Page 31 of The Summons (Legend of the King’s Ring #1)

D

ella Morte shrugged out of his coat, pulled off his neckerchief, and drew his jeweled saber. His victorious grin as he shuffled toward Blake bespoke of confidence in his skills and an assumption of Blake’s lack thereof.

He would soon discover his error.

Leveling his cutlass at his opponent, Blake pasted a bored look on his face. “Are we to fight or dance?”

The man’s eyes narrowed. He dashed forward, thrusting his blade toward Blake’s heart.

With ease, Blake snapped it away with a mighty clank. Cheers from his men clapped his back while Della Morte’s crew shouted encouragements to their captain.

Twirling his saber in the air, Della Morte cleaved it down toward Blake. Leaping out of the way, Blake snapped his cutlass upward and caught Della Morte in the thigh. A red line marred his dark velvet breeches. Fury marred his features. Flinging back his long black curls with one hand, he swooped his sword down upon Blake with the other.

Their blades met in a resounding clank that echoed over sand and sea.

“That be the way of it!” one of Della Morte’s men shouted.

Back and forth they parried. With expert skill, Della Morte drove Blake back, forcefully slashing this way and that so fast, Blake had difficulty fending him off.

But fend him off he did, meeting each blow with one of his own. Jarring clanks and clings rang across the shore. The muscles in his arms ached. Sweat stung his eyes.

The Jesuit raised his sword for a mighty blow. Blake swung about and drove his cutlass in from the left, hoping to catch the man off guard and wound him again.

Della Morte dipped his sword in defense just in time, then quickly brought it up, catching Blake’s side.

A woman screamed.

b

Emeline flung a hand to her mouth. She hadn’t meant to scream, but when Della Morte’s blade struck Blake, she thought he was done for.

And that thought frightened her more than anything ever had.

Blake gripped his side, but did not fall to the sand. Nay, rather the wound seemed to give him renewed strength.

“Ah, ha! You do bleed,” Della Morte cackled. “For a moment, I thought you might be part reptile.”

“’Tis you who are the snake.” Blake paced before the fiend, cutlass extended, breath heaving.

In an action almost too quick to see, Della Morte rammed his blade at Blake.

With ease, Blake slashed it away and charged the monster head on.

Leaping out of the way just in time, Della Morte brought his sword across Blake’s blade arm.

Emeline gasped, her heart pounding.

Moans and curses flew from Blake’s crew, mingled with cheers from Della Morte’s.

Blood spilled down Blake’s arm onto the hilt of his cutlass. He gripped it tighter.

Oh Lord, please help him. Help him win. Don’t allow him to die .

An odd realization struck her. Her fears did not hail from fear of becoming a prisoner of the Jesuits yet again, nor even that they would still have the Ring. Nay, ’twas more the thought of losing the man she loved. Even if he wasn’t the hero of her dreams.

Raising his cutlass, Blake swooped down upon Della Morte, who met his blade with a roaring clang that sent birds flapping from a nearby tree. Hilt to hilt they battled, growling and grinding their teeth, pushing and shoving this way and that.

Emeline had witnessed many a sword fight in her short life, witnessed the exquisite skill of her father, brother, and grandfather. Blake possessed that same skill, albeit a bit less refined. Which could prove to his advantage over Della Morte’s more polished approach.

Sweat streamed into Blake’s eyes. Blinking it away, he freed his blade from the monster’s and shoved him backward. Then, before Della Morte could recover, Blake lunged, thrust, and slashed toward the man with more rapidity and strength than he should possess after being wounded. The rounded muscles in his arms and chest glistened in the sunlight as they bunched and rolled beneath the exertion.

Hugging herself, Emeline swallowed a lump of fear.

A flicker of uncertainly danced across the Jesuit’s face as he fumbled to defend himself and bring his sword to bear.

Before he could, Blake chopped it with his cutlass. Della Morte lost his grip. His sword flew out of his hand and landed in the sand a few yards away.

