Wolfsbane

by N. J. Layouni

  “The secret tunnels beneath the castle walls have been extended in places then packed with faggots of wood and barrels of pigs’ fat.” He grinned. “Then we set them ablaze.” Holding Effie’s hand had made Fergus uncharacteristically chatty. “When the wooden supports collapse, the walls should go down at the same time.”

  Martha nodded, recalling a long-ago history lesson back in the mists of her schooldays. “But how will that help? Walls or not, Rodmar’s men still have a steep hill to climb before they reach the castle.” To say nothing of the deep, earth-cut moat surrounding the outer wall. The archers would pick the invaders off as easily as ants from a picnic blanket. She frowned. “It’s suicide.”

  “Perhaps.” Fergus smiled, his teeth shining in the torchlight. Either he was completely heartless, or there was more going on than he was prepared to admit. “Shall we continue?”

  They exited the gloom of the stairwell then hurried along the groundfloor corridor that ran the length of the keep. People in nightwear—mainly females and the elderly—clustered around the windows, staring outside with matching expressions of terrified fascination. Fires raged, flames of red and orange licking at the inky-black sky.

  Only the children seemed unconcerned. They roamed the corridor in a rowdy pack, running and weaving through the milling crowd, laughing and calling to one another as they played a late-night game of tag. Martha smiled as two boys ducked behind one of the long tapestries that adorned the cold stone walls.

  A woman’s scream diverted her attention outside. She paused by the window just in time to see a streak of fire blaze across the night sky—like a meteor entering Earth’s atmosphere. It was the stuff of an apocalyptic movie, but for real. Along with dozens of other people, she followed the fireball’s trajectory and rapid descent.

  Oh, dear God! A deep boom and a crescendo of shouts and screams indicated where the fiery comet had touched down.

  “May the Spirits be merciful!” The old man standing beside Martha staggered back from the window, clutching his chest.

  “Here.” She slipped her arm about his frail, bony shoulders and guided him to a nearby bench. “Come and sit down. Catch your breath for a minute.”

  Fergus stalked back, scowling at her. “M’lady, we cannot afford to linger—”

  “Go, then.” She glared at him, not releasing her hold on the old man.

  The more she saw of Rodmar’s terror tactics, the less convinced she was of who the bad guys really were. Fire-bombing kids and old people? Truly heroic.

  With a grunt of relief, the old man settled onto the bench. His face was gray and pinched with pain. Martha crouched before him, rubbing his cold hands. What if it was a heart attack? Thankfully, his face began to relax, losing its expression of contorted pain.

  “Is that any better?” she asked softly. “Try and take a few slow, deep breaths.” She ignored Fergus hovering beside her. “That’s it.” The man’s breathing eased. “As you breathe out, try and imagine you’re carrying a heavy basket in each hand.” This visualization technique had always helped Aunt Lulu when she was suffering an asthma attack.

  The old man closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. He looked better already. Martha smiled. “That’s really good. How’s the pain now?”

  “B-better,” he muttered. “Thank you, my dear.”

  Fergus crouched beside her. “M’lady, we really must—”

  “Father? Oh, no.” A middle-aged woman pushed through the crowd. “What happened?”

  Martha stood up, relinquishing her place to the old man’s daughter. “The fire-bombs put the fear of God into him.”

  “He is not alone in that,” the woman replied bitterly. She took off her cloak and flung it over the old man’s shoulders then gave him a gentle hug. “Thank you for tending him.” She sent Martha a tight smile. “I am grateful.”

  “No problem.”

  “Curse those devils outside. Come, Father. Let us return to our rooms.”

  Martha glanced at Fergus and arched her eyebrows. Your precious Rodmar’s not exactly winning any hearts and minds here tonight, is he?

  The lad’s jaw tensed. Perhaps he understood. “We must go. Now,” he said quietly.

  After saying goodbye to the old man and his daughter, Martha got up and followed Fergus along the corridor. He stalked ahead, cloak swirling, without looking back.

  “He is exceedingly vexed,” Effie said, slipping her hand through Martha’s arm. “I thought the two of you were friends?”

