Wolf Warrior 01 The Lost Wolf Warrior

by Rae Monet

  He hesitated at her cries. The knight in him so badly wanted to sever the chain and the hand that held it, to free her from her agony. But he recognized such actions would mark him for failure and right now an entire people's fate rested in his hands. The plight of these women could not be his responsibility.

  His fists clenched at the unfairness of the situation. He slowly inched a dagger from his boot, one that could not be linked to any single man. He laid his hand gently on the woman's shoulder.

  The woman flinched at his touch. Her eyes opened and she regarded him with such a tortured expression that his hand tightened on the dagger. He placed fingers to his lips, a signal she should remain silent. Glancing up he noted the Duke was still contently snoring away.

  He kneeled down, his body blocking his actions from the other seeing eyes. It appeared he was testing the woman for his liking. He eased his head down close to hers as though her were going to kiss her. Her eyes widened in fear and he could sense her fright. He subtly pulled her hand close to his boot as if he was drawing her close to his body and passed her the dagger. Surprised emotion showed in her eyes.

  "Hide this in your clothing, for later.” He spoke into her ear. He heard her soft cry of gratitude and relief and didn't care how she used the dagger. At least she'd been given a choice.

  She tucked the dagger into the tattered material of her dress, hiding it from view. Her hand reached up and stroked his cheek. “Thank you,” she said, as tears dropped down her cheek, touching his face, dampening it where they touched.

  He nodded. Hearing the Duke snort as if he were awakening, Roan rose promptly, as if he hadn't moved in the first place.

  With one final grunt the Duke woke. Seeing Roan, he straightened from his slouched position, his hand pulling out of his breeches. He raised that same hand to Roan in salute, offering his vile hand to him for a greeting.

  Good God, Roan thought, he dare not touch this man's hand.

  "Ah, the legendary Wolf, I am honored, Sir Knight."

  His voice sounded as if rocks tumbled in his mouth and the unpleasant stench of his breath made Roan want to retch.

  He ignored the man's outstretched hand, pretending he didn't see it. Instead, he clasped the Duke on the shoulder, pulling him directly out of his chair.

  Something else caught his eye. A crystal necklace swinging precariously from the wastrel's neck. It had to be Ziem's. The same crystal Serena and Richard had warned him about.

  "The pleasure is all mine, your Grace.” He bowed, careful not to take his eyes off the Duke. Roan watched him drop the heavy chain he had been holding as he moved away from the chair.

  "You are welcome in my keep, sir. Please pick any woman of your choosing and have her until you take your leave.” He laughed at one of his drunken mercenaries who held a screaming, terrified woman pressed flat on her back. The mercenary was ripping off her clothing, obviously enjoying raping her.

  "Randy bunch, my men. My servants will show you to a bed and serve you a meal. My apologies that I can't see to you directly but I have other matters to attend to."

  Roan clapped him on the shoulder again, and attempted to smile. “As I would expect, your Grace. I only seek a few days rest before I continue on the King's business. Please carry on with your activities; it is not my intent to divert you.” He tensed when the Duke placed his arm around his shoulder. Right then, he wanted nothing more than to run this despicable man through until there was no doubt he was dead.

  "I understand you have a prisoner here that might be of interest to the King. Do you mind if I complete my own interrogation of him?"

  The Duke laughed, and fell into a bout of coughing. Roan's stomach revolted as he watched saliva roll down the side of the Duke's mouth. The man made no attempt to wipe it away. He just stood there, grinning.

  "That peculiar man ... I'm not sure if he still lives. He's down in my dungeon with some crazy story and papers. Yet, I must say, my torture has not yet made him deviate from his story. I will send a troop of men to investigate his claim, no matter, and will make a full report to the King myself. No worries, my man.” He coughed some more, choking on his own juices.

  Roan stepped back from him, sickened, unable to stand this man's company anymore. His anger about the entire state of affairs was beginning to take control.

  "But you do what you must, sir. I'm not sure what good it will do you at this point."

