Wolfsbane

by N. J. Layouni

  An idea formed within Vadim’s mind. There might yet be a way to delay them. But he must act quickly. The men had already reached the turn into the next corridor.

  “How much for her life?” Vadim demanded. “Name your price.” He stepped over the lifeless body of their fallen comrade, and the glow of unexpected pride warmed his heart. This had to be Martha’s work. His lips relaxed into a shadow smile. Nicely done, my love.

  Forge sniffed at the unfortunate man’s broken head then resumed his low, menacing growls.

  “How much?” Vadim demanded, but louder this time.

  “More than you can afford, outlaw.” The thin man dabbed his bloody nose upon his sleeve. “What your bitch did to me cannot be repaired.”

  Bitch? He would pay dearly for that insult.

  Despite the man’s words, Vadim thought he detected a flame of interest flicker in his eyes, and in those of his burly companion. Were they hooked? If so, how securely? It was a risk, but he had to try.

  Moving slowly, not wishing to goad the men into violence, Vadim put away his sword and reached for the purse dangling from his belt. “Perhaps this will make you a little more forgiving.” He tossed the heavy pouch through the air.

  It landed with a metallic jingle on the scrawny man’s outstretched hand. He hefted the contents up and down several times, testing their weight. “Stay where you are, friend,” he warned Vadim. “Let me consider the price of forgiveness.” He re-sheathed his blade and peered inside the purse. Would they take the bait? He attempted to read the man’s countenance as he bit down on one of the gold coins.

  Forge coughed several times. Full of remorse, Vadim forced his fingers to relax their grip on the animal’s collar. Poor creature. He had almost throttled him.

  The younger man peered over his friend’s shoulder. “What is it, Ralf? Silver?”

  “No, Jacob lad. Much better than that.” He flipped the coin into the air for his companion to catch. “I cannot deny,” he continued, regarding Vadim with a look of wonder, “your donation has already made me feel more charitable. Tell me. How came you by such a goodly sum?”

  “Release my woman, and I will tell you.”

  “C-can you lay your hands on more?” Avarice glinted in Ralf’s narrow eyes.

  Gold always proved the most reliable bait.

  Wordlessly, Vadim extended his hand toward Martha, beckoning for her with his fingers. She peeped over the bulk of Jacob’s arm, frowning. He could almost hear her questions. Thank Erde he need not answer her yet.

  The quiet corridor echoed with the continuous rumblings of the dog’s displeasure.

  “Well? Can you get more?” Ralf had swallowed the bait whole.

  “You have my terms.” Vadim kept his hand extended. “Give me my wife. Now!”

  “Bring more gold, friend, and we might consider it.”

  “Leaving her in your dubious care?” Vadim gave a grim smile. “I think not.”

  Jacob tightened his arm about Martha, making her gasp. “Fetch the gold,” he snarled, baring his bloody teeth, “or I will slit her throat here and now. Is that simple enough for you to grasp, Outlaw?”

  The very thought of it chilled the marrow in his bones.

  Vadim lowered his hand and rested it upon the handle of his sword. “By all means, reach for your knife.” He ignored Martha’s outraged squeak of protest and fixed the big man with a stare full of hate. “Let us see who is the quickest.”

  Martha groaned. “Oh, for fecksake! I’ll slit my own throat in a minute. Just hurry up and decide, would you? If you’re not about to kill me any time soon, I desperately need to use the privy.” She arched her eyebrows expressively at him, though her captors failed to see it.

  Vadim could not for the life of him fathom the meaning of the pointed looks she was directing at him.

  Ralf chuckled. “Your lady wife may have provided us with a solution to our little stand-off. What if she locked herself in the privy and we stood guard outside the door until you returned with the gold. How would that appeal to you, friend?”

  Friend! Vadim ground his teeth. If he heard that word again, he would—

  “Yes, yes. That’s fine.” Martha jigged from foot to foot in a most agitated manner. “Can we just go?” She sent Vadim another indecipherable look, glancing from his belt to the scrawny man and back again. “Now?”