  “I don’t know who my friends are anymore,” Martha muttered. “And that’s the truth.”

  As they hurried across the entrance hall, past the foot of the castle’s grand staircase, a loud, echoing voice froze Martha in her tracks.

  “Ah! Mistress Bigalow. The very person I was seeking.”

  Oh, shit! His Evilness.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Martha looked up and saw the earl descending the staircase, taking the steps two at a time in his haste to get to her.

  Fergus wheeled around and grabbed her arm. “Go!” he said in an urgent whisper. “Make for the dungeons and find a place to hide.” His young face suddenly seemed older than his years. “I will hold him at bay for as long as possible.”

  To her horror, he reached beneath his cloak and drew his sword, the shrill shriek of metal setting her teeth on edge. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” It was a silly question really.

  Fergus stepped in front of her and faced the earl who had reached the landing of the final flight of stairs, his sword raised in challenge.

  Sick with dread, Martha tugged on the back of his cloak. “Please don’t do this.” Oh, why hadn’t she listened to him? Why the feck had she stopped to help that old man? No good deed ever went unpunished.

  Fergus glanced over his shoulder. “Run,” he whispered. With a last lingering look at Effie, he strode off to meet the earl.

  His Evilness paused on the stairs, looking down his nose at his young challenger. “Insolent whelp. You dare to challenge me? But wait, your face is familiar.” He tilted his head to one side, studying the lad more closely. “Ah! My harpist, no less. How novel.” The earl chuckled and then swept the folds of his purple cloak over one shoulder, displaying the jeweled hilt of his ridiculous fancy sword. “Tell me, boy, how many other snakes lurk in the darkest corners of my hall, hmm?”

  Fergus didn’t answer. He stood motionless. Waiting.

  “M’lady?” Effie slipped her hand into Martha’s. “What shall we do?”

  A small crowd had begun to gather, watching the scene unfold. Martha heard the murmurs of the people behind her, but her gaze remained fixed on Fergus. The earl might be a preening peacock, but according to Vadim he was a master swordsman. That poor lad didn’t stand a chance against such an experienced opponent.

  Judging by the tight set of his jaw, Fergus knew it too.

  Martha let go of Effie’s hand. She knew what she had to do. “Stay away from me, Effie,” she said without looking at the girl. “Become my servant again. If His Evilness thinks we’re friends, he’ll kill you.”

  Without another word, she forced her trembling legs to go after Fergus.

  She arrived too late. Teeth bared in a snarl, the earl drew his sword and raced raced down the last few stairs, launching himself at Fergus. “Outlaw scum.”

  Martha gasped and covered her face with her hands, watching the fight from between her splayed fingers. She wanted to look away, but she couldn’t.

  Just in time, Fergus raised his own sword and managed to deflect the vicious shower of blows raining down on him. His arm trembled beneath the savagery of the onslaught.

  More spectators arrived, probably attracted by the clang and squeal of metal.

  Although the earl was reputedly an expert swordsman, so far, he’d displayed little of his skill. “Accepting the gold from… my purse! Sleeping
beneath… my roof…” His attack was more like a physical expression of his rage, wild and unpredictable.

  Poor Fergus did well to block the flurry of frenzied cuts delivered by the earl’s thinner, gaudier blade.

  “Eating the food at my table…” The earl slipped on the train of his cloak, but instantly corrected his footing. “Drinking my wine…”

  He took another ferocious swing at Fergus.

  “Watch out!” Martha yelled, unable to stop herself.

  As his enemy’s sword descended, Fergus ducked behind the ornately carved upright at the bottom of the stairs. Instead of hitting him, the earl’s blade embedded itself deep into the timber pillar with a dull thunk.

  Muttering viciously beneath his breath, the earl planted his foot against the handrail and pulled, trying to free his sword. As he did so, Fergus thrust his own blade through the open balusters of the staircase. The earl gave an unmanly shriek and fell backward, sprawling onto the stairs, entangled by the folds of his voluminous purple cloak.

