Wolfsbane

by N. J. Layouni

Carelessly discarded weapons lay strewn across the wooden floor, like a trail of lethal breadcrumbs, cast aside in the men’s haste to rut.

  The woman lay on the ground, hidden beneath her three attackers. Only her splayed legs were visible. The men laughed and joked with one another, ignoring their victim’s sobbing pleas for mercy.

  One of the woman’s slippers had fallen off during the struggle. The sight of her bare, clenching foot pricked Martha’s heart. Alternating waves of pity and rage flash-heated her blood, goading her to violence.

  Two of the men had pinioned the woman to the floor while the third—the one with his back to Martha—had positioned himself between her open legs, repeatedly attempting to guide himself into the woman’s resisting body.

  “Hold ’er steady, lads,” the would-be rapist growled in frustration. “Give ’er a slap to quieten ’er.”

  One of the men knelt on the woman’s arm, freeing up his hand so he could strike her across the face. Martha flinched at the sharp crack and the resulting scream.

  “Now be still, whore!”

  But the woman kept on fighting.

  The urge to hurt someone overwhelmed her. Martha advanced at a trot, but none of the men looked up. The sounds of distant battle masked her light footsteps. Besides, they were too ravenous with lust to notice anything but their prey.

  The rapist shifted position, giving Martha a glimpse of his swollen member, protruding from his meaty fist.

  She grimaced. Selecting her first target was easy.

  Gripping her shit stick with both hands, she raised it over her head and brought it down fast and hard. It struck the top of the man’s bald head with a hollow thunk, and he slumped forward, falling on top of the whimpering woman. He made no attempt to get up.

  The man’s two companions looked up at her, slack jawed with surprise.

  Martha puffed a strand of hair from her eyes. “Who’s next?” She brandished the stick like a baseball bat, her chest heaving with the effort of breathing. She trembled and shook but, damn, hitting him felt good.

  Maybe she was developing a taste for violence after all?

  “Well, well.” The younger man slowly rose to his feet, abandoning the woman on the floor. “An opponent of worth at last.” He smiled, displaying a rack of blackened teeth.

  The frissons of fear pricking at the back of her neck cooled the fire in her blood. Although he smiled, the man’s eyes contained no warmth. There was only an unsettling wildness, an indescribable something, warning her that his brain wasn’t firing on all of its cylinders.

  The man paused and looked her up and down. Then he rubbed a spade-like hand over his rough-shorn head. Dozens of small bloody nicks covered his scalp as if he’d recently shaved with a blunt knife.

  His ferret-faced companion was equally repulsive. He licked his lips, his narrow eyes raking her body hungrily, like a starving man about to feast at a banquet. Martha shivered. Cold beads of sweat prickled upon her brow.

  Ferret nodded slowly. “Not bad at all, Jacob.” He smoothed back several long, greasy strands of hair from his cadaverous face. “Finally, a woman with some padding on her bones.” He glanced at the weeping woman on the floor then back at Martha. Pale tongue snaking over his cracked lips, he stood up. “Would you object if I took the first bite of this one, mate?” he asked his companion.

  “Just make it quick,” Jacob replied, still rasping his hand over his moth-eaten scalp.

  “Oh, that I will, you can be sure.” Ferret’s grin broadened, and he patted the bulge at the front of his trews. “The old staff of life is already salivating.”

  Martha almost gagged at that particular mental image. She shuffled backward, swishing the shit stick through the air in an attempt to hold the stalking men at bay. Why the hell had she left the sanctuary of the privy? The prospect of entertaining that unholy pair anywhere near her body was beyond revolting. Living with a guilty conscience now seemed a much better option.

  Forgotten and abandoned, the woman on the floor wriggled beneath of the dead weight of the body on top of her. With a cry of revulsion, she pushed her unconscious attacker aside. As she leapt to her feet, she sent Martha a look of gratitude.

  A name for the beaten and bedraggled noblewoman flew into Martha’s head. She was Beatrice, Sir Hugh’s wife—King Erik’s former mistress.

