Wolfsbane Winter (32 page)

The day was almost over. The sun would have set behind the mountains, were it not that clouds had rolled over from the west and covered two-thirds of the sky. Rain or even snow was likely. Fortunately, Alana was almost home. When she rounded the next clump of trees she would be a stone’s throw from her own vegetable patch. Lights from Eldora’s farmhouse glimmered in the dusk, a short way off her route.

Alana’s stride faltered. Should she call in on the way past? Although she had no desire to talk to anyone, it would count as basic politeness. Surely Eldora had been concerned when she and Deryn did not return the previous day. She ought to let them know that she was all right, and maybe give a warning about the danger at hand. It was also the case that if anyone saw light coming from her cottage, then Eldora would be certain to send someone to check on her. Alana sighed and changed course for the farmstead. Much better to get the conversation over now, and on her own terms.

A lone sheepdog whined and barked from the barn as Alana stomped into the farmyard. Even in her preoccupied state, the sound was enough to distract her from brooding about Deryn. She glanced at the closed door. The wooden pole had been slid in place, barring it shut. Had the dog been locked in by mistake? In which case, why had nobody gone to let it out? Maybe it was ill and had been put there in quarantine.

However, now Alana’s attention had been caught, other discrepancies jumped out. No voices came from the farmhouse, and Eldora’s large family was normally anything but quiet. The cows were clustered by the barn, their udders swollen and pendulous. A hoe was lying discarded in the mud by her foot.

Alana came to an uncertain stop and stared down at it. The cows had not been milked, and tools were not something the farmers would neglect and let rust. Something was very wrong. Alana’s stomach contracted in a knot. There had to be other possible explanations for what that something might be, but a sickening dread gripped her.

Alana took a step back and bumped into someone who had crept up behind her. She yelped in shock.

“You don’t really want to go, do you?” A hand landed heavily on her shoulder and a cold edge touched her neck, pressed hard enough to let her feel the blade’s sharpness, although not quite enough to draw blood.

Alana was rooted to the spot, until a shove propelled her toward the farmhouse door.

Martez and the rest of his gang were in the main room, relaxing by the fire and helping themselves to Eldora’s beer and food. They looked up as the door opened.

“Look who I’ve found sneaking around.” A hard thump in the small of her back sent Alana stumbling into the middle of the room.

Martez was the only one who managed to mask his surprise, but Alana felt a degree of satisfaction when she sensed his bout of confusion and alarm. This was one case where she felt no guilt at all in probing inside someone else’s head, and now the talisman was not blurring her perception, the boundaries and nuances were so much clearer, so much easier to read.

Martez was sprawled in his chair, feigning a casual lack of concern, his legs stretched out straight. He snapped his fingers. “Bring her here.”

An outlaw grabbed Alana’s elbow and yanked her forward so she stood scant inches from the tip of Martez’s boots, with her back to the fire. She saw that she was not the only prisoner in the room. Eldora and Jed were bundled in the corner behind the door, their wrists and ankles tied. There was no sign of the rest of the family. Alana prayed they were unharmed. The memory of what had happened to Deryn’s family flashed through her mind. The floor did not show any bloodstains, but it was no guarantee. A better guide was that although Eldora was scared and angry, she was not grief-stricken.

The four other members of Martez’s gang had taken positions around the walls, watching eagerly. Their mood of savage anticipation did not auger well.

“There was another way out of the Witch-Lord’s tomb.” Martez reclaimed her attention. He took a deep swig from his tankard, looking thoughtful. “Silly of me. I should have checked. I guess I let myself get a touch overexcited by my new toys.”

“What are you doing here?”

Martez shook his head, mimicking disbelief. “My first thought is that you don’t seem to have grasped the situation. I’m the one who gets to ask questions. And my second thought is you must be very stupid. Isn’t it obvious? I’m taking over. Whatever I want is mine.”

“The marshals might have something to say about that.”

