Wolfsbane

  Also by N.J. Layouni

  Tales of a Traveler

  Hemlock

  Wolfsbane

  Ironheart: Anselm's Tale

  A Scruple of Saffron. (A novella)

  King's Errand

  Tales of a Traveler Book Two: Wolfsbane

  Copyright © 2014 by N. J. Layouni. All rights reserved.

  Second Epub Edition: February 2016

  Edits suggested by Red Adept

  Cover and Formatting: Streetlight Graphics

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  Dedicated to all those who dare to give life to a dream

  CHAPTER ONE

  Vadim opened his eyes then groaned. His eyelids felt swollen and gritty, and his head pounded with the force of a hundred battering rams. Bile churned in his stomach, the slightest movement enhancing the unpleasant sensation.

  Although he could not recall how he had gotten there, he lay stretched out upon the narrow cot in the hunting lodge. It must be evening, for shadows cast by the fire flickered and danced upon the wooden walls. With a growl of discomfort, he shielded his eyes. Even the darkness seemed too bright. Erde! How his head ached. The quiet murmurs of his comrades as they sat talking beside the fire made him hiss with discomfort.

  Where was Martha?

  As memory returned, a hot wave of shame washed over him. The way he had spoken to her earlier was unforgivable. How could he face her? ’Twas hardly the way a loving husband ought to speak to his new bride. What must she think of him?

  Of course, Vadim knew the cause of his loutish behavior, the symptoms were all too familiar, but that did not make his guilt any easier to bear. Why, after such a long absence, had the malady of battle sickness returned to plague him? It had been several years since it had last visited him. Naively, perhaps, he had begun to think himself cured.

  Now it was back, and the effects much worse than he had recalled. Perhaps his recent injury had somehow reawakened the inner beast. Whatever the reason, poor Martha had taken the brunt of his unmannerly behavior. He had to speak to her, to make amends if he could.

  “Are you awake, m’lord?”

  Vadim grunted in response, wishing Reynard’s voice was less painful to his sensitive ears.

  “Here.” He heard the sound of something being placed on the floor beside the bed. “I have made up a batch of your usual infusion. It is your head that ails you, I take it?”

  “Mmm.” And not just his head. Even his teeth ached.

  “I shall leave you to recover in peace.”

  Please do. But for the love of mercy, depart quietly.

  Without bothering to open his eyes, Vadim stretched out his arm and tapped his fingertips over the wooden floor until he encountered a tall drinking vessel. He curled his fingers about the warm pot. Instantly, the sweet aroma of infused herbs assaulted his nostrils, reviving him even before the tankard touched his lips.

  Thank the Spirits for Reynard and his remedy.

  The effects of the herbal concoction were blessedly swift. Almost as he finished the last drop, Vadim felt the unyielding pressure behind his eyes begin to ease. Feeling a little more like himself, he sat up and swung his legs to the floor slowly, in order to avoid jarring his sensitive skull. He winced as the wooden bed creaked beneath him.

  Reynard turned to look at him from his place by the hearth. “Excellent. There is life in you yet. Come over and sit by the fire, m’lord. Young Fergus has prepared a fine rabbit stew for supper.”

  Food? Vadim’s stomach rebelled at the mere thought of it.

  He shuffled over to where his friends sat by the fire, his legs wobbling beneath him like a newborn colt’s while his head swayed painfully on its fragile stalk.

  Fergus leapt up as Vadim approached, immediately surrendering his seat so that he could sit down. With a grateful sigh, Vadim crumpled onto the chair and leaned back, closing his eyes for a brief, blissful moment.

  “Are you hungry, m’lord?” Fergus asked.

  With great reluctance, Vadim forced his eyelids to open.

  “Take this.” Fergus thrust a wooden bowl at him, his gappy front teeth glinting red in the firelight. “A little food will do you a power of good.”

  Erde! Vadim recoiled, his spine pressing up hard against the chair’s back. The bowl was filled to the brim with a steaming stew, but the lad might as well have presented him with dish of rotting entrails. A glistening, greasy slick floated on the watery surface of the stew, adding to its unwholesome look. A wave of nausea assaulted him, and hot bile flooded his throat. With effort, he managed to swallow it back down. He could not hurt the lad’s feelings.

  With as much grace as he could muster, he extended his trembling hand and took the bowl from Fergus. “Thank you,” he murmured.

  Reynard ruffled the lad’s mop of carroty hair, smiling with affection. “Go and check outside, boy. I need to speak with Vadim for a moment.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  Vadim envied the lad his energy as he bounded away to do his father’s bidding. He slammed the cabin door hard behind him.

  As soon as Fergus was gone, Reynard took the bowl from Vadim’s unresisting hand. “Let me take that for you.” He emptied the bowl’s contents back into the stewpot that hung beside the fire. The accompanying slopping noise sounded like the patter of falling vomit. “I had not the heart to tell him you would be unable to eat.”

  “Thank you, my friend.” Vadim swallowed hard and took a deep breath. “The lad meant well. He was not to know.”