  A well-armed man, clad in chain mail and obviously dangerous, appeared at Brier's side. His face was scarred, rending one eye disabled. The scar continued from his eye, falling down his face to his jaw. He had a deceitful, dark look about him. His remaining hooded eye scanned Roan from head to toe, his expression one of contempt. His lips formed a sneer.

  Roan sensed it was disdain this man was feeling for the honor Roan so visibly held. This man was a killer through and through and Roan felt an instant hatred toward him.

  "This is the Captain of my guards, Sir Galen. If you are in need of anything simply request it of him."

  Roan's gaze locked with the man's, a knight, and couldn't suppress his grunt of disbelief. He was sure this man lived by no code of honor, but rather a code of ill repute.

  He saw the dare from Galen the minute their eyes touched.

  Roan nodded, acknowledging Galen's challenge. “Another time,” he stated out loud. Roan's acceptance of Galen's silent, proposed challenge was acknowledged. The man nodded an affirmation, then the two ingrates strode off as if he wasn't even there.

  Roan was convinced the Duke was touched in the head.

  Needing to vent his fury on someone, he spied the mercenary raping the screeching female and kicked the man's naked butt, shoving him off of the whimpering woman. He stepped forward and planted his boot firmly on the man's dick and pushed. The man howled in pain. Then just for added measure, he pressed down harder and made eye contact with the woman. Moving his head in a jerking motion, he told her with his actions to free herself. She scrambled up and left in a dead run. He extracted his foot off of the mercenary's dick, and watched him curve his body into itself, howling. He cleared his throat and declared, “Pardon me, sir, I tripped."

  The man wailed, crying like a newborn infant.

  Turning around, Roan strode off, attempting to find a servant who wasn't in the midst of receiving a rape or beating. He was more resolved than ever that he needed to find Ziem, the scrolls, and get out of here. Now that he knew of the Duke's plan, they could easily stage an ambush for his troop and eliminate several of the man's randy mercenaries while they were at it.

  Chapter Eight

  Resting by the river, Serena stroked Caine. She was troubled, her equilibrium thrown off when Roan rode out of the clearing toward the castle. Her emotions had always been steadfast. It was upsetting that she could no longer be at peace without Roan by her side. Even more disturbing was her sense of a sudden, uncontrolled fury in him. Even apart, she was aware he was in great distress. She wished she were there to soothe him, to hold him in his anger and tell him all would be well. But she wasn't. All she could do was send comforting thoughts his way and trust they penetrated his rage.

  Richard dropped down beside her, running his hand down Caine's body. “What are you feeling?"

  "It is Roan. He has much anger and it disturbs me ... and him. I fear he will lose control, forget his purpose.” Her brother was the one person she had always been truly open with, and she confided in him now.

  "It is within you to prevent it. Quiet him."

  "I will try.” She crossed her legs and directed all her concentration into projecting herself. She sent a calm feeling, telling Roan she was near, touching him, connecting with his senses. She reminded him of her smell, her kiss and her smile. She made the projection more intimate, reminding him of their joining, and all those feelings. She hoped her actions would distract and calm him.

  * * * *

  Roan thanked the servant and pounded into his room, throwing the door shut. He drew his sword and began hackin
g at the furniture, yelling. He needed to dispel his rage. What he had just witnessed had been so vile, so evil, he wanted nothing more than to storm downstairs and run them all through. He wanted it so badly he could taste it, could see their blood against his sword. He cried out in frustration as he destroyed a chair.

  The exercise wasn't helping.

  He stalked toward the door.

  He needed to do it. He needed to help those women, to dispense his justice upon those men.

  Suddenly a feeling of calmness descended heavily upon him, a sensation so profound he stopped and sank to his knees. He lowered his sword as he inhaled. He could have sworn he smelled Serena's spicy heather scent, felt her lips upon his cheek, saw her smile as her lips caressed his chest.

