Wolfsbane

by N. J. Layouni

  As they reached the top of the steps, a battle-grimed knight clanked along the walkway toward them. “Bad tidings, m’lord Edgeway,” he called with the briefest bow of his head. “The gate cannot hold for much longer; the enemy is too numerous. They are massing faster than we can kill them.” He took off his battered helmet and ran his filthy fingers through his limp, dark hair. “And now we are almost out of arrows.”

  At that very moment, an arrow hissed past Martha’s face. She dove down, heart racing, and pressed her back against the battlements. The earl and the knight didn’t react at all.

  “Come now, Sir Owain. Take heart.” The earl’s brow puckered as he frowned. “Surely our situation cannot be so dire as all that? Tip more hot oil over them. Fry them alive. Where is your courage, man?”

  A muscle pulsed in Sir Owain’s stubbled jaw. “I suspect it went over the wall with the last vat of oil, m’lord. We have been using boiling water since midnight.”

  The earl stiffened, apparently not accustomed to being addressed in such a manner. His eyes bulged in their sockets, making him resemble an angry frog. But Martha didn’t smile. The thought of deliberately pouring scalding liquid over someone horrified her.

  “And what news of Sir Hugh?” the earl asked, pointedly ignoring the knight’s previous comment. “Has there been any word of him?”

  Sir Owain shook his head. “None of his company have returned, m’lord.”

  “Oh? That is a great pity.” The earl looked affronted by the news, as if Sir Hugh’s failure to return was a personal slight. “I was about to offer him a promotion. Ah, well.”

  Martha and the knight exchanged a brief glance, arching their eyebrows at one another. Although she’d never met the man before, she knew he shared her revulsion. It was there in his eyes.

  She moved away, edging along the wall-walk and weaving around the archers, until she found a vacant piece of wall to lean against. Weariness hit her with the force of a sledgehammer. The urge to rest her eyelids was almost irresistible. And she badly needed the privy—her bladder felt ready to burst.

  While the earl was occupied with the knight, Martha decided to chance a look over the battlements to see what was happening for herself. She peeped cautiously around the block of stone. Immediately, an arrow whooshed past her face, the breeze of its flight brushing her cheek in a lethal kiss. She fell back, clutching her chest and gasping.

  Fuck! That was much too close.

  “Have a care, lass.” A gray-haired soldier limped along the walkway towards her. “They have some decent archers amongst them. You would not look half so pretty with an arrow stuck through your face.”

  Martha grimaced at the mental image he’d just given her. “Sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

  “Then, you had better start thinking. Unless, of course, you wish to live out the remainder of your days looking like me.” He gave a broad smile, displaying what remained of his long, yellow teeth.

  Although he looked like a man in his sixties, the light in his eyes was that of someone much younger. The variety of scars on his craggy face told the grim tale of life as a foot soldier; a living record of places he’d been and of the battles he’d fought in. The most striking of these scars ran in a silver line from chin to ear, puckering the skin either side of it.

  Martha tried not to stare, but with little success.

  “A sword wound from many moons ago.” The man rubbed his bristly jaw. “Why are you up here, lass? Do you want to see over the wall so badly you would risk your life?”

  “No. His Lordship made me come.” She nodded across to where the earl stood dwarfed by a wall of knights. Three other men had joined Sir Owain, and judging by the way the earl’s arms were flailing, it wasn’t for a friendly chat. Unfortunately, she wasn’t close enough to eavesdrop. Had he forgotten her? Might she be able to give him the slip?

  Right on cue, the earl turned to look at her. His icy glare dared her to run. Martha knew all too well how he dealt with people who ran, so she stayed where she was. An arrow in the back? No thank you.

  “Ah. I see.” The battle-scarred soldier placed a surprisingly light hand on her shoulder. “In that case, if you have a mind to see outside, crouch down and have a look through here.” He directed her to a narrow slit in the stone wall she hadn’t noticed before—probably because of all the men milling around. She thanked the man, then looked through the archer’s window on the world.

