Mist-Torn Witches 02:Witches in Red

by Barb Hendee

  “Marcus!”

  No one answered.

  Céline ran after Mariah and soon rounded the back of the outer Móndyalítko wagon, reaching the west-side perimeter. The first thing she saw were two dead soldiers on the ground, bleeding from their throats. A spear and a loaded crossbow lay beside them. Any other soldiers who’d been here appeared to have run. She didn’t see Mariah.

  Only two living creatures now occupied her line of sight in the darkness.

  The farthest away was the same massive wolf that had attacked her and Amelie in their tent. Its red eyes glowed, and its jowls were pulled back, exposing its fangs.

  A few paces closer to her, Graham was kneeling, facing the beast and holding one hand out in the air.

  “Saunders. It’s me.”

  The wolf snarled and charged. Céline wanted to shout, to wave her arms, to do something, anything, to distract it, but the sound caught in her throat, and she couldn’t seem to move.

  In a blur, Mariah came running from the shadows behind the wagon, past Céline, and she swung with the butt of her spear, catching the wolf directly across the face. The blow barely seemed to stun it, but it faltered somewhat in its charge at Graham, and it only clipped him, knocking him off his feet.

  As the beast struggled to halt and turn, a slender black wolf dashed in, smashing against its side and rolling it onto the ground. Two breaths later, Rurik came running up, carrying his drawn sword.

  Mariah ran to Graham, kneeling beside him, weeping openly. “It’s not him anymore,” she cried. “He’s not in there.”

  Then the roar of both wolves drowned out anything else she might have said, and Rurik stood watching the battle of teeth and claws in confusion.

  “Help the black one,” Céline called to him. “It’s Marcus!”

  * * *

  Amelie had watched Jaromir run in, and she’d crawled along behind him without being seen, hoping to use her best and main strength—the element of surprise—against Quinn.

  She could hear both men speaking, and then she heard a sword sliding from a scabbard.

  “What did you do with her?” Jaromir asked, his voice full of anguish.

  Amelie moved from behind a tall stack of crates and peered over the top of a barrel to see.

  Before the sound of the words had died, Quinn swung with the butt of his spear and caught Jaromir across the face. Amelie wanted to scream. Jaromir would have expected a straight-on attack, for Quinn to come at him with the point of the spear.

  With a cracking sound, Jaromir went down. His eyes were closed.

  Quinn flipped the spear upward, gripping its haft up nearer the point, and then he raised it to drive it downward through Jaromir’s chest.

  Amelie had no weapon but a dagger, and she was well aware that she was no match for Quinn. So she did the only thing possible. She shoved the tall stack of crates beside her, and they fell forward on top of both Jaromir and Quinn with a cascade of crashing sounds.

  Darting forward, she ran over the tops of the fallen crates, hoping to reach Quinn and drive her dagger through his throat while he was still dazed. Reaching him in seconds as he lay on the ground, she struck downward with her blade.

  But his hand snaked up and caught her wrist. The next thing she knew, he’d jerked her down and was up on top of her, pinning her arms with his knees. This time, he didn’t grab her jaw. Instead, his hand closed around her throat. Looking up, she could see anger in the back of his cold blue eyes. He wasn’t going to snap her neck. He wanted this to hurt.

  His hand closed slowly, and she fought to take in air. The pain wasn’t terrible at first, but then it grew unbearable. He went on closing his hand, and the world began growing black.

  * * *

  Céline heard Marcus yelp as the larger wolf snapped its teeth on his shoulder.

  Rurik dropped his sword and grabbed a fallen spear, moving closer to the fight and looking for an opening where he wouldn’t hit Marcus.

  But his action of grabbing the weapon caused Céline to cast about as well, and her eyes fell upon the loaded crossbow lying just outside a dead soldier’s hand. The beast must have killed him before he had a chance to fire. Scrambling forward, Céline snatched it up and aimed it at the mass of claws and teeth and fur rolling on the ground. She didn’t take her eyes off them, and when the larger wolf suddenly rolled on top, she fired, catching it behind one ear. The creature roared and veered away from Marcus, shaking its head savagely.

