The Burden of Ash and Blood - 15. Chapter 15

A hush swept through the cramped room, every eye drawn to Rafe. Camilla’s expression sharpened in indignation as she glared at him, then pointed to Sam.

“You know him?”

The big man held the silence. His eyes darted uneasily at the guards, but now, none would return his gaze.

“Wait!” she cried. “Is this the guy from last night?”

“Yes, madame,” he managed to choke out.

She gestured wildly at Sam and Graeme as she continued to berate Rafe. “All this is your damned fault. Somehow they managed to track us from there to here.” A huff escaped her lips as she pressed fingers to her temple, then her voice steadied. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to deal with them, and this time it’s a permanent solution. Got it?”

Rafe bowed his head, then scrambled out of the doorway as she pushed him aside to leave.

“Wait!” Graeme said. “You stated we would be freed if the truth was spoken.”

Undeterred by his plea, Camilla continued, her voice trailing away with each step. “Your squire was right. You were dead no matter what.”

Still on his knees, Graeme fought against his captors again, but his attempt to break free was futile. He turned to Sam, distraught.

“I failed you.”

The situation unfolding around them should have been terrifying, but under the influence of the gryphon ash, all Sam felt was pity for Graeme. As for himself, he was relieved he’d finally be free of the nightmares and that damned bandit hounding him. Aside from Graeme, there was nothing to live for. No friends, no family. What kind of life was that? Perhaps ending everything now made the most sense? With no fear in his heart, he locked eyes with his knight—at last finding the resolve to speak with honesty.

“You didn’t fail me. None of this was your fault. We made this decision together. But before this ends, I need you to hear this—you matter to me, more than you realise. I wish to hold you close, feel you, kiss you. Not as a friend, but something more.”

Graeme never broke eye contact with Sam as he spoke. There was no disgust written on his face. In fact, there was nothing at all. Once again, he’d taken the guise of his helmet—stoic and reserved. The other men, in stark contrast, appeared deeply uncomfortable with Sam’s proclamation. Some chuckled awkwardly, others stared at the floor. They were understandable reactions. Such a conversation was meant to be private, and given they were about to be murdered, it lent an air of tragedy. But Sam wanted to believe that no man, however hardened, was without some hidden kernel of decency.

Pulling a knife free, Rafe knelt before Sam, presenting a sombre glare. “I’m disappointed it’s come to this, mothling. Why didn’t you listen to me?”

Sam offered a sullen smile. “If it’s any consolation, you scared me at the time.”

“But you’re not scared now?” he asked, genuinely confused.

Sam shrugged. “She gave me some ash.”

“She what?” Rafe looked to the other men for confirmation, who nodded. “Well, that would explain why you’re acting so . . . strangely.”

Sam lifted his head to expose his neck. “Just make it quick, okay? I might not be afraid, but I can still feel pain.”

Everyone’s attention had turned to Sam—disturbed by the composed acceptance of his fate, almost as though he were begging for it.

Even Rafe looked upon him with disbelief. “Why do you have to make this so hard?”

Sam focused his gaze back on him. “It’s not like I want to die, but I’m guessing there’s no way we can talk our way out of this, is there?”

“Not this time, mothling.”

With a sigh, Rafe held a hand against Sam’s chest to keep him from squirming. His large frame blocked Sam’s view of Graeme, who’d remained resolutely silent. Sam still had no clue what Graeme felt about his desires, but in these final moments, he wished for any reply—even rejection. He supposed the silence was answer enough. While the knight did share moments of affection, it was only in comradeship. And while Sam’s heart yearned for more, he still cherished what Graeme had given him, especially now, at the end of his life.

A guttural cry broke out, shattering the spell cast upon the guards who’d been transfixed by Sam’s surreal behaviour. Graeme was standing, somehow free of his bonds. He kicked the closest guard in the chest, simultaneously retrieving his longsword from the staggered man’s grip. Every swing of his blade was methodical, his body moving with unbroken economy—the end of one pivot flowing into the next. The guards, overcome by the sudden commotion, could only begin to act before falling to the knight’s sword, as though time had slowed around him.