  The meadow below the castle was nothing like she remembered. The continuous movement of men and machines had transformed the once-lush grass to a brown and barren wasteland, pitted by a complex network of trenches. Slabs of masonry embedded into the earth at weird angles resembled a herd of gray animals that had been slaughtered then left to rot.

  The trebuchets and slings sat silent. In the morning light, she could make out their ropes and moorings moving in the gentle breeze. An evil-looking thicket of sharpened stakes surrounded the precious war machines, jutting from the ground at an angle. The high-tech weapons of medieval warfare must need constant protection.

  Sweet baby Jesus! Suddenly, she realized that not all the lumps on the ground were chunks of broken castle. A shaft of sunlight broke from the thick cloud and reflected off a piece of armor.

  Like a juxtaposed picture, once she “got her eye in,” the hidden image appeared, and a terrible scene revealed itself. Bodies of men and horses lay tangled together, united in death. Figures moved amongst the fallen, frequently pausing to check the motionless bodies. But whoever these people were, they weren’t looking for signs of life.

  Like vultures, they were picking their prey clean of anything of value.

  Disgusted, Martha looked away, and a swift movement drew her eyes. Several riderless horses ran wild through the encampment, evading the efforts of those trying to capture them. Meanwhile, a two-wheeled cart drawn by a donkey wandered onto the killing field to load up the dead.

  Poor Sir Hugh. Was he lying out there somewhere, broken beyond repair? Was Vadim? She drew her hand over her eyes and turned away.

  “Here, lass.” The kindly soldier pressed a bladder of ale into her hands. “Drink up. His lordship looks mad enough to burst, and I have a feeling you might be the one who pays for it.”

  He was right. The earl looked livid. His face was drained of color, his lips compressed into a thin, grim line. Without so much as bowing their heads, the knights turned and walked away from him.

  What was that all about?

  She raised the bladder and poured the sweet ale into her mouth, swallowing it in fast greedy gulps. It was best not to dwell too much on her new friend’s lack of oral hygiene. Better that than having to face the earl again without some form of anesthetic.

  “How on Erde have you offended him so?” the man muttered as the earl headed toward them, stuffing a wad of white fabric into his tunic as he walked.

  “I’m Vadim’s wife.”

  The man’s jaw slackened slightly. “The dead outlaw? Hemlock?”

  “Uh-huh. Only he’s not dead.” Though he might wish he was if I ever catch up with him.

  “And Lord Edgeway knows?”

  Martha nodded, managing a weak smile.

  The man puffed out his cheeks and exhaled a long breath. “Aye. That would do the job all right.”

  As the earl came closer, he adopted the stooping walk used by all the men on the ragged battlements.

  Martha wiped her mouth on her sleeve then handed back the bladder of ale. “Thanks for the drink. You’ve been very kind.”

  There wasn’t time to say more.

  “Carry on, man,” the earl snarled. “This is no time for idle chattering.”

  “Very good, m’lord.” Sparing her a look of sympathy, Martha’s companion swiftly departed.

  Although she didn’t know the man’s name, she already missed his friendly company.

  “My, how y
ou thrive in the company of the lower ranks.” The earl pushed her to walk ahead of him on the battlements, away from the activity at the postern gate. “What can you have found to talk about with that dreadful fellow?”

  “He’s a nice man,” she replied, flinging the words over her shoulder. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

  “I am, however, beginning to understand what a thoroughly ill-bred chit you truly are.”

  Martha didn’t bother to reply. Stick and stones. Instead, she concentrated on imitating the crouching gait of the soldiers. There was nothing to hold onto, and in places the battlements were non-existent. One false step and she’d plummet from the narrow wall-walk to her death.

  As the earl approached, the soldiers squashed themselves up against the walls to let him pass. Even so, Martha frequently found herself perilously close to the edge. The path disintegrated completely in places, but the earl pushed her on, forcing her to step over vertiginous drops. She tried not to look down.