  As soon as it was off Marcus, Rurik darted in and used both hands to drive the spear downward through its throat, pinning it to the ground in a rush of blood. Rurik stomped down on its front shoulder with his boot and fought to hold the spear in place as the creature bled out and out . . . and finally stopped moving.

  Marcus—the black wolf—tried struggling to his feet and then fell. By the time Céline reached him, he was in human form again, naked, panting, and bleeding. He didn’t speak as she pulled her cloak off and covered him, trying to check his wounds at the same time. The front of his left shoulder had a deep gouge.

  Rurik took his boot off the massive dead wolf, walked over, and looked down at Marcus as if uncertain of what he was seeing. Céline turned her head up and met Rurik’s eyes. He was a teller of secrets. That much was known, but perhaps only where Anton’s success was concerned.

  “He saved us,” she said flatly. “You’ll keep his secret?”

  After a moment, Rurik nodded. Then, as if unsure what to say, he went over to check on Graham and Mariah.

  Céline turned back to Marcus. “I need to make sure Amelie is safe. Then I’ll get my box and tend to these wounds. This shoulder might need stitching.”

  He hadn’t seemed to hear her, and he was studying her face.

  “What you said before . . . about knowing who was responsible, about being able to stop all this, that means you’re leaving soon, doesn’t it?”

  The question threw her, and she wasn’t sure what he was trying to ask. “Yes. I have a shop, a life back home.”

  If anything, his gaze grew more intense. “You mean you have someone back home?”

  She flinched. Could he see how she was haunted by the trailing wisps of her unexplainable connection to Anton? Looking away, she couldn’t answer his question. There was no answer.

  * * *

  Amelie was in agony, and her world was going black.

  Then, suddenly, the pressure on her throat was gone and she was sucking in air. Nothing made sense for a moment, but she could hear grunting and crashing sounds, and she tried to struggle up, squinting to see what was happening.

  Jaromir and Quinn, both barehanded, were swinging at each other. Where was Jaromir’s sword?

  Had he seen her being strangled and just rushed in without thinking in order to pull Quinn off?

  Quinn struck Jaromir full force in the jaw, snapping his head back, but Jaromir came around and smashed his own fist into the side of Quinn’s face. Then, somehow, as Quinn stumbled, he managed to duck up behind Jaromir and make a grab for his head.

  In panic, Amelie pushed herself up. She knew what Quinn was doing: trying to get a firm enough hold to break Jaromir’s neck. But Jaromir’s hand flashed downward toward something on top of a crate, and the next thing Amelie knew, he had slipped around behind Quinn, and Amelie saw what he’d grabbed: a thick piece of twine torn loose from a fallen crate.

  In an instant, he had the twine over Quinn’s head, and he jerked it taut, using both hands now to cross-pull it closed around Quinn’s throat. Quinn bucked wildly, trying to throw him off, but Jaromir held on, pulling tighter, shutting off Quinn’s breath.

  From where she was half-crouched, Amelie saw fear dawning on Quinn’s face. His mouth opened, and part of his tongue protruded, but she didn’t look away. She watched as both the fear and the life faded from his eyes.

  Jaromir kept twisti
ng and pulling the twine for several moments after Amelie thought Quinn was already dead.

  Then he dropped the body and looked over at her.

  “Amelie,” he breathed.

  * * *

  Jaromir stared at Amelie, who was half-crouched among the fallen crates. He could see angry welts on her throat . . . but she was alive and looking back at him.

  He ran her to her, pulling her up against his chest. “Let me see your neck. Can you breathe?”

  She didn’t struggle in his arms; she just let him hold her.

  “It was him,” she blurted out. “He’s the one who’s been turning all the soldiers.”

  “I know. Do you know how?”

  “An elixir . . . a black substance he puts on their skin. He keeps it in a metal flask.”

  He held her a moment longer to make sure her breathing was normal, and then he leaned her back against a crate.

  “A metal flask? I’m going to check his body.”