  He sucked in his breath, attempting to calm his heart. She was with him, he knew it. He sensed her. The beast inside him eased. He dropped his head, thankful she had stopped him. He reached out his hand to touch her, but knew she wasn't with him physically. She was in his heart, in his mind, soothing him. He moaned in relief, and rising to his feet, smiled at the sense of well-being invading him. He sheathed his sword and projected his thanks to her.Thank you, little one.

  He had a duty to do and he needed to remain focused on his purpose. He leisurely stepped out of the room, glancing from side to side to ensure he wasn't seen. His destination—the dungeon.

  * * * *

  Gaining access to the deep, dark dungeon had been too easy. Roan's stride was slow, almost hesitant as he made his way to the far cell where Ziem had been taken. The pathway was lit by torches, flickering against the wall like jumping flames in the hearth. He raised a gloved hand to his nose to cover the rotting stench of dead bodies. He remembered the smell too well—it was a stench equaled only on the battlefield—after the killing was over and the sun had risen.

  The guard at the end of the passageway was hooded executioner style. Various unrecognizable weapons were strapped to his body and he held a curved sword in one hand, a battle-ax in the other. The guard was silent. He set down his curved weapon, and after pulling a set of jingling keys from his side, opened the cell door for Roan.

  The simplicity of his entry made him wary. The guard followed him into the cell, his footsteps treading directly behind Roan. Against the wall was a manacled man, his arms stretched far above his head, his legs dangling uselessly. Blood pooled at his feet. He had been beaten so badly his face was unrecognizable. He didn't move when Roan approached him. He wondered if Ziem was already dead. He tried to make a connection with his mind.

  Ziem, tell me what you know.

  Ziem groaned, didn't move, too weak to talk. He did, however, make a link with Roan's mind.

  This man is evil!

  Even the words in his head were feeble, scattered as the man attempted to stay conscious. He briefly wondered how Ziem, of all people, could make that statement. From Serena's description, Ziem was just as depraved as the Duke. Maybe he had developed a warped sense of conscience from taking beating after beating. Perhaps he began to understand how his people had felt during the battle against the English.

  He will kill us all when he learns of our abilities. I just wanted to reclaim what was ours ... he took the scrolls ... the crystal.

  The words in his mind stopped. Ziem attempted to swallow but did not succeed. Blood tricked down the corner of his mouth.

  I am dying ... leave me ... you must stop him.

  His words stopped. Roan thought he was gone.

  Tell Serena sorry, was jealous ... saw your connection with her ... could have killed her with the crystal ... powerful ... enraged ... she was mine.

  He tried to soothe Ziem, to assure him Serena was well.

  Roan caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. Before he could turn, an object struck him on the back of the skull and he fell, the ground reaching up to catch him in its blackness.

  He shouted for Serena, then felt nothing.

  * * * *

  Serena sensed Roan's unease. She was finished with waiting. Donning her leather armor and all of her weapons, she was strapping on her swords when she experienced it, a familiar cry for help. Roan's warrior distress call. She cried out, and clutching the sword in her hand, caught her breath. She heard no more.

  Determined, she swung on her cloak and turning toward Richard, announced, “It is time. I must go in.” He nodded. When it came to battles, he never questioned her wisdom.

  Dropping onto her knees, she plaited her hair and threw the braid behind her back with a false calm she didn't feel and a sense of urgency she did. She could sense worry from Richard. “Swiftly. I need the paint."

  Before a battle which could end in death, Solarian Wolf Warriors painted their arms and faces to honor the impending battle, a ritual for good fortune.

  Richard cringed at the significance of her request. He extracted a small, carved wooden jar from the provisions attached to her saddle and lowered to his knees in front of her.

  Serena closed her eyes as he applied the red paint to her face in accordance with tradition. She tried to stay calm, anxious to be off, but this ritual was essential, and the small ceremony would assist her in keeping focused. It could turn the tide of battle in her favor.

