Warlords, Witches and Wolves: A Fantasy Realms Anthology

by Michelle Diener

  "I'll need to get back to my training when it's light enough to see, but my father says the best warriors are ones who are well-fed. So, would you like to break your fast with me, Snow?"

  The bear inclined his head, and for the first time in her life, Rossa found herself sharing a meal with a bear. The first of many, as it would turn out.

  Chapter 24

  Boris began to look forward to Rose's visits, and not just because she brought him food. She wore boys' clothes because she came into the forest to train to fight and hunt, both of which she was particularly skilled at. She reminded him a little of the Bisseni raiders who could appear out of nowhere, attack, then melt into the mountains as if they'd never existed, except she left little trace of her presence.

  More than once, he'd caught himself comparing her to Vica.

  If Vica had been able to fight, and defend herself like Rose did, she might still be alive.

  No, if he'd been a better protector and husband, Vica would never have needed to fight, and she'd still be alive, he corrected himself.

  Vica would not have been able to wear a boy's tunic and hose, especially not after Lida was born. The tunic would have been too tight across her breasts, and the hose were too narrow for her generous hips.

  Which was why comparisons between the two women were silly. Vica had been a wife and mother, while Rose was only a girl, unmarried without the responsibilities of running a household, even if she was the same age as Vica had been when she died.

  And Rose was…unique, he decided, leaning back to watch her.

  Now the snow lay thick on the ground, she'd put it to use, crafting little snowmen that she brought to life with magic. She'd made them dance like children's puppets at first, making him laugh, until she'd turned serious. Now the little figures darted around the clearing like angry demons while she hunted them. First with magic, then with real blades, thrown with such deadly accuracy that if they had been demons, they'd have been slaughtered for sure. Because they were her magical pets, though, the dismembered snowmen barely paused before the pieces got up and rejoined the hunt as smaller, more numerous targets.

  She whirled and spun, leaped and shot, never missing, with an intensity of focus Boris had only seen in his best warriors. He began to wonder if he'd be any match for her in close combat. She was so fast…

  Finally, Rose stopped to catch her breath, shooting a beaming smile that stabbed straight to his heart. God, she was beautiful.

  "I need to spar with someone. Were you any good in the practice yard, Snow? We'll pick a spot where there's plenty of snow to cushion your fall, and I'll try not to hurt you." Rose sheathed her daggers, then beckoned. "Come on, fight me."

  Boris looked her up and down – he was more than twice her size! One swipe of his paw and he'd send her flying.

  She seemed to be able to read his mind. "I'm not stupid, Snow. Any man I fight is likely to be bigger than me. Confident in his size and strength. It doesn't matter. I need to be able to beat him."

  Reluctantly, he lurched to his feet and took up a fighting stance. His hands itched to hold a sword again, but he knew his claws were deadly enough. Worse, he could not retract them, so each of his fingers was tipped with a wickedly curved dagger that could slice her open.

  "Ready?" she asked.

  He couldn't hit a woman. Not even this girl, with both her hands up and curled into fists, like she wanted to punch him.

  Nevertheless, he nodded.

  Her hands never moved, but somehow, her body twisted, and a blow to his gut knocked all the air out of his lungs. A second blow sent him face-first into a snowdrift.

  "Snow? Are you all right?"

  The gentle caress of her magic lifted him back onto his feet.

  "Did I hurt you? Have you never fought before?" she asked, her eyes wide with concern.

  Boris shook his head. The only part of him that she'd hurt was his pride, and heaven knew he had pride to spare. Cautiously, he mirrored her fighting stance, then inclined his head to tell her he was ready.

  A moment later, when he came up, spitting out a fresh mouthful of snow, he knew he had not been ready at all.

  A lifetime of war might not be enough to defend against the whirlwind that was Rose.

  And yet…if the only good thing that came out of all this was that he helped one woman to fight, to not fall victim as Vica had, then Boris would know that his life had not been wasted. That Vica had not died in vain, and might even be smiling on him now.

