Their horse gone!
Not a single wolf chased him. Which meant they were after other prey.
’Twas not the way she thought to die—mauled to shreds by ferocious beasts. Terror spiked through her veins. Would it hurt? Would she feel their fangs dig deep into her flesh? Or would she become numb with fear? Still the wolves crept closer, more and more materializing from the greenery, like ghouls from a forested underworld.
She gripped Thebe closer, terror whipping her thoughts into a cyclone, with only one remaining—one horrifying thought. Thebe. She could not let this child face such a painful and frightening death. She was but a babe. Oh, God. Please!
“One, two, three…” She could hear Sir Jarin’s heavy breathing, feel the tension spinning tight around him.
The closest wolf snapped its jowls, growling in anticipation, and sending spittle through the air.
A stench of rotted flesh soured in her nose. She couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t speak, or she’d surely scream with her last breath and run with all her might. “Four, five…”
Thebe began to cry.
Jarin finally spoke. “I’ll take on as many as I can. When I do, run.”
“I will not leave you,” she returned, her voice trembling.
He snapped his gaze to her, fire in his eyes. “You will do as I say!”
Even should she wish to obey him, she could no longer feel her legs. Daring a glance over her shoulder, she spotted wolves approaching from behind. Nowhere to run. “Six, seven…”
More wolves entered the clearing, their dark eyes locked upon the three of them, almost humanlike in the hatred she saw within them.
Flesh or spirit? She searched her memory for the story Alexia had told her. How had she rid herself of them?
The Spear! Lord help her. She’d forgotten all about it. Crouching to the ground, Thebe still in her arms, she placed her hand over the spot on her leg where the artifact was strapped.
“Lord, please protect us from this evil. In Christ’s name!”
The lead wolf leapt onto Jarin, his teeth sinking through his leather cloak and into his arm.
Cristiana screamed. Thebe wailed.
The sun abandoned them, along with all hope, as dark clouds roiled across the sky above. Shadows as dark as the wolves lurked about the clearing, cloaking it in deep despair.
Jarin flung the beast away while thrusting his blade through another one. It yelped in pain as more advanced, surrounding them within a barricade of fangs and claws.
Leveling his sword before him, Sir Jarin awaited their charge, bravely, stoutly.
Tears slipped down Cristiana’s cheeks.
White light flashed. The brightness blinded Cristiana. Air crackled like fire. A wolf’s yelp, more growls. White light again. Cristiana closed her eyes, clinging tightly to Thebe, who had ceased her wailing.
Again the stench of rotted meat, save this time, ’twas more akin to burning flesh.
Jarin gasped.
Cristiana opened her eyes. Another bolt of silver light blazed from above and struck one of the wolves. The beast disappeared into a powdery mist. Again and again, white beams flared all around them, each one striking a wolf and transforming it into dust. Thunder bellowed. The ground shook. Thebe resumed her screaming.
The rest of the wolves, not yet struck, turned and darted back into the forest.
Sir Jarin stood like a statue, his bloody blade before him, the only sign of life the rise and fall of his chest.
Holding Thebe close, Cristiana prayed she was not dreaming, that the wolves were indeed gone and would not return.
Spears of sparkling sunlight poked through the dark clouds above, pushing them back and dispelling the shadows below.
All was silent. All was still. The birds began their joyful tunes yet again.
Jarin sheathed his blade, the chime echoing across the clearing.
Thebe peeked out from beneath Cristiana’s cloak. “Gone?”
“Aye, darling.” Cristiana’s legs wobbled, and she stumbled slightly but caught herself. “They are gone. God be praised.”
♥♥♥
Sir Jarin finally turned to face Lady Cristiana and Thebe. He hadn’t wanted to look at them during the ordeal, hadn’t wanted to see the terror on their faces, watch as wolves devoured their flesh. Hadn’t wanted that to be his last vision ere departing this world. Now, as he took them in, unharmed and looking more beautiful than ever, he finally allowed relief to flow through him.
