lust, and Philip leaned in to whisper, "Shhhhhhhhh. Someone might hear us."
Clint moaned. "Oh," he drew the word out, long and low. His eyes opened, dark and stormy. "I want you to fuck me. Right here."
"So hard." Philip agreed, reaching for the small jar in his belt pouch.
There was no stopping the blaze now; they were gone to it, this building force that circled between them. Boots and pants went, Philip flipped Clint around and bent him forward where he braced his hands on the shelves as Philip slicked a finger and pressed inside. Caught up in the rush, he didn't think about his inexperience; somehow he knew exactly what Clint liked, just how rough, just the right spot to aim for. When Clint bucked back, he added another finger, tilted his wrist, and made Clint stifle a cry. Too impatient to wait long, there was no denying themselves; Philip slicked his cock and replaced fingers with his aching cock, pushing in. The tight heat was almost too much; he could easily come just from the way Clint clenched around him.
"Yes," Clint dropped his head and pushed back taking him in a little more. "Gods, yes."
Pulling out halfway, Philip slipped back in, wrapped an arm around Clint's waist and licked a drop of sweat that dribbled down Clint's neck before he nipped where the muscle connected. In his gut he felt the coil tighten and he thrust again, then again, senses stretched by the intimacy of the joining, each plunge bringing them closer to a place he'd never been. The desk rocked as Philip snapped his hips hard, papers floated down, and a ledger tilted and fell.
Clint was groaning with each thrust now, and Philip wrapped a hand around Clint's mouth to muffle the sound. "Shhhhhhh," he whispered again.
"Fucking librarian," Clint managed to say between Philip's fingers before he sucked one in.
The table leg gave out and they went rolling onto the floor; Philip's knee slammed into the stone and Clint ended up on his back, knocking into the chairs in front of the fire. None of that stopped them from finding each other again. Hooking Clint's knee over his shoulder, Philip thrust in hard, looping a hand around Clint's thigh and splaying his other on Clint's hip. Bent almost double, Clint scrabbled until he found Phil's shoulders to hold onto … and the connection fell into place. Pleasure reverberated from one to the other, the power crackled along skin, and Philip sensed the edge approaching. He wrapped his hand around Clint's cock and only needed two strokes before Clint was coming with a shout, the warm splash of his orgasm on Phil's fingers. The energy spilled over at the same time, expanding outward in a wave that took him under. Burying his face in Clint's leg, he strained forward in his own release, rode the waves of his orgasm, and heard the faint strains of a full-chorded melody, words and odd phrases mixed together
"Phil." Clint's voice was calm, even. He opened his eyes, and saw Clint looking past his shoulder. The desk was floating a few inches off the floor. Books were lazily spinning in place, tiny black spheres of ink bouncing off each other, and the fire flamed with a purple hued light. "It's all right."
"No. I …" He couldn't find the words to explain what was happening. Panic invaded Philip's content afterglow, and everything crashed to the ground; he reached for Clint's hand, uncaring of the mess, the words spilling from his mouth. "It's a fixed mark never shaken by the storm."
"Did you hear it too?" was Clint's soft question. A soft glow engulfed their entwined fingers, and Philip sat back on the floor as a wave of exhaustion over took him.
"I don't know what to do about it," Philip admitted.
"First, we clean up in here. We'll talk about this later, preferably in our nice soft bed after I've taken you apart slowly, piece by piece." Clint levered himself up as a knock sounded on the door. "All's well, Nat," he called.
"Oh, gods, what story are we going to tell them?"
"I think they know already know what we've been up to. Turns out, you're the loud one."