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“Oil! Rain the oil on them!” The defenders on the castle walls poured boiling oil and hot sand down onto the attackers. A few soldiers wielding the ram were hit and cried out in agony, but others took their place and continued the assault. The smell of burned flesh filled the air, mixing with the acrid smell of smoke from the oil. The ram swung back and forth, crashing into the gates again and again. Each impact sent a shock wave through the castle walls, and small cracks appeared in the wood.
“Repair! Repair, now!”
Defenders frantically tried to repair the gates, using boards and nails to patch the damage. The repetitive clanging of the battering ram echoed in the night. Rowan scaled the battlements, signaling to a handful of men as he did so. Sir Jeremy and Jonas stuck close to his side.
“They’re going to get through,” Rowan said under his breath, speaking to himself. “Come with me. It’s time.”
For Blanchette Winslowe.
They crossed the bailey, moving across one of the connecting bridges like shadows. Smoke padded along at Rowan’s heels. The wolf’s eyes were as bright as stars, and his breath misted the air. He curled his fingers in the scruff of his collar.
Another lightning strike, followed by a deafening thunderclap.
Stay with me, my loyal friend, he thought as the battle screamed through the night. Rowan, Smoke, and his comrades marched down the spiral staircase single file. The stairs never seemed to end, and the walls shook with the force of the battle.
* * *
They crossed the bailey and halted before the postern gate. It hid in the wall and was wide enough for only three men to ride through abreast. Rowan withdrew his sword and held it up to the wavering torchlight that glittered from the walls. The repetitive crash of the battering ram shook the castle like thunder. Fat raindrops fell from the sky and pattered loudly against his helm.
“They’re going to bust through,” Jonas said in a choked voice.
“Then let’s push them back. Do you hear me?” More men gathered around him. He looked down at their eager faces, the fear plain in their eyes. He gazed beyond the castle walls to the edge of the woods. The din of the battle and the battering ram’s crash seemed to fade away. Rowan removed his helm so he could look his men in their faces, person to person. He raised his voice, letting it ring off the stone walls. Faces he knew well popped out to him in the crowd. Beside him, Jonas stood silent and straight as an arrow, his hand braced on his pommel. “Listen, my friends, listen. You’ve fought with me. You came with me to Winslowe Castle to tear down a tyrant who cared nothing for any of us. Now, the enemy lies before us, a threat to all our freedoms. But it shall not deter us, for we are the defenders of justice and righteousness. We are the protectors of our homes and families. We are the ones who will stand tall and fight.
“So let us march forth with all our strength and courage. Let our swords and shields ring out with determination.
“Let us emerge victorious, knowing we have done all we can to defend what we hold dear. Our wives and children. Everything. This is our purpose and calling. And we shall not falter but will rise and triumph over all that stands in our way!”
A unified chant rose around him. Black Wolf! Black Wolf! Black Wolf!
“With me, men!” he yelled, replacing his helm, his longsword lifted overhead and glinting. He saw Blanchette standing in the battlements, scaling the walls in her little red riding hood. But he knew he dominated the scene. The Black Wolf of Norland, stalking through the inner ward—not running, never running, always taking his sweet time.
His longsword was not a sword at all but just an extension of his arm and hand. Smoke was an extension of him, too, slamming bodily into his enemies and taking out their throats with a painstaking bloodlust. Rowan lifted his visor. Anger brewed inside him, a madness and thirst for red as he came full circle, exacting a vengeance he’d been after for over seven years…
When the blood has been drawn, when all is said and done, what is left?
He looked up and straight into a murder hole. A rope—a noose—shot through the hole and swayed in midair. That noose was wound around a neck, whose body swayed eerily in the castle’s dusky gloom.
Torchlight cast eerie shadows on the face. It was a woman. Her features contorted. Now, he saw a young peasant, his vacant eyes seeing nothing. He saw his wife, blood spilling from her open neck. He saw Mary Dietrich, still alive and squirming at the end of the rope.
He saw Blanchette, her mouth agape in a silent scream, the scar on her cheek pulling tight.
He blinked, and then they all vanished into the shadows. He stepped away from the murder hole just in time—just as hot oil rained through and turned a man’s face to wax.
Rowan straggled back, momentarily shaken, and inhaled a deep breath.
Get yourself together. Get yourself together, or die and lose everything.
He looked around again and found that Smoke had vanished from his side. A shudder coursed through him, a dark premonition woken by his sudden absence.
He found his bearings in time to stop a chain mace from taking off his head. The ugly flail swung inches from his face; he’d have felt the air against his cheeks if he hadn’t had his helm. He dodged backward almost a second too late. The well-armored soldier advanced, but Rowan skirted to the sky and ducked, allowing the flail to swing. Rowan unsheathed his dagger, fast as a lightning strike, and plunged the fine point through the soldier’s chain mail and into his gut. He died at the end of the blade. Rowan withdrew the dagger with a war cry and sheathed it again, the battle fever setting fire to his veins.
The dance began. Uppercut, undercut, jab, parry, slash, sidestep. Soldiers broke beneath his blade left and right.
Rain and the sounds of battle clogged the air. The clashing of swords and the cries of men fighting for their lives. Screams of the dying. Vain prayers and curses. The din crashed together in a dizzying crescendo. Lightning flashed, and the thunder growled like a beast.
An axe came swinging at Rowan, seemingly out of nowhere. Smoke hurdled through and tackled the man with a fierce yelp. He ripped out his throat, flesh and blood filling his mouth. “To me, Smoke,” Rowan yelled, and the Black Wolf battled on.
Twenty-Five