“I don’t think so. Any marshals with sense will be taking my orders pretty soon. With the Witch-Lord’s weapons, I think I can take care of any that don’t. I’m going to be the new ruler around here. But I won’t be greedy. I’ll become king of Neupor. Oakan as well…Sattle if I feel like it. That’ll do me.”

You don’t know what you’re up against. Any half-competent fire-mage will turn you to smoldering ash before you can grab your weapons.
Alana did not say it. This far from Ellaye, the demon-spawn nobility were little more than a distant fable. Most commoners did not understand the power they wielded, and nothing would be achieved by Alana trying to explain, other than putting herself at risk. Martez was insane with self-love. He would not believe her because he did not want to. Alana could tell that much from the swirl of his emotions.

Martez could defeat the marshal’s men. Sergeant Nevin would present no obstacle at all. Maybe a weak demon-spawn marshal might not be up to the challenge that the magical weapons posed. This did not mean that King Alvarro II would sit back and let an upstart fool carve a chunk off Galvonia. Whatever weaknesses he might have, Alvarro was a very good fire-mage. The outlaws would stand no chance. Alana’s guess was Martez and all his gang would be dead inside a month. The only issue was to limit the damage they did before then.

Martez’s smile broadened. “Now we have the rules sorted. My first question. Where’s your friend?”

“I don’t know.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“We parted when we got out of the forest. She said she was going to get help. She didn’t tell me any more of her plans.”

“How about if I see if I can do something to improve your memory?” Martez stood and stretched lazily. His wide yawn added to the theatrical display of nonchalance. “You remember these, don’t you?”

The Witch-Lord’s sword and shield were propped against the side of his chair. Martez, patted them, as if they were pets, then scooped the helmet up from where it hung over the armrest.

A wave of fear swept around the room, so sharp that Alana flinched. In the corner, Jed whimpered, which tied in with the strongest epicenter of the emotion, but even the gang members were terrified. Clearly Martez had been using the helmet to intimidate Eldora’s family, and any attempt to protect his own followers had failed.

But had he really tried, Alana wondered. She could feel his love of power, the joy he took in dominating others, the pleasure he felt in causing suffering. Had he also enjoyed scaring his own followers? Did he feel more secure, thinking he had intimidated them into obeying him without question?

Martez took a half-step toward her and smiled, waving the helmet tauntingly. “What do you think? If I put this helmet on, will your memory improve? Will you be able to remember where your friend with the twitchy knife hand is?”

The farmhouse door crashed open with the force of a kick.

“You don’t need to ask Alana where I am. I can tell you myself.” Deryn stood in the doorway.

Martez spun to face her. A bolt of disbelief shot through him, surely due in part to Deryn’s dramatic arrival, and in part to the unmistakable shimmering blue light that played over the bow, half drawn in her hands. His surprise was followed by a quiver of doubt, which was in turn washed away by anger and then malice. Alana could trace them all, as clearly as it they were laid out on a page. She could not be fooled by his manner, which did not waver in its disdainful self-assurance.

“Oh good. That’ll save us having to leave the fire to find you. I’ve spent too much of the last few years being cold.”

“You’ll be warm enough in hell.”

“So I’ve been told. But you’ll get to find out before me.”

“This is the Witch-Lord’s bow.”

“I guessed, but there are five of us. You won’t be able to kill us all.”

“I’ll shoot the first one that moves. I’ll probably get the second one as well. Who wants to try their luck?”

Alana held her breath. Would the desperate bluff work? And it was a bluff, because if the outlaws thought about it, they had little to lose by charging at Deryn as a group. True, she would kill one or two, but not all. Whereas, if they threw down their weapons and allowed themselves to be taken prisoner, then they would all assuredly hang. Yet none seemed willing to take the lead, and when there was no reply, Deryn continued.

“Okay. You can put that helmet down on the floor, but make sure you do it very slowly. Any sudden movement and I might just let go of this bowstring.”

Deryn’s eyes were darting back and forth, covering all the outlaws in the room, but she kept the bow trained steadily on Martez. The outlaw leader was frozen, looking at the Witch-Lord’s helmet in his hands, as if he was evaluating his chances, but then he started to lower it.