  Moving back through the fallen crates, Jaromir didn’t see where Quinn might be hiding a flask. He wasn’t wearing his cloak, and the pockets of his breeches seemed too snug. But Jaromir searched the body anyway.

  “Anything?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know which tent is his?”

  Jaromir did. He retrieved his sword and slid it back into its sheath. When he turned to help Amelie up, he found she was already standing.

  “Your face is a mess,” she said.

  He touched his jaw, which had taken several blows—one of which had come from the butt of a spear. “It’ll heal.”

  They left the provisions tent and walked through the empty camp.

  “Is Céline all right?” Amelie asked.

  “She was when I came after you. Rurik is with her, and all the soldiers. We’ll get back to her as soon as we can.”

  Upon entering the tent he knew to be Quinn’s private quarters, he looked around at the sparse furniture, but Amelie walked right to the bed and picked up the cloak lying there.

  “He kept it in his pocket.” She carefully pulled out a pair of leather gloves, but her expression turned anxious as she continued feeling the fabric of the cloak. “It’s not in here. We have to find it, Jaromir. Just a few drops on the skin will turn a man.”

  A small travel chest sat near the end of the bed. Jaromir walked over and saw a padlock. Drawing his sword, he used the hilt to break the lock and opened the chest.

  Amelie stood behind him.

  “Oh . . . there.” She pointed down.

  Seeing the edge of a stopper, he moved an extra shirt and saw a small metal flask.

  “Don’t touch it,” Amelie warned. “There could be some of the liquid on the outside.” Leaning over, she used the shirt to wrap the flask without touching it.

  “What do we do with it?” he asked, knowing they couldn’t just pour it out if there was a danger of anyone or anything touching it.

  “We’ll take it to Céline. She’ll know how to dispose of it properly.”

  A realization hit him. “This is over. Once we hunt down the last beast, this is finished. You’ve done it.”

  They had succeeded, and Anton would be able to report to his father that the issue was resolved and the silver would soon be flowing again. Jaromir felt an emotion he couldn’t explain, something beyond gratitude.

  “Amelie, you were right back at the castle. You deserve . . . something for what you’ve done here. If there is there is anything I can do, anything I can give you, tell me.”

  At first she was quiet, and then she said, “There is.”

  Within a few sentences, she explained to him what she wanted. As he listened, he didn’t completely understand why she would ask for such a thing, but it made him love her more.

  “Will you arrange it?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The next day, Jaromir walked through the soldiers’ encampment toward Keegan’s tent. He was still having some difficulty believing that Rurik, Marcus, and Céline had managed to take down the last wolf by themselves, but . . . the beast was dead, and Quinn was dead, and Jaromir still had a number of loose ends to tie up.

  That morning, he’d sent out two messengers on horseback.

  First, he’d sent Rurik back to Castle Sèone with a letter to Anton—along with some strict stipulations. Jaromir had not yet decided what to do about Rurik in the long run, but he was convinced that the young guardsman was no traitor and had thought himself to be working in the best interests of Anton. Of course, Rurik could never be allowed to function as a messenger between Anton and Prince Lieven again, but in their current situation, Jaromir didn’t have anyone else to send home, so he’d sent Rurik. First, though, he’d made the guardsman promise to deliver the letter to Anton and then stay put. He was not to leave Castle Sèone or take a message to Prince Lieven for any reason. Jaromir had made it blindingly clear that Rurik’s future in Sèone depended on him following this order. Rurik had agreed and thanked him.

  Second, Jaromir had commissioned a Pählen soldier to carry a letter to Prince Lieven.

  And now . . . Jaromir arrived at the tent of Captain Keegan, and he paused at the doorway. A part of him was looking forward to the conversation about to take place, and a part of him was dreading it.

  Walking in, he made his way toward the back.

  “Captain?” he called before stepping around the last tapestry.

  “Here.”

  Continuing on, Jaromir found Keegan alone and sitting up in bed. He’d been carried back and settled the night before, and now he seemed able to eat and drink on his own, though he was still weak, and according to Céline, he would be for some time.

  But his expression was a mix of caution and anxiety, and Jaromir wondered how much he’d been told.

