The Last Templar - Страница 70

Looking downward, he saw the doctor, who was stumbling back the way he had come, and then he suddenly felt an agonizing pain in his back. He turned to see that the man he had disarmed was back on his feet, gripping the younger man's pitchfork with one hand. Blood was dripping from its tines.

Martin stumbled forward, the burning pain in his back forcing an involuntary gasp from his lips.

Summoning what strength he had left, he swung at the man with a forward slash of his sword, ripping out his throat.

For a moment Martin stood motionless, a thickening shroud of fatigue settling over him, then above the thunder of the torrent he heard a sound and spun around, gasping in pain as he did so. The last of his pursuers was rushing toward him, an old and rusting sword grasped in his hand. Martin was too slow to react, but before the man reached him, Hugh came staggering out of the undergrowth.

The man spotted him and turned away from Martin, gripping his sword with both hands and driving it straight through the old sailor's torso.

Blood seeped out of Hugh's mouth, but somehow, he not only managed to remain upright, he staggered forward, pushing the sword further into his chest as he clasped his hands tightly around his stunned attacker. Slowly and agonizingly, Hugh kept going, pushing the man backward, step by step, never easing up on his iron grip despite the man's attempts to free himself, until they reached the lip of the ravine overlooking the waterfall. The man saw what was about to happen and screamed, still struggling in Hugh's grasp.

Momentarily heedless of his own fate, Martin looked up to where Hugh stood poised on the brink of the waterfall, the other man helpless in his grim embrace. His eyes met Hugh's, and he saw something like a smile tugging at the old sailor's lips, and, with a final, brotherly nod, the master of the lost Falcon Temple stepped over the edge, taking the struggling man and himself into eternity.

A sudden, violent blow struck the back of Martin's head, and he felt a nausea rising in his throat.

Twisting around in pain and barely conscious, he saw the hazy figure of the doctor standing over him, a rock in his hands.

"A man as strong as you will fetch a very good price indeed at the quarry, and thanks to you, I won't have to share it with the others," the doctor sneered. "And you might want to know that some of the men you killed today are kin to the overseers at the quarry."

The doctor raised the rock high, and Martin knew that there was nothing he could do to avert the

coming blow, to prevent his capture and ensuing enslavement, to recover the letter and resume his journey to Paris. Lying there in the fresh snow, images of Aimard of Villiers and William of Beaujeu swam into his mind before the rock came down and their faces faded to black.

Chapter 80

A hammering boom of thunder rolled over Tess, jolting her out of her sleep. She stirred, drifting in and out of consciousness, unsure of where she was. She could feel the rain pelting the back of her head. Every inch of her body ached, and she felt like she'd been trampled by an elephant. As her senses slowly awakened, she could hear the wind whistling past her and the waves crashing around her, and it unnerved her. The last thing she remembered was a wall of water that was about to bury her. She was gripped by a sudden surge of dread as she wondered if she was still at sea, lost in the storm, getting battered by waves, and yet . . . something felt wrong. It all felt different to her. And then she realized why that was.

She wasn't moving anymore. She was on land.

The dread gave way to relief, and she tried opening her eyes, but they stung fiercely and she quickly decided to take it slowly. The images around her were blurry and faint. She panicked for the briefest moment before realizing that something was blocking her view. Reaching up with a trembling finger, she brushed away the wet mat of hair that covered her face, and she gently felt her eyelids.

They were all puffed up, as were her lips. She tried to swallow but couldn't. She felt like she had a ball of thorns stuck in her throat. She needed water, the unsalted kind.

Slowly, the hazy images drifted into focus. The sky still looked dull and gray, but she felt the sun coming up behind her, and judging from the roar of the breaking surf, that was also where the sea was. She tried to sit up, but her other arm was pinned down by something and wouldn't move. Pulling on it caused a rippling pain to shoot through her. Reaching across with her free hand, she saw that it was tied down with a rope that had eaten its way into her flesh. Lying back down, she remembered strapping herself and Reilly to the wooden hatch cover.

Reilly. Where was he?

