“Help Wolf!” he continued to shout.
From the nearest hut their father came running, fear straining his features, “Children!” he shouted, the panic in his voice clear to Ruth even through the roaring in her ears. She felt his arms reaching out for her.
“My legs are on fire, Father,” she whimpered, her throat raw from crying. “Put it out.”
“You’re not on fire, child.”
“But I can feel it. It’s burning me,” she sobbed. Slowly her vision faded, but she could still hear him calling her name. She tried to answer but couldn’t. In the distance she could hear the howl of a wolf, and it filled her with a fear she had never known before. In her mind she pictured once again the wolf that had attacked her, from the silken gray of his fur to the piercing green of his eyes.
I never knew wolves had green eyes, she thought before darkness claimed her.
The wolf staggered away from the children, hurt and confused. It could barely breathe, and the wound felt as though it were on fire. It knew a place where it would be safe, though, a place where it could lick its wounds and wait for the dawn. Somehow it knew that things would be better with the dawn, but it didn’t know why….
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THE STORYTELLER’S DAUGHTER
by Cameron Dokey
BEAUTY SLEEP
by Cameron Dokey
SNOW
by Tracy Lynn
MIDNIGHT PEARLS
by Debbie Viguié
SCARLET MOON
by Debbie Viguié
Published by Simon & Schuster
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
First Simon Pulse edition April 2004
Copyright © 2004 by Debbie Viguié
SIMON PULSE
An imprint of Simon & Schuster
Children’s Publishing Division
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
Designed by Debra Sfetsios
The text of this book was set in Adobe Jenson.
Printed in the United States of America
4 6 8 10 9 7 5
Library of Congress Control Number 2003108403
ISBN 0-689-86716-6
eISBN-13: 978-1-439-10769-0
To Feu Feu and Wolfie, my big, bad “wolves.”
I would like to thank Lindsay Washburn for her research help.
I would also like to thank my ever-supportive husband, Scott, and my parents, Rick and Barbara Reynolds.
Lisa Clancy, you’re an editor in a million, and I couldn’t do it without you.
Chapter One
The woods were changing. The cycle of death had begun yet again. What were once proud, green trees now stood half naked and clothed only in hues of fire and gold. Their gnarled branches stretched down ward toward the faint path that wound below. Upon it a young girl with pale skin and black hair walked hand in hand with her older brother, unaware of the wolf that was stalking them. The trees saw, though, and whispered a warning as the wind rattled their remaining leaves.
The little girl was skipping along, her bright red cloak fluttering in the chill air. It was the color of blood and it drew the wolf in closer. Flitting like a gray ghost, it slunk along behind the trees, just steps from them, and watched. The children were close to the village; a few minutes more and they would be out of the forest. The girl turned as though she heard what the trees were whispering and shivered a little. Feeling her movement, the boy glanced back as well. The wolf circled around warily until he stood on the path before them.
When the children turned back, the wolf was there. He lunged forward, fangs and claws sinking into the girl’s legs. She screamed as it knocked her down and her own blood sprayed up into her face. She struggled to sit and came face to face with the monster.
Beside her the boy raised his dagger in the air before plunging it into the wolf’s chest. The creature cried out in pain and let go of her. It jumped back, blood gushing from the wound, and stared at them for a moment before turning and staggering off into the trees.
The trees shook sympathetically, showering down leaves upon the children, covering both them and the trail left by the injured wolf. As night drew near, the trees continued to shiver, urging the children to run home, and whispering another warning.
It wasn’t safe in the woods after dark.
Ruth clung to Stephen as he staggered out of the forest carrying her. With every step he took, she screamed as a fresh wave of pain washed over her. He stumbled toward the village, shouting. From their tiny homes the villagers spilled forth, drawn by his cries.
“Help! Wolf!” he continued to shout.
From the nearest hut their father, Jacob, came running, fear straining his features. “Children!” he shouted, the panic in his voice clear to Ruth even through the roaring in her ears. She felt his arms reaching out for her.
“My legs are on fire, Father,” she whimpered, her throat raw from crying. “Put it out.”
“You’re not on fire, child.”
“But I can feel it. It’s burning me,” she sobbed. Slowly her vision faded, but she could still hear him calling her name. She tried to answer but couldn’t. In the distance she could hear the howl of a wolf, and it filled her with a fear she had never known before. In her mind she pictured once again the wolf that had attacked her, from the silken gray of his fur to the piercing green of his eyes.
I never knew wolves had green eyes, she thought before darkness claimed her.
The wolf staggered away from the children, hurt and confused. It could barely breathe, and the wound felt as though it were on fire. It knew a place where it would be safe, a place where it could lick its wounds and wait for the dawn. Somehow it knew that things would be better with the dawn, but it didn’t know why.
When Ruth awoke, sun was streaming into her eyes, and her legs still felt as though they were on fire. Her first sense was one of fear, and she cried out.