  “Rest easy for a while,” Reynard said, settling back in his chair. “You will rally again soon enough.”

  Vadim sincerely hoped so. He had forgotten just how terrible a bout of battle sickness could be.

  They both stared into the fire’s swaying, crackling flames, but as the moments lengthened, Reynard’s silence struck Vadim as peculiar. He darted a sideways glance at his friend. Why was he so unnaturally quiet? Was something amiss?

  “How long has it been?” the older man asked at length, his gaze still fixed on the fire’s dancing flames.

  “Hmm?”

  “Since you last suffered from battle sickness?”

  Reynard’s question took him by surprise. “A while,” Vadim admitted. Why would he ask such a thing? Certain subjects were taboo, even between good friends. Was nothing sacred now?

  Reynard fidgeted in his seat, appearing equally ill at ease. “Perhaps we might... talk about it?”

  “What?” Vadim jerked upright in his chair, and a sudden bolt of bright pain flashed inside his aching skull, but he was too aghast to heed it. “Why i
n the name of the Great Spirit would we want to do that?”

  Reynard stared determinedly into the fire. Beneath his neat gray beard, his skin appeared suspiciously red. “We might both... b-benefit from it.”

  Throbbing head dismissed, Vadim regarded Reynard with growing concern. “Have you taken a blow to the head, my friend? Indeed, I cannot imagine why—”

  “Oh, forgive me, m’lord.” At last, Reynard looked at him at last, his face stricken with shame. “I promised I would attempt to broach the subject with you, but I fear I must break my word.”

  Vadim smiled and relaxed back in his chair. Suddenly, Reynard’s behavior made sense. “Martha, I take it?” His friend’s unseemly breach of protocol reeked of his beloved wife’s meddling. Nothing was beneath her notice—no subject too delicate to be tackled. And that was but one of the many things he loved about her. “Be at ease, my friend. You have done my lady’s bidding. Let us leave this alone now.”

  Reynard sighed, but looked a good deal happier. “Your lady can be most persuasive,” he said with a smile.

  “Well do I know it, to my cost.” A sound from outside drew his attention. Barking? That had to be Forge; the dog’s booming bark was unmistakable. Vadim’s smile faltered. “Did Martha leave Forge behind when she returned to Darumvale?” If so, it was most unusual.

  “No, m’lord. He returned earlier, by himself.”

  A stab of ice pierced Vadim’s heart. His blood chilled, flowing like water in his veins.

  “We tied him outside so his whining would not disturb your rest,” Reynard continued. “Fergus must have woken hi—”

  “How long ago did he return?” Vadim battled to keep his voice calm as a fist of fear twisted his innards.

  “Only a few hours—”

  “A few hours?” Vadim leapt to his feet, clutching the back of the chair for support as the room pitched like a boat in a storm. No. No. No! Regaining his balance, he staggered for the door. “We must hasten to Darumvale.” Please let me not be too late.

  “Now? But you can barely stand, m’lord.” Reynard hovered beside him like a mother hen, his face etched with concern.

  Leaning his forehead against the wooden door, Vadim clenched his eyes tight, willing his body to serve him. “Do you not see, man?” he growled. “Martha and Forge are never apart. Not unless…” He could not say it, did not want to imagine it.

  Unless. That one small word contained unthinkable sorrow. He clutched Reynard’s arm. “Drag me there if you have to, but I must go to Darumvale.” His voice betrayed his panic, but he did not care. “Now!”

  The lights of the village came into view at last, and every hope in his heart died, withering and crumbling into dust like the last leaf of autumn.

  “At least we will not have to waken them,” Fergus remarked cheerfully as he drew his mask over his face. “The entire village is aglow.”

  “Aye.” Reynard squeezed Vadim’s shoulder in a futile attempt to comfort him. “And that should be a warning to you, lad.”

  No one should have been awake at that late hour.

  Cursing violently, Vadim leaned heavily upon his staff. Even with the aid of his friends, it had taken them an age to descend the familiar trail to the village. Too long. He should have sent Reynard and Fergus on ahead. But in his heart, he knew it would not have made any difference.

  He drew a deep breath. The village lights were certainly an ill omen. Even from where they stood, and hampered by the lingering effects of his weakness, Vadim scented trouble on the wind. Whatever the danger was, his instincts told him that it had now passed. For the villagers, at least.

  Forge whined and bounded down the narrow path ahead of them. Without speaking to his companions, Vadim set out after him. The other men followed silently in his wake.

  Swords drawn, they pushed open the doors of the Great Hall. Despite the late hour, Seth’s home was full of people. Everyone turned, gaping at Vadim, his apparent resurrection soliciting many loud cries of shock and wonderment.

  Ignoring them all, his eyes sought but one person in the oppressive sea of faces before him. Like a swarm of bees, the crowd enveloped him. Buzzing, unwelcome voices, all of them talking at once, each one competing to be the first heard. But, to him, their words were a mangled gibberish. He had not the will to translate the painful noise.