  The spectators let out a collective, shocked, ooh!

  Martha wanted to cheer, but instead she hurried to Fergus’s side. He was breathing hard, his eyes fixed on his wounded opponent.

  The earl was clutching his thigh, blood oozing between his fingers. With luck, his injury might prove fatal.

  Martha placed her hand on Fergus’s tense forearm. “Leave him,” she murmured. “Get away while you still can.”

  Four knights were shouldering their way through the crowd. Swords drawn, their eyes locked on Fergus.

  A faint smile flickered upon the lad’s lips. “Abandoning you and my honor in the process? That I cannot do.”

  “Oh, screw your honor!” I’m sick to the back teeth of fecking honor. It was like a terrible disease in this world. No one was immune. Well, almost no one. The earl moaned feebly to himself as he secured a piece of purple cloak about his bloody thigh. Her eyes darted back to the advancing knights. “Will you just listen to me, Fergus?” she hissed. “Run. Now!”

  The earl stopped whining and sat up. The look in his eyes was enough to give her the goosebumps—big ones. A shiver rippled along the length of her spine.

  She tugged at Fergus’s arm, but he wouldn’t budge. Was he determined to die?

  As the grim-faced knights came closer, His Evilness got up. Limping slightly, he had another go at freeing his sword from the staircase. This time, he was successful.

  Martha’s panic level spiked. In fierce whispers, she renewed her attack on Fergus, begging him to leave. She might as well have saved her breath. The stupid boy was hell-bent on his kamikaze honor mission.

  “You have courage, boy. I will give you that.” The earl limped down the stairs, halting the advancing knights with a brief shake of his head. “Not many living men can claim to have bloodied me.” He walked toward them, stopping just short of the point of Fergus’s sword.

  His cold shark’s smile liquefied Martha’s bowels.

  “How unfortunate,” he continued, “you swore fealty to the wrong side.”

  Fergus remained calm. Not even a hint of a blush stained his cheeks. “I do not agree, m’lord.” His voice never wavered. “I chose the side with honor as its standard, integrity as its sword, and truth as its shield.” He smiled. “And to my promise I hold. Even now, I do not regret it.”

  Martha’s jaw dropped. She’d seriously misjudged him—this man-child. While she trembled and quaked like a blade of grass in the wind, Fergus faced death with unimaginable bravery.

  The least she could do was not make him ashamed.

  She took his free hand, entwining her fingers with his. After a brief hesitation, he gave her clammy hand a gentle squeeze.

  Martha raised her chin and looked directly at the earl. Maybe she could buy them some more time. “What did you want to see me about, m’lord?”

  The earl’s eyes narrowed, fixed on their clasped hands. “Ah, yes. That.” He took a step forward but retreated when Fergus raised the tip of his sword. “I understand your husband has miraculously risen from the dead.”

  “Really?” She kept her face neutral. Who’d told him? Despite everything, her money was still on Anselm. Damn him. “Are you sure?”

  “The news came from a most reliable source.”

  “Oh.” Definitely Anselm. The two-faced tosser.

  “Well? Are you not relieved, my dear? You do not seem very heartened by my glad tidings.”

  “That’ll be the shock—”

  “Or, perhaps you already knew?” The earl examined the handle of his sword and frowned. “Perhaps you always knew?” Using his cloak, he buffed the glittering stones set in the pommel of his sword.

  So maybe Anselm hadn’t betrayed her. If he had, the earl would already know the full story, and he wouldn’t be wasting time questioning her now.

  This thought made her smile more genuinely at him. “Will you set me free so I can go to him?”

  The earl chuckled, but his pale blue eyes were devoid of amusement. “I wish I could, my dear. Unfortunately, I have other plans for you.”

  Her smile faded, and she clutched Fergus’s hand a little tighter. “S-such as?”

  “Bait, or insurance? I have not yet decided which.” The earl began pacing the entrance hall, swiping with his sword at imaginary foes, his wound apparently forgotten. He seemed oblivious to their ever-increasing audience.