Emeline breathed a sigh of relief.

Someone grabbed her arm. Tight . Pain etched up to her shoulder as the person spun her around and yanked her into the jungle.

b

Della Morte made a dash to retrieve his sword. Blake leveled his cutlass at the man’s throat. A drop of blood joined the sweat dripping onto his shirt as one of his eyes began to twitch uncontrollably. He glanced at something behind Blake and gave a nod before his nervous gaze returned to Blake.

Shouts of glee from Blake’s crew circled around them whilst Della Morte’s crew moaned and cursed. The other two Jesuits drew their sabers as if they would take up where their captain let off.

“Ah, ah, ah,” Blake warned them. “I’ll gut him, and you’ll never have the Ring to bring to your Pontifex Maximus.”

Terror twisted Della Morte’s features as he gestured for his men to stand down and lifted both hands in surrender, a supercilious sneer on his lips. “A bargain is a bargain. Lower your weapon, and I’ll hand you the Ring.”

Never would Blake lower his guard in this lying snake’s presence. Not until he had the Ring on his finger.

A scream echoed in the distance. Emeline ! A wild glance told him she no longer stood at the edge of the jungle. Where was Jo?

“What have you done with her?” Blake thrust his cutlass at the man again.

“Nothing, I assure you.” He twisted off the Ring and held it up to the sunlight. Rays glimmered off the crimson center, setting it aflame.

It was so close, A foot or two and Blake could reach out and grab it. The power he sought. The freedom. Everything he’d worked for, shining like a beacon right before him.

Then, with a grin of victory, Della Morte pulled back his arm and tossed the precious relic into the tangle of trees and brush lining the shore.

Another scream echoed over the sand.

Horror turned Blake’s blood to ice. “What have you done?”

“You have a choice, Capitano .” Della Morte placed one hand on his hip. “I will not stop you—and only you”—he glanced at Blake’s crew and then his own men standing behind him—“from retrieving the Ring. Should you foolishly elicit any help, a battle will ensue and many will die.” Wincing, he shifted to stand on his uninjured leg “ I swear on the most holy Pope’s life. But if you do search for the Ring, I fear it will be too late for your dear love. For even now, she sinks in the silt of the mangrove swamp.”

Before the Jesuit’s words assembled into a rational thought in Blake’s mind, Jo sauntered up. “I’d say she has less than a minute or two before she goes under.”

The Ring or Emeline? The Ring or Emeline? Blake stood beneath the searing rays of the hot sun, sweat streaming down his chest and back, stinging his wounds. The gentle caress of waves on shore and swish of wind-blown leaves created a peaceful cadence he felt none of inside.

There was no decision. No choice to make. He knew that. But a cyclone of confusion filled his mind, empowered by demonic whispers.

It’s what you’ve wanted your entire life. You can have the power, the freedom, the control you’ve always sought. It’s only a few feet away.

The woman is nothing. She will eventually betray you like all women do.

With the power of the Ring, you can have any woman you want.

Go get it!

Nay! He knew those shadowy voices. They hailed from a dark world he no longer wished to be a part of. An evil, power-greedy world of strife, jealousy, and betrayal. He’d seen a power mightier than the Ring or anything else on Earth. A good power, a holy power. ’Twas the power of Almighty God, the power of His love for mankind, for Blake—a love he’d never known but always longed for.

Emeline had been the one to show him that love, along with God’s power for all who believed. A sensation floated down upon him like none he’d ever felt. It encompassed him in a blanket of love, power, purpose…and joy, indescribable!

God ?

Spinning around, Blake raced across the sand, shouting orders for his crew to stand down unless attacked. Sheathing his cutlass, he burst into the jungle, shoving aside branches, vines, and leaves.

Lord, help me find her! Please!

Another scream sounded, this one weaker, muffled. He headed in that direction. “I’m coming, Emeline! I’m coming!”