  Beatrice bowed her head at Martha. Although her blue silk gown was ripped and dirty, and her right eye almost swollen shut, the gesture seemed almost regal. But before Martha could admire her spirit, Beatrice hitched up her skirt and sprinted away down the corridor as though pursued by the devil and all of his minions.

  So much for female solidarity. But there wasn’t time to be angry.

  The men were closing in, their perma-smiles never wavering as they herded her to the opposite end of the corridor.

  She lashed out again with her stick. It almost flew from her sweat-slicked hands. “I-I have the pox.” The lie was as feeble as her voice.

  Ferret made a wet rippling sound of amusement in his throat. “So have I, pet. Who doesn’t? And ’tis my firm held belief that a man and woman ought to have something in common to bind them.”

  Only an empty stomach prevented her from vomiting. What would pox-contaminated fluids do to her baby? The thought sent her breathing into hyperventilation territory.

  As they came nearer, the stench of stale sweat, halitosis, and long-unwashed clothes overwhelmed her, assaulting her nostrils in a putrid cloud.

  “Jesus! You stink!” She hit out at them again.

  Jacob pounced and grabbed the end of her stick. Yanking it from her sweat-slicked hands, he slung it over his shoulder then came after her.

  Flight was her only option. She squealed and ran.

  Too late. Rough hands restrained her, grabbing her about the waist. As he spun her around, she lashed out wildly with her fists, hoping to land a lucky punch, but Jacob was too fast and much too strong. He seized both her wrists and pulled her arms out at right angles, holding them away from her struggling body in a parody of a cross.

  Ferret watched her struggle, a look of enjoyment etched on his goblin-like face. Only when she was secured, squirming like a worm on a hook, did he approach.

  “Nice,” he muttered. To Martha’s disgust, he slowly ran his filthy hands over her body, exploring the curves concealed by her gown. His breathing was as rapid as hers, but for quite a different reason.

  She bit her lip as his hands slid over the lacing of her dress. It took all the strength she had to remain motionless as he cupped and squeezed her breasts. Eyes clenched shut, she fought the urge to scream. It wouldn’t help. Men like these got off on fear. It would only add more fuel to their lust.

  Ferret exhaled. “Very nice indeed, m’lady.” He slid his hands over her waist and down the back of her gown. He groaned appreciatively as he groped her buttocks.

  Martha shuddered and kept her eyes tight shut. She chewed on her lip so hard she tasted blood. She was determined not to cry or plead for mercy. But this was only the start of her ordeal, and already her skin was itching with the proximity of the men and their combined filth.

  How long before the urge to react overwhelmed her? What would it be like when they were taking turns at her? She recoiled from the image and tried to block it out by thinking of something more pleasant. Instantly, Vadim’s face flew into her mind. He was all sexy and love-tousled, lying in bed with—

  No. Her heart hardened in her chest. Not him. Not anymore. This whole situation was his fault.

  “Get on with it, then.” Jacob’s snarling voice dragged her back to the present. “I want to get some gold before the other thieving bastards make off with it.”

  It was no use. The feel of their hands on her body was more than she could take. Zen-like calmness had never been her thing anyway. Taking a deep breath to bolster her failing courage, she flung her head
backward with as much force as possible.

  Pain flashed in her skull, white and hot, and a nasty metallic taste flooded her mouth and nose.

  Jacob grunted and swore, but he didn’t let go. Instead, the grip on her wrists increased. Martha whimpered with pain, her fragile bones creaking beneath the power of his fingers. The only positive aspect was that Ferret stopped groping at her.

  “Be still, you bitch.” Jacob hauled her back against him, his words hissing against her ear. “Or do you like it rough, hmm?” He took her earlobe into his toxic mouth and bit down on it.

  Martha squealed and opened her eyes. Ferret’s face was inches away, leering at her. Now he held a knife in his hand, its blade glinting in the weak daylight.

  Her heart stumbled. Rape wasn’t enough? They were going to kill her too? She renewed her struggles, dangling from Jacob’s outstretched arms like a dancing puppet.