“Hush, little one, you are safe,” a familiar voice said soothingly. Her brother stood over her, his face twisted as if he were in pain.
“What is wrong, Stephen?” she asked.
He picked her up, hugging her to him. “Thank God you’re awake,” he whispered against her cheek.
“You’re tickling me,” she protested.
He laughed and laid her back down. “You had us all frightened, little one.”
“Am I going to die?” she asked, the fear still tugging at her heart.
“No, God be praised,” her father said from the doorway.
She turned to look at him and saw tears streaming down his cheeks. The sight frightened her more than the pain she felt or the memory of the wolf that had inflicted it.
He turned his face away from her, and his voice was muffled as he continued. “You will be all right. You will even walk again, though the scars will remain.”
His words frightened her still more, and she struggled to sit up. Stephen pushed against her shoulders, trying to hold her down, but she fought him. Her f
ingers clawed at his hands and she scratched him. At last she rose up on her elbows just as her blanket slid to the floor.
She stared in horror at what was left of her legs. They were crisscrossed with angry red wounds. Whole chunks of flesh were missing, and the marks of the wolf’s teeth were clearly visible.
She dimly heard Stephen’s voice telling her that everything was going to be fine. How can it be? she thought, her horror mounting with each passing second.
“I am hideous!”
“No! Listen to me. You are still beautiful and you will heal in time.”
Ruth nodded for his sake because she could hear the pain and the fear in his voice, and it broke her heart. She would be strong for him. In her heart, though, she didn’t believe him.
A movement in the corner of the room caught her eye, and she turned to glance at a cloaked figure standing in the shadows. Grandmother? she wondered for one wild moment. But it couldn’t be, because her grandmother lived in the forest and wasn’t allowed to come into the village—ever.
Outside she heard a commotion, many voices mingled together in excited shouting. She turned away from the cloaked figure as her father strode to the door and flung it open. He stood for a moment before turning with a satisfied nod. “They have the wolf.”
“I want to see it,” Ruth quavered, fear and hatred filling her.
“So you shall,” Stephen said, swooping her up in his arms. He carried her outside. Coming up the path was a group of men who wore tired yet triumphant looks.
“We followed the trail of blood,” her cousin, Peter, shouted from the head of the troupe. “We lost it, but when we searched the area, we found this wolf, already dead. He died of the wound you gave him, Stephen.”
Ruth tightened her grip around Stephen’s neck, her heart beginning to pound in fear as she caught sight of the monstrous gray brute. They dropped the wolf at Stephens feet with great ceremony.
Peter reached out to touch her hand. A year younger than her brother, he was still several years older than she. His parents had died a year before, and he had been living with them since. He had grown much in that time, his body beginning to make the transition from boy to man, as evidenced by his expanding shoulders and increasing confidence.
“I cut off the wolf’s paw for you to keep,” Peter told her.
“I don’t want it,” she whispered. “You keep it.”
Slowly she looked down at the body of the wolf. It was ugly, its fur splattered with streaks of dried blood and its tongue hanging out the side of its mouth. Its fangs were covered with bits of flesh. At last Ruth looked into its eyes, which were wide open and staring. They were lifeless, like two little pieces of round yellow glass.
Yellow.
A chill went through her and she buried her head against Stephen’s shoulder. “It’s not the same wolf.”
Something was wrong; she could feel it. Two weeks had passed since the wolf had attacked, and in that time she had felt closer to her brother than ever before. He had been by her side constantly, warm and caring. The last few hours, though, he had seemed cold and aloof.
“Again,” he commanded, sitting by the hearth and extending his arms toward her.
She struggled up from the edge of her bed, trying to stand. At last she gained her feet. With pain shooting through her legs, she tried to hobble using the crutch he had made for her. Since before dawn he had had her up, trying to get her to move around using only the crutch. She was getting tired and angry.
Halfway to the hearth she began to lose her footing and fell onto a chair.
“I can’t do it!” she exclaimed as her crutch fell to the ground.
“You can and you must!”
“I’m tired. I’ll work on it more tomorrow.”
“No, you’ll work on it today.”
“Why? Why today?” she demanded.
“Because tomorrow will be too late,” he said, standing so suddenly he knocked over his chair.
“Why?”
He sighed and dropped his eyes to the floor. After a moment he crossed over and knelt beside her. “Ruth, the duke has sent a call for men to join him as he marches with the prince to the Holy Land. They need men to fight in a crusade against the infidels holding Jerusalem.”
“What has this to do with you?” she whispered, though she feared that in her heart she already knew the truth.
“Peter and I are going. We have heard the call and it has resonated in our hearts. We will join the duke and the prince.”
“But you are blacksmiths, not knights.”
“And they need those more desperately even than warriors. We will help build and repair weapons and armor, and shoe horses. If need be, we will fight as well.”