  The paint was made from the clay of the Realm mixed with various berry dyes. Richard's fingers glided straight across her forehead. He paused, then drew a line from her forehead down past each eye, stopping midway at her cheek. His fingers moved to her cheek and drew one straight line along her cheekbone toward her ear. He repeated the process, thickening and doubling the line.

  The result was frightening. Painted for war as she was, she knew it was hard to recognize the woman in her and much easier to see the warrior.

  Richard set down the paint and raised his hands above his head. She raised her arms and her hands clasped his, palm to palm. Leaning forward, their foreheads touched, eyes closed, their hands tightened as they prayed for good fortune in battle. Their arms formed a circle, and simultaneously lowered, the Gaelic vow was whispered, “A'Don ar Cuideachd-ne. We protect our own."

  She released his hands, jumped up, and prepared to leave.

  "You will remain. I sense Roan will be in need of your skills. I will take Caine. I have a plan to gain entry into the castle. I'll need a cart."

  "I noticed several in town. They appeared unused, likely from a merchant's death or illness. I don't believe anyone will have a care if you borrow one."

  Richard unstrapped his healing bag from his horse.

  "I will prepare.” Dropping his bag, he moved back toward her and said, “Take care. I sense much evil in the castle."

  Richard watched her mount. She knew he was afraid for her and Roan with the type of fear that rendered a person speechless and made them want to empty the contents of their stomach.

  "I will. Be ready."

  In a cloaked flurry, she rode off.

  She retrieved one of the abandoned carts from town, and after lining it with several stolen blankets, instructed Caine to jump up and play dead. Wolves’ carcasses were often given as gifts to castle lords in bartering for lodging or other items. Peasants exchanged their skins for rewards, money offered by the King. She had a plan—she would enter the castle with no problems.

  "Caine, you must stay very still.” Caine raised his head, and understanding her, barked at her command.

  "Good."

  As they neared the castle grounds, she pulled her cloak around her, settling the hood over her head to cover her face. She hunched over and stumbled, dragging her leg behind her as if she were an old feeble man. She started her trek to the castle gates.

  "Halt! State your business!” The guard's shout came from above her. She bent forward, deepening her voice, and hissed back, “I bring the carcass of a recently slain wolf to honor his Grace.” She faked a wheezing cough in an attempt to act her feeble age.

  "Enter.” The gates creaked open. She towed her leg behind her as she pushed the cart ahead of her. She moved very slowly, cree
ping along, as an elderly, crippled man would. The guard inside the gate flipped up the blanket covering Caine. She could almost believe Caine was dead herself. His tongue lolled to the side, his eyes stared straight ahead, sightless. The guard grunted, then threw the blanket back. “Well done, peasant. Take him to his Grace, directly."

  "Aye, sir.” She let out several hacking coughs, spitting while she did. The man made a rapid move away, back to his post. Hoping she would go unnoticed, she pushed the cart around back of the castle to the servant's entrance. Throwing the blanket aside, she communicated to Caine—he had done well. Instructing him to go limp, she heaved him over her shoulder. She appeared to be an unpretentious, aging peasant toting a dead wolf. Losing her limp, she advanced through the kitchen. No one paid her any mind.

  Bumping into a servant, she croaked out, “Dungeon?"

  The haggled, bruised servant pointed.

  Serena followed the servant's directions. She continued to slouch over but her step was now quick with urgency.

  * * * *

  Roan, bit by bit, awoke into consciousness. As he raised his pounding head, he groaned in pain. He recognized several things at once, his pain was more than in his head, he saw the pool of his own blood on the ground, and his chest was bare, his tunic gone. Several cuts littered his torso including a particularly painful one on his neck. This, he thought, is what must have caused the blood bath on the floor below him.

  His hands and feet were manacled to the wall next to Ziem, his weapons were gone, and his feet hung not touching the floor. He jerked his arms, and the chains rattled. More blood leaked out of the deep wounds. It appeared they intended to let him bleed to death. Well, he thought briefly, what a bittersweet ending. So much for being undefeated. He had had more threats of death in the last few weeks than in his entire fighting career.