  Curse his addled brain, of course the privy was a ruse! Martha was trying to provide him with an opportunity. An opportunity to act. All he required were a few seconds. One clear shot, and she would be free.

  Vadim placed his hand on his hip, pretending to consider the offer and, just as he knew it would, the material of his cloak slid over his arm, obscuring his hand from sight. Undetected by his enemies, he eased the knife from its sheath, gently stroking the handle with his fingertips until it slid free. Then he rotated the handle and hid the blade, concealing it behind his forearm, the cold metal leeching the heat from his skin.

  “Very well. It seems I have little choice,” he said. “Lead on.”

  Responding to Martha’s directions, the men reversed down the corridor, their eyes ever trained on Vadim and Forge.

  They were wise to watch them so closely. Forge still strained for freedom at his side, the light tic-tac sounds of the dog’s claws on the wooden floor matching the speed of Vadim’s racing heart.

  “Stop,” Martha said at last and pointed to a narrow door. “This is it.”

  Vadim loosened his grip on the knife. The task ahead required a relaxed and steady hand. His fingers tingled, aching to use the weapon, to let it fly, but he forced himself to wait. If he timed this badly, he would not get another chance.

  As if sensing his master’s tension, Forge fell silent. The quiet was even more oppressive than his constant grumblings. Vadim felt the dog’s neck muscles coiling beneath his fingers, quivering with his eagerness to attack.

  The soldiers exchanged a wary glance. Now that the moment had come, would they release her?

  “Oh, come on!” Martha cried, pulling at Jacob’s immobile arm in a futile attempt to escape. “I can’t hold it for much longer. I warn you, it’s about to get very messy out here.”

  How right she was.

  Vadim stared at the men as intently as they stared at him. Revolting as they were, he dared not look away from their ill-favored faces. Their mistrust rivaled his own.

  “And just so you know,” Martha continued, seemingly oblivious to the deathly undercurrents swirling about her. “I’m talking solids here.”

  Vadim’s lips twitched in amusement. How he had missed her—oftentimes unseemly—mode of discourse. This, however, was not the appropriate moment for levity. He took a firmer hold of the concealed blade, willing the men to release her.

  More interminable seconds passed. The sounds of combat drew closer as Rodmar’s army penetrated deep into the heart of the stricken castle. They would not be alone in the corridor for much longer.

  At length, Ralf stuffed Vadim’s purse into his tunic then took out his own blade. He nodded at his friend. “Do it, lad,” he said. “Set her loose.”

  Time seemed to slow, stretching into an everlasting moment of perfect clarity.

  Martha slipped from beneath Jacob’s arm and hurried for the privy. At the same instant, Vadim took a deep breath and drew his knife then hurled it through the air. A heartbeat later, he released Forge.

  Ralf barely had time to register surprise before the glittering knifepoint plunged deep into his right eye socket. His corpse crumpled to a heap on the ground.

  Forge skittered over the slippery floor and, with a blood-chilling snarl, launched himself at Jacob. The big man staggered beneath the impact, screaming like a woman as the great beast sank his teeth deep into his fleshy forearm. He punched desperately at the furious animal with his free hand, raining thudding blows against his ribcage, but For
ge clung on.

  “Enough, Forge!” Vadim strode toward them, sword in hand. “Leave him!”

  For once, the animal was obedient. He unclamped his great jaws from Jacob’s mangled arm and dropped to the ground. Licking at his bloody muzzle and looking immensely pleased with himself, he trotted over to where Martha stood by the window, his tail thrashing the air in greeting.

  Jacob sank to his knees, whimpering and clutching his injured arm to his side. His lower lip trembled as he looked up, meeting Vadim’s eyes with ill-concealed terror.

  Perhaps this miserable specimen of manhood could now empathize with all the fair victims he had violated now that terror was no longer a stranger to him? He was helpless and alone, subject to the will of a superior strength. Maybe Jacob finally understood.

  The knowledge might be of use to him in the next life—Vadim raised his sword for the kill—it had certainly come too late to aid him in this one.

  “Please… please, no!” Tears spilled from Jacob’s eyes. “Have mercy, lord, I beg thee.”