  Ferret stroked her thrashing head. “Hush now, my filly.” His bloodstained fingers snagged on the tangles in her hair. “I will not harm thee. I only desire a small token to mark our time together. Something you will have no cause to miss.”

  His gentle tone didn’t fill her with confidence. Neither did a close-up view of his dark, soulless eyes. They screamed serial killer.

  Panting and frantic, she could only watch as he wound a strand of her hair about his fist then cut it free. “Another lady’s favor for my collection.” He raised it to his lips then tucked it into the leather pouch that hung from his belt. “I thank you for your donation.”

  How many other favors did he have in that bag of his?

  The distant sounds of men’s voices called to one another as the invading army battled with the castle’s garrison. Clouds of plaster drifted down from the ceiling, dislodged by many hurried bootsteps on the upper levels.

  Surely the invaders weren’t all amoral arseholes? If only some of them would run in her direction.

  Ferret lowered his head, rasping his unshaven face between her cleavage.

  “Get off me!” She kicked out, but the heavy folds of her skirt foiled her attempt to wound him somewhere vital. Egged on by Jacob, Ferret molded her soft flesh with his cadaverous fingers, pressing it to his sharp-stubbled cheeks. His grunts and moans of pleasure sickened her as much as the violation of his touch.

  She’d never feel clean again.

  He tugged at the tie securing her shift, and the neckline of the thin linen garment slowly widened. Ferret paused to look down at what he’d uncovered.

  “Ah, such a fine bosom. Perhaps the fi—”

  Martha saw her chance and took it. In one swift movement, she flung her head forward, smashing it as hard as she could into Ferret’s revolting face. He screamed as his nose exploded in a plume of bright blood. She turned her head away and held her breath to avoid the worst of the flying spatter. Although her head ached like hell and tears streamed down her cheeks, the satisfaction of drawing blood canceled out most of the pain.

  Ferret swore violently and then staggered about the corridor with his hands cupped about his nose. “The bish broke by dose.” Blood oozed from between his fingers, hitting the floor in a pattering stream.

  Jacob laughed heartily at his friend’s discomfort. His whole body quaked with the force of his amusement, so much that the tension on Martha’s wrists eased.

  Would it work a second time? She was desperate enough to try. Taking a deep breath, she launched her head backward.

  There was another sharp impact and her brain collided with the inner casing of her skull for a second time. Brilliant fireworks danced before her eyes and then, for a few interminable seconds, she couldn’t see anything. Dimly, she registered Jacob’s pained bellows accompanying Ferret’s moans.

  She pressed her hands to her throbbing head and only then realized she was free. She set off down the corridor, swaying wildly. Dazed and still half blind, she stretched out her arms, hunting for the wall to guide her. When her fingers brushed over the soft wall hangings, she quickened her pace. Her ragged breaths echoed in her head, competing with every heartbeat, and black dots danced at the periphery of her limited vision. Don’t you dare faint now.

  “Come back here, slut!” The floorboards quivered with the strike of Jacob’s pounding feet as he chased after her.

  Martha forced her trembling legs into a drunken jog then she stumbled over a large obstacle on the ground. She fell, landing on top of a body—presumably the man she’d knocked unconscious earlier. Or maybe he was dead? She was too exhausted to care.

  “Get up, wench.” Brutal fingers gripped her shoulder, and she was dragged to her feet. Jacob’s bloody, black-toothed grimace swam in and out of focus. “You are mine now.”

  Now she wanted to faint, to escape the terrible fate that awaited her at the hands of these brutal men.

  “No, lad.” Ferret arrived, wincing as he wiped his sleeve over his bloody face. “I told you I wanted first crack at this one.”

  “You had your chance. This bitch—”

  “Unhand her, pig filth!” A male voice roared. “The lady is mine. Set her loose and face your deaths like men.”

  Vadim? It couldn’t be him! Could it?

  Joy surged through her veins, clearing her head and rebooting her vision. A familiar hooded figure stood at the end of the corridor, sword in one hand, a snarling, barely-restrained dog in the other.

