Warwolfe (de Wolfe Pack Book 0)(109)

“There are raiders in camp,” he told her quickly. “They have come for the women and we must get you to safety. Can you use this sword?”

Ghislaine looked at Aramis’ big broadsword, now in her hand. “Aye, I can.”

Gaetan nodded swiftly. “That’s a good little mouse,” he said, a hint of affection in his tone. But he turned serious again in a flash. “Aramis will be your legs but you must be his sword. I will be your shield. Come now; follow me.”

Together, the four of them plus the dog left the hut, out into the chaotic night where people were still screaming and running as phantoms chased them through the shadows. As they neared the end of the row of cottages that fronted the pond, a big man wearing bones all around his neck and chest jumped out and bellowed, lifting a massive club with spiked ends. Gaetan kicked the man in the gut and when he doubled over, he sliced his head clean from his body. As the head went rolling, the group continued running.

Ghislaine had to admit that she was terrified. She’d been in plenty of battles, that was true, but she’d been able-bodied and able to protect herself and fight. Now, she couldn’t walk or run, and she was at a distinct disadvantage. She watched Gaetan deftly kill two more men who had charged at them and even Jathan managed to badly wound a man who had tried to club him in the head.

As they neared the kitchens that serviced the convening hall, they saw Antillius and two of his men fighting against at least four men wearing bones around their necks. One of the men had Lygia by the arm, yanking at her, as her father tried to hold on to her. Ghislaine pointed to them in a panic.

“Gaetan!” she gasped. “That is Lygia! You must help her!”

Before Gaetan could move, Aramis put Ghislaine on her feet and took his sword from her. “Nay,” he said. “Gate, you take your lady to safety. I will handle these fools.”

Gaetan didn’t argue with him. He picked Ghislaine up again and, with Jathan running in front of them to protect their path, carried Ghislaine all the way to the convening hall where he had to beat on the door before someone opened it. Once inside the door, he set Ghislaine on her feet as Jathan and the excited dog came in after him.

“You and Jathan will guard the door,” Gaetan told Ghislaine, handing her a dagger from his waist. “If anyone comes through that door that is not an ally, kill them.”

Ghislaine nodded firmly. “I will, I swear it. I will not let anyone pass that is not a friend.”

Gently touching her cheek in a sweet gesture, it was all Gaetan could manage before charging back out into the night to help Aramis and Antillius. Ghislaine shut the door and bolted it, looking at Jathan to see that the entire event had the priest fairly rattled. But he held his sword tightly, preparing to kill just as Gaetan had ordered. He was, after all, a trained warrior even if those duties were something he struggled with.

Now that they had reached relative safety, there was an odd stillness to it all that was unnerving. Outside, people were fighting for their lives while inside, the frightened and injured huddled. Soft weeping drew their attention and they looked around to see that the convening hall was half-full of women and children, all of them shaken and terrified.

“I will watch the door,” Ghislaine told Jathan. “Mayhap you should pray with these women and comfort them.”

Jathan shook his head. “If Gaetan discovers I have left my post, I will be the one needing prayers.”

Ghislaine grinned at the man but she understood. “Very well,” she said. “When things settle down, mayhap your prayers would be welcome then.”

Jathan could still hear the sounds of the struggle outside. Battle, to him, never became any easier. It was all death and mayhem as far as he was concerned.

“I think I shall pray now,” he said.

“I think that is a good idea.”

He did.





CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE




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The Sleep of the Dead


He’d picked up the pace, Kristoph was sure, because of him.

Ever since the fight outside of Warwick that had left two men dead and another wounded, Alary had been keeping his distance from Kristoph as they headed north at an increased pace, but certain things had changed. Now, Kristoph found himself chained in the bed of the provisions wagon, secured more tightly than he’d ever been before and, since the death of Mostig, he hadn’t been fed with any regularity which, he suspected, was part of the plan. A prisoner weakened with hunger was less likely to fight back.

But not Kristoph. He was still prepared to fight back and escape, no matter what they tried to do to him.

Still, he had to admit that the hunger was drawing him down. He’d last eaten yesterday morning, a bit of cold and probably rank fatty beef that had been thrown at him. He’d sucked it down, fat and all. Anything to drink had come from the rain that had fallen off and on for the past few days but it hadn’t quenched his thirst much. It had only prevented him from becoming completely parched.

His misery had a name these days and that name was Alary of Mercia. The first thing Kristoph planned to do when he was free was kill the man. For every offense against him, Kristoph was going to make Alary pay many times over. Rather than thoughts of his wife and daughter keeping him alive, now thoughts of killing his captor were feeding that sense of survival.

It was something that Alary surely sensed these days if he didn’t outright know it. A madman at times, he wasn’t stupid. As the wagon bumped down the road on this morning that blended in to the many mornings before this as they traveled north from Harold Godwinson’s defeat, Kristoph thought on his situation, on the man holding him hostage, and on what was waiting for him at the end of this road. The men were hurrying more than ever to reach Tenebris. Kristoph knew he had to escape before they reached it.