The Burden of Ash and Blood - 12. Chapter 12

Despite the shirt’s loose weave across his eyes, Sam struggled to map his way while the four men led him. Street lamplight was sporadic, disclosing that their passage remained held to the alleyways. With his senses muffled, Sam contemplated—with bitter clarity—how he’d managed to foul up the operation. Rather than heed Graeme’s urgent call, he’d run blindly into the dark. The most logical decision would’ve been to follow together rather than split up. Sam assumed he’d tamed the gryphon ash’s influence, but his impulsive actions proved otherwise.

They stopped abruptly, and someone knocked on a door. The scratch of a heavy bolt, metal against metal, followed by an unlatching, allowed them access inside. Wherever they were, the room was huge. Distant voices echoed against far walls. A warehouse, perhaps? Rough hands pulled him through another doorway into a smaller room. The crackle of a fire in a hearth brought much-needed warmth. He could perceive a desk and someone sitting behind it.

“Who the hells is this?” a woman asked.

“Not sure yet,” the big man replied, “but we're gonna find out, aren't we, mothling?”

Chair legs scratched abrasively against rough wood flooring as the woman stood up. “Outside. Now!”

That order wasn’t for Sam, though. A sudden shove forced him into another chair opposite the desk. The hand remained planted on his shoulder, fingers digging in as a warning. The door leading to the large space was shut, but it did nothing to mask the explosive dialogue between the woman and the big man.

“Explain your thought process, you dolt,” she said.

“He was following us, madame.”

“And you determined it best to bring him here? Gods, Rafe, I’d trade some of those muscles for a bit more wit.”

“What should I do then?”

“Get rid of him!” she cried, then stormed off deeper into the building.

Silence lingered, and each passing moment carried fresh waves of dread. Finally, the door opened, followed by heavy approaching footfalls.

“What am I gonna do with you, mothling?” the big man—Rafe—asked quietly. “You're causing me nothing but trouble.”

“Please, just let me go,” Sam said, his voice wavering. “I never meant to be trouble. Let me go and you’ll never see me again.”

An arduous sigh filled the room. Without warning, the hand on Sam’s shoulder hauled him onto his feet and back to the cold alleyway. The slow gait they travelled felt laden with a grim promise of finality, and Sam’s hoarse pleas for mercy fell on deaf ears. Blind and unprepared, he was suddenly driven into the wall, and the woollen shirt was yanked off his head. Light barely reached this place, but he still managed to detect a threatening glint of the knife’s edge—Graeme’s knife. He recoiled away, but Rafe’s hand held him in place. The point dug into the soft flesh beneath his chin.

“I don't like to draw blood unless it's absolutely necessary,” Rafe said.

The tip drove in, piercing the fragile skin. Just when Sam needed the gryphon ash most, it had abandoned him.

He choked on his fright, reeling at the prospect of Graeme’s weapon turned against him, all the while struggling hopelessly against the big man’s iron grip. But then the knife withdrew, thrown heedlessly aside with a clatter.

“Consider that a taste if I ever see you again, mothling.”

Rafe’s tone implied he was about to release him, but then a massive forearm pressed across Sam’s throat, pressing against his windpipe. A storm of heavy blows followed, hammering his gut in relentless succession. The hold vanished as abruptly as it came, and Sam collapsed to the ground. Coughing and gasping for air, he curled into a ball, gripping his belly in agony—barely registering the retreating footsteps.

Time remained a blur until the pain ebbed away. The thin fabric of his tunic did little to protect his body from the frigid ground, sapping what remaining warmth he had left. Using the wall for stability, he managed to climb back onto his feet, then donned the woollen shirt discarded a few steps away. A chill shook him, drawing a cramp through his belly, and he sagged against the wall for relief. Once the wave subsided, he searched for Graeme’s knife. Its polished blade caught what feeble light dwelt within the alleyway, acting as a lure. Blood marred the tip. Sam wiped it clean on his trousers before slipping it back into the sheath tied to his belt. Now, it was imperative to find his way back and recover his maille shirt—Graeme’s gift. He would never forgive himself otherwise.

He had two directions to choose from. Either back the way he’d come, or toward another street where lamplight beckoned. He chose the street, stumbling forward while holding his tender belly. But like every other street he’d encountered, it was deserted. He let out a discouraged huff at Duncan’s decision to cut back the town Watch, then limped toward the direction of the warehouse. It was risky, to be sure, but he refused to lose track of the place. The whole point was to find the source of the gryphon ash, and it appeared Rafe had inadvertently taken him there.

A chilly gust of wind forced his hands into his pockets. Fingers brushed against the two phials within. For a weighted moment, he contemplated taking another hit, but his fear had already ebbed away—like the fleeting memory of a dream. Now, his mind was quiet, adrift in strange, astonishing numbness.

Leaving the phials alone, he continued on, and before long he reached an intersection. Intuition had him turn right, what he believed was north. Not far ahead, a brick building loomed large, with a wide sliding door on tracks. Sam determined this must be the warehouse. He scrutinised the area, hoping to find a distinguishing landmark to help him retrace his steps during the day, but nothing stood out. The only difference was the façades of the surrounding buildings—wood instead of brick. He supposed the warehouse’s inherent design acted as its own waypoint.

Not wanting to test his luck any further, he continued along the vacant street, sticking to the shadows wherever they lay. With no Watch patrolling the streets, that meant thieves or worse could be lurking. Duncan had said the south end of town held rougher folk. Using Rafe as a gauge, he was absolutely correct.