  “And what about my friend here?” Martha indicated Fergus with a jerk of her head. “What’s going to happen to him?”

  The earl paused to glance at Fergus. “Oh, he will die… eventually.” He grinned. “And no doubt screaming for his mother, as they all do.” He treated them to a dazzling display of fancy footwork before lunging at an invisible enemy. Then he straightened up, looking very pleased with himself.

  Martha eyed him with disgust. God, you’re a really sick puppy.

  Fergus, bless his brave heart, only laughed. “I have no fear of death, m’lord. When I arrive at the Hall of the Ancestors, my worthy mother will be there to welcome me.”

  “Indeed?” The earl stopped dancing around. “Then we shall all be content with the outcome. Most satisfactory all round.” Suddenly, his expression went blank. The performing clown show was over. “Lower your weapon, boy,” he growled. “The time for jest has passed. Resist me any further, and I will cut you down where you stand.”

  Martha chewed her lip until she tasted blood. There was no way out. No matter which way they stepped, death was waiting. She glanced about the silent spectators, seeking a familiar face in the sea of strangers. She couldn’t even see Effie. Not that it really made a difference.

  Fergus cleared his throat. “So be it.” With that, he slipped his hand from Martha’s.

  Her heart gave a sickening lurch. “What the feck are you doing?” she hissed. But the answer was all too obvious.

  With a brief bow of his head, Fergus raised his sword and moved toward the earl.

  His Evilness swept him theatrical bow then raised his own weapon. He slowly advanced, circling Fergus like a purple vulture.

  Outside, the sounds of the war machines continued their soundtrack of death. Breathing fast, Martha willed Rodmar’s trebuchets to hit something close by. Surely, nothing else would save Fergus now.

  She could have slipped away, lost herself in the crowd. No one would notice. The knights had put away their swords. Like everyone else, their eyes were fixed on the two combatants. It would be easy to escape.

  But she couldn’t leave Fergus alone—not that he was aware of her. The earl claimed all of his attention. She might not be able to save him, but if death was his fate, she’d make sure he didn’t die alone in a hall full of enemies.

  The earl suddenly went turbo. Fergus did well to evade his opponent’s rapid succession of cuts and thrusts. He retreated, beaten back by so many savage blows. The constant r
inging of metal sounded oddly musical as it echoed throughout the hallway.

  Fergus stumbled and almost fell. Martha gasped, certain that the end had come, but the lad regained his balance and fought on. Fought! He had yet to deliver a single blow. He was too hard pressed defending himself to have the opportunity to attack. Always in retreat, Fergus reversed toward her. She was forced to climb several steps of the staircase to avoid getting in the way of their swords.

  But the earl wasn’t having it all his own way. He might be the better swordsman, but his age was against him. As the fight progressed, sweat rolled down his face. At length, he lowered his sword and took a step back, obviously in need of a breather.

  “Not bad, boy. Someone has obviously taken the trouble to instruct you. Come.” He swiped the back of his hand over his sweaty face. “You have earned a free shot at me.” He opened his arms wide, exposing his gold-embroidered tunic. “Strike me down, if you can.”

  The knights sniggered and nudged one another. Although they were amused, they didn’t look surprised. Neither did the crowd. A loud muttering traveled the length of the hall. To Martha’s disgust, she heard the jingling of money. They’re placing bets?

  Now she understood the earl’s delaying tactic. This was nothing new, it was expected. A way to heighten his kicks before he delivered the killing stroke.

  What could she do? She clutched the banister, her mind reeling as it searched for a way out of this godawful mess. Fergus might be brave, but even to her untrained eye he was totally outclassed.

  She became aware of the weight of Vadim’s knife in her pocket. Maybe if she got close enough she could stab the earl? The thought of plunging sharp metal into his soft flesh made her feel slightly sick. But if push came to shove, could she do it? If she hesitated for a second, she’d be dead before Fergus.

  “Come on, my fine young fellow,” the earl said, softly taunting Fergus. “Take your chance.” He twirled in a slow circle, arms open wide. “No doubt your outlaw friends would leap at the invitation.”