by Selena Kitt
“The eclipse is coming. The prophecy is at hand.” Uldred tilted Griff’s head up toward the sky, searching his face. He knew the man was looking for a flash of red, some sign that he’d grabbed the right wulver. His voice rang out louder. The men were listening. “The red wulver will unite the lost packs and become far greater than any king of England. The red wulver will become the Dragon King of the Blood Reign. And I am that wulver!”
Did the man really believe the wulvers would think he was one of them? Griff couldn’t believe it, but the three wulvers around him howled, and then took a knee, as if Uldred was their rightful king. He could smell this fakery from a mile away. Why could they not?
Before Griff could think more on it, Uldred leaned back in to tell him something only for his ears.
“I may still need Raife’s blood, but your father’s on his way right now to bring his pup home. Then I will be able to control all the wulvers. Even you, pet.”
“Over m’dead body.” Griff growled, throwing himself forward toward the man, yanking the chain taut as Uldred stood, laughing at Griff’s impotent display.
“That’s a possibility.” Uldred shrugged, glancing to his men. “Any wulvers who do not follow me will certainly die. I’m getting to the end of my patience with this one.”
Griff howled when Uldred nodded at his men and they brought forth a wulver whose face had been beaten bloody, almost beyond recognition. Not that Griff needed eyesight to know his friend, Rory MacFalon, also in chains.
“Let ’im go,” Griff croaked. How had they captured Rory? What had they done to him? Of course they would capture The MacFalon’s son.
And now Griff’s father, Raife, and, he imagined, Darrow and the rest of the wulver warriors, were on their way to Skara Brae, and were about to walk right into Uldred’s trap. Griff felt his rage rising, felt the heat in his eyes, and knew they were turning red. He couldn’t stop it.
“They’ll ne’er follow ye!” Griff snapped at Uldred as Rory lifted his head, giving a low moan.
Griff shook his head, his snout filling the muzzle they’d put on him as he howled, his eyes burning as he looked around at the wulvers. Not just the ones who held his chains, or the ones who held Rory’s, but there were more, still, wulvers who had joined this man’s ranks. Were these part of the lost packs? Had they believed Uldred when he told them he was the red wulver?
“They’ll only e’er follow t’red wulver, t’one true king!” Griff roared, yanking to the ends of his chains, snapping at the dark knight, in spite of the muzzle, frothing at the mouth. His voice rose into a long, keening wail, and to his surprise, several other wulvers responded in kind, throwing their heads back and howling.
For one brief moment, Griff had hope. Did they recognize his voice? Did they see him as the red wulver? One of the wulver guards who held his chains saw Griff’s eyes flash red. Griff saw some sort of reaction—surprise? Recognition? He wasn’t sure.
“Shut up, dog!” Uldred roared, bringing the hilt of his sword back around again at Griff’s head. “I am the one true king!”
That was the last thing Griff heard before he hit the ground and sank into darkness.
Griff woke in a cage. A wulver’s worst nightmare.
His sword was gone. He’d been stripped down to tunic and plaid, and not only was the cage made of thick, iron bars, but he was chained to it, too. His first memory was seeing Rory MacFalon, bloody and beaten almost unrecognizable, and he looked around, hoping to find his friend. Mayhaps, together, they could form some sort of plan to escape.
But he was alone. Chained inside a cage, inside a tent. They’d had time to put up a tent? Mayhaps, then, they hadn’t found the temple yet. He could only hope. He had to get back and warn them. The thought of Bridget in danger made him crazy with anger and he moved to the front of the cage, testing the bars. Solid. There was a padlock keeping the cage door closed. He saw this by the light of a small lamp lit in the corner on a low table.
Griff shook his head, changing to half-man, half-wolf form, and then cocked his head, listening. He could hear far more like this. There were wulvers and men, and not just a few. Dozens. Maybe even a hundred or more. His tent wasn’t the only one that had been set up. One conversation was close. A human and a wulver, standing outside the tent. Guards. They were talking about a dice game, amiably arguing over winnings. Distractible. That was good.