  “So it was Quinn,” Keegan said flatly.

  Well, he’d been told that much.

  “Yes, and he was working in the employ of Prince Damek.”

  As those words sank in, Keegan’s left hand began to shake.

  Jaromir pulled a chair over beside the bed and sat down. “I sent a letter to Prince Lieven this morning.”

  “You?” The anxiety on Keegan’s face grew more pronounced.

  “You’re not in any state to take command here. I’ve volunteered to remain here until your replacement arrives.”

  Keegan just watched him uncertainly, most likely wondering where this was going.

  Jaromir leaned back. “You needn’t worry. I didn’t tell your lord much. Only that the issue has been solved, the silver will be flowing again soon, that you’ve been taken seriously ill, and that I’ll maintain command for now, but that a new contingent and commander must be sent as soon as possible.”

  “That’s all you told him?”

  “Prince Lieven has never been one to press for details. He cares about results.” Jaromir paused. “And so long as you agree to a request I’m about to make, I’ll ensure he doesn’t learn anything more.”

  “What request?”

  “I want you to release the Móndyalítko men from their contracts and pay them their full year’s wage now. By my count, it’s only six or seven men, not enough to matter to the workforce. I’ve sent word to Prince Anton to send an escort here to take us home once your replacement has arrived and we’re ready to leave. In my letter, I also asked him to send four extra horses. You’ll let me pick four horses from your barn, for a total of eight, to pull the Móndyalítko wagons.”

  Keegan’s mouth fell open. If Jaromir had just made an offer of marriage, the man could not have been more stunned. “Pay them their full . . . four horses? Are you mad? No! We need every worker back in the mines. Those gypsies aren’t going anywhere.”

  Jaromir raised an eyebrow. “Truly? Then I’ll be forced to let it slip to Prince L
ieven that you had a spy of Prince Damek’s at your side for a year, and you never suspected a thing. I’ll let it slip that your incompetence is the reason so many of your men are dead and the silver stopped flowing.”

  Keegan glared at him in open hatred. “That’s a pointless threat. Once your prince learns the truth, he’ll be only too glad to tell his father.”

  “You don’t know Prince Anton. While I may not always agree, he feels strongly about never tattling on his brother even when deaths are involved or on the few occasions when Damek has tried to assassinate him.” Jaromir shrugged. “Perhaps he’s right. As I mentioned . . . Prince Lieven is not normally interested in details, just results.” He leaned forward. “But unless you agree to my small request, I’ll find a way to make sure a few of those details reach his ears.”

  “Take the horses,” Keegan spat. “And those filthy gypsies. But keep in mind, they’ve got no place to go.”

  “You let me worry about that.” Jaromir stood up. “I think we’re done here.”

  * * *

  That afternoon, Amelie and Céline walked over to the miners’ encampment to see Mercedes.

  After knocking on the door of the largest wagon, they both went inside to find Mercedes at home and Marcus stretched out on one of the back beds. Mariah was nowhere to be seen.

  “Leave the door open,” Marcus said. “I like the air.”

  Amelie thought he looked a little pale, but that was probably to be expected. Céline had been up late tending to his wounds, including stitching up his shoulder.

  Mercedes was studying Céline. “So . . . you’ll be leaving soon?” She sounded regretful.

  “That’s what we came to talk to you about,” Céline responded, and then she turned to Amelie. “Maybe you should . . . ?”

  Amelie gathered her thoughts and positioned herself so that she could speak to both Mercedes and Marcus. “You have been very helpful to us these past few days, and Jaromir sent us with an offer.” She thought it might sound less like charity if it came from him. “There’s a plot of land outside the walls of Castle Sèone that has gone untended for several years. The tenants decamped to try their luck with a vendor’s cart in Enêmûsk. It has a cottage and a small barn. If your family would like . . . you can live there and work the land. Half the crops will go to Prince Anton, and you’ll keep the other half to sell or use for your own purposes.” For a moment, she kept her focus on Mercedes. “I know it would be a different way of life for you, but some of Prince Anton’s tenants have become quite prosperous, depending on which crops they grow.”