A loud clank from the corner made Alana jump. One of the bandits had knocked a pewter tankard onto the floor, either by accident or as a diversion. Deryn’s head snapped toward the sound and the bow started to follow. Alana could tell that it was only a split-second lapse in the Iron Wolf’s concentration, but that was all Martez needed. He ducked to the side, out of the line the blue arrow that flashed harmlessly across the room, while at the same time slipping the helmet over his head.

Screams of terror erupted all around. Deryn sank to her knees, her face twisted in horror. Despite the fact that his own followers were affected as much as anyone else, Martez was unconcerned. He rested his fists on his hips and threw back his head, laughing in delight at the power he wielded. The helmet was not a weapon for anyone who wanted to keep their friends around. Yet the fear it projected was merely a rootless overlay, feeding off nothing. Alana could read it as easily as Martez’s emotions, and she could see its foundation and its limits. Without effort, she blocked it from her mind.

Martez had his back to her, confident that she presented no greater threat than anyone else in the room. Despite the advantage of surprise this gave her, Alana needed a weapon of some sort. Martez was tall and well built. Living rough in the wilderness showed no sign of weakening him and he would be able to overpower her easily in a straight fight, even without the Witch-Lord’s sword, which he now picked up. He sauntered across the room, idly swinging the sword, like a cow herder waving a switch, but his intentions toward Deryn had nothing idle about them.

Alana had mere seconds to act, and the only thing at hand was a pile of cut wood, laid ready beside the hearth. She grabbed a heavy log, a foot and a half long and thick enough that the fingers of both hands could barely touch around it. At least she did not need to worry about moving stealthily. Martez stood no chance of hearing her over the uproar of screaming and crying.

As well as its magical ability, the helmet would surely fulfill the normal function of protecting Martez’s head. Alana swung her makeshift club down with all the strength she could muster, striking him square across his shoulders at the base of the neck. Martez stumbled to his knees, dropping the sword. Alana tossed aside the log, clasped the helmet in both hands, and ripped it from his head.

The Witch-Lord had not gone merely for show when creating his magic devices. The helmet was made of half-inch-thick steel, heavy in Alana’s hands. She raised it up and then swung it down, cracking the kneeling outlaw over the back of his head. Martez keeled over like a felled tree.

Still, the danger was far from over. Across the room, Deryn was still on her knees, shaking her head as if to clear it. When she looked up, her eyes were dazed. The full force of the helmet had been directed at her and she was recovering slower than the others in the room.

The female outlaw was the first to seize the advantage. She yelled a challenge and charged while ripping a dagger from its sheath on her belt. The distance between her and Deryn was a matter of three paces, giving no time to stand or fully draw the bow. Deryn loosed an arrow from half set, with the bow held horizontal at her waist. Even so, her aim was good enough to hit its target. The blue arrow vanished as it struck and the woman screamed and spun away, her left hand clasping her right shoulder. Blood streamed between her fingers.

A second outlaw also rushed the door, only to trip and fall. Alana was still looking for the cause and to see if he would rise again, when the helmet was batted from her grasp. Martez was back on his knees.

The helmet rolled across the floor. Martez scrambled after it, but he had left the sword where it had fallen. Alana bent and scooped it up. She struck out, intending to do no more than use the extended reach to flick the helmet out of Martez’s grasp, but she did not allow for the sword’s heaviness or keenness. The weight pulled on her wrist and the tip of the blade sagged groundward, failing to reach the helmet. It did not matter. The sword sliced through the flagstones as if they were paper. Martez’s flesh offered no more resistance. He yelled in pain and snatched his bleeding left hand back from his prize, leaving three fingers behind on the floor.

Footsteps sounded to Alana’s right. She whirled around. The outlaw planted his feet firmly, his sword held out before him. The point flicked left then right, drawing Alana’s eyes with it, and then he leapt forward, thrusting the blade directly at her. Alana’s guts contracted in a spasm. She did not have any sort of martial training. She could not parry to save her life, and that was exactly what she had to do—or would have, had she been holding a normal sword.