Dark Emerald by Lisa Jackson

Author:Lisa Jackson [Jackson, Lisa]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781101588956
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2004-05-04T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nine

Tremayne’s skin crawled as he looked upon the deserted and eerie walls of Broodmore. Blackened by fire, overgrown with weeds and vines, splitting apart where the battlements crumbled—’twas a sinister castle, a fortress fit for Satan himself. As the moon rose behind the ruins, the lord of Twyll reminded himself that he was a Christian, that pagan rites were foolish and curses didn’t exist. Yet he knew deep in his heart that he was a liar. In the darkest reaches of his soul, he feared all that he didn’t understand. Astride his mount at the edge of the forest, Tremayne stared at the foreboding keep and felt more than a small frisson of fear skitter down his spine and settle like lead in his gut.

As if a dark spirit were reading his thoughts, the wind picked up, lifting his hair in cool, damp gusts that smelled of the dank forest floor and brushed the back of his neck.

“ ‘Tis haunted,” Red whispered as he halted his broad-chested steed alongside Tremayne’s and stared, transfixed, at the charred behemoth resting on the cliff.

“Cursed,” Sir Lawrence agreed. A big man with thinning blond hair and eyes that missed nothing, Lawrence, riding high upon his white destrier, eyed the wreckage that had once been a thriving castle teeming with freemen and villeins, pulsing with a life-blood all its own. His fingers worked nervously in his mount’s reins. “No one survived the pestilence.”

“ ‘Tis said ghosts lurk in the dungeons and stand guard in the tower,” still another chimed in.

“Foolishness!” Tremayne didn’t need any of his men to add to his own silly trepidation.

“Nay, look!” Red’s hushed voice quivered, and he pointed a wavering finger at one of the square towers rising above the decaying stone wall. “There be one now.”

Tremayne froze, then fixated on the silhouette of a guard standing watch. His fear gave way slowly and he swallowed a smile. “ ‘Tis no ghost,” he said, as even in the pale moonlight he recognized a thug who had eluded his own sheriff for far too long. “ ‘Tis old Bertrand, the pickpocket. See how he walks, dragging one leg. I gave him that wound.” Tremayne nearly laughed out loud. He looked at each man in turn— loyal every one of them. Or so he hoped. Sir James’s theory that there was a spy hidden in the circle of the most trusted men in Twyll worried him. Could one of these soldiers—all of whom had pledged their fealty to him, be a traitor? A Judas who had been watching him, following him throughout his days? Each man met his gaze evenly. “Spread out,” Tremayne ordered. “Do as we planned. Just before dawn we strike.”

Red gulped but yanked on his destrier’s reins.

Sir Lawrence’s jaw became solid steel. “Aye,” he whispered, one hand on the hilt of his sword.

Tremayne could almost taste his victory. Rhys, damn him, was about to learn a valuable lesson. “Kill as few as possible. The rest we’ll bring to Twyll

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