Maiden's Wolf (In Deception's Shadow Book 3) (5 page)

Beatrice felt
numb, her body a distant thing. In a detached, almost bemused way that had her
wondering if she was somehow going into shock because he was. But they had both
bickered back and forth with equally sharp intelligence, so this distance she
felt from her own body must have been her Larnkin’s doing.

The unusual mode
of mental conversation was almost becoming natural. In the end, she realized he
couldn’t escape without help.

She knew what she
must do.

From an early age,
she’d known she had power; that she wasn’t like other children. She could heal
many things and always felt renewed when she did, but there was another side to
her power. A dark, draining magic which took everything she had to control and
contain, for it always wanted to escape.

Only once before
had she lost control of that power and nearly been consumed by it. She feared
it almost as much as she feared the acolytes. Almost. But the acolytes had
proven themselves a much more monstrous evil.

The power within
her soul was an intelligence that slumbered within her. Only recently had she
started calling it Larnkin. But naming it didn’t mean she understood it any
better or controlled it.

In her heart she
knew her own power wasn’t evil. It wasn’t that she gained any benefit from it.
Perhaps it was merely her inability to control it that made it dangerous.

If the lupwyn had
any chance at survival, then this time she would have to control the power, not
be controlled by it.

She guided her mount
off the road into a small clearing where she dismounted and tied the gelding on
a long enough rope that he could graze. Then, her thoughts turning to what she
must do, she moved a little ways distant so as not to disturb the horse when
she unleashed her magic.

If her own magic
slipped her control, she doubted the horse was a safe distance away, but she
was out of time. Or more to the point, the lupwyn was.

Kneeling,
Beatrice closed her eyes and sought out the link to the male in question. He
was there, his mind still sharp, but his body weakening as the acolytes fed.

Her healer’s mind
noted that the host body showed signs of going into shock as the damage to the
Larnkin increased.

Looking beyond
their patient, to the others surrounding him, together they examined the
acolytes.

She didn’t like
what she found.

Anger flashed
through her soul and Beatrice felt the Larnkin’s growing rage. It reached out
to the lupwyn and shared a greater flow of magic with the victim.

The lupwyn
twitched and grunted in pain, but her Larnkin was unmoved by either hosts’
pain, all its—her, for Beatrice sensed this Larnkin was female—attention was
focused on strengthening the other Larnkin.

Beatrice agreed
with her assessment. Pain was better than death.

Her Larnkin
shoved more power at the poor lupwyn. For the first time, Beatrice sensed they
were winning, the power was flowing into the lupwyn faster than the acolytes
could suck it away again.

Power continued
to build.

Beatrice, her own
senses growing distant, suddenly saw what the lupwyn did.

*****

Acolyte Ironsmith
was weaving his way back into Silverblade’s line of sight. Well actually, the
acolyte wasn’t weaving, that was Silverblade’s vision.

The acolyte
continued to his side in a slow, painful-looking shuffle.

“Elemental, that
was foolish.” He narrowed his eyes at Silverblade. “Why don’t any of your kind
ever just agree to the terms? Why do they all choose death—horrible death? You
cannot win and will be enslaved in the end anyways.”

The acolyte
seemed truly perplexed and mildly grieved by the realization.

“It’s such a
waste.” He shook his head and then reached out to tap Silverblade’s chest. A
dagger had appeared in the acolyte’s fist and he expected to feel the sharp
stab at any moment.

The expected pain
didn’t manifest.

He eyed the
acolyte as Ironsmith began to cut away his weapon harness and leather vest. The
cotton shirt underneath was dealt with next.

“What is this?”
Ironsmith asked and tapped his dagger’s hilt against Silverblade’s chest. “I’ve
never seen one of these before. It’s rich with magic, but a kind foreign to my
master. Although, it glows to my mage sight.”

Silverblade
glanced down at his chest. The skin over his heart had been branded. The mark
still glowed with potent magic as the acolyte said. He had no better idea as to
what it was than the acolyte did. The mark certainly hadn’t been there this
morning when he’d bathed.