  “Mercy?” Vadim stilled his arm and looked down at his vanquished foe. His heart beat coldly in his chest. “Were you merciful to my wife? Did you show mercy to the other lady you would have ravaged this day had my woman not intervened?” He shook his head, disgusted. “What I do now is an act of mercy, though you do not merit any such consideration.”

  With those words, he let his sword fall.

  It whooshed through the air, descending in a glittering arc. One swift, bloody stroke, and Jacob’s head bade a farewell to his neck. It toppled from the fast-spurting stump and bounced along the wooden floor, leaving a gory script in its wake. As it hit the wall, the head came to rest, mouth open, dead eyes staring upward.

  Vadim heard Martha’s horrified cry, but he did not look at her. He could not face her yet. Not until his blood frenzy had cooled. The men had died too quickly to assuage the violence thrumming through his veins.

  He placed his boot against Jacob’s still-kneeling torso and pushed it to the ground, being careful to avoid the red fountain that pulsed ever more slowly from the decapitated stump.

  Mercy? He had been too merciful, and now he was suffering for it.

  Vadim went over to the corpse of the scrawny man and reclaimed his purse of gold. Then he removed his knife from the man’s ruptured eye socket, grimacing at the moist slurp as he pulled it free. He wiped the blade on his victim’s tunic to remove the worst of the gore, then used the man’s cloak to clean his sword.

  He took his time, breathing deeply as he worked, carefully removing every speck of blood from the weapon. Gradually, the savage voices in his head diminished. Only then did he turn to look at Martha.

  She was down on her knees, her arms wrapped about Forge’s shaggy neck. Vadim could not see her face, for it was pressed too closely into the dog’s fur. But this was not just a joyous reunion. The slight tremors of her shoulders told a different tale.

  He felt something break inside of him. He rubbed his chest as if by doing so he could massage away the sudden shard of pain.

  “Martha?” He went to her, closing the distance between them in a few quick strides. “What is this?” Vadim crouched at her side. Was she more wounded than he supposed? “Are you hurt?” Some inner sense warned him not to touch her.

  Martha slowly unfurled and raised her face from the comfort of Forge’s neck. Her glistening eyes regarded him with the wariness of a deer. “N-no. I’m fine.” But her husky voice denied her words. “T-thank you for… rescuing me.”

  Politeness?

  He felt a sudden chill within his heart as the painful shard moved deeper. Rage and a few well-aimed slaps he had expected, but this… Their lengthy parting had altered her a good deal, much more than he had feared. Her eyes—once so warm and unguarded—were as a stranger’s. Were things really so strained between them? But she was waiting, expecting a response.

  “For rescuing you from those—” Vadim cleared his throat. His smile felt tight. “I need no thanks for that.”

  What else would I have done? You are my wife, my heart, whether you choose to remember it or not.

  As much as he wanted to say them, the words would not be spoken aloud. The thick wall that separated them would first need dismantling. But how was he to set about the task of removing all the heavy bricks she had used in its construction?

  The sound of many feet pounded up the staircase towards them. He heard the jangle of armor, and the rumble of male voices; a ribald remark followed by a quick burst of laughter. Forge growled, and Vadim rose to his feet. “Come.” He held out his hand, willing Martha to take it. “It is not safe to linger.”

  Martha chewed her lip. After the briefest hesitation, she offered him her trembling hand. Vadim exhaled, inwardly rejoicing at a sign so small but freely given. He clasped her cold fingers and drew her to her feet. Her very touch kindled fire in his veins.

  He glanced about for a hiding place, for hide her he certainly must. By the narrowest margin, he had saved her from a terrible fate, but now the castle heaved with soldiers of both factions. Even usually mild-mannered men could act wildly with the fire of battle heating their blood.

  “We could hide in the privy,” Martha said softly.

  She must have read his thoughts. Vadim nodded and let her lead the way.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  With the door bolted, they stood in silence in the narrow confines of the reeking privy. Vadim pressed his ear to the door, attempting to ignore Forge’s wagging tail as it lashed against his legs.

