Page 50 of Wolf Duke

Alaric. Help me.

Alaric!

Chapter

Eleven

When Leto was displeased, she made it painfully obvious.

Alaric rubbed his jaw as he watched the guard attempt a horseshoe repair; it was either that or he would commence destroying an entire woodland with his sword.

He’d been defeated by a damned flag, his horse had thrown a shoe and pulled up lame barely a mile from Huntington, and worst of all, his mate was vexed with him and he wasn’t entirely sure why. Evaine’s curt replies had stung a little, but when she’d grimaced and declined to kiss him after he’d won his sword fight, he’d known true hurt. The bone-deep hurt of rejection from the only wolf he couldn’t bear rejection from. He’d grown used to Theda closing her door; everyone knew she avoided his touch. But Evaine had always loved it, any time, anywhere. Not just in bed, but casual touch like embraces or holding hands, or when he cupped her cheek.

His mate was now the center of his existence and it went far beyond friendship, affection, lust or even the soul-joining of bonded fated mates. No, this was entirely in his chest. In his heart, where all those damned emotions that he’d suppressed as a diplomat resided. The seal had been broken and they’d surged free. He could feel. He could love. And he loved Evaine.

Alaric blinked, the thought so startling he almost tripped over his own feet as the faint sound of windchimes tinkled in his ears.

Wait. Windchimes?

“Evie?” he said slowly, actually tapping his temple as the windchimes grew louder and louder. “Evie?”

“Alaric!”

Alarm surged through him at the urgency in her voice. “What happened? Is the tower under attack?”

“I’m not in the tower. Blanche and I are in Huntington. We’ve been taken prisoner by Larkin and Silas. They locked us in a stable and have a crossbow with silver bolts. But Larkin is throwing pitch around. They are going to set the stable alight. Goddess, they’ve both lost their minds. But they said they want to break you.”

Once again, that startling, ice-cold calmness draped around Alaric like another cloak. He turned to two of the guards. “Ride for the tower like your lives depend upon it. Bring all the weapons you can. I’ll summon the warriors and Chester’s Guard. We are returning to Huntington and going to war. Queen Evaine and Mistress Blanche have been taken and imprisoned in a stable there. GO.”

The two males bolted away.

“They have Mother?” said Wesley, his face ashen.

“Yes,” said Alaric, briefly gripping his squire’s shoulder. “You must be braver than you’ve ever been. As must I.”

Wesley closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, there was a certain hardness, a certain determination that said the wolfling was no more. Here was a young warrior, ready to fight. “Just tell me what to do.”

Nodding in satisfaction, Alaric threw back his head and roared a call to battle. Even to his own ears the sound soared and shook the heavens, and shortly afterward came the sweet echo of wolves answering his war cry. They had heard and were on their way.

Concentrating fiercely, Alaric searched for the link to Evaine once more. “Sweetheart, we’re coming.”

A reply came, but it was faint. “Hurry, Alaric.”

“Take this horse, my king,” said one of the remaining guards. “I’ll change and run beside you.”

Never had Alaric been so nimble as he switched mounts. Then they galloped toward Huntington, uncaring of the wind and icy cold, both he and Wesley crouched low as they urged their horses on. Twice more, Alaric roared, a sound for his warriors to follow with their keen hearing. Soon they reached a small rise, one that offered a clear view of the surrounding area. Already there were wolves gathering behind him, some wearing black-and-gold livery and armed on horseback, others in wolf form prowling the grounds. The Chester Guard came from all over Cheshire and could form at a moment’s notice.

Unfortunately, in the distance, he could see several lines of mercenaries. But between him and them: the stables where Evaine and Blanche were being held. Goddess. They would be at the center of the battle.

Abruptly a wolf bounded up and crouched low in deference. “My king, I bring news. There appears to be at least two hundred well-armed mercenaries, but…”

“But what?” said Alaric impatiently.

“Advancing from the rear, warriors wearing the green and white of the Eastern Lands and flying Saville’s crest. They probably marched from Sheffield.”

Fury burned in his gut. Did Guy Saville lead them? Did the murdering usurper dare encroach on the Western Lands wearing the sacred ancient colors of the de Wynters? Of course he would dare. Especially with such regular, valuable notes arriving from Silas and Larkin, telling him exactly where the royal progression was, and the closest location to send Eastern warriors from.

“Share this message from me,” said Alaric. “Queen Evaine and Mistress Blanche are being held captive in those stables over there. They face the threats of silver crossbow and burning; I understand pitch has already been thrown. Collect buckets and fill them from the River Dee. I want a chain stretching to swiftly extinguish flames if needed. I know this place is fairly isolated, but there may be humans around and they do not deserve to lose everything they have to fire.”