She realized he wasn't next to her on the platform, and the dread came thundering back. She sat up and struggled to free her arm and managed to slip it out from under the rope. She pushed herself to her knees and slowly stood up, taking in the surroundings. She could make out a long expanse of sand that stretched away from her, up and down the coast, sweeping across to a rocky headland at each end. She took a few hesitant steps, scanning the deserted, desolate beach through half-shut eyes, but saw nothing. She wanted to shout out his name, but her burning throat wouldn't allow it.

And then she felt a wave of nausea and lightheadedness wash over her. She weaved slightly, then sank back to her knees, feeling any lingering energy slip away. She wanted to cry, but no tears came.

Unable to find any more strength, she flopped forward onto the sand, unconscious.

***

When she woke up again, things were very different. For one thing, it was quiet. No howling wind.

No pounding surf. Although she could hear the beating rain in the background, it was heavenly quiet around her. And then there was the bedding. Not a plank of wood, nor a cushion of sand. This was an actual, bona fide bed.

She swallowed and immediately sensed the improvement in her throat, and as she looked around, she understood why. Looming over her was an IV drip, hanging off a small chrome stem by the bed, its tube taped to the inside of her arm. Her eyes darted around. She was in a small, simply furnished room. Next to her bed was a simple chair of turned wood and a side table. A small carafe of water and a glass sat on the table on a lacy, white mat whose edges were slightly frayed. The walls were whitewashed and unadorned, except for a small, wooden cross on the wall by her side.

She tried to sit up, but her head was swimming. The bed creaked under her shifting weight, the noise echoing out of the room. She heard footsteps and some garbled words, a female voice, urgent, and then a woman appeared, smiling at her as she studied her with concern. She was a large woman, in her late forties, and had olive skin and curly brown hair that was tied under a white scarf, bandana-style. Her eyes sparkled with kindness and warmth.

"Doxa to Theo. Pos esthaneste?"

Before Tess could answer, a man hurried in, looking delighted to see her. He had wire-rimmed glasses, a coppery tan, and gelled, rat-pack hair that gleamed like black enamel. He blurted out some hurried words in the same foreign language to the woman before smiling at Tess and asking her something else that she found incomprehensible.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled, her voice quavering. She cleared her throat. "I don't understand ..."

The man looked stumped and exchanged a quizzical glance with his companion before turning to Tess. "I apologize, I thought you were— you're American?" he asked in a heavily accented English, as he reached over and handed her the glass of water.

Tess took a sip and nodded. "Yes."

"What happened to you?"

She searched for the words. "I was on a boat, we hit a storm, and . . ." Her voice trailed off. Clarity was fighting its way through the fog of her mind, and questions were forming. "Where am I? How did I get here?"

The man leaned in and felt her forehead as he spoke. "My name is Costa Mavromaras. I'm the local doctor, and this is my wife Eleni. Some fishermen found you on the beach at Marathounda and brought you here to us."

The names and the accent threw Tess. "Where is . . . here...

Mavromaras smiled at his assumption. "Our house. In Yialos."

Her face must have still been mired in confusion, because the doctor's brow furrowed, mirroring her look. "Yialos, in Symi," he explained, then paused, studying her. "Where did you think you were?"

Tess's mind blurred.

Symi?

What was she doing on a Greek island? A rush of questions flooded her mind. She knew Symi was in the Dodecanese islands, somewhere close to the Turkish coast, but she wanted to know exactly where it was and how she'd gotten here. She wanted to know what day it was, how long it had been since the storm had struck the Savarona, how long she'd been drifting at sea—but that could all wait. There was something else she desperately had to know.

"There was a man with me," she asked, her voice rising in urgent quivers. "Did the fishermen find anyone else . . . ?" She stopped when she saw the doctor's expression turn guarded and watched with rising concern as he glanced at his wife. He looked back at her and nodded, and there was an unmistakable sadness in his expression that strafed her heart.

"Yes, they found someone, on the same beach as you, but I'm afraid his situation is a little bit more serious than yours."

Tess was already pulling her legs off the bed.

"I need to see him," she urged them. "Please."