“I have one
forming, too,”
the healer added, concern marking
her voice with little inflections of fear.
“I don’t know what it is, but I
think our fates are linked. I also think these marks are about to do something
drastic. If you want to live, I suggest you be ready to run.”

Hope rekindled in
Silverblade’s chest, and it kept pace with the fierce power now spreading out
from that mark, flowing to every corner of his body and soul.

The acolyte
tapped Silverblade on the chest with his dagger’s hilt a second time. “You
don’t have to tell me. There are other ways.”

Ironsmith brushed
back the long sleeve of his robe and exposed a thick, black, metal band encircling
his wrist. A dark red stone was mounted to the band.

It may have
fooled a few onlookers into thinking it was a bracelet or some other
decoration, but Silverblade saw it truly for what it was.

A slave shackle.

Ironsmith pressed
the unnaturally cold metal against Silverblade’s chest, just below the glowing
mage mark.

Immediately, some
of the power swirling in Silverblade’s body was sucked into the black metal.
Ironsmith’s brows knit together and then his eyes grew large and he threw
himself back and to the side.

The two other
acolytes holding Silverblade down were not so lucky and he witnessed the
magic’s destructive force that he’d only sensed before. Power arced out of the
mark on his chest and lashed at every acolyte within reach.

Whatever it touched—be
it rock, tree, or acolyte—blew apart in a cascade of burning shadow and ash.

Silverblade lay
there in shocked disbelief as bits of the gray ash rained down upon him.
Cautiously, he looked around. He’d half-expected to see the forest leveled,
destruction a wide pattern around him. But the nearest tree, only a few body
lengths away, showed no signs of the potent magic’s attack.

However, the
ground in a body length’s diameter around him, was now barren and scorched.

He rolled to his
side, scanning the area. While the foreign fire magic—or whatever it was—had
destroyed the nearest acolytes, several were still picking themselves up off
the ground. Distantly, he could still hear their horses’ hoof beats as they
fled.

Silverblade
didn’t know how many of those horses still possessed riders, but he wasn’t
going to wait around for them to come back and find out first-hand.

Heaving himself
to his feet, he lurched almost drunkenly, but soon found his footing. His
battered body screamed about its many abuses, but he forced himself to take in
the scene with more detail and soon spotted Acolyte Ironsmith. His enemy still
lived. Although he looked to have some severe burns covering a third of his
body, which likely would have killed a human, but he doubted the acolyte could
be considered human any longer.

A quick inventory
of his own wounds showed he was in no shape to finish off the remaining
acolytes. Silverblade also realized he was stuck mid-shift—half-human and
half-lupwyn. But by Light’s mercy, he was alive and not yet enslaved.

And he could
still run, if only on two legs instead of four.

Barely conscious
of the direction he fled, he started away from the acolytes and the carnage
they had caused and headed towards the healer.

As Beatrice expected,
her death magic had obliterated all that it touched. The nearest acolytes had
crumbled, their skin disintegrating and flaking away to nothing. Blood had
misted away as cartilage and bone crumbled to powder. Even the fibers of their
robes had returned to the earth to nourish new life.

As hideous as her
dark power was to behold, it had left nothing for the acolytes’ master to latch
upon and control.

For his part, the
lupwyn took advantage of the distraction and escaped into the forest. The link
between them was weakening, but she could still feel his aches and pains of
both physical and mental variety.

She could no
longer speak to him mind-to-mind—her death magic having damaged the link
between them—but she followed his progress. One part of her mind said it was
too slow, that the remaining acolytes would still catch him. Another part of
her consciousness belonging solely to her Larnkin whispered that if the
acolytes continued to pursue this lupwyn, she’d reduce their bodies back to
base elements.

Beatrice would
have been concerned by her Larnkin’s bloodthirsty essence, but the cost of
using the death magic was creeping up on her body. The cold, the stabbing pain
in every muscle and joint, the nausea and the drumbeat taking up residence in
her head would soon render her useless.