He allowed something else too—his arm to fling about the woman and bring her and babe close. She fell against him, leaning on his chest as if it brought her all the comfort and strength she needed. If only she knew how terrified he’d been. He’d been trained by the best knights in the realm, had fought in dozens of battles facing many enemies who resembled beasts, but nothing had prepared him for that hellish onslaught.
He held the two girls close. “’Tis over now. We are safe.” At least he hoped, though he kept an ear tuned for the wolves’ return.
Thebe glanced up at him and tugged on his beard. “Jarn.”
Against his better judgment, he kissed her on the forehead and smiled. Before the child could further worm her way into his heart, he released them and glanced up. “The storm is past. ’Twas fortuitous it came along when it did.”
Lady Cristiana breathed out a sigh. “You jest, sir! ’Twas no storm at all, and that lightning—if that is what it was—hailed from God, Himself. I touched the Spear and prayed. And He rescued us.” She looked above as if she could find the Almighty and thank Him personally.
“A mere storm, my lady.” Jarin glanced in the direction their horse had gone, then sought his pack on the ground.
“I suppose those wolves were mere wolves as well,” she retorted.
“What else would they be?” His tone lacked conviction, for he could not deny what he’d seen. Even now, as he looked around, no carcasses littered the clearing. Yet if he accepted that the beasts had not been real animals, but instead demons conjured up from the otherworld, then he’d have to admit there was an otherworld, an eternal realm wherein both good and evil existed—God and the devil, heaven and hell.
Ergo, if he admitted that God had come to their rescue, then he’d have to believe God loathed him, for He’d never answered any of Jarin’s prayers. Hence, he would push the incident into the realm of the unknown and unexplainable, a place getting quite crowded since he’d met Lady Alexia and her sister Cristiana.
“We must leave posthaste.” He gathered his sack, stuffed the remaining scrap of bread into it, then picked up her sack as well.
“We have no horse.” Lady Cristiana came to stand beside him. “However will we…” her voice trailed off in despondency.
Taking Thebe from her, he plunked the girl atop his shoulders yet again and gave Lady Cristiana a wink of reassurance of which he felt not a speck. No sense in alarming the lady further. She’d had enough fear for one day. “We shall walk until we can find another horse,” he said as if the feat were as easy as plucking a flower from a spring meadow.
She frowned as he started forward, brushing aside branches as he went. Her footsteps followed. Thebe giggled above him and began playing with his hair.
They had no horse, no money, no food, and they were being chased by a troop of well-trained soldiers. Not to mention an evil he dared not admit. In truth, the odds were not in their favor, but still, nothing he had not encountered before and overcome.
Yet never with two precious lives in his care.
Chapter 19
“Devil’s warts!” Cedric cursed and rose from the placid water of a pond he’d been staring into. The vision that had appeared after he’d poured the elixir across the surface was enough to transform the meekest warlock into the devil himself!—Sir Jarin and Lady Cristiana rescued from his wolves by lightning! Nay. Lightning would not send his beasts back to hell as these beaming shafts did. ’Twas light from above. Pure light. The enemy’s light.
Grimacing, he gra
bbed his robe and wheeled about. “How did they do that? How did the enemy know of their plight so quickly?” Anger raged as he returned the bottle of elixir to his pack, his hand touching the leather pouch containing the remainder of the powder that could be turned into wolves.
His poor babies! He sank to the ground in despair. They had so wanted to taste human flesh this day. Grabbing a handful of dirt, he flung it into the air and lifted his fist to the sky. “I will have Lady Cristiana. I will have that heinous Spear of Yours! Darkness always wins!”
Merely saying the words out loud sent a surge of dark power through his cold veins. Rising, he leapt onto Demon and took off at a mad gallop.
♥♥♥
Sir Walter LeGode swallowed hard against his rising fear as he stood before Drago. The warlock seemed to be growing in power of late, along with his disrespect for Sir Walter. A disrespect that ’twas not to be borne, for the man dwelt at Luxley only by Sir Walter’s good grace. Or did he? Sir Walter was beginning to wonder whether ’twas the other way around.
Devil’s blood. He would not allow it! He was the lord and master of Luxley. Ergo, all but the bishop ran in fear to do his bidding. And he would not cower before this vermin. He was but a means to an end, a rather unpleasant means.
