Page 53 of Wolf Duke

Not wanting to alarm their side, Evaine reached out to her mate with their mind link. “Alaric. Look north then slightly west. The green glow. It’s the Book of Lore!”

“Are you sure?” he replied urgently. “I’ve never seen it up close.”

“I’m certain. If we capture that, Guy Saville has nothing. He’ll be finished.”

Alaric chuckled, a truly malevolent sound. “Then let us capture it, my queen. I’ll protect the tome, you can exact justice on the usurper.”

“We have ourselves a bargain,” said Evaine, anticipation coiling in her belly as ahead of her, the Western riders with long spears charged and hurled the deadly javelins at the approaching enemy. Damn the mercenaries! How could there still be so many?

On her mate’s call, all the warriors and guards with swords, including Blanche, and those in wolf form surged forward. Soon after came the first soul-shaking shriek of steel on steel. The relentless barrage of noise was disorientating at first; the thumping of hooves on dirt, the clashing of swords and shields, the growling grunts of wolves fighting, the cries of pain. How did warriors do this every day? But soon Evaine’s mind cleared and she attacked her first victim, taking a chunk out of the mercenary’s right shoulder and causing him to drop his sword.

Again and again she leaped and bit, ducking and weaving to avoid the swinging blades, before Alaric killed the temporarily defenseless warrior with a slash to the belly or throat. Sometimes she moved too slowly or went the wrong way; already her fur was sticky with the blood of seeping cuts. But this only fueled her rage, especially when she saw Alaric’s shield occasionally drop.

“What is wrong with your left arm?” she demanded through their link. “Are you hurt?”

“Crossbow bolt gouged it,” her mate replied. “Damned silver infection.”

Gah! The longer this battle continued, the weaker his arm would become without treatment. She had to be fiercer. Not just Evaine the Bold, but Evaine the Bloodthirsty. Yet already she could feel the cruel tendrils of fatigue curling their way around her. Her cuts stung. Her limbs hurt. Her jaw ached.

Fight on, my precious cub. Fight like the de Wynter you are. We are so proud of you.

As her mother’s voice danced on the air, vigor burst through Evaine. With a vengeful snarl she tore through the mercenary lines to those daring to wear the green-and-white de Wynter livery, attacking them with fang and claw in a storm of mindless savagery. Some of the warriors surrendered, throwing down their weapons and begging forgiveness from a true de Wynter. But far too many wanted her dead.

“That female’s green eyes! It’s Evaine de Wynter!”

“Get her! She’s worth a fortune!”

“Tell King Guy to open the Book of Lore. The power will destroy her!”

Her enemies’ words swirled around her like a suffocating fog and Evaine briefly lifted her head to study the battlefield. Most of the fighting raged behind her, but ahead, surely not more than a quarter mile, astride a horse and watching proceedings like the festering turd coward he was: Guy Saville.

She growled, the sound emanating from the depths of her soul. Somehow she just knew the usurper had seen her, for he lifted the Book of Lore above his head and pointed it. A bolt of green lightning shot from the tome and Evaine knew a moment of true despair at her failure, bracing herself for paralyzing agony.

Except the bolt passed through her with no more than a brief sting. Guy bellowed in rage and shot a second bolt. Again, it did nothing.

Shock almost sent Evaine to her knees. As the Book always remained at Ashcross Castle, she had never considered that it might lose its tremendous force outside the Eastern Lands. Did anyone know that? Guy Saville certainly didn’t!

“Alaric!” she cried, through their mind link. “Take him now! Guy Saville is vulnerable in the Western Lands! Alaric, can you hear me? Where are you?”

Alaric’s entire world had reduced solely to instinct; anything else just reminded him how badly his arm hurt. Silver infections were another Hera-inflicted torment, burning into flesh like a brand and poisoning the blood. To treat it, every Western healer carried wild garlic and white willow bark for pain relief and to soothe inflammation, also vials of enchanted water from the spring at Taff’s Well. But it really was a matter of time. If silver got into vital organs like the heart or lungs, unlike any other ailment, the damage was irreversible. He would be bedridden the rest of his life.

Right now he couldn’t even examine his flesh. Apart from the constant danger, he was covered in so much blood he wasn’t entirely sure which was his and which had spurted from his enemies as he severed limbs or removed innards. The grass had become red and slippery, and on several occasions he’d almost lost his footing. Chester’s body wagons would be busy this night; thankfully the village’s isolation meant few humans would witness the bloodbath.

A low battle cry came from his right, and Alaric turned wearily, raising his shield just in time to block a strong blow from a mercenary. He immediately countered with an upward cut, dislodging the other wolf’s sword, then gutting him with a straight thrust.

How many more? Surely he’d already killed hundreds.

“Evaine,” he muttered aloud. “My arm hurts.”

Where was his mate? The last he knew, Evaine had been merrily slashing and biting her way through their enemy. But although he could see Blanche, her gown cut to above her knees, and fighting as skillfully as anyone, his mate was nowhere to be found. “Evie?”

Goddess. Was she hurt? Had she retreated for safety? Had she grown weary of his failure to defeat the Eastern warriors and left him?

Another wave of agony surged down Alaric’s arm, his shield feeling heavier than an anvil. Without the leather straps tying it to him, it would be impossible to hold up. Yet a heartbeat later, he almost forgot that wound as fire slashed across his lower thigh.

A silver blade!

Alaric coughed, his whole body crushed in a vise of pain as the grinning Eastern captain circled him. Perhaps this was it. Perhaps he was destined to perish on the battlefield rather than grow old with Evaine. But damn it, he would go down fighting. “Is that your best? I’ve seen cubs with more skill.”