  He heard the group of men pause outside their hiding place, their voices abruptly stilled. He could guess the reason for it. Even for battle-hardened men, a beheading was a thing of gruesome fascination.

  “Anyone know this one?” a gruff voice demanded. There came the sounds of shuffling feet and the metallic ring of weapons and armor.

  “Aye,” came another voice, “Yon weasly fellow is one of the hired swords. I do not recognize the headless man. An accomplice, no doubt.”

  As he listened to the soldiers talk, Vadim became acutely aware of Martha standing beside him. Although they did not touch, his body tingled at her nearness. He fancied he felt her life force caressing his skin, crossing the space between them.

  Mercifully, the men did not linger. After all, what were two more dead men in a castle full of corpses?

  Vadim exhaled his pent-up breath and turned to look at Martha. “All is well. They have gone.”

  She nodded but would not meet his eyes, her attention fixed on the dog. Vadim frowned as he watched Forge submit to her fussing. His puppy-like whines of ecstasy were most undignified.

  Surely he was not jealous of a dog?

  Although Martha’s change of manner troubled him, there were other alterations that vexed him a good deal more, changes he sensed but could not yet decipher. Something hidden. Unseen.

  Whatever it was would have to wait. Somehow, he must get her out of the castle.

  At that moment, Martha’s stomach gave a noisy grumble, so loudly that Forge jumped at the sound of it. She looked up with a shy smile and pressed her hand to her midriff as if she could muffle its loud complaints.

  “Have you not yet broken your fast?” Vadim reached into the deep pocket of his cloak.

  Her eyes flickered. “Not yet.” Although her lips curved into a faint smile, there was no amusement in it.

  No doubt she was reliving another grim memory he had yet to learn of. If only she would talk to him, he was prepared to listen, no matter how terrible the tale turned out to be.

  “Here.” He held out a small linen-wrapped bundle. “Try this.”

  “No, thanks.” Wrinkling her nose, Martha moved her hands behind her back. “I feel a bit sick, actually.”

  Little wonder.

  “All the more reason for you to eat something.” Vadim unwrapped the p
ackage and offered it to her. “’Tis only a bite of rock-wafer, see?” He twisted his mouth into what he hoped was an encouraging smile.

  With a sigh, Martha took the square biscuit and sniffed at it.

  “Use your back teeth to bite it,” he warned as she moved the biscuit to her mouth. This staple of campaign rations was aptly named. Some even named it tooth breaker. But bland and unappetizing as it was, the biscuit could be relied upon to move armies and keep men on their feet when all other supplies were gone.

  Martha took a cautious nibble, and her eyes lit up. “It’s really good,” she announced then proceeded to devour the remaining wafer with noisy crunches.

  Good? Not a word he would have used to describe a slab of rock. Truly, the castle’s provisions must have been awful if the taste of it filled her with such rapture.

  While she ate, Vadim pretended to examine his notched sword. But all the time, he studied her from beneath his eyelashes, taking in every inch of her disheveled appearance. What other trials had she suffered this day? The imagining of it sickened him. At least she had managed to secure the neckline of her gown. The ties were now pulled tight and securely knotted, concealing her flesh.

  She shivered, and Vadim cursed himself for not noticing her discomfort sooner. Without waiting for permission, he put down his sword and took off his cloak, throwing it about her shoulders. Flakes of drying earth flew from the mud-encrusted garment, ricocheting off the privy walls.

  “There’s no need.” She almost dropped her biscuit in her haste to protest. “I’m fine. Really.”

  “Take it.” As Vadim fastened the cloak about her neck, he noticed the bruising on her skin. He swallowed hard, battling another hot flare of rage. These marks had been made by fingers. Whose? “You are soaked to the skin.” He kept his voice light, suppressing his outrage. Displaying it, he suspected, would only make her retreat further from him. “Hardly surprising considering your earlier ordeal, out on the battlements.”

  “You heard about that?” She looked up at him then down at the filthy cloak he had wrapped her in. “Why are you so muddy, anyway? It’s in your hair and everywhere.”