  “Vadim!” Her scream was raw and desperate, ripped from the depths of her fragile heart.

  Flinging back his hood, he stalked toward them. His jaw pulsed, and his dark eyes emanated icy rage. Mad, bad, and altogether dangerous.

  She’d forgotten how incredible he was. Even now, restrained by potential rapists, her body responded to his nearness. Her memory of him was like a pencil sketch when compared with the reality of him. All her love, anguish, and sorrow erupted in one massive blast. So many emotions battled for precedence. How could she hope to put them into words?

  “About fecking time!” she cried. “Where the fuck have you been?”

  Not exactly a Hallmark moment, but it was the best that she could do.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Vadim devoured her with his eyes, feasting on her presence. The long famine of her absence was finally at an end.

  Although her angry words wounded him, they were not wholly unexpected. She felt abandoned. But nothing was further from the truth.

  The ripening bruises on her face and neck did not mar her beauty, but his heart bayed for the blood of those who had inflicted them on her. Even her poor hands were ragged and torn. He flinched at the accusing expression in her eyes. But in that same glance, he glimpsed the heights of her suffering and the depths of her despair. Every fiber of his being burned in savage fury. Seldom had he experienced such pain—not without a physical injury to show for it.

  It was as if her wounds were his own. Even so, the joy of finding her again lightened him and drove the leaden weariness from his bones. Battered and bruised as she was, he could not ever recall having seen anyone lovelier.

  He glared at her attackers, but they would not meet his eyes. Cowards and rapists. They were dead men, and they knew it. The prospect of taking a life had never given him pleasure. But, by the Spirits, he would enjoy dispatching those two bastards.

  Blood lust throbbed in his veins, echoing the wild rhythms of ancient war drums of the Ancestors. Unbidden by thought, his fingers tightened about the handle of his sword.

  “Ah!” At last, the gaunt-faced soldier spoke. He glanced at Martha, blood dripping from his ruined nose. “This poor fellow can only be your husband.” Drawing his knife, he smiled at Vadim. “You have my sympathy, friend.” He danced his blade through the air about Martha’s face, a warning that he had come close enough.

  Vadim stopped walking. “I would prefer to have your head,” he growled.

  The men laughed as if he had just made some w
itty jest. Fools!

  Forge strained against his short leash, snarling at the bear of a man who restrained his precious mistress and held her to him like a shield. Vadim felt like snarling himself.

  The fellow had his brawny arm draped over the gaping neckline of her gown, unintentionally preserving Martha’s modesty.

  Only fear for her life stilled his sword. What must she think of him?

  Without words, she told him. The silent messages conveyed by her stormy-blue eyes were as easy to decipher as ink marks on parchment. Each one twisted his heart, filling it with despair. She hated him.

  He drew back his shoulders and exhaled. Whether she loved him or not, he would not fail her now.

  As the bear man retreated, he dragged Martha with him. Helplessly, she clung to the man’s bulging forearm, silently beseeching Vadim to save her.

  Forge snarled and lunged forward, almost yanking his arm from its socket. It took all his strength to haul the great beast back under control, even though he was loathe to do so. “Not yet, dog,” he murmured.

  “A wise choice, my friend.” The scrawny man backed away, brandishing his blade to ward off any attack. “My companion here has a violent dislike of dogs.” He jerked his head toward the man holding Martha. “It would not do to make him nervous. Not while his arm is about m’lady’s slender neck.”

  Vadim ground his teeth and advanced, matching their cautious pace. Pulses of rage spiraled in his head, urging him to lunge at the men as Forge had done and rip them apart. How he longed for that luxury, the freedom to act on instinct with no regard for the consequences.

  But if he fell, what would become of Martha then?

  Though he was not personally acquainted with the men, he had been a resident of Rodmar’s camp long enough to know them for what they were: soldiers of fortune, two of the would-be king’s precious hired swords. What they lacked in honor, they made up for on the battle field. These men excelled in the battle arts.

  At best, their loyalty was transient, and it was often dearly bought. Gold was their only true master.