He knew it was likely useless but he had to try. Griff grabbed a hold of the bars and pulled. They didn’t budge. Uldred knew enough about wulvers to know how to contain them. Griff knew he would likely be able to snap the chain, but the cage, that was going to be a problem. He’d have to work on the lock.
“Stand in the presence of your once and future king!” Uldred’s voice carried in to him, even though the flap of the tent was closed.
Griff felt a growl growing in his throat, unbidden. He worked hard to control it, holding onto the bars and leaning in to listen. The wulver and the man mumbled apologies. Anyone else would have heard nothing but contrition, but Griff knew wulvers. This one was acting contrite, but mayhaps wasn’t feeling that way. He heard a resistance in the wulver’s tone, and that was heartening.
“Ye heard ’im!” A woman’s voice snapped, clearly Scottish. “Take a knee before yer king!”
His spine straightened at the sound. Moraga. He didn’t know, not for sure, but who else?
“Don’t tease the animals, Mother.” Uldred chuckled as he opened the tent flap and stepped inside. Griff snarled at him, and at the woman who followed him into the tent.
“So this is t’red wulver.” The blonde who approached the cage surprised him. He’d expected a witch—an old woman, wrinkled and bent. This woman was tall, voluptuous, her blonde hair thick and long down her back. She spoke like a Scotswoman but she dressed like a shasennach.
“Not so loud, Mother,” Uldred hissed, glancing toward the tent entrance. “Don’t tempt fate. The other wulvers are already doubting and restless.”
“They won’t be fer long.” Moraga swung her hips, moving toward the cage. “I’ve ne’er seen one wit’ red fur…”
“Guess that’s why they call him the red wulver.” Uldred crossed his arms, glowering at Griff. “Fools.”
“An’ ye saw ’is red eyes?” Moraga murmured, stopping just short of Griff’s reach. The woman had clearly been around wulvers.
“Yes.” Uldred shrugged his shoulder. “His eyes glowed red when he got angry.”
“Ohhhh so I need t’tease the animal, then.” Moraga chuckled. She turned and went to the corner of the tent, coming back with a long spear. Griff glanced into the corner, seeing his sword and belt were there. He watched her raise the spear, her eyes dancing with amusement. “Ye’ve been a vera bad doggie.”
Griff growled at her, lips drawn back in a snarl.
“So can we use his blood?” Uldred asked, taking a seat on a cot at the other side of the tent as he watched his mother wielding her weapon, stalking toward the cage.
“Yer men did’na intercept t’wulvers?” Moraga sighed. “Raife an’ t’rest of them rode in from t’coast—how’d ye manage t’miss ‘em?”
“They followed them on the road,” Uldred replied. “But then… they disappeared.”
The woman snorted. “They did’na disappear into thin air!”
“No, but… mayhaps they found their way into the temple.” Uldred glowered at Griff. “Mother, you said you could find it! You said your magic would be strong enough to open it!”
“Aye.” She sighed, looking over at her son, soothing him. “All will be well. Ye’ve found six o’the lost packs a’ready! And they’re all out there, followin’ ye. They all b’lieve ye’re t’red wulver of the prophecy, that ye’re destined t’be t’Dragon King, the one who’ll begin t’Blood Reign—”
“They only follow me because of your magic,” he reminded her, pouting.
Griff stared between the two of them, stunned by this news. This Uldred had found six of the lost packs already? The
y were all camped out there, right now, following him? It was news that made Griff tremble with anger, and he worked hard to keep his eyes from flashing red with bloody rage.
“Aye. An’ it will’na last fore’er!” she snapped. “I need t’wulver’s blood!”
“Well we have his.” Uldred pointed at Griff in the cage. “Isn’t that good enough?”
“Mayhaps.” She cocked her head, eyes narrowing at Griff as she took another step toward him. “He’s a descendent. And they do say he’s t’red wulver. Let’s find out.”
Moraga jabbed at Griff with the spear, moving quickly. Griff roared when the tip pierced his shoulder, blood pouring from the wound, and he grabbed the weapon, yanking it out of the woman’s hands.
“Uldred!” Moraga cried for her son to rescue her as Griff pulled the spear and the witch along with it—she was still hanging on. It would be her undoing.