  The earl walked behind her, muttering darkly to himself. Martha could almost hear him mentally unraveling—not that he’d been the tightest of weaves to begin with. She tried to make out his words.

  “Terms, indeed!” Mutter, mumble. “…interest is in saving their own worthless necks… pox-ridden whoresons…”

  Crazy Earl FM wasn’t exactly easy listening, but the ale she’d consumed helped to tune him out. She hadn’t eaten in hours, and the alcohol was working its magic, numbing her with a gentle, golden glow. The sharpest spikes of fear lessened with each step she took, lending her the courage to make several more leaps of faith over the dangerous pathway.

  Arrows hissed by in fast blurs. The blood chilling screams made the hairs on the back of her neck prickle. For some reason, a strangely liberating mantra took up residence in her mind. If I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die. Tears and terror wouldn’t help her now, not if it was her time to shuffle off the mortal coil. It was a comfort of sorts.

  The earl tapped her shoulder. “Go down the next flight of steps.”

  Martha gladly obeyed him.

  They had barely touched ground level when Rodmar’s trebuchets set to work again. She looked up and saw a huge shape flying overhead at great speed. A second later, it impacted, hitting the southern face of the keep with such force she felt the vibrations of it in her teeth. Immediately, she crouched down, arms around her head. Small fragments of rubble stung the exposed skin on her hands. She winced and hugged her head more tightly. Thank God they hadn’t been any closer.

  Gradually, the thundering crash of falling debris lessened to a soft, pattering shower. Martha cautiously lowered her arms and looked up at the keep. Tapestries flapped from a jagged hole high up on the castle wall. Through the thick dust cloud, she saw a chair teetering on the edge of the void. Moments later, it fell, toppling through the air and shattering onto the courtyard.

  “I am heartily glad the repairs will not be coming from my coffers,” the earl remarked cheerfully.

  Martha turned her head. He was crouched directly behind her—most likely using the lee of her butt as a shelter from the flying debris. What was that about the castle repairs? Had he given up all hope of holding on to it?

  He scrambled to his feet and brushed himself down, liberating a thick cloud of dust from his cloak. Then he nudged Martha’s butt with the toe of his boot. “Up you get.”

  She scrambled to her feet. “S-so, who will be footing the repair bill, if not you?”

  “Why, the next Earl of Edgeway of course, you silly goose.” His eyes narrowed, glinting like shards of broken glass. “Surely even you can see that we are almost overrun? It is only a matter of time now.” He grabbed her upper arm and led her toward the main gate. “Come. You may yet be of use to me.”

  “I don’t see how.” She raised her arm, trying without success to shrug from his hold. “Rodmar doesn’t know me, nor I him. If you think you can use me to negotiate with him, it’ll be a waste of breath. He won’t care if I live or die.”

  “Did I mention Rodmar? What care I for that arrogant young pretender? He is nothing to me.”

  His chuckle made her flesh crawl. She had a very bad feeling about this.

  “With you as my bait,” he continued, “I am hoping to hook a very different kind of fish.”

  She frowned. “Then, who do…” He means Vadim, of course. The realization hit her so hard she stumbled. Only the earl’s hand on her arm prevented her from hitting the ground.

  “I see you share my mind, my dear.”

  “B-but why?” For the life of her, she couldn’t understand the twisted workings of his mind.

  Placing his hand on top of her head, he shoved her through the low wooden doorway that led inside the squat stone bulk of the barbican. Its blackened walls still smelt of smoke.

  “Vadim can’t save you.” Her voice echoed in the darkness. “He wouldn’t. Not even for me.”

  Amplified by the stone walls, the earl’s laughter was an eerie sound. She shivered and reminded herself he was just a crazy mortal man and not a vampire.

  “I have no desire to escape my fate. My bones are too weary to face fresh battle in some faraway place. But if I can be the instrument of your husband’s suffering in the years to come, I shall die content.” He reached up and removed a dying torch from its wall sconce.