The warlock finally looked up from the book he’d been reading since Sir Walter entered his dungeon lair. Another affront to Sir Walter’s station. “How come you here?”
The warlock’s icy stare nearly sent Sir Walter dashing for the door.
“Have you put some hex on me, Drago?” There, he’d said it. And with the force he’d intended. Now to appear unmoved by the warlock’s coming outburst.
Instead, Drago chuckled and set down his book. “A hex, you say? Why, you are a bigger fool than I gave you credit for.” His mirth turned to disdain. “We have a pact, do we not?” he spat out. “Why would I curse you ere our deal is finished?”
That the warlock would be free to do so afterward was not lost on Sir Walter. He diverted his gaze to the greenish ooze bubbling within the black cauldron. Whatever it was, it carried the stench of death. “I am unwell. The physicians know not what ails me. Hence, I make bold to say it must be of a more spiritual nature than physical.”
“You, bold?” The warlock snickered, pointing a long, black fingernail toward Sir Walter. “Mayhap you are going mad. Or worse, you are being drugged, just as you did to that wench, Lady Cristiana.” With a snort, he glanced back at his open book as if either event was of no consequence to him.
Though both reasons had occurred to Sir Walter as of late, neither had enough merit to fear. He was clearly of sound mind when he was hale, and Mistress Anabelle tasted every bit of his food and drink to ensure it contained no poison. The woman was the picture of health and beauty. Hence his question to Drago. But the warlock was being his usual menacing self.
“Should either be the case”—Sir Walter dared advance toward the fiend’s table, upon which all manner of animal parts and tinctures were spread—“’twould not be good tidings for you. For if I am removed from Luxley, and those mewling fustyworts, those Knights of the Eternal Realm, take charge, you will needs find another den of iniquity from which to spew your curses upon the world.”
Drago slowly raised his gaze to Sir Walter, sparks simmering in his coal-like eyes. He spoke not a word but lifted a hand to something above him. A bat dove at Sir Walter. He ducked just as the ghoulish creature swept past him so close, he felt the air move from its wings. Every nerve pinched in terror, but he could not reveal his fear. Not to this man.
“Dare threaten me again, and next time the creature will not miss.” Drago seethed.
Sir Walter attempted to gather his breath. “You forget I still have the power to remove Cedric as your apprentice.”
“I fear ’tis too late for that, Sir Walter.” Drago huffed and moved to stare down at the iron table upon which visions of the unknown oft appeared. “Cedric is growing more and more powerful by the day. Once tasted, such power is not easily forfeited. It may please you to know he has found the girl and that heinous artifact.”
“He has? Good lad! When will he return to Luxley?” Sir Walter’s fear faded at the good news, for it would please the bishop greatly.
“In time.”
The room spun, and Sir Walter squeezed the bridge of his nose. He hoped ’twas true, for his malady grew worse.
Of a sudden, Drago gazed up into the tower above him, a noticeable shiver shaking his white robe. “You have not stopped the light from entering Luxley.”
“Me? What can I do against these knights when they do not reveal themselves?” He blew out a sigh. “What harm can they do anyway?”
“Apparently much. For you do look unwell.” This seemed to please Drago immensely, for an uncharacteristic grin lifted his chapped lips.
“Can you not stop them? Are you not the most powerful warlock? Or should I seek another?” Sir Walter regretted the words instantly, bracing for the warlock’s retort. Or worse, another bat.
But the man’s attention remained above, as if he feared something far more than a challenge of his power. “They have power as well. Great power.” He snapped his gaze to Sir Walter. “I do all I can.”
“Do more, Drago.”
The warlock tossed what looked like a lizard into his cauldron, causing a burst of steam to rise. “Leave me, Sir Walter, ere I do more than fling a bat your way.”
Sir Walter knew better than to stay in his presence. Up the winding stairs he labored until his breathing came hard and fast. The sound of music, clank of dishes, and gay voices made him stop and utter a grunt. The evening meal already? Faith! He’d not heard the announcing horn, and no doubt the bishop would be displeased with his absence.