  Well, hopefully not now, with him arse-up in the snow and all.

  He clambered to his feet, once more taking his stance.

  This time, he would…

  Wham.

  …not drown in the icy pond.

  Boris came up, gasping, then clawed his way over the bank and out of the water.

  Rose looked worried. "I think that's enough fighting for today. I brought a jar of mulled wine and left it by the fire. It should be warm by now, and I think you need a hot drink in you after that dunking. Whoever you were before you became a bear, Snow, I don't think you were a warrior."

  He wished he could argue, but her arm around his middle as she tried to help him inside sent a warm tingle through him that went straight to his heart.

  And…maybe other parts, too.

  Yes, a cup or two of mulled wine would likely send him straight to sleep, where he might dream of her, and what they might do, what he might tell her, if he was a man and not this clumsy beast. A dream that would make even a bear blush.

  Chapter 25

  A particularly fat flock of pigeons had been found in the barn, gorging on the wheat waiting to be milled into flour. One of the miller's boys chased them off, while his brothers boarded up the barn so that they could not get in again, but not before Rossa had seen the fat birds in flight.

  Pigeons roasted nicely over a fire, especially fat ones. She'd seen thieves hanged for stealing a bag of precious wheat, where most people could only afford chestnut flour for their bread. So a death sentence for the pigeons seemed fitting.

  She set out into the forest to hunt them, hoping to find their roost, if not the pigeons themselves. If she could catch a couple, though, she might share them with Snow, for surely the bear hadn't eaten a fresh roasted pigeon in quite some time.

  With a little help from her magic, she soon found where they'd flow off to, for the stupid birds had perched all together. Perhaps they were too fat to fly far.

  Rossa strung her bow, nocked an arrow to the string, then selected her target – a particularly plump bird perched on a branch lower than the others.

  She drew the arrow back, sighted along it, blew out a breath and…

  The whole flock whirred into flight.

  Cursing, Rossa fired at the nearest bird. It might not be the choicest, but she was damned if she was leaving here empty handed.

  A squawk told her she'd hit her target, before it whumped heavily to earth.

  Yet when the cloud of feathers cleared, she was surprised to see she'd hit a boy, not a bird at all. He must have climbed the tree to try and catch a bird, and he'd fallen out when she shot him. The arrow stuck out of his side, where it might have missed most of his important organs, but he'd bleed plenty if she tried to pull it out.

  She'd need to find some yarrow to staunch the bleeding first, then.

  Luckily, he'd knocked himself out in his fall from the tree, so he was likely going to lie there while she found what she needed.

  Thanking Swanhild for teaching her this particular spell, she searched the forest for the nearest patch of yarrow. It wasn't far off, but it did involve some scrambling over rocks to reach it. Plucking handfuls of the feathery leaves that she then stuffed into a pocket in her cloak, she headed back to the injured boy.

  The innocent she'd shot.

  If her father knew…

  Grimly, she pressed her lips together and knelt beside the unconscious boy. His tunic was so thin and threadbare, it was a wonder he hadn't frozen to death out here.
Even his cloak had more holes than cloth. Whoever he was, he could not have come from the village – Mother and the monastery would never have allowed one of their neighbours to live in such poverty. Perhaps he was a pilgrim, who'd gotten lost on the way to the monastery.

  Whatever or whoever he was, she'd take him there once she'd finished healing him.

  She lifted the hem of his tunic, pulling it up carefully so as not to disturb the arrow. He was painfully thin, this strange boy, his ribs sharply outlined beneath his skin. Definitely not from the village, where no one would be allowed to starve.

  She took a deep breath when she reached the arrowhead, then peeled the cloth away from his skin with the utmost care. To her surprise, the arrow came away with the cloth, revealing no wound beneath.

  She yanked the arrow out of his tunic, finding it had gone straight through both the front and back of the fabric. How it had missed him, she did not know. It should have grazed him, at the least, but there was no sign of blood or a wound on his body, and the dark brown of his tunic hid any bloodstains that might have been absorbed by the cloth.