Trying to retrace the blindfolded route in his mind, Sam found himself at another intersection. Movement to the right caught his eye, and he crouched behind a barrel. A cloaked figure advanced in his direction—haltingly, as though searching for something. Despite the attire, they made no attempt to hide, boldly standing in the centre of the street. Pinned to the barrel, Sam tracked the figure’s approach until a familiar blue glow broke from between the cloak’s folds. He gasped in weary relief.

“Graeme?”

The dark shape turned toward the call.

“Sam!”

Pain forgotten, Sam tore from his concealment and dashed toward his knight. Never before had he yearned so fiercely to embrace him, to feel his protective arms around him. With each bound, he strove to answer that need—Graeme’s reaction, for good or ill, be damned. But something in Graeme’s hands stopped him short. The maille shirt.

“You . . . found it,” Sam muttered.

“I feared the worst.” The knight’s quivering voice, driven by panic, left Sam dumbstruck. He reached for Sam’s chin. “You’re bleeding.”

Sam wiped at the forgotten knife wound. The blood, dry now, flaked in his fingers. “I’m okay.” He reached for the maille, which Graeme offered readily. The urge to hug him remained undiminished, but Sam sensed the moment, woefully, had passed. “I thought I’d lost it. Your gift.”

“Come,” Graeme said, scanning their surroundings as he wrapped an arm around Sam to guide him. “We must away to the safety of the inn.”

• • •

Sam lay under the coverlet of their bed, snuggled into the warmth it held. While Graeme doffed his armour by rushlight, Sam recounted the pursuit of the men and the unfortunate outcome. The knight made no attempt to keep his face hidden—a factor Sam continued to appreciate—but he did tend to keep the damaged side concealed in shadow. That was a trifling matter compared to the trust Graeme had bestowed upon Sam.

“But why did you run?” Graeme asked. “I called out. Did you not hear me?”

Ashamed, Sam sank his head deeper into the blanket. “I did, but in the heat of things, I didn’t want to lose them.” He grimaced against yet another lie, but the gryphon ash was not a subject he wanted to broach.

“We’re a team, are we not?”

Graeme’s voice mirrored the lament written on his face, and Sam’s heart sank. Once again, the need to embrace the knight—for both their sakes—burgeoned within him.

“Of course. I made a mistake and paid the price twofold. Upsetting you, and getting myself hurt in the process.”

Now stripped to his linen undergarments—a shirt and breeches—Graeme sat at his bedside. His expression softened, stirred by the weight of Sam’s apology. “Does your stomach still hurt?”

“A little.” Sam touched it gently, probing for any sign of damage. “Nothing’s broken.”

Graeme let out a deep sigh. “I must admit that I have failed you.”

Those words battered Sam in ways Rafe never could. “No, please don’t say that. I can’t bear the thought of . . .”

Despite Graeme’s loose-fitting attire, the fabric hugged his body, accentuating the curves of his sturdy form. Unable to contain the urge any longer, Sam pulled a hand free from the warmth of the coverlet to lay atop Graeme’s forearm. He squeezed his eyes shut, struggling against the surge of emotions this man evoked within his core. There was no denying the physical attraction, but the yearning he harboured was steeped in complexity, far richer than simple lust.

At this moment, Graeme was everything.

His singular wish was that Graeme felt the same, but he lacked the courage to ask. And no language held the power to express the knot of affections he bore. Perhaps it wasn’t a lack of courage, but the fear of rejection if Graeme knew the truth of Sam’s attraction.

“You’ve never let me down, Graeme. I'm the one who failed you tonight.”

The knight’s hand settled over his, coaxing Sam to open his eyes. What he found was an impenetrable, fervent gaze. Intoxicated, he stared back, struggling to comprehend why the knight regarded him this way, but as before, the gravity of it was unmistakable. And worse, it only clenched the tangle of desire and doubt consuming him.

Graeme’s eyes fell to their hands. “I am wary of continuing this task, Sam. I am not ashamed to acknowledge my limitations—subterfuge is not my strong suit—and you’ve already expressed hesitancy.”

“Yeah, at the start I was unsure, but we’re so close now. We only need to confirm the warehouse is being used to store the gryphon ash. That’s what Duncan asked for, right?”

Graeme nodded, but then looked away. “I just . . .”

The unfinished phrase spoke clearly to Sam. “Listen, I get it. You don’t want me to get hurt. I’ll consider tonight a painful learning experience, and I doubt this’ll be the last time. You warned that the journey could be dangerous, and I accepted that. I only need to remember to never leave my knight’s side.”

Graeme’s eyes lingered back, holding Sam’s gaze. “Am I your knight?”

The intensity in his eyes had returned. He’d asked that question once before in jest while they were enjoying the meat pies. But now, there was no doubt the question meant more than Sam realised.

“You said you were my stalwart protector, did you not?” Those were the words promised to Sam moments after he agreed to join Graeme. They still rang in his ears after all this time, and played a part in his fondness for him.

“I did.”

“And you are a knight.”

Instead of responding, Graeme turned his gaze toward his armour in the corner of the room.

“Then, yes,” Sam continued. “I’d like to believe you’re my knight, just as you’re my friend.” Emboldened by his own words, Sam continued to speak his mind. “Being with you brings me great joy. I wish . . .”

Graeme allowed him a moment to gather his thoughts before replying. “What do you wish, Sam?”

How could Sam ask him to lie together in bed—held intimately close, to taste his lips—without unsettling him? Would he be disgusted? Sam acknowledged hurling their friendship aside for something so carnal was unthinkable. He shook his head and tucked his hand back under the coverlet.

“Nothing.”

It was obvious Graeme knew Sam was hiding something, but mercifully, he left it be. Instead, he circled around the bed and settled himself under the blankets. They lay there in silence, and only as the final rush burnt out, Graeme whispered, “I would be honoured to be your knight. Sleep well, my friend.”