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“SILENCE!”

Not a sound was heard until… the hounds began to howl and did not stop.

The monks clasped their hands together and bowed their heads in prayer while the warriors turned their eyes on Varrick, some waiting for orders and others unsure.

The howls lasted longer than they ever did and when they finally stopped, Abbott John hurried to speak. “I beg you, my lord, burn the witch before it is too late for your clan. She is not here to help you. She is here to help the God of Death.”

“Dare to speak those words again, Abbott John, and it will be you who burns at the stake,” Varrick threatened, fighting not to bolt over the table and strangle the man.

The door burst open, and a warrior ran in and to the dais, trying to speak but too breathless to do so.

Argus approached the warrior. “Calm yourself, Worth, so you may speak.”

Varrick recognized the young warrior. He was a sentinel at one of the farthest outposts.

Worth shook his head, letting Argus know there was no time to wait and spoke through heaving breaths. “A large troop rides this way.”

“Do you know who?” Varrick asked.

“Nay, my lord, but I do know they are prepared for battle.”

“The God of Death is ravenous tonight. He will claim us all! Burn the witch and end this,” the Abbott called out.

“The Abbott is right,” the warrior who had spoken up called out.

“Aye,” another warrior agreed. “You told us you would burn her. You lied. She bewitched you.”

“You know it must be done. Do it now. Lead them wisely,” Abbott John urged.

Warrior monks.

Varrick turned to his wife, and she saw that he had also heard the voice in her head, and she nodded to confirm it.

“ATTACK!” Varrick roared just as the monks drew their daggers. “Stay behind me,” he ordered his wife as he kicked her chair away from the table so he could step in front of her as he drew his dagger from his belt and did not hesitate to toss it with perfect aim at the Abbott.

The dagger caught him in the shoulder just before he had a chance to extract the dagger buried in the sleeve of his robe, the force knocking him off his feet.

Varrick kept his wife shielded with his body as he surveyed the room. His warriors had made sure that it was over before it even got a chance to start. Half of the monks lay dead, and the other half wounded.

“The Abbott was right about one thing… the God of Death is ravenous tonight,” Argus said, reaching down to yank Varrick’s dagger out of the Abbott.

The Abbott screamed and writhed in agony. “Fools, all of you! Lord Varrick is bewitched. He will lead you to your deaths!”

Argus swung his fist, landing it on the Abbott’s jaw and knocking him out cold.

Varrick turned, seeing what he expected to see, his wife hurrying out of the chair.

“I must see to the wounded,” she said.

“They are the enemy. They came here with intentions to kill. I care not if they die,” Varrick said.

“But what if there is more that they can tell you?” she asked.

His handsome face pinched in anger. “Their wounds do not need tending for me to find that out. Besides, they believe you are a witch. They would use their last breath to kill you if given the chance.” He ran his hand down her arm to give her hand a gentle squeeze. “You asked me to trust your knowledge when it came to healing as you would trust my knowledge when it came to battle. This was a battle, a small one, but a battle nonetheless.”

That he reminded her of what she, herself, had said to him had her nodding, pleased he had seen the wisdom in it. “Aye, husband, you are right, and I trust you on this.”

Varrick turned to Argus. “You and Lloyd take the monks to the dungeon.” To Corwin and Marsh, he said, “Prepare our warriors and the village for a possible attack.” His eyes held anger as he let his glance fall on each of his warriors. “And, Argus, take the warriors who spoke out against me and put them in the dungeon until I decide what is to be done with them.”

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