  Rossa sat back on her heels, not sure what to do. She should carry the unconscious boy back to town, where he might get a good meal and some clothes he wouldn't freeze to death in.

  The boy chose that moment to wake up, his eyes growing wide as he scrambled backwards, away from her.

  "You shot me!" he accused.

  "I was shooting at the pigeons," Rossa hedged. "I must have missed and hit your tunic instead."

  The boy looked down, and his eyes grew wider still. He stuck two fingers through the hole in his tunic and made an obscene gesture through it. "You tore a hole right through it! My last good shirt! You…stupid peasant! Can't even tell the difference between a pigeon and a person!"

  Rossa almost laughed. If anyone was a peasant, it was this boy, in his rough rags. "Come back to the village with me, and I'll see that you get a new shirt," she offered. It was the least she could do.

  He reared back in horror, his face curling with disdain that would not have looked out of place on Bruno's face. "Certainly not! I'm not going anywhere with a peasant girl who shoots people!"

  He stood up, dusted himself off, and marched away into the forest. In the opposite direction to the village.

  Rossa just shook her head. She could use magic to bring the boy back with her, but why bother with such a rude wretch? If he didn't want her help, he could go off and freeze in the forest, if that's what he wished.

  Meanwhile, she'd have to go back to the castle to fetch some food to take to Snow, instead of the fresh pigeon she'd hoped to catch. Or go deeper into the forest in her pursuit of those thieving pigeons.

  Sighing, Rossa set off.

  Chapter 26

  The first day Rose didn't visit him, Boris wasn't worried. Something at the castle must have kept her, he told himself. While she might not be the lady of these lands – that title belonged to her mother, he'd come to understand – she would still have some responsibilities, even if she ran away from them and into the forest most days.

  She would come to visit him when she could.

  But then he almost ran into Igor on one of the game trails, managing to hide just in time. Yes, it was definitely his traitorous squire and not Rose in boys' garb. Boris did his best to avoid the boy, and not lead him to the cave where he kept the sack of jewels, but everywhere he went, the boy seemed to appear.

  Why wouldn't the former squire leave him alone?

  Fuming, Boris set a trap for the boy – a pit trap, like the one Rose had fallen into. He baited it with a particularly ugly jewel fashioned out of gold so blackened with age it no longer glittered like it was supposed to. Igor coveted this particular piece as much as any of the prettier ones, but it would not draw the eye of anyone else.

  It didn't even draw Igor's eye for several days, during which Rose was conspicuously absent. Had Igor somehow driven her away?

  Perhaps the boy had attacked her, and fear had kept her at home.

  No. Rose the Red, powerful witch that she was, feared nothing and no one. If she didn't fear him, she definitely wouldn't be frightened by a boy smaller than she was.

  Unless he'd somehow surprised her, and she was hurt…

  Boris's heart constricted in his chest at the thought of her lying unconscious and wounded, as she had by his fire that first day they'd met.

  If Igor had hurt her, he'd kill the boy.

  A shout, followed by the thump of something falling, told him his trap had finally ensnared the boy.

  The trap would hold him while Boris went up to the castle to see if Rose was all right.

  He had only to see her, to know she was safe, and he could return.

  If she was injured…

  Then the boy would be right here, stuck in the trap, to answer for his crimes.

  Boris nodded, then headed up to the village.

  Chapter 27

  Rossa was in the practice yard, taking aim at the archery target, when the screams started. She was supposed to be in the kitchen, helping Sal prepare tomorrow's Yule feast, when the whole town would come to the great hall to celebrate Christmas, but after she'd managed to tip a whole pot of honey on the flagstones instead of on the roast boar, and set one of the puddings on fire…Sal had shooed her out, saying she had hands enough to help her with the feast preparations. Sal said she'd call her if she needed her, so not to go far.

  Rossa had sighed, knowing there would be no such call. She'd promised Mother she'd stay until the end of the feast, for it was rare enough that they came to the castle, and her people needed to see her. To know she shared their celebration and their sorrows, as well as the bounty of her table.

