Ashlynn shook her head as she listened to the conversation between Sir Garrik and Owain. Perhaps the men didnât realize that she could hear them over the din of the brawl and from so far away, but even if they thought their conversation went unnoticed, it did nothing to excuse their conduct.
Owain intended to humble his allies. He couldnât understand how helping others rise up would, in return, help him rise. Left to his own devices, he would be the tallest man in the march because he would keep everyone else on their knees.
For a moment, Ashlynnâs hand drifted to the hilt of Waterâs Edge. She could put an end to all of this now with one clean stroke of the sword... Except that she couldnât. Not yet. Not if she wanted to rule over anything but ashes after this ended.
Besides, she thought as she gave in to the darkness that seethed in her own heart for a moment. She still had business with these Inquisitors, and she wasnât about to let Owainâs ham-handed scheming to humble them provoke enough sympathy from her to rescue them from the fate theyâd earned...
At the far end of the table where the brawl had started, an Inquisitor older and more experienced than the acolytes was not content to be taken quietly. He snatched up the intricately decorated lash that hung from his belt, a weapon of braided leather with small metal beads woven into the tips, designed to leave scars that would remind the penitent of their sins for the rest of their lives.
"Back!" the Inquisitor commanded, cracking the lash at the nearest Blackwell knight with a practiced flick of his wrist that sent the metal-tipped strands whistling through the air. The lash caught the knightâs forearm, wrapping around his arm with enough force to crack bone and rend flesh were it not for the quality of the armor. For a moment, the Inquisitor seemed to believe that his weapon and his authority would be enough to hold back the tide.
"You take me for a slave?" the knight shouted, wrapping his hand around the lash and yanking hard enough to pull the Inquisitor off balance. "You think you can whip us into submission to make us row for you?"
"What, row...?" the inquisitor blinked in confusion before a gauntleted fist slammed into his midriff, driving the wind from his lungs and leaving him gasping. In the next instant, the knight wrapped the lash around the Inquisitorâs neck and lifted him off the ground until he dangled like a prize fish.
"A lash is a slaverâs tool," the knight spat as he watched the Inquisitorâs face turn a darkening shade of red. "Weâre not slaves to you. We donât fear you, and thereâs nothing âholyâ about things you do," he said over the strangled sounds of the Inquisitor gasping for air as the man clawed at the lash wrapped around his own neck.
"I wonât kill you," the knight said coldly as the Inquisitor slumped, unconscious, in his grasp. He quickly untangled the lash from his arm and the Inquisitorâs neck before dumping the man in the central aisle. "But Light knows I want to..."
"This, this canât be," Recared muttered as he backed away from the storm of violence. "You there," he shouted, pointing at one of the heavily armored Templars who had begun moving toward the table. "Help us! You have to protect us..."
Recared had fought demons before. Heâd been in battle, unleashing Holy Flames on the wicked, foul creatures of the night. But heâd never been this close to violence. There had always been a ring of steel and swords around him, whether they were from the Temple Guard, the Templars, or even the soldiers of a lordâs army. The men of the Inquisition needed to be defended as they summoned the miracles of the Holy Lord of Light.
Here in the Great Hall, surrounded by so many knights who were still loyal to Lord Owain, facing a witch who threatened their home, there should have been at least a dozen men who would stand for them against the heretics. But no one came to their aid until a lone Templar seemed to come to his senses, crossing the gap between the servantâs entrance he guarded and the fighting in a series of long, powerful strides.
"Abbot Recared," Sir Beathan said as he drew close to the man who commanded the Inquisitors of Lothian March. "Itâs not safe here for you," the young templar said an instant before his armored fist struck out in a devastating blow to the Abbotâs face.
The abbot looked older and more weathered than heâd been just hours ago, and the skin over his cheek split in a spray of blood that mingled with the blood already staining the Templarâs tabard. Punching the abbot, however, fell far short of the punishment the man needed to suffer in order to atone for what his order had done and what he had just tried to do, and Beathan followed his first powerful punch with a second one, this time catching the abbot in the floating ribs.
Bones cracked, and the abbotâs eyes went wide as the Templar heâd turned to for protection pummeled him again and again. Bright pink spittle flew from his lips as he struggled to speak, to protest, or to speak the words of a prayer that would save him from this heretical templar, but every time he drew breath to speak, another armored fist fell on his battered body.
"You speak when Lady Ashlynn says you can speak," Beathan said as he started dragging the battered abbot toward the central aisle, where several other inquisitors and acolytes had already been laid out like fish pulled from the sea.
"Ho-holy L-lor- OOF," Recared grunted as whatever heâd been about to say was cut off by another blow to his already broken ribs.
"You had your chance to pray, Abbot," the Templar said coldly as he dumped the man at Ashlynnâs feet. "You wasted it on hate," he said before he borrowed a phrase heâd heard from the flame-haired knight who followed Lady Ashlynn.
"Now, your life belongs to her," Beathan said. "And no amount of praying will change that."