The Red Cross of Gold I:. The Knight of Death Read Free Page B

shirt. He could feel the sweat
running from beneath his hair onto his forehead and into the cut
above his eye, adding a stinging sensation to the pain that was
already there, but that was minor in comparison to the multitude of
other pains he felt in various parts of his body. He raised his
head slowly and blinked rapidly, trying again to clear his blurred
vision as the leering face of his tormentor came into view again.
The heavy features of the man would have been unpleasant under any
circumstances, but the scowl there now and the decidedly twisted
gleam in his murky blue eyes portended a very bad afternoon to
come.
    He closed his eyes against the sight of the
smile that crinkled the ugly scar on the man’s left cheek and
prepared himself to receive another round of kicks, blows or
punches.
    “Yeah, better close them baby blues,
dipshit!” The man laughed in his face, close enough for him to
smell his breath. “You don’t want to see what’s comin’ next.”
    Mark waited. He could hear the man crunching
around in the dried leaves, rocks and crisp grass of the pecan
orchard. Once again, he tried to remember how he had gotten here,
but he could remember nothing at all. He didn't really remember his
name. He only assumed that Mark Andrew Ramsay was his name because
the man told him it was so.
    When nothing else was forthcoming, he opened
his eyes again to see the hulking figure walking away from him
under the trees. Perhaps he was going to get something more
interesting to beat him with like a mace or a morning star. He hung
his head and tried to concentrate on what might be holding him in
place. Long, dark hair cascaded from his shoulders, hanging loosely
on either side of his face, startling him into the realization that
he had no idea what he looked like. For all he knew, he could be as
ugly as his captor or worse. His hands were behind him; he could
feel the bite of rope or cords cutting into his wrists when he
tried to move them and the pain in his shoulders indicated that his
arms were stretched back and around the sides of the tree behind
him. He sat on the ground at the base of the tree with his feet in
front of him. Black socks, no boots or shoes.
    When he looked up, he found that the man had
disappeared from his line of sight. Perhaps, if he could get his
feet under him, he could at least raise himself from the sitting
position to where the tree trunk might be small enough to give some
relief to his wrists and shoulders. Drawing up his knees slowly, he
tried to find enough leverage to lift himself and felt the rough
bark of the tree grinding into his back through his shirt. With
desperate resolve, he pushed upwards and felt his arms slip up the
trunk just a bit. Gritting his teeth against this wave of different
pain, he pushed again and slid a few more inches up the tree before
the rope snagged on something, stopping his progress. It would not
work. He let out the breath he was holding and tried to ease
himself back down without doing more damage, but the big man was
back suddenly, kicking his feet from under him. It seemed
impossible that he could have raised himself to the height
indicated by the bone-jarring crash precipitated by the vicious
kick. He was sure his spine was broken by the slight fall and
surely there would be no skin left on his back. He heard himself
groan as he settled back into this former position at the base of
the tree.
    The man took a handful of his hair and
slammed his head against the tree. Stars danced in front of his
eyes and blackness threatened to take him away, but unmercifully
did not, leaving him looking up into the ugly man’s face again.
    “Where’re you goin’, dipshit?” the man asked.
“Somebody else wants to talk to you. You be a pretty boy now and
don’t try that again.”
    He let go of the hair and Mark’s chin dropped
to his chest. He was beyond thirsty and wondered how long he had
been there in the orchard. It seemed like a very long time and, in
fact, may