Griff howled, and outside, another wulver howled in response. Then another. And another. Uldred scowled, rushing toward the cage to save his mother from Griff, but it was too late.
Griff dropped the spear and circled the woman’s throat with his big hand. He only needed one. He could snap her neck with the flick of a finger at this angle. She gasped and struggled as he lifted her feet up off the floor, growling at Uldred.
“Get t’keys! Let me outta this cage!”
“Mother!” Uldred cried, taking a step back as Griff’s other hand shot out to grab him.
Uldred just managed to sidestep.
Outside, the howling continued, and Uldred’s face clouded with frustration and anger.
And, Griff noted, fear. He could smell it on the man.
“Uldred!” Moraga croaked, her long, red fingernails raking at Griff’s hand, scratches that healed almost as fast as she made them. She was choking, her face turning blue.
“Help!” Uldred screamed. Literally screamed, something high pitched, like a woman. “Help! Help! Help!”
“Milord?” A wulver stuck his big head into the tent flap.
Griff howled, a sound that filled the tent, carrying far beyond, and the wulver at the door went wide-eyed at the sight. Then he threw back his head and howled too.
They’re joining me. They know I’m the one. I’m their leader. They know…
Griff’s brief moment of hope and the excitement that took flight in his chest was short-lived, as Moraga lifted her fist in front of her face. He actually laughed at the thought of this woman punching him, but something crunched between her fingers, something that sounded like bones and dry wings being powdered into dust.
The witch used her last bit of breath to blow the residue in his face.
It smelled like ancient death.
Griff coughed, suddenly, overwhelmingly nauseous.
Then everything went blurry, and he collapsed.
Chapter Eight
Bridget couldn’t understand why Alaric hadn’t come.
She hid high up in a tree, watching men and wulvers walking past, talking, laughing. She watched them set up tents and light fires. She watched, breath held, hand over her mouth to keep from crying out, as they untied Griff from the back of his horse, letting his big body slide, lifeless, to the ground.
She wouldn’t believe he was dead, refused to believe it. They set up a cage and chained him into it, so she knew he still breathed. Bridget almost cried with relief. The tent went up around the cage, so she couldn’t see him anymore. Two men guarded the front of the tent, but no one stood at the back. She could sneak underneath it, she decided. When it was full dark, when the camp slept.
So many wulvers, so many men! She’d never seen so many on little Skara Brae before.
But none of them were Alaric.
She left a clear trail for him to follow. He was an extraordinary tracker. If he’d come looking for her, he would have easily been able to follow. Why hadn’t he come? He’d left to meet Raife and the other wulvers, who had come after Griff. And then…
And then…
She didn’t want to think about it.
Bridget nearly fell asleep hugging the trunk of the tree, straddling a branch. She waited until the moon, still big and full, was high. She waited for most of the noise to die down. She waited until the man with the dirty-blonde hair and dark armor, the one she’d heard screaming, and the curvy blonde woman, left the tent, saying they were retiring for the night. The man gave orders to his men, told them to trade off a watch.
But there was still no one manning—or wulvering—the back of the tent.
Bridget had hoped her father would find them, but mayhaps he felt it too dangerous to approach with so many other wulvers and men around. She would have to rescue Griff herself, and take him back to the temple with her. She was grateful for the wulver ability to heal so quickly. If she could get him out of the cage—she had the pins in her hair, she might be able to pick the lock—he would be fine to travel.
The only thing she didn’t see was Uri—Griff’s horse. She would have liked to take him. And she hated the thought of leaving the animal there with the people—and wulvers—who treated Griff so badly. She didn’t know who they were, or why they wanted Griff, but she knew they were bad news.
Bridget climbed slowly, carefully, down from the tree. She heard someone laugh and hid behind the tree, in the shadows, but there were no other voices. No one moved toward her or the tent. Peeking around the trunk, she saw just the two men—one man, one wulver—sitting on stools near the entrance. They were awake, watchful, talking softly, but not looking her way.