He leapt over a fallen tree, racing down the sandy path. Birds squawked and took flight, disturbed from their nests. Insects buzzed in his ear.

“Blake!” A faint shout turned him to the left. His boots landed in water. He slogged through the silt, weaving around the tangled web of mangrove roots.

“Emeline!”

“Here…”

She was close. Yet he couldn’t see her. The metallic taste of terror filled his mouth. There! A hand stretched between two massive roots. He slogged toward her, waist deep in the water now. “Emeline.” He grabbed her hand and squeezed.

“Blake, you came,” she whimpered.

He peered between the thick roots. Her radiant face smiled up at him. But only her face. The rest of her was beneath swamp water that reached her chin. How had Jo trapped her in this maze?

“I’m sinking…” she managed to say.

Blake was, too. The heavy silt had already swallowed up his boots. “How did you get in there? Is there no way to swim out?”

“Nay. She moved something heavy over the only outlet.”

“Hold on.” He tried to release her hand, but she gripped him so tight he could not.

“Let go, Emeline. Trust me.”

Even as he said the words, he wondered why she would. He’d given her no reason to ever trust him. Still, her hand slipped away.

The water was up to her nose.

Freeing his boots from the silt, he crawled up on the roots as far as he could and swung his cutlass at the thick vines, chopping, hacking. All the while taking care to not strike the dear lady. Within minutes that seemed like hours, he created a hole large enough to pull her through.

“Grab ahold, Emeline.” Laying chest down on the web of roots, he lowered both arms.

Dark water swallowed her face.

“Nay!” Blake reached for her, groping for a grip on her arms, gown, anything.

Finally, she gripped his hand. He pulled with all his might.

She wouldn’t budge.

Growling, he tugged harder, ignoring the bite of roots on his bare skin.

Her shoulders appeared. Then her other arm emerged from the water and clamped onto his hand. With a groan that would wake the dead, Blake pulled her from the swampy silt and yanked her through the hole, laying her atop the roots.

Their heavy breaths mingled in the humid air as she fell against his chest and wrapped her arms around him. “You came.”

“Of course, my little sugar bird.” Nudging her back, he brushed a spatter of mud from her cheek. Love and admiration spilled from her eyes as she continued gulping in air. What joy there was to be found in that one look. More joy than he’d thus experienced with all his power and wealth.

He wanted to tell her he loved her, wanted to tell her he was a changed man, wanted to ask if there was a chance he could be the hero she sought. But he hesitated, old insecurities and fears clambering over his heart.

“What do you say we get out of this swamp before the tide comes in?” he asked.

b

Josephine heaved a sigh of impatience, watching Della Morte’s imbecilic crew scour the jungle for the Ring.

“Whatever possessed you to toss it into such a thick web?” She shook her head and cast a look of disdain at the Jesuit idiot.

He fingered his beard. “I thought it would be easy to find. I hardly tossed it very far.” He cupped his hands over his mouth. “To the left, Gershown. Move to your left.”

Cursing him and his crew under her breath, Josephine stormed into the greenery herself. After several minutes of poking through sand, prying around leaves, being stabbed by thorns, and getting mud underneath her fingernails, she was ready to turn Della Morte and every one of his men into toads.

“It’s gone,” she announced as she emerged from the thick shrubbery, wiping her hands on her breeches.

Della Morte’s face flamed. “It cannot be! I will not give up.”

“I tell you, it is gone.” She speared him with a torrid gaze. If she couldn’t find it with her powers, then it wasn’t there to be found. Besides, the frivolous artifact had proven useless in her hands, powerless, really. This way, Blake would not have it either.

“What do you know, you callow wench?”

Now was the time to rid herself of this peevish cur. She’d far too long endured his insolent remarks and demeaning insults.

Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a pouch and took out a vial of the potion she’d concocted the day before.

“What is that?” Della Morte dabbed his neckerchief over his sweaty forehead.

“It is your death, mon amour .”