“You’re leaving tomorrow, aren’t you?” she asked, her voice trembling.
“The army leaves at first light. We are traveling to the castle tonight to join it.”
Ruth threw her arms around his neck and clung to him, terror filling her. “Don’t go,” she begged.
“I have to,” he said. “They need me.”
“I need you,” she countered.
“No, you are strong. You do not need me to look after you anymore. But Father will need you now more than ever. You must promise me that you will help him.”
Her tears spilled out freely, running down her cheeks and soaking his shirt. “I can’t.”
“You can, Ruth,” he said, pulling away and staring into her eyes. “You are strong and brave. Not even the wolf could beat you.”
She shivered at the mention of the creature and began to cry even harder. “But you were there to protect me.”
From his belt he pulled his dagger—the very one he had used upon the wolf. He placed it in her palm and wrapped her fingers around its hilt. “I will still protect you, so long as you carry this with you.”
She stared from it to him, praying to find the words that would make him stay. A shadow fell across the room and she turned. Peter stood in the doorway, a sack on his back.
“I will miss you, Ruth,” her cousin said, his voice trembling.
She held out her arms to him and he came to her, hugging her tightly. Then the three of them hugged, all of them crying.
Finally Peter pulled away. “It’s time to go,” he said softly, and Stephen nodded.
“But Father—”
“We said our good-byes this morning,” Stephen assured her.
“He knew and he did not tell me!”
“We agreed it would be better this way. Nothing is to be gained by lengthy good-byes.”
Stephen stood and crossed to a corner, picking up a sack that Ruth hadn’t noticed sitting there. He threw it across his back before bending to kiss the top of her head.
“Be strong,” he whispered. He turned to Peter, and without another word the two of them left.
Ruth sat, shaking and staring at nothing, for several moments. When she could no longer hear the sound of their footsteps, she stood slowly, using the chair for support.
She picked up her crutch and began to hobble painfully. Every step sent pain up her legs, and she bit her lip to keep from crying out. A few steps and she made it through the door. Outside, the road was a river of mud winding between the houses and scattered shops. Smoke curled from all the chimneys, and people walked by quickly, their heads bowed and their spirits dampened by the recent rains.
The thick brown ooze clutched at her boots, and each time she pulled them free the motion was accompanied by a loud sucking sound. Slowly, step by painful step, she made her way toward her father’s blacksmith shop. He was already there; she could hear his hammer ringing out against steel—strong, angry-sounding strokes.
He glanced up at her as she entered, but he said not a word. Slowly she made her way over to the forge. A steel blade sat in the fire, the metal becoming soft and pliable. With tongs she pulled it out and placed it upon an anvil.
She leaned her body against a stone pillar and propped her crutch up against the back of it. She reached
down and picked up her brother’s hammer. The feel of it in her hand brought tears again to her eyes. It was heavy, but she lifted it high into the air. As she slammed it down upon the glowing steel she met her father’s eyes. He nodded slowly and then turned back to his own blade. Together they hammered far into the night.
Chapter Two
NINE YEARS LATER
T he trees moaned and sighed as below them a deer died a sudden, violent death, its life taken by another creature. Claws and teeth slashed at the animal, rending flesh. There was nothing the trees could do but stand and watch and worry. The creature below them tore into the deer, devouring it as quickly as it could. What a disturbance; what a tragedy; how very unnatural.
Ruth slammed the hammer down on her thumb and choked back an oath. Why are you so clumsy this morning? she chided herself.
She plunged her hand into a bucket of cool water nearby. After a couple of minutes she pulled it out and crossed to a bottle that sat on a shelf across the room. She picked it up, squeezed a thick liquid onto her thumb, and slowly rubbed it in. The scent of chamomile, geraniums, lavender, lemon, myrrh, and rose filled her nostrils. The remedy was her grandmother’s recipe, and it was designed to alleviate swelling. Years before, Ruth had started keeping a supply of it on hand in the shop. Every finger knew it well.
She let out her breath slowly, forcing herself to relax. After a minute she stared gingerly at her hand. She grimaced at what she saw It was rough and red like a man’s and laced with scars. Through the years she had broken three of her fingers, but thanks to more of her grandmother’s treatments and care, none of them were crooked.
She sighed and closed her eyes, hearing snatches of local gossip in her head. “She’s never gonna find a man ’less she starts acting like a woman.” The women of the village thought she didn’t know, didn’t hear them talking about her. She heard, though, and the words hurt.
I can fight against a sword, or fists, but I don’t know how to fight against words, she thought bitterly. Worse, I know it hurts Father, though he would never say.
Ruth clenched her fist and watched the muscles in her forearm jump. Her grandmother had lotions for those, as well, to keep them from growing quickly. If it weren’t for those creams, Ruth’s arms would be twice as big.
Scarlet Moon (Once Upon a Time) Page 1