She moved as quietly as she could, sneaking around the back of the tent. Shimmying underneath it, she stopped as she cleared the material, finding herself inside the tent. There was no light to see by, but she heard him breathing. He was breathing. She knew he must be, but her heart fluttered at the reassurance. She just prayed there was no one else in the tent as she rolled to hands and knees and got her bearings.
“There’s a lamp in t’corner, Bridget.” Griff spoke in a hoarse whisper. “Front, on t’left.”
Bridget startled, eyes wide when he spoke. But of course—he’d smelled her.
“Are ye a’righ’?” she whispered back, feeling her way in the dark. “Do I dare light t’lamp?”
“Keep it low.”
She found the lamp, using the striker to light the oil lamp’s wick. Then she quickly turned the flame low, not wanting anyone, especially the guards, to see it through the tent walls.
“Och, Bridget.” Griff held his arms out to her and she went to him, finding herself trembling in his embrace through the cage bars.
“Yer hurt.” She ran her hands over him, the wound in his shoulder. It was healing, but hadn’t been healed entirely. “Who did this? Who are they?”
“We do’na have time fer questions.” He kissed the top of her head, holding her closer, the bars digging into her flesh. She noticed they’d taken the muzzle off him at least, but his face was marked with long scratches. They were healing, too. “D’ye have t’key?”
She shook her head. “But we can break t’lock.”
“Twill alert t’guards,” Griff warned.
Tugging on the padlock, it held fast, but Bridget thought it wouldn’t be difficult to break with a weapon. She had drawn her sword before he could stop her, bringing it down hard, cleaving the lock.
Griff was right—the human guard came in first, sword drawn, and Bridget whirled to meet him. Steel clashed and she winced. So much for staying quiet. The wulver guard ducked into the tent, already shifted in wulver-warrior form, growling, crossbow raised—and aimed directly at Bridget. Griff shoved his way out of the cage, the door hanging on its hinges as he busted through, the padlock in his hand. His chain caught him up short, but he managed to knock the other wulver aside and bring the heavy cage lock down onto the human guard’s skull.
He groaned and dropped to the dirt.
Wulver faced wulver in the dim light, both growling low in their throats. Griff’s eyes flashed red in the dark, making
Bridget gasp in surprise, even as used to it as she’d grown. The other wulver hesitated. He’d seen it, too.
Bridget stared, stunned, as the other wulver sank slowly to one knee, bowing his head.
“My king,” the other wulver growled. “How can I serve ye?”
Griff met her gaze, both of them so shocked it was hard to know exactly what to say or do.
“D’ye have t’keys?” Griff yanked on the chain attached to the collar around his neck.
“Aye.” The other wulver rose, pulling out a set of keys and unlocking the collar. The guard looked between the two of them as he took a step back while Griff pulled off the collar and threw it to the floor.
“Thank ye,” Griff said.
“Go, m’king,” the other wulver said, keeping his voice low, reaching down and handing Griff his belt, sword and sheath. “Before they discover ye gone and raise t’alarm.”
“I will’na forget this.” Griff strapped on his belt, clapping the other wulver on the shoulder before grabbing Bridget’s hand and ducking out of the tent. She followed him in the dark, both of them trying to be as quiet as they possibly could.
“Bridget,” he whispered, pulling her behind the big tree she’d scaled and hid in. “M’father and ’is men came ’ere t’Skara Brae—are they at t’temple?”
“Alaric went ridin’ out t’meet ’em,” she told him, her brow knitting with worry. “We saw ye set upon by a band’o’men at t’same time. I said I’d follow ye, track ye, and leave a trail. But…”
Griff finished her sentence, “Alaric hasn’t come after ye.”
She shook her head, feeling tears stinging her eyes. Something must have happened, and from the look on Griff’s face, he knew it, too.
“Listen, Bridget.” He took her by the upper arms, talking low, close, looking into her face in the moonlight. “This man who took me, Uldred Lothienne—”
“Uldred Lothienne? Lothienne?” Her eyes widened. She knew the story of Eldred and Moraga—Griff had told her that story too. Had it been only last night that they were in each other’s arms, talking and laughing? “Is it…? It can’t be…”