Rafe alone kept his senses, able to break from the trance that had claimed the other men. He hoisted Sam to his feet, positioning him as a shield from Graeme. The knife dug into Sam’s neck, held firm enough that a mere twitch of the hand would slice it open. With his back rubbing against the wall, Rafe edged his way toward the exit, but Graeme’s levelled sword stopped him short. One remaining guard managed to escape, screaming for help.

“You’re beautiful,” Sam said, beaming at the knight’s ferocity. “Like a dancer.” He knew this comment was wholly inappropriate given his predicament, but he truly didn’t care about that. All he saw was Graeme fighting for him, doing all he could to protect him. His heart blazed with passion.

“Free him!” Graeme yelled.

“Here’s what’s gonna happen,” Rafe replied, his voice low and steady in contradiction to the knight’s fervour. “Me and the mothling are going to leave this place. Keep your distance and he’ll be safe.”

Sam knew well enough that Rafe couldn’t be trusted. Before, he’d dismissed any chance of escape, but Graeme’s bloody sword had broken that resignation. But what could he do to help his cause? With his hands firmly tied behind his back and a knife to his throat, struggling wouldn’t end well. But then a ludicrous idea to oppose Rafe’s hold brought a giggle to his lips. His hands were lodged against Rafe’s leg, but with a slight adjustment, he worked them up to Rafe’s groin and gave his manhood a firm, unrelenting squeeze. The effect was immediate. Rafe pushed away involuntarily, allowing Sam a brief window to break free and fall to the floor.

“What are you doing?” Rafe blurted out.

Graeme immediately took action with a decisive stroke, slicing the big man’s head clean off his shoulders. Crimson painted the walls.

“Like you said, I was trying to make it hard,” Sam replied, chuckling at the morbid joke as the body slumped gracelessly to the floor. Even now, he couldn’t believe he’d said that, nor how little the violence had affected him. The ash had taken control.

Graeme retrieved his knife from the workbench, freed Sam’s hands, and then donned his helmet in furious anger. Swept up in admiration and excitement, Sam took in the knight’s grim demeanour. It served as a dire warning to anyone who’d dare stand against Graeme. They hastened out of the confines of the gore-spattered room to find the four workmen holding their hands up. Whatever bravery they’d mustered before had withered away in view of the brutality. Graeme ignored them and held Sam close, escorting him toward the stairs. Despite the one guard who’d escaped, there were no shouts of alarm. In the wake of the slaughter, however, Sam doubted any real opposition remained.

The stairwell was deserted, though as they ascended, a narrow glimmer caught Sam’s eye.

“My sword,” he exclaimed, holding it forward, ready for anyone.

But there was no need. The storeroom remained vacant, and the workspace beyond now stood empty as well. Unchallenged, they ran out the back entrance. After suffering the stifling heat of the furnace, they gasped as the icy breeze caught painfully in their lungs. Graeme stopped, his firm grip holding Sam close as they scanned their surroundings. The open street held a smattering of people going about their day, completely unaware of the chaos Sam and Graeme had managed to evade. Stray flecks of crimson marred their cloaks, but the dark fabric hid it well enough. Graeme’s sword, however, was smeared with blood. With no way to wipe it clean, he left the sword unsheathed and concealed it beneath his long cloak.

“How did you break free?” Sam asked.

“Your . . . unusual behaviour held their attention while I cut my bonds on the edge of the crate’s metal brace. Are you well, Sam? I worry what that substance has done to you. The things you’ve been saying . . .”

“I’m okay.”

Graeme hummed doubtfully, and Sam forced a sheepish smile to reassure he was fine. Now wasn’t the time to discuss what he’d confessed to the knight, nor the callous response to the violence he’d witnessed. And though fearless, Sam’s gut still recoiled at the prospect of what awaited now that Graeme knew his true feelings.