Page 47 of Wolf Duke

“Goddess,” whispered Wesley. “It’s Silas!”

Alaric cursed under his breath. Despite what he’d said to Evaine, even riding here, he’d hoped Larkin’s behavior was innocent; just unlucky coincidences and a chamberlain trying to purchase better-quality meat. Or at worst, a lust-addled bachelor foolishly abandoning his duties to rut with a pretty female. But no. Larkin was a bloody traitor. He was the reason that walking sack of shit Silas had been able to send a note, then approach and threaten, the Queen of the Western Lands. Larkin was the reason their enemy always knew where they were.

The two males were even exchanging notes right now!

“Aye, would you look at that,” said one of Alaric’s guards with a low whistle. “So brazen.”

“What orders, my king?” asked Wesley, moving restlessly in his saddle. “Attack and kill them all?”

“Not yet,” said Alaric. “First, let’s send them a gift of flaming arrows. If the cart and cottage are ablaze, we’ll soon know how many there are. Wesley, I want you to shoot. You can crouch behind that small rise there.”

His squire appeared briefly startled, then a huge grin lit up his face. After sliding from his horse, Wesley pulled his bow from its narrow wooden tube. He flexed his fingers and tested the string several times before turning back to Alaric, a look of grave concentration on his youthful face. “I’m ready, my king.”

The second guard began preparing the arrows, first wrapping a short length of linen just beneath the head, then expertly dipping it in pitch. The third guard struck a flint against a rock until it created sparks, and once they had a flame, carefully lit an arrow before passing it to Wesley.

“Off you go, boyo,” said Alaric. “Show us your arm. I know you’ve been practicing.”

His squire’s first attempt was short, landing harmlessly in mud, and Wesley’s shoulders slumped. But he swiftly tried again, the second arrow flying straight into the cart and setting a pile of straw alight. The third scorched across the cottage roof, and the fourth, a truly admirable shot, sailed directly in the large open window. There was a yelp from inside the cottage, and two more males dashed out. Ah. Five in total.

“Wesley, fire at will,” growled Alaric as he unsheathed his sword. “We’ll ride around and meet those who flee with blades. Take Silas and Larkin alive, if possible—the rest are worthless. For the West!”

“For the West!” the guards and Wesley cheered.

Anticipation coursing through his veins, Alaric urged his horse forward. He crouched low as he kicked hard, the mighty steed galloping through the trees as though equally eager to spill blood. Already three of the enemy were attempting to escape on foot, while Larkin and Silas both had horses.

“You take the runners,” called Alaric. “I’ll go after Larkin and Silas.”

Two guards nodded and expertly veered right to follow the three on foot. Alaric galloped on, and was soon nearly side by side with Larkin. The chamberlain might be competent inside a castle, but had never enjoyed riding. “Halt!”

Larkin turned his head and went ashen. “My king…”

“Traitor,” Alaric snarled, leaning left to slash at the other wolf with his sword.

The chamberlain screeched in pain as blood oozed from his side, but somehow managed to keep his seat. Then he reached down and pulled a length of heavy fabric from his saddlebag, before tossing it not at Alaric…but over the head of Alaric’s mount. Immediately blinded, the horse reared in panic, and it took every bit of Alaric’s strength and skill to hang on as his mount bucked and tossed its head. Eventually he was able to dislodge the fabric—to add insult to injury, a Beaumont flag—and calm his horse, but when he looked around, the two males he’d been pursuing were gone.

Alaric roared in frustration. So damned close but they’d slipped through his fingers. The one thought that cheered him: perhaps Larkin would succumb to his wound. Without the Book of Lore’s protection, only wolves with royal blood had immunity to everything except beheading with a blade of pure silver.

But in truth, he’d failed. Two traitors might well return to sanctuary in the Eastern Lands, or rejoin their pack of mercenaries, wherever they were. Damn them both.

Very reluctantly, Alaric turned his horse and galloped back to the burning cottage.

Wesley rode up to meet him. “My king, are you well? I thought for certain you would be thrown!”

“I’m quite well,” he replied, thoroughly irritated. “I just pray to Leto that Larkin’s side wound grows putrid. How did the others fare?”

“Three enemy hearts to burn,” said his squire. “We’ll get Larkin and Silas next time, I swear it. I should have accompanied you and fired arrows directly into their arses.”

“You’ve a great talent with the bow,” said Alaric gruffly. “That arrow in the window…I could not have done better.”

Wesley flushed bright red. “I much prefer bow to sword. I would piss my hose if I faced you in battle.”

“Fortunately we’re on the same side,” he replied, cuffing his squire on the shoulder. “Now, that weak sun is not yet high in the sky, so let’s return to the tower and I’ll dispatch new orders.”

Soon they were six again, riding in tight formation. No one had charged to assist their enemy, but any manner of creature could be lurking, just waiting for a chance to ambush them.

“Will you tell Mother?” asked Wesley unexpectedly.

Alaric raised a brow. “Do you want me to?” he countered.