  Be here, my love. Craning his neck, Vadim peered over the heads of the villagers, seeking Martha.

  “Where is Seth?” Reynard shouted to be heard over the cacophony of excited voices. “Is Martha amongst you?”

  Vadim replaced his sword. Weapons were of no use here. Not now. He was grateful for the company of his two friends. Their sturdy presence shielded him at either side from being jostled by the excited villagers.

  “He took her—”

  “The earl and Anselm—”

  “—back along the North Road.”

  Only certain words penetrated Vadim’s consciousness, but they confirmed all his fears in a sickening moment of clarity. Now he understood what had happened. The truth was stark and all too clear.

  She is gone.

  No longer did he search the crowd with hungry eyes. Instead, he leaned heavily upon his staff, suddenly sick and weary to his very soul.

  “Vadim?” Seth pushed his way through the crush of villagers. “Please, friends,” he cried, addressing them. “Step back. Let them breathe, at least.”

  Vadim met Seth’s eyes. The sorrow on the older man’s face almost exactly mirrored his own.

  At the command of their chief, the villagers gradually quieted and then dispersed. Reynard and Fergus directed many of them in the direction of Seth’s plentiful ale casks.

  At last, Vadim could hear again. “Was she taken unharmed?” he asked Seth, inwardly flinching at the thought of Martha in pain.

  “Aye. I believe so, lad.”

  Vadim arched his eyebrows. “You believe so?”

  “They had me under guard at Mother Galrey’s,” Seth replied. “But Bren tells me…” Then he faltered and glanced at the ground.

  “Go on.” Vadim clenched his teeth, steeling himself to hear the worst.

  “The earl…struck her. Only once, across her face,” he added swiftly. “But your lady took the hit without making a sound.”

  That low growling noise, Vadim realized, was coming from his own throat. A fog of red rage engulfed him. No longer stooping and weary, he gripped his walking staff with both hands and bent it, imagining that it was the earl’s scrawny neck. The wood gave a creak of protest, then splintered.

  “He struck my woman?”

  Seth blinked and took a step back. “But sh-she recovered, m’lord. By all accounts, the tongue lashing she gave Anselm and his master was—”

  “Where is Bren?”

  “At home. Now, Vadim.” Seth circled around him as he cast down the broken pieces of his staff and marched for the door. “Her children are at home. If she sees you this way—”

  “Bren has nothing to fear from me.” He threw open the doors and stalked out into the night. The earl’s safety, however, was another matter entirely.

  I am sorry, Lissy, but I can no longer uphold my vow. Forgive me, my sister.

  The current Earl of Edgeway’s days were numbered. Come what may, only one of them would walk away from their next encounter. Vadim prayed that his sister would understand.

  Despite the late hour, Bren answered her door swiftly. She was still dressed for the day.

  “M’lord.” She seemed unsurprised to see Vadim standing on her threshold. Her lips twitched as if she meant to smile then thought better of it. “It heartens me to see you alive and walking around again.”

  “Bren.” Vadim battled to quell his impatience. The poor woman had suffered enough recently. “I was grieved to hear about Jared. He was a good man.”

  “Aye.” The mention of her d
ead husband summoned a flash of tears to her eyes, but just as quickly, they were gone. He could only admire Bren’s strength.

  He saw her two youngest children behind her, lying on their stomachs by the fire, while young Will reclined in a rocking chair. By the looks of it, the family had been sharing a late supper and playing a game of counters; he recognized the square-checked cloth and gaming pieces on the floor.

  Bren turned her head, following his gaze. “They needed something to divert them before bed. Today has not been kind to any of us. Watch your brother and sister for me a moment, Will lad,” she called, then stepped outside, gently pulling the door closed behind her. “What is it you need to know, m’lord?” she asked.

  Anyone could have told him all that he wanted to know. But because Bren was Martha’s friend, he especially valued her words.

  The older woman’s no-nonsense commentary was a sharp contrast to the excited gathering back at the Great Hall. In her usual blunt manner, Bren told him everything without embellishment.

  Vadim listened without interrupting. His heart swelled with pride when he learned how Martha had taken the earl and Anselm to task. Despite his sorrow, he smiled when he heard all the terrible things she had said to them. Her capacity for such bravery he had never doubted.

  But there was something he still did not understand. Why had she baited the earl so badly? Why go to such lengths to convince the earl and Anselm that Vadim was dead? By telling the truth, Martha might have spared herself a beating. Anyone foolish enough to venture into the hills would have been swiftly dealt with. There was no good reason for her not to reveal his hiding place. Why had she not done so?

  He must have spoken his thoughts out loud, for he heard Bren’s irritated tut.

  “Why? To protect you, of course.” Bren shook her head, obviously unimpressed with his lack of comprehension. “If you ask me, she would have gladly chosen death over betraying you, m’lord.”

  Vadim stared at Bren’s lopsided head scarf, and the grizzled hair poking out from beneath its frayed edges, his mind gradually became acquainted with Martha’s motives.