  Martha gasped in outrage as he pushed her up the narrow, spiraling stairs. “You massacred Vadim’s family, and almost killed him in the process. You robbed him of his birthright and made him an outlaw. Don’t you think he’s suffered enough by your hand?”

  “Your loyalty is most touching. I wonder how he will manage without you in all the empty years he has remaining?” He patted her backside. “Keep walking—all the way to the top, if you please.”

  Now she knew the true meaning of fear. She could hardly breathe. Terror constricted her throat and turned her blood to ice. She trudged up the steps, imagining herself on the way to the guillotine. This couldn’t be happening.

  But it was.

  Vadim still hadn’t appeared, and Anselm was well and truly out of play. No knight in shining armor was going to come and rescue her now. This was it. The end.

  He’s really going to kill me!

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  There was still hope.

  As Martha trudged up the stone steps, she became aware of a gently swinging weight in her pocket, bashing rhythmically against her thigh. Vadim’s knife. If there was ever a time to use it, it was now.

  Could she do it? Abandon the values of the twenty-first century and play by a new set of rules? If she wanted her baby to survive, she had no choice.

  Decision made, she slipped her right hand into the deep pocket of her gown. Her fingers closed around the smooth, ridged handle of the knife. She faked a stumble and raised her skirt a little higher. Praying the earl wouldn’t notice her sly fumbling, she worked her left hand through the bulky material of her gown and closed it around the sheath of the blade. One gentle pull and the knife slid free. She exhaled through her mouth, long and slow.

  Now, all she had to do was pick the right moment to use it. If she had the courage—and stomach—to do so.

  You’d better, Bigalow. His Evilness won’t hesitate to kill you.

  They climbed on, their panting breaths echoing in the narrow confines of the spiraling staircase. A chink of light up ahead indicated they’d reached their destination, the very top of the barbican. The earl prodded Martha’s back. Clutching tightly to the knife’s handle, she ducked her head and stepped through a narrow doorway.

  Oh, shit!

  The flat roof was horribly exposed. Only the open air separated them from the vast might of Rodmar’s army as it swarmed around the bottom of the hill. The men were packed together in such tight formation it was impossible to pick out an individual soldier. Like a murmuration of starlings or a shoal of fish
, the soldiers moved as one, each man forming a tiny part of the whole.

  The kaleidoscopic motion made her eyes ache. At that moment, the army began singing. Hundreds of voices united in what could only be a battle song. Although she didn’t understand the words, the challenge in each note was unmistakable. The blast of raw sound struck her ears in a powerful wave that vibrated into her chest.

  If the song was meant to intimidate, mission accomplished. She couldn’t stop shaking. Then again, that might be down to the close proximity of His Evilness.

  He stood at her shoulder. “What on Erde are those savages howling about now?” He tilted his head slightly to one side, listening. The freshening breeze brought the voices closer, and the earl’s mouth compressed into a grim line. What he heard obviously didn’t please him.

  What were they singing? As curious as she was, there was no way she’d ask him for a translation. Instead, she backed away, retreating to the relative safety of the stairwell. The earl reacted quickly, clamping his hand about her right wrist before she’d managed to take three steps.

  “Oh, you must not leave me yet.” His thin lips curved into a mocking smile. “That would ruin everything.”

  Reluctantly, she let go of the knife’s handle. This wasn’t the opportune moment anyway. Not with him standing so close, attentive to her every move. Unless she wanted to be overpowered and killed by her own blade, she needed to pick a better moment.

  How many more do I have left?

  “Shall we take a look over the edge?” He began dragging her toward the battlements.

  Martha almost lost the fight to control her painfully swollen bladder. Icy fear balled in her chest, compressing her racing heart. She struggled furiously, her boots skidding and plowing furrows in the dirt as she skied over the rooftop. “Let me go.” She gasped for breath, desperately trying to twist free of the earl’s iron grip. “I promise I won’t try to escape.”

  One thing was certain. Given the opportunity, she’d willingly stick that knife into him now. Conscience be damned.