  Rossa hoped Sal didn't tell Mother she'd almost set the table on fire, too.

  But that meant she was stuck in the castle grounds, unable to head into the forest to spend the day with Snow, or even continue her hunt for those pilfering pigeons.

  Those bloody pigeons…

  It was almost as bad as being stuck in a scarlet wool gown that swished everywhere she went. So much for being a silent hunter on swift feet.

  But she could still shoot, and while her skirts might impede her movement, they were no obstacle to her magic, so when she heard screams coming from the bailey, she brought her bow and arrows with her.

  So that she might aim them at…

  She blinked.

  Maids ran screaming, for with no guards at the gate, now the mountain passes were closed and no one could enter or leave the town from outside, he'd wandered straight in, with no one to stop him.

  "Shoot it!" one of the maids shrieked as she ran past Rossa into the castle proper.

  But Rossa could not even bring herself to lift her bow.

  "Snow?" she asked uncertainly. Surely there could not be more than one monstrous white bear in the mountains, but with the maids screaming so… "What are you doing here?"

  The bear turned – for he stood on his hind legs, taller than any man – and stared at her. Then he lifted one enormous paw and pointed at her.

  "It's Christmas, Snow. I can't go into the woods today. I'm needed here," she said, knowing even as the words left her lips that they were a lie. She wasn't needed, here or anywhere. For all that this was her family's castle, she had no place here. In the forest, it was different, but here…

  Snow inclined his head, as if he understood. Then he bowed deeply, making her wonder if he truly had been a knight before he'd been transformed, and turned to go.

  Her heart twisted within her, somehow wringing what moisture there was in her mouth until it was almost too dry to speak. Yet she could not bear to see him go, not when he'd come here to see her. It was Yule, and he was here, and the one person she wanted to see most of anyone. "Come inside, Snow. I haven't had my midday meal yet. I'm sure there's food enough in the kitchens for us to share."

  She crossed the bailey, then threw open the doors to the great hall. Gritting her teeth, she took the folds of her skirt
in both hands and performed her best curtsy, the sort her Father insisted she know in case she ever had to go to court and meet royalty.

  Snow inclined his head, the way she imagined a king might, and went inside.

  Chapter 28

  The hall was set up for a feast, with all the tables and benches set out in readiness for guests who were not yet here.

  Rose seemed to be able to read his thoughts, for she said, "We are hosting a Christmas feast tomorrow. The whole village is invited, including the monks. It is Mother's gift to her people. It's empty now because everyone is in the kitchens. Well, except me, because…I can't cook." She tucked her hands into the folds of her voluminous skirts and stared at the floor, as if ashamed to admit she had shortcomings.

  He wished he could tell her that it didn't matter whether a lady could cook, for it was her husband's job to provide servants for her, if that's what she wanted.

  She took off her cloak, hanging it on a peg beside the massive fireplace. And then she turned around.

  Boris couldn't take his eyes off her. All these weeks, he'd seen her in her hunting clothes, bundled up against the winter cold in shapeless tunics that hid everything, but the gown she wore today…made it hard to draw breath.

  It was modest enough, leaving nothing but her face and hands bare as the skirt swept dangerously close to the floor, but the cloth clung to her as ardently as a lover. Caressing her breasts, curving around her hips, all the while highlighting her delicate blush under his scrutiny, her lips ruddy from being bitten…she was Rose the Red incarnate today, both as delicate and as brazen as a rose in full bloom.

  If only he were a man and not a bear…

  Rose cleared her throat. "I'll just head down to the kitchen for some food. You should…probably stay here, out of sight, so you don't scare anyone else. Maybe…warm yourself by the fire?"

  At home, any fireplace this large would have hunting dogs lolling about in front of it. Yet here, he had the space to himself. One reason to prefer being a bear to a man was that he might stretch out before the hearth, without worrying about dignity, or whether he'd get soot on his clothes.