Trudging down the grand staircase, he forced a smile as he made his way through the crowd to his seat at the high table, thankful the evening meal was not as grand an affair as the one at noon, for mayhap he could slip away without notice. He was also thankful the bishop was otherwise engaged in the seduction of one of the serving maids. A servant arrived with a basin of water, and Sir Walter quickly washed his hands as a trencher full of stewed pheasant, cheese, and grapes was set before him and wine was poured into his cup.
His gaze sought Anabelle, and upon finding her serving bread to a table of knights, he motioned her over. She sampled each of the foods on his trencher with a smile, then took a sip of his wine ere she curtsied and returned to her duties.
The bishop leaned into him, reeking of sour wine. “By my troth, do you still believe you are important enough to be poisoned, sir?”
Sir Walter gave a tight smile. “Nay, but I take every precaution, withal, Your Grace.” Should he tell him the good news about Cedric? Nay, ’twould merely give the man more to complain about should events not occur quickly enough. He sipped his wine, then broke off a piece of pheasant and popped it into his mouth.
“Humph. You would do well to learn from my example, Sir Walter, for I have no fear of those beneath me wishing me dead.”
But what of those beside you? Sir Walter smiled.
Yet the pompous dizzard continued. “How do I achieve such a thing when ’tis I who wield power over them? Respect, my good sir. Respect, fear, and adoration.”
Sir Walter wanted to vomit. If the man made him kiss his ring one more time, he just might.
“I shall take that into account, Your Excellency.” Thankfully, another maiden drew the bishop’s attention.
Sir Walter continued his meal, happy some of his appetite had returned. Below the high table, laymen of rank sat at white-clothed trencher tables, squabbling about some inane doctrine. Beyond them, knights regaled each other with tales of their bravery. Minstrels began plucking harps and tuning fiddles as they prepared to entertain. But Sir Walter had no interest in any of these things this night. He wanted Lady Cristiana and her Spear found. He wanted the bishop gone. He wanted to take his rightful place as lord of Luxley.
A minstrel began her song. A singular
sweet voice that soon was accompanied by harp, fiddle, and pipe.
Nay! It cannot be!
A boulder landed in his brain, crushing all lucid thought. The banners above him twirled. Chatter became muted and hollow. Yet that voice. He forced his gaze to the minstrel. And found a lady clothed in a green cloak with a single braid of hair peeking from beneath her hood. Red hair! Nay!
She finished the song. He rubbed his eyes, and when he opened them, she was gone. He was seeing things again. Begad, it could not be that witch Alexia D’Clere. God’s truth! She would not be so foolish as to appear in plain view of all. Still, he would know that voice anywhere.
Pushing from the table, he struggled to rise, but his legs gave way, and he plunged back to his seat.
“Egad, sir. Control your drink,” the bishop said with disgust. “’Tis most unseemly for one of your station to make such a spectacle.”
“I’ve imbibed but half a glass, Your Grace.” Sir Walter managed to mutter as the minstrels thrummed out another tune. The great hall before him blurred, then came into focus, then blurred again. A lady floated across the room, her white tunic shimmering in the candlelight. A circlet and veil hid her face, but her hair, the color of morning snow drifted about her as she moved.
Sir Walter drew a breath and slammed his eyes shut. ’Twas whatever illness plagued him that brought forth these visions. When he opened them, the lady glanced his way, lifted her veil and smiled. Mistress Seraphina de Mowbray!
He shook his head and rose to his feet once again, this time remaining. “I cry pardon, Your Grace, but I shall retire early.”
“Wise, sir. Very wise.” Bishop Montruse snorted and twisted his lips in repugnance ere returning to imbibe his second trencher of food.
The small trek to Sir Walter’s chamber was a blur of dizziness, nausea, and weakness. His chamberlain aided him in removing his tunic and donning his nightshirt.
“Will there be anything else, my lord?” the man asked, but Sir Walter could only shake his head ere he crawled beneath the wool coverlet.
♥♥♥
“I don’t like it.” Damien announced for the fourth time since they left Emerald Forest and entered the tunnels of Luxley.
She Walks in Love (Protectors of the Spear Book 2) Page 15