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Chapter 17
Pellia
Our caravan moves out early, just after dawn. With Verrick and mine’s nightly activities, I am exhausted, but this time I do not even have to ask whether or not I can ride with Verrick. He merely scoops me up in his arms and mounts his warbeast with the ease of a rider of experience. It is not the most dignified position, but I am beyond caring.
As we are about to start our travel, Bronwyn approaches, looking hesitant. Maybe even embarrassed.
“Regent Santir,” she greets, “Regent Verrick, I believe it is time that I bid you farewell.”
That makes me sit up in Verrick’s saddle. “What do you mean, bid us farewell? Will you not continue the tour with us to Grimblton and the surrounding villages?”
She shakes her head. “I’ve really been no help so far. You have been better at cataloging the losses than I am and Regent Verrick needs no help with the investigation. After what happened with Owen . . . “
“Surely, you cannot blame yourself for that. You were as betrayed as we were. Moreso, since he was your friend.”
Bronwyn frowns. “Even so, I feel responsible. I brought him into your midst, and we still don’t know who he was working for or how much information from the investigations and such that he has passed to them. No, I’ve been thinking about it andtalking to Quill and I believe we can do more at home, helping the others prepare for the winter. I thank you for the honor of your invitation to advise you on your tour of the damages, but I believe it must end here.
I go to argue, when Verrick’s hand comes to my shoulder, stopping my words. He murmurs in my ear, “Let her go. We know what waits for us in Grimblton and it will probably be better not to have distractions.”
His argument makes sense and I sigh. “Very well,” I say to Bronwyn. “Though I still do not think that you should blame yourself for Owen’s treachery, I understand what you are saying. Thank you for bringing this problem to light and traveling with us all this time. We wish you safe travels back to Aquilar.”
Then I remember a past conversation and say, “When we get back to the capital, as thanks for your service, we will make you the official new magistrate of Aquilar, in your father’s stead. Look for the letter.”
The peasant woman looks shocked, then curtsies deeply, though a little awkwardly, and says, “Thank you for your consideration. I will serve the crown faithfully, Regent Santir.”
With that, she leaves and Verrick pulls his mount around, heading southeast along the border of the Dense Wood. I lean back in his arms and begin to doze as we ride, comfortable in the knowledge that Verrick would never let me fall.
The day of travel goes like all the others. We stop in the smaller villages to take stock of their losses and pass out relief supplies. Those supplies are running low. I wish I had magic like Queen Adalind so that I could have cast a vault charm on my bags so that they would never grow empty, since it would connect them to stores in the capital. As it is, the wagons in the caravan are looking rather sad and desolate.
As we travel along the Dense Wood, I keep getting the feeling that something is watching us. I tell myself that I am being foolish, that it’s what comes from traveling next to such wild and dangerous place, so I say nothing to Verrick.
Then, just as the sun is setting, we all hear it. The baying ofwerewolves.
“Circle the wagons!” shouts Verrick, “Protect the humans! Faster! We must outpace them!”
The orcs rush to obey his commands, even as he passes me from his warbeast to Friza’s. “Take her to safety. Protect the wagons!”
I realize he’s going to ride into the woods toward the danger and reach out a hand. “No! Verrick!”
But he’s already gone, riding to battle as Friza takes me further away. The wagons of the caravan have created a circle, the humans huddled in the middle; the guards are running to the outside of the circle, joining the orcs. The Royal Mage is with them, air whipping about him in a fierce hurricane as he readies it to be thrown like invisible blades at our enemies. The baying is closer now, all around us. Friza dumps me rather unceremoniously in the center of the servants and says, “Whatever happens, stay here.” Then she is gone as well.
The sound of battle soon rends the air, war cries and screams happening in equal measure. It is hard to see past the wagons, but I try, standing tall amid the cowering servants. I want to see Verrick. He went into battle first, right into the Dense Wood, but the werewolves are here now, fighting the orcs and soldiers protecting us. Does this mean that they avoided him? Or did he fall so soon?
A horrid pit grows in my stomach at the thought of Verrick, wounded or dead. Am I to lose my lover so soon after finally having him?
A splash of blood comes through the protective barriers, staining the ground in droplets. Red, not the orcish black. So human or werewolf. A snarling gets my attention and I whirl around to see an enormous wolf, with a maw like an open cavern, trying to shove its way through the wagons. A second later, an ax is embedded in its skull and it whines before the life goes out of its eyes. Friza appears a moment later, yanking the ax out of the skull and then launching herself back into the fray.
Howling rends the air, each wolf joining in turn. Then I seeflashes of fur running back to the wood whence they came and soon an uncanny stillness is in the air. Are they gone? Have we won? I hear shouts for a healer and move out of the way so that he can answer the call, watching him bustle out of the circle with his assistant behind him. Soon after, I hear the human guards whistle, the sound for all clear, and I break into a run, bursting out from behind the safety of the wagons.
Carnage awaits me as I step onto the battlefield. Dead wolves litter the ground, showing that they fared far worse against us than we did them, though I see some of the guards I brought with me lying still as well. I know each of those guards individually, and I try not to think of who might be dead as I move through the bloodbath, looking for one person in particular.
I find Friza, a gash on her arm, and ask, “Friza! Where is Verrick?”
She wordlessly points behind and I turn to see Verrick exiting the woods astride his warbeast, dead wolves on the ground behind him. It looks like he killed three werewolves himself, but I don’t care about that now. Black blood pours from a wound on his side and another nasty claw mark mars his left arm.
“Verrick! You’re hurt!” I rush to his side.
“I’m fine, little one. They are surface wounds.”