She forced
herself back to her feet and made a relatively straight line to the gelding. Once
there she removed his tack and pulled out a heavy blanket from one of the
saddlebags and then bundling it around her shoulders, she laid down and curled
onto her side.

Her vision grew
dark as she slipped into unconsciousness.

*****

Cold, damp grass was
a poor pillow, Beatrice decided as she sat up. Looking around, she quickly
spotted the gelding still grazing in the small area his lead allowed him to
reach.

The unnatural
cold, nausea, and bone-deep pain were not gone, but diminished enough that she
could function. Unfortunately, they were now kept company by the more mundane
aches and pains caused by sleeping on the bare ground for a few candlemarks. A
glance at the sky showed the sun had continued its track west, and it was now
mid-afternoon. Beatrice stood and hurriedly refolded the blanket and shoved it
back in the saddlebag.

While she sought
out the lupwyn with her healer’s senses, she tacked up the gelding. By the time
the horse was ready, she had a location on the lupwyn.

To her surprise,
he was only a candlemark’s walk to the south of her position. He’d made
surprisingly good time considering the condition he’d been in when he’d started
out. Now he seemed to be unconscious. Likely a result of pushing himself too
hard escaping the acolytes.

She tipped the
gelding’s nose in the direction of the lupwyn. It didn’t matter what condition
he was in. As long as he had a heartbeat, she could fix him.

Beatrice followed
where her magic led. At long last, she finally reached a small glade. This
particular one wasn’t easy to find, well away from any paths or game trails.
But there was a small stream nearby and near its bank, the rather large body of
the lupwyn lay sprawled just above the water line.

Reaching his
side, she continued to scan for danger, but saw nothing and her healer’s magic which
allowed her to ‘feel’ other living beings near, told her there were no living
creatures nearby more dangerous than a deer, a warren of rabbits, and a few
chattering squirrels.

Even if there had
been other dangers close by, she would still have helped him since he was
wounded and in desperate need of aid.

From this angle,
it looked like a wolf had collapsed after taking a drink from the stream,
though she knew he was a lupwyn.

She’d never seen
one up close, but she’d spotted this one in the distance a few times, or more
likely he had allowed her to see him. She knew he was a male because her magic
shared such details with her, and she always thought he was the same one—likely
a scout on patrol. He never attacked or came closer, and she never felt
threatened by him, so they’d always just allowed each other to ghost through
their territories.

As Beatrice got
closer to the fallen male, she saw he didn’t share a resemblance with the one
she’d seen a few times at a distance. This one looked far more human.

He didn’t move at
her approach. Her Larnkin confirmed he was still unconscious. From what she
could tell, he
had
collapsed at the edge of a small stream, driven there
by dehydration, but after he’d quenched his thirst, he had lost the battle
against exhaustion and blood loss.

Well,
Beatrice reflected,
at least having water close at hand would
make cleaning him up an easier task.

Casting a look
around the small clearing, she mentally mapped out the highest and driest area
where she would need to construct temporary shelter and light a fire.

If she had a
choice, she’d forgo the fire, but she would need one to sterilize her equipment
and keep the lupwyn warm. Body heat and blankets alone wouldn’t do much.

She approached
the lupwyn and allowed her healing magic to flow over him. It studied and
catalogued the myriad of his wounds. Those that were internal or deep tissue,
her magic already began to heal. The cuts, abrasions, and deep, penetrating
wounds would need to be cleaned before her power healed the male.

However, all the
lesser wounds would have to wait until she pulled the crossbow bolt out of his
shoulder. She mentally winced. It looked like it had been driven deeper by a
fall, and the metal tip might already have punched through the front of his
shoulder, which would make it easier to remove, but messier than if she’d been
able to do it herself. Regardless, she would deal with that first.

Returning to her gelding,
she removed his tack and went about building a fire. While she did that, her
healer’s magic strengthened the lupwyn and kept him alive as she prepared what
supplies she had with her.

Ideally, she wished
she had a full complement of her herbs and tools, but she only had her small
travel bag. That would just have to do until she and the lupwyn caught up with Old
Mother and the wagon.

*****

Less than half a
candlemark later, the fire was built, water was heating, and her medical tools
were sanitizing next to the fire.

“Well,” she said
to the prone lupwyn, “let’s see if I can get you patched up and on your way
before the acolytes track us down.”

While she hadn’t
sensed any acolytes near after the remaining members had gone back to River’s
Divide, that didn’t mean they wouldn’t return with greater numbers and even
deadlier magic at their command.

She just hoped
she and the lupwyn were long gone by the time the acolytes found this camp.

Giving the lupwyn
one more look over, she used her magic to sense the wounds her eyes could not
discern under his fur. The healing magic had been doing its work and her
patient was growing stronger. Better remove the bolt before the poor bastard
woke up. She could study him and satisfy her curiosity later, after the worst
of his wounds were cleaned and bandaged.

After bathing the
entire area with a warm, cleansing solution to kill foreign invaders and slow
blood loss, she pressed her left hand upon his shoulder, splaying her fingers
around the crossbow bolt’s shaft. With her right, she removed bits of fabric
from around the entry point.

Next she palmed
her sharpest blade, gripped the bolt’s shaft, and sliced it off close to his
flesh.

Shifting his
considerable deadweight wasn’t easy, but she managed to prop him on his side.
As she had expected, the crossbow bolt’s head was already poking through his
flesh. Once she got a good grip on the iron tip, she whispered an apology and
pulled it free of his flesh with steady pressure.

The lupwyn jerked
awake, his deep sound of pain shattering the silence. It was more of a growl
than shout, and the menacing tones made her heart lurch. But she continued to
work, swiftly packing a bit of clean cloth against the wound to slow the blood
flow while her other hand reached for the cleansing solution.

He blinked,
confusion clear in his dazed expression and unfocused eyes. She opened her
mouth to whisper soothing words but he reacted faster, lunging at her. His
fingers with their sharp claws closed around her wrist, digging into the flesh
in a punishing grip. He might look half-human, but he was beastly strong. The
bones of her wrist ground together. His lips parted in a snarl, showing great
white fangs.

Yet he did not
draw blood when he could have broken her skin easily, which she hoped meant he
wasn’t going to snap her wrist or tear out her throat.

Beatrice held
perfectly still and met his gaze. His eyes focused on her face, but his fangs
were still showing between his lips, which wasn’t the most reassuring sight.

“Easy.” It was a
miracle her voice remained calm. “I’m only trying to help. The arrow in your
shoulder had to come out. I need to finish, clean your wounds, and patch you up
before you bleed out or the acolytes find us. Let me finish. Let me help you.”

“Not an acolyte?”
His voice was deep and almost gravelly, but she could understand his words. He
had the wherewithal to speak her language, which she took as a positive sign.

“No. They are my
bitterest rivals. I won’t let them have you, you are my patient now.”

He grunted and
studied her, dragging her closer until they were nose to nose.

“Beatrice? The
human healer.” His eyes closed and his lips parted as he began to pant with
pain. “I won’t be responsible for your death. Go.”

He pushed at her,
perhaps trying to drive her off, but he was too weak, his burst of adrenaline-fueled
strength likely fading. She patted him gently on his uninjured shoulder with
her free hand.

“I won’t go. Nor
are you responsible for any part of my path. If death finds me, then that is
fate, not something you brought about.”

He hissed out
something in his own language. The words were foreign, but the annoyance was
clear. When she still didn’t extract herself from his weakening grip, he
cleared his throat and spit out the words in her language. “Leave me. If you
stay here, we’ll both feed the acolytes’ mad hunger.”

His fingers
loosened and slid free of her wrist. When she glanced down, it was to see what
her healing magic had already told her. He’d passed out again.

It was probably
for the best.

Beatrice reached
for the cleaning rag and the bowl of heated, herb-laced water. What he said
might be logical and she probably should run, but she’d told him the truth as
well.

He was her
patient now and in the vast order of things, it made him hers until she’d
healed him enough that he could rejoin his own people.

She’d just have
to convince